A Little Help From My Friends (Miracle Girls Book 3) Page 6

  “Oh good.” She brushes a lock of hair behind her ear with her free hand. “I really want this to work.” She takes the lavender sheet between her fingers and smiles nervously.

  “I’m sure it will,” I say with as much certainty as I can muster. Dreamy sighs and turns back toward the door.

  “I’ll keep experimenting,” she says, nodding her head toward the patio.

  When the heavy glass door slides shut behind her, I start making plans. Things have been tight for a long time, but if our income is dependent on paper, I have to do something more than just try to get them back together again. I can get a job. I don’t have a car, but it’s only a twenty-minute bike ride to downtown. Maybe Bayside Books is hiring.

  The phone on the wall across the kitchen rings.

  Oh! Maybe Half Moon Bay Coffee Company is hiring. That would be so cool. I love coffee, and I’d get to see the Miracle Girls all the time and still make some money to help out.

  The phone rings again, and I walk into the kitchen and pick up the receiver from the wall.

  “Hello?” I try not to sound too impatient, but no one ever calls for me on this line, so what’s the use in picking it up?

  “Hi. May I please speak with Nick?” The woman’s voice on the other end sounds stilted and professional.

  “Sure. Can I tell him who’s calling?”

  She hesitates for a second. “It’s Heather.”

  I rack my brain, but the name doesn’t mean anything to me.

  “Heather Boyd.”

  “Okay, hold on just a second.” I set the receiver on the counter. “Nick! Phone!” I scream.

  You know, even working at the ice cream shop wouldn’t be bad. It closes really early, and it would be cool to have access to dairy products whenever I want—especially since Dreamy only allows those nasty Tofutti things in her freezer.

  A minute later, Nick finally shuffles into the kitchen. He yawns and takes the receiver out of my hand. “Hello?”

  I walk back into the living room to give him a little privacy. We haven’t exactly grown closer since he moved home, so I don’t really feel like it’s fair to pry into his life. I press my body to the windows and watch Dreamy as she frantically works on her paper project.

  “Oh,” he says. I turn away from the window at the tone of his voice. “I told you when I left.” He waits as she says something more. “Well, I don’t know how to fix it. I told you that,” he says into the phone, his voice rising. I lean back a little and steal a glance at him in the kitchen. He makes his hand into a fist, his veins popping out on his lean arms.

  In a flash I remember something from when he lived at home, back when I was still a small child. He used to come home late at night smelling like alcohol and acting like this, irritable and angry. Ed would make him touch his nose with his pointer fingers.

  “It’s not my problem anymore. That’s all there is to it.” He switches the phone to his other ear and shakes his head.

  I thought he had pulled his life together out there at the ranch. His stories of riding under the big sky and caring for the cattle made it seem like he’d found his place in the world.

  “I’m hanging up now. I don’t work for you anymore. Remember? I don’t have to sit here and listen to this.” Nick slams the phone back on the hook, and I whip back around to the window. For a moment, the air is still.

  Nick mutters a curse word under his breath and storms over to the front door.

  “Wait.” I chase behind him. He stops but doesn’t turn back. “Where are you going?”

  “Somewhere else.” Nick turns around, his eyes red. “Tell Dreamy.” He grabs Dreamy’s key ring from the hook, yanks open the door, and fades into the night.

  14

  I slide into our old broken picnic table Wednesday afternoon and dump the contents of my paper sack out on the table: some nasty fruit leather, a Tupperware container with almonds, and something with a weird mushy texture that I can’t quite identify.

  “Zo.” Christine plops down and points at my lunch. “When are you going to tell Dreamy that stuff makes you gag?"

  “What?” I hold up the Tupperware and give it a shake, making the almonds rattle. “I like these.” Dreamy has been packing me disgusting vegan lunches since kindergarten. I stopped eating my lunch in middle school, but it would be weird not to know it’s there for me, waiting in the little brown bag. Besides, there’s usually one thing in the sack that I like, and that helps me not feel so guilty.

  “And they say I’m the crazy one.” She pulls out a sandwich and sighs. Christine used to eat Yoplait yogurt every day, but she kept it in Ms. Moore’s mini fridge. Now that Ms. Moore’s gone, she’s had to switch to solids. Christine moves over a little as Ana and Riley appear, holding lunch trays. Ana looks thin and pale and has dark circles under her eyes.

  “How’re you holding up?” Stupid question, but I hope it shows concern.

  “Fine, I guess.” She bites her lip, and I can see she’s fighting back tears. “You?”

  I shrug, put the almonds aside, and start digging in my purse for spare change.

  For a moment we’re all silent. The sounds in the background seem to swell— people laughing, two girls in an argument, the noise of plastic trays hitting hard wooden tables.

  Christine takes a deep breath. “I have a Ms. Moore update.” She shoots for a nearby trash can and sinks her brown paper lunch sack. “I heard it when I was in the office for my session with Mrs. Canning.”

  “What is it?” Nutter Butters only cost four quarters. I know I have them in here somewhere. I stopped asking Dreamy and Ed for money last month, but I’ve gotten pretty good at scouring the couch and underneath the floor mats in the van.

  “Our meeting with Lovchuck worked.” Christine smiles. “Lovchuck talked to the superintendent, and the school board is going to hold a public meeting.”

  “Oh,” I say, unable to keep the disappointment out of my voice. A meeting? Like that will do any good.

  Riley takes a small bite of her burger and shakes her head. She’s never been very interested in food. “I was hoping it’d be something more.”

  “Wait,” Christine says, putting both hands on the table. “Don’t you see? This is a good thing. Before, they were treating it like a closed case.” Christine takes a sip of her bottled green tea. “But now they’re at least giving the public,” she points at herself and then to us, “a chance to be heard. This means Ms. Moore has a shot.”

  “That’s great,” I say. “So we’ll go and make sure they hear our support.”

  “No!” Riley waves her hand. “We’ll do more than that. We’ll e-mail and call people.” She points around the courtyard. “Let’s talk it up to everyone and get a lot of people to come.”

  Ana gives her a high five. “This is perfect. I’ll handle the AP students. Zoe, you take the band. Riley, you talk to the A-list and the jocks. And Christine, you’re on the artists. Try to rein them in.” I feel the tiny ridged edge of a quarter and grasp it in my palm.

  “Exactly,” Christine says. “Show our support in numbers. The meeting is in a month, so we need to get organized.”

  “Plenty of time.” Ana laughs a little. I sort of doubt this is actually enough time to pull it all together, but this is the most animated I’ve seen Ana in weeks, so I just nod. Maybe Ms. Moore’s cause will be good for her, help her refocus on the present.

  Aha. I locate another coin at the bottom of my bag. I pull it out and feel the weight of two quarters in my palm. This whole public meeting thing is crazy, but who knows, maybe it’s just crazy enough to work.

  “Does anybody have two quarters I can borrow?”

  15

  I coast down the hill into the parking lot of the Sea Witch. This isn’t the classiest motel at any time of the year, but the low wooden building looks run-down and depressing on this bleak October day. The paint is peeling, and the roof looks a little wonky. There are a few cars scattered in the parking lot, but for the most part it’s fairly
deserted. If Ed thinks staying at this place is preferable to staying with us, things are really bad.

  My bike makes a clanking sound as I climb off and walk it across the parking lot. Ed was going to stay here while he looks for an affordable apartment, but he moved out a long time ago and I haven’t heard him talk about checking out rentals yet. We talk on the phone a lot, but it was Christine’s idea to invite myself over for dinner tonight. I need to talk to him, really talk, and face to face is the only way this is going to work.

  I lean my bike against the wall outside Room 12. There’s an orange rust stain on the door. I knock, and a second later Ed is standing at the door, wearing his old denim shirt—wrinkled, but clean. He throws his arms around me and ushers me inside.

  “It’s not a palace, but it works,” he says, gesturing around at the dark room. It’s small, with a bed in the middle and a tiny bathroom at the back.

  “Not bad.” I sit down on the bed and run my hand over the polyester bedspread. It has that damp feeling places around here get without proper ventilation.

  “Your brother didn’t want to come?” Ed tries to smile, flashing his crooked front tooth.

  “He had a lot of stuff going on.” I stare at a bleach stain on the mottled carpet.

  “Well,” he says quickly. “Then it’s just me and my girl. Nothing wrong with that.” He points to the tiny table in the corner of the room. There are half a dozen white Chinese take-out boxes spread across the top. “I got us dinner.” He flushes a little.

  I survey the offerings. He’s got rice and half a dozen kinds of vegetables, as well as fortune cookies and little Styrofoam plates and plastic silverware.

  “It looks great.” I step toward the table. “And it smells delicious.” I lower myself into a padded beige chair. Ed sits across from me and starts to dish out broccoli and beans and spicy tofu while I pour us cups of Sprite from the two-liter bottle he has chilling in the room’s small refrigerator.

  “So,” he says, breaking apart his cheap wooden chopsticks, “how’s your mom?”

  “Fine.” I’m not sure how much I’m supposed to say. “She’s good.” I play with my chopsticks. “We’re all good.”

  “That’s good,” he says, though his face falls. “I’m doing well too. Picked up some handyman work.”

  I mash my rice into the puddle of sauce on my plate. I like the rice to be good and soaked.

  “And the horses?”

  “They’re good.” I study the grains on my plate. The air smells sort of funky in here, like mold and feet and soy sauce. “They miss you.”

  “You know we’ve had Old Gray Mare since Nick was a toddler?” Ed rubs his chopsticks together. “I’ve never been away from them for so long.”

  “Wow. I didn’t know she was that old.” I pick up a piece of broccoli. That horse has been frail as long as I can remember.

  “That was a long time ago.” He gets a far-off look in his eyes. “She was why we first built the stable, you know. We were going to have a whole business.” I nod. I knew my parents started out hoping to have a business with the horses, giving riding lessons and leading tours through the woods and along the beach. “At one time we were going to build a new house too.”

  I raise my eyebrows, but my mouth is full.

  Ed shrugs. “Back when we first bought the land, when we were first married, we put up the dome to get started. We built it ourselves so we would have something to live in until we got on our feet.” He stabs at a piece of tofu. “Then we were going to build a big place, out in the woods.” He shakes his head. “I think we still have the plans for the real house somewhere.”

  “I never knew that.” It’s weird to think of my parents being young, in love, full of dreams. Everything is so different now. “What happened?”

  “We were waiting for the stable to take off. Then your brother came along, and everything changed. I started doing landscaping to help out.”

  We both chew in silence for a minute. The low hum of the fluorescent lights is the only sound.

  “Ed.” I pile more snow peas on my rice to give my hands something to do. He smiles, waiting for me to go on. This is what I came here for, so I might as well say it. “Why don’t you come back home?”

  Ed doesn’t answer for a moment. He taps his chopsticks on the edge of the Styrofoam plate, then lays them down carefully and crosses his legs.

  “I’d love nothing more.” He sighs. “But it’s not that simple.” He reaches for his plastic cup but doesn’t take a drink, just holds it in his hand. “Marriages are complicated. Your mother and I . . . we’ve got some problems to work out.”

  “I know.” I smile at him. In the dim lighting he looks pale and tired. “But we miss you. All of us.”

  “Your mother said that?” His eyes light up a bit, and for a second he looks so hopeful that I can’t bear to tell him the truth. Dreamy hasn’t exactly said as much, but it’s so obvious.

  I take a deep breath. Ms. Moore said to fight. She didn’t say anything about not fighting dirty.

  I nod. “We all want you to come home.”

  16

  Dean’s bedroom doesn’t look anything like Marcus’s, not that I thought it would. Not that I thought about that, I mean . . . it doesn’t look like anyone’s bedroom that I’ve ever known.

  The Farcuses don’t allow us to be in Marcus’s bedroom. They’ve never said this rule out loud, but one time when he was trying to show me his new fish, his mom mysteriously popped into his room and hung around until we left.

  Our project is due in two weeks, and we have a lot of work left, but the school library closes at six, so here we are.

  “Whoa,” I say under my breath as I step inside. In the corner of Dean’s room is a black electric guitar and a saxophone. The guitar has a skull and crossbones sticker on it, and the sax is dented and scratched. “I didn’t know you played.”

  “I dabble.” Dean flops onto his bed. “I used to play sax.”

  I’ve been trying to put my finger on exactly what it is about him that makes me so unnerved, and I’ve finally figured it out. He’s too casual. He never worries about the right thing to say or do or what I think of him . . . he just does. I walk over and pick up the guitar while I figure out what to do with myself. There’s a bed in the middle of the room and some books, assorted shoes, and CDs scattered around. But there’s nowhere else to sit.

  I slip the strap over my head, and the guitar hangs low on me. I hold down a string with my finger, and it pinches my skin. “I always sort of wanted to learn the guitar.”

  “Turn around.” Somehow he doesn’t make it sound like a command, so I do it. “It looks pretty good on you.”

  “Really?” I press three strings down and strum. A horrible noise comes out.

  “You’re no Debbie Harry, but you look good.”

  I lean in toward the old, scarred corkboard over Dean’s bed. There are lots of pictures tacked up in a messy way, jumbled one over the other: Dean and his parents dressed up inside a church, Dean with some friends, Dean and some cousin or something. Dean dressed up in a tux, posing with a girl at a school dance.

  “Did you go to a prom?” I squint at the girl in the photo. She’s pretty, if you like the Barbie look.

  “Yeah right.” Dean snorts. “That’ll be the day. Prom is for losers.” Dean squints at the photo. “That was this thing I had to go to for school. They pick like fifty kids and make them dress up like dorks and parade them around in front of congressmen and stuff.” He rolls his eyes. “It was lame and I tried to ditch but my mom insisted.”

  “Sure.” I glance back at him.

  He holds his hands up in the air. “Seriously, I’m not into all that ra-ra school stuff.” He walks over and jabs his finger at the picture. “Pure torture.”

  I study his face. Something tells me Dean doesn’t want to admit it was a very big deal to be selected,even if his date does look like Skipper’s evil twin sister.

  “Knock, knock.” I turn my head as a woman w
alks into the room. She’s tall, like Dean, with the same olive skin and jet-black hair, and she’s wearing hip, thick-framed glasses.

  “You must be Zoe,” she says. “I’m Mrs. Marchese.” Mar-kay-sey. Even though I’ve never said it aloud, I recognize his last name from class. He must be Italian or something. I let the guitar hang from my neck and shake Dean’s mom’s hand.

  “I heard you’re quite the musician. Do you play guitar too?” A large gold cross dangles from around her neck, catching my eye. Something about it looks different, not like the crosses you see at churches in California. It’s very ornate and dramatic, almost artsy in a way. “Dean just took it up, when he dropped the sax.”

  “I’ve being playing it for two years!” Dean unlaces one of his shoes and tosses it on the floor. “You have to admit I’m getting better.”

  “But you were good at the sax.” Mrs. Marchese shakes her head. I can’t quite place the look on her face. “Well, you’ll be good at the guitar too . . . eventually.” She winks at me while Dean unlaces his other shoe and throws it gently in her direction. She laughs, grabs it off the floor, and chucks it at him.

  “Fine, fine. I know when I’m not wanted.” She walks over to the bedroom door and opens it wide. “Nice meeting you, Zoe.”

  I fight the urge to make an excuse and follow her out of the room.

  ***

  By ten o’clock my mind is fried, my breath stinks like Cheetos, and all of my uneasiness with Dean and his room has long since faded away. I’ve been sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, but now my back is aching. I lie back, my spine instantly soothed by the change in position, and shut my eyes. Just for a moment. I’ll only shut them for a moment.

  “My brain hurts.”

  I hear Dean scoot to the edge of the bed. A shadow falls on my face as he leans over me. “I can’t believe I got stuck with you as a partner.”