A Little Help From My Friends (Miracle Girls Book 3) Page 10

  Nick leads Alfalfa out of his stall to brush him down, and I slip into his stall to start shoveling. Poop smells really bad in general, but horse poop smells seriously awful. I try to take shallow breaths, but it’s heavy lifting. As I shovel, I wonder how Ed does this every day. “Nick.” I walk to the edge of Alfalfa’s stall. Nick is brushing small circles in Alfalfa’s coat with the currycomb. “This is crazy. We’ve got to do something about Dreamy and Ed.”

  He laughs a low, quiet chuckle and shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s up to us, kiddo.” Alfalfa shakes his head too. Traitor. Now my horse is agreeing with my stupid brother.

  “But they’ll listen to you.” I frown at my sneakers, already caked in horse manure. “They think I’m a baby.” I try banging my shoe against the stall, but the gunk is stuck in the tread. “They won’t listen to me.”

  He stops brushing Alfalfa. “They’re not going to listen to me either.” Nick hangs the currycomb on the rack on the wall and grabs the dandy brush. Grooming a horse is a lengthy process, but I could probably still do it in my sleep. “People have to work through their own relationship problems. We can’t help them.”

  I prop the shovel handle against the stall and grab the other dandy brush from the wall. “Yes we can.” There’s no way my brother is tricking me into shoveling poop while he grooms the horses. He can shovel out the stalls by himself, or we can do it together, but I’m not doing the worst task just because I’m his younger sister. “Let’s make them a special dinner.”

  He laughs. “Zoe, this isn’t a movie.” Nick runs the brush down Alfalfa’s body and flicks the dirt into the air.

  I take a step back and gesture at him with the brush still my hands.“Like you even know.” The only girl Nick ever dated in high school was a geeky German exchange student named Caroline, and I’m pretty sure she asked him out.

  “I know more than you. Let’s leave it at that.” He flicks the brush down Alfalfa’s side, and a cloud of dust kicks up. I roll my eyes.

  “I’ve been dating Marcus for almost a year.” Okay, I’m rounding up, but it’s not like he can top that record.

  Nick laughs long and hard. “You have no idea.” He keeps chuckling as he walks over to the rack and grabs the body brush. “Why do you think I’m here, anyway?”

  “You missed us?”

  He opens his hand, and I throw my dandy brush at him. He catches it and hangs it on its hook. “I miss you guys and everything, but . . .” He strolls back and sets straight to work on making Alfalfa’s coat gleam. “Forget it.”

  “What happened?”I hear Dox neighing a little, anticipating his turn.

  “Nothing.” Nick looks at me for a moment. I nod my head and try to appear very grown up, like the kind of person he can confide in. He dips down to work on Alfalfa’s back leg and lets out a breath. “Look, the truth is, I met someone. We got pretty serious, but it didn’t work out.”

  I can only see Nick’s muddy, worn work boots through the horse’s legs. They’re caked in Colorado red clay and look like fossils, artifacts from another time. “So why did you come home?”

  Nick rights himself and stares at me, searching my face for something. “Sometimes people need space.” He strolls over to the rack. “And that’s what Ed needs right now.” He pulls the hoof pick off the wall and hangs up the body brush. “You’ll understand that someday.”

  “Whatever.” I walk back to the stall and pick up the shovel. On second thought, maybe I would be happier working on my own. He always does this, treating me like I’m still five years old.

  I sink the shovel’s blade into a huge pile of manure and lift it up. Stupid horses.

  “Just give them their space,” Nick says.

  I toss the manure into the wheelbarrow and frown.

  I know a lot about space, actually. More than Nick would ever guess. And I think having some space from the person you love is stupid. It doesn’t accomplish anything. It just . . . makes people crazy.

  23

  I’m zoning out in third period when Mrs. Narveson totally loses it. “And it was this battle that led a young lawyer to pen a poem entitled ‘The Defense of Fort McHenry.’ Later to be put to music and called—,” Mrs. Narveson clears her throat. “Me, me, me . . . ,” she sings and touches her throat like an auditioning opera star.

  People around me wake up and begin to murmur. We’re getting harder to shock, and third period has really been dragging today. Let’s just say that the War of 1812 is not the most interesting topic, even in Mrs. Narveson’s wacky hands. But this, this is something different. She almost looks like she’s going to . . .

  “Oh—h say can you see, by the dawn’s early light.”

  People turn to look at each other. Is this crazy teacher singing “The Star-Spangled Banner”? She’s finally lost her mind. Well, at least I don’t have to take notes for a second. I give myself a shake and try to wake up. Now that I close at El Bueno Burrito twice a week, I’m pretty exhausted. Never mind that once I get home I still have to finish my homework.

  “Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight.”

  She’s really going to do it. She’s going to sing the whole song. Mrs. Narveson’s eyes are nearly popping out. I steel myself for the infamous high note that has brought many a professional singer down a notch or two.

  “O’er the land of the freeeeeeeeee.” She doesn’t even shy away from it. She grips the podium and belts it out, and oddly enough, she nails it. “And the home of the brave.”

  The class is utterly silent for a second or two. I hear someone cough. Then slowly there’s a sound beside me. Clapping. I turn and see Dean clapping, not in a snide way, in a real way, and other people join in.

  Soon everyone is cheering and beating on their desks, and Mrs. Narveson turns a little pink. After a minute she raises her hands, and the class settles down.

  “And that concludes the War of 1812. If you missed anything,” she pauses and glances at her notes, “just remember: no trade with France, England tries to scold America, war breaks out, Brits torch the White House, Francis Scott Key gets creative, and the United States finally gets a little recognition. Are we clear?”

  We stare back at her, mouths gaping. Was that even English?

  “Good.” She puts a check mark next to THE WAR OF 1812 on the chalkboard. “Next item of business.”

  She walks to her desk, grabs a stack of papers, and then turns back to us. “I’m finally ready to hand back your Build-a-Nation projects. I was very pleased with the results. There were some very, ah, creative,” she winks at me, “approaches to government. I was pleased with your work, for the most part, and I hope you’ll be pleased with your grades.”

  Wow. It’s taken her six weeks to grade these things. Granted we’ve been working on other projects that are much smaller in scale, but I haven’t been doing so well on them. It turns out that pretending to work with your partner is a little easier said than done.

  She takes a binder-clipped packet off the top of the stack and hands it to Emily Mack, who squeals and turns to her partner. There is some mumbled conversation as a few people flip through their projects, and she continues to hand out papers one group at a time. Kayleen doesn’t even bother to share their paper with Christine, but Christine doesn’t seem to be too concerned about it. She’s putting the finishing touches on what looks like a band taking the stage at a rock concert in the margins of her notebook.

  “Very well done,” Mrs. Narveson says, holding out a stack of papers to me. I take it uncertainly. There’s a big red A at the top. “A strong and interesting execution.” I flip through the pages for a second, reading the notes she’s put in the margins.

  “Ahem.” Dean doesn’t even really pretend to clear his throat.

  I hold the papers out to him. I can feel my face flushing, and I keep my eyes on my desk.

  “Not bad.” Dean’s fingers brush mine as he takes the pages out of my hands. “Nice work, Zoe.”

  I know he’s go
ading me, but I glance up at him. I can’t keep myself from looking. He’s leaning back in his chair, smiling at me. Or is he smirking? Okay, it’s definitely a smirk. His eyes say that he’s laughing at me, but my stomach flips a little bit. I turn away quickly and start to put my notebook into my bag. A second later the bell rings, and I’m running toward the door.

  ***

  Ashley keeps peeking over her shoulder and casting furtive glances toward the door. She wanted to meet somewhere out of the way, somewhere we wouldn’t run into other people. She was very specific about that. Why she picked the library, then, is beyond me. I was too curious about her motive to argue much about anything, let alone her odd choice of location. Ashley and I aren’t exactly the best of friends. She’s been nothing but awful to me—to all of us, really—since the first day of freshman year, when she laughed at my broomstick skirt. But for her to meet me here, now—she has to want something.

  “Look,” she says, apparently convinced no one cool is anywhere nearby. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  I run my finger along a line someone has carved into my plastic chair and wait for her to go on, uncertain how to react. What is she talking about?

  “I know you guys are close to her and stuff. I just . . . I didn’t mean to get her in trouble.” She takes a deep breath and watches me. “My dad was . . . he was going through some stuff last year. Legal stuff. And he was kind of dumping it on me, and in a weak moment I told Ms. Moore.”

  The smooth gash in the plastic suddenly feels jagged beneath my hand.

  “She called him in for a conference, said some things she shouldn’t have, and the next thing I knew she was gone. It wasn’t what I meant at all.”

  “But . . . what? It was you?”

  “I like her too, you know.” Ashley smoothes down the hem of her skirt. “The people in your little Miracle Club or whatever aren’t the only ones who thought she was cool. You didn’t think Christine was the only student who had counseling sessions with Ms. Moore, did you?”

  I continue to stare at her, too stunned to answer.

  “Never mind.” She picks up her bag and shakes her head. “I saw that you guys were trying to get her reinstated, so I thought you might want to see this stuff.” She gestures toward a stack of papers in her bag. “But I guess I was wrong. Forget I said anything.” She turns to go.

  “Wait!” I nearly shriek before I remember that we’re in a library. “Ashley, wait.”

  She pauses, turning her head back. Her clothes hang loose on her thin frame. I never noticed how translucent her skin is. Maybe it’s the fluorescent lighting in here, but she’s frailer than I ever realized.

  “What is that stuff?”

  Ashley waits, biting her lip. She looks at the door, then back to me, and finally she nods and lowers herself back into the chair. Slowly, she pulls a folder out of her bag. I take it and flip through the stack of papers. There are some printed e-mails, a few stapled packets of what looks like transcripts of phone calls, and a couple of pages of notes.

  “These are his records. All the evidence he’s submitted to his lawyer about the things Ms. Moore said to him.”

  “Oh wow.” I’m too overwhelmed to muster a more intelligent response. I’m trying to process what she’s just told me. “Okay. Well—” I cough. “Maybe I’ll call the Miracle Girls and see if we can all go over this stuff.”

  Ashley shakes her head. “No. You can’t tell them! You can’t tell anyone. You promised!”

  What? I think back. I guess I did promise her I wouldn’t tell anyone about our meeting, but did she really mean I couldn’t tell anyone forever?

  “Don’t worry—my friends are really trustworthy,” I say, even though I know it sounds lame. “They’re . . . they’ll want to help. They’re loyal, and they love Ms. Moore too. Ana is super organized and really takes charge. Christine is a great artist, really good at making posters. Riley—well, you know Riley’s great.” Ashley looks at the ground. “And . . . maybe we can work together or something.”

  Could the Miracle Girls work with Ashley Anderson for this? How would that ever work? What about the horrible things she’s said about us over the years?

  “Why don’t you just tell your dad the truth? Tell him you want Ms. Moore back?”

  “Look.” She runs her fingertips across the smooth surface of the table. “I know your family is all happy Jesus people who love each other to bits, but that’s not how it is for everyone, okay?” She laughs a dark, canned laugh. “My dad and I don’t exactly have that kind of relationship.”

  I study her face. Is she making fun of me? Her lips are pursed together, and she appears to be totally serious.

  “But you could—”

  “I’ve tried, okay? Don’t you think I tried that?” She shakes her head. “After everything he’s already invested in this, he’s not backing down.”

  24

  “I think we need a toast.” Ana holds her glass in the air and shushes us with her hand. “To the Miracle Girls, the ultimate best friends.” She laughs, clinks her glass against the rest of ours, and takes a sip of her Diet Coke.

  Ana planned this whole big girls night out and even made a reservation at a nice Italian restaurant downtown and convinced us to dress up. My feet are throbbing under the table after working all day at El Bueno Burrito, and I’m going to have to make it up to Marcus tomorrow for canceling our date night at the bookstore, but it was worth it to get us together.

  “And to swearing off musicians,” Ana says. I haven’t seen her this animated since . . . well, before the breakup. Mostly she just mopes around or glares at Dave and Jamie hanging all over each other across the room at youth group. “Good riddance!” She chuckles, but her laughter somehow seems too forced.

  “So do you guys want to get appetizers?” She scans the menu. “The fried calamari here is—oh wait.”

  I scan the prices and bite my lip. I’ve been working at El Bueno Burrito long enough to get paid, but I gave almost all of it to Dreamy. It’s going to take a while before I build up a cushion.

  She cringes. “Sorry, Zo. I forgot you can’t eat seafood. We could get a cheese plate or something instead. They have this amazing stinky blue cheese that melts in your mouth.”

  Christine leans forward and props her elbows on the table. “Why would I want to eat food that smells like feet?”

  “So no on the cheese.” Ana takes a sip of her water and continues to look over the menu. “I’m going to get the pasta primavera.” She closes her menu with a snap and nods. “How about you guys?”

  “You know, I’m not that hungry anyway.” I watch as a heaping plate of pasta passes by on a tray. “I think I may just have a drink or something.”

  Riley raises an eyebrow. “You sure? We could split something if you want.”

  She looks perfectly relaxed in a loose, peasant-style black dress and boots. She has a long strand of pearls looped around her neck, a look I swear I saw in the magazine at the grocery store last week.

  “I’m okay.” I quickly read the list of appetizers, looking for something I can order to throw them off my trail. “Maybe I’ll get a . . . cup of minestrone or something too.” At eight dollars a cup, minestrone is the cheapest thing on the menu. “I’m just not very hungry.” I can see in their faces they’re not buying it, but they’re going to be kind and act like they don’t see what’s really going on.

  Christine is already doodling on the paper tablecloth with a blue crayon, doing a pretty good representation of the four of us huddled around a table. She’s drawn a basket in the middle of the table next to a sign that says Breadsticks Go Here.

  I feel my cheeks burning, but a moment later the waiter comes to take our order, and the conversation shifts to Riley’s trip to see Tom in Santa Barbara next weekend and how hard the whole long-distance dating thing is.

  “Speaking of Tom,” Ana says as the waiter sets down a bowl of breadsticks. I try to not make it too obvious as I reach for one. “I’ve been thinki
ng.” She flushes. “Now that I’m . . . I’m kind of the only Miracle Girl without a boyfriend.”

  Christine raises her hand. “Yo.”

  “Oh, but you and Tyler aren’t fooling anyone,” Ana says, waving her hand. Christine picks up the green crayon in front of Riley and begins to print in big block letters B-O-Y.

  “Still just friends,” she says, concentrating on her printing. F-R-I-E-N-D

  “Okay. Well.” Ana scrunches her chin down into her neck. “I found out Dave and Jamie are officially dating now, and since I’m the only one without a boy friend or boyfriend or whatever, and you know, prom isn’t that far away, and . . .”

  “It’s like five months from now!” I laugh, but Ana grimaces.

  L-E-S-S. Christine draws a big arrow pointing at herself.

  “I, well . . .”

  “But we’re definitely going. Don’t even think of not going, ladies,” Riley says. “Prom is a big deal.”

  “I was wondering if you know any guys you could set me up with.”

  Christine chokes on her water. I pound on her back.

  “Ana.” Riley tilts her head. “Do you think you’re ready? It’s only been a month or two and you and Dave were together forever.”

  “Of course I am, and I’m so ready to move on and meet a guy.” Ana nods, but her words sound too rehearsed. “One who’s mature and cares about important things, like literature and art.”

  “That’s a pretty tall order for a high school guy.” Riley takes a crayon from the middle of the table and toys with it.

  “He doesn’t have to be in high school.” We eye her. “Riley’s dating a college guy. Why couldn’t I date a college guy?” She dips a breadstick into a puddle of olive oil on her plate.

  “You totally could,” Riley says softly. I see Christine visibly relax. There’s always been this weird competitiveness between Ana and Riley. “You could have any guy you want. You’re smart, and pretty, and someday you’ll find the right person.”