26
I’M AT MCCALLS BOOKSTORE, PICKING up a copy of The Glass Menagerie for English and scanning the store for Josh. Now that Peter and I have everything worked out, I can triumphantly crow all about it. That’ll show him for thinking I’m just a homebody no boy would want to date.
I spot him setting up a display of new books in the nonfiction section. He doesn’t see me, so I sneak up behind and yell, “Boo!”
He jumps and drops a book on the floor. “You scared the crap out of me!”
“That was the point, Joshy!” I’m having a giggle fit. The look on his face! I wonder, why is it so deliciously funny to sneak up on people?
“All right, all right. Quit laughing. What are you here for?”
I hold up my book and wave it in his face. “I have Mr. Radnor for English. You had him, right?”
“Yeah, he’s good. He’s strict but fair. I still have my notes if you want them.”
“Thanks,” I say. Brightly I add, “So guess what. Peter and I aren’t broken up after all. It was just a misunderstanding.”
“Oh yeah?” Josh starts stacking books into a column.
“Mm-hmm. I saw him yesterday and we talked and talked, for hours. I feel like I could talk to him about anything, you know? He just really gets me.”
Josh’s forehead wrinkles. “What do you guys talk about?”
“Oh, everything. Movies, books, the usual stuff.”
“Huh. I never saw him as the reading type.” He squints and looks over my shoulder. “Hey, I’ve gotta go help Janice out at the counter. When you’re ready to check out, come to my register so I can give you my discount.”
Hmm, this isn’t exactly the reaction I was hoping for. I barely even got a chance to crow. “Sounds good,” I say, but he’s already walking away.
I hug my book to my chest. Now that Josh knows I’m not in love with him anymore and I’m with Peter, I guess everything will slide right back into place and be normal again. Like my letter never happened.
27
“MARGOT CALLED WHEN YOU WERE out today,” my dad says over dinner.
Dinner is just salad. Salad for me and Daddy and cereal for Kitty. There were supposed to be chicken breasts, but I forgot to take them out of the freezer this morning, so there’s just lettuce and carrot with balsamic dressing. Daddy’s supplementing his with two boiled eggs, and I have a piece of buttered toast. Some dinner. Cereal and lettuce. I need to get to the grocery store stat.
Since Margot left, I’ve only spoken to her twice, and once was over video chat with all of us crowded around my laptop. I didn’t get to ask her about the good stuff—the real deal, all the adventures she’s been going on and the people she’s been meeting. I think I heard that British people drink absinthe at pubs. I wonder if she’s tried it by now. I’ve e-mailed Margot so many times and have only gotten back one e-mail in return so far. I understand that she is busy, but the least she can do is e-mail back once a day. For all she knows, I could be dead in a ditch. “What did she say?” I ask as I cut my carrot into tiny pieces.
“She’s thinking about trying out for the shinty club team,” my dad says, wiping salad dressing off his chin.
“What’s shinty?” Kitty asks me, and I shrug.
“It’s a Scottish sport that’s similar to field hockey,” Daddy explains. “It started out as safe swordfight practice in medieval Scotland.”
Boring. Before Daddy can get started on telling us more about medieval Scotland, I say, “Let’s send Gogo a care package! Stuff she can’t get over there.”
“Yeah!” Kitty cheers.
“What should we send?” I ask. “I say we all contribute something.”
Daddy chews and taps his finger to his chin. “I’ll send gummy vitamins,” he says. “And Advil. I think she only took a small bottle of Advil, and you know how she gets migraines sometimes.”
“I approve.” I point my fork at Kitty. “And what about you?”
“I’ve got something I could send,” Kitty says. “Should I go get it?”
Daddy and I look at each other and shrug. “Sure.”
Kitty comes running back with a picture she’s drawn of Margot. Petting a dog. The exact breed of dog Kitty wants. Akita. I have to laugh.
Kitty frowns. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“Do you think it’s good enough?” Kitty asks me. “Good enough to hang up on her wall?”
“Definitely,” I say.
“No, I want you to really look at it,” she says. “Critique it. I can always do better. Margot won’t want it if it’s not my best work.”
“Kitty, it definitely is,” I say. “Why would I lie?”
She sighs. “I just don’t know if it’s finished yet.”
“Only the artist knows,” Daddy says with a sage nod.
“What do you think about the dog?” she asks him. “Isn’t it cute?”
Daddy takes the picture from me and looks at it closely. “Yes, the dog is undeniably a good-looking dog.”
“I’m Asian too,” she says. Kitty sits back down and takes a bite of cereal and tries not to smile. She is doing her inception thing. Planting positive associations about dogs in Daddy’s head. The kid never rests. She always has an angle.
“What else is going in the care package?” Kitty wants to know.
I start ticking off with my fingers. “Tampons because I don’t know if they have our brand in Scotland, flannel pj’s, thick socks, Girl Scout cookies—”
“Where are we going to get Girl Scout cookies this time of year?” Daddy asks.
“I have a box of Thin Mints hidden in the freezer,” I say.
He gives me a hurt look. “Hidden from who?” Thin Mints are his favorite. If there are Thin Mints in the house, forget about it. Daddy is a Thin Mint Monster.
I give an enigmatic shrug. “Also I’m sending Margot’s favorite kind of roller-ball pen, and . . . I think that’s it.”
“Don’t forget her brown boots,” my dad reminds me. “She specifically requested we send her brown boots with the laces.”
“Did she?” I was hoping Margot hadn’t noticed she’d left them behind. “When did she say that?”
“She e-mailed me yesterday.”
“I’ll see if I can find them.”
My dad says, “Weren’t you wearing them this weekend?” and at the same time Kitty says, “They’re in your closet.”
I throw up my hands. “All right, all right!”
“If you get the box together tonight, I can drop it off at the post office tomorrow morning on my way to work,” Daddy offers.
I shake my head. “I want to send the scarf I’ve been knitting, and it won’t be ready in time. Maybe in another week or two?”
Slurping her milk, Kitty waves a hand at me and advises, “Just give up on the scarf already. Knitting isn’t your thing.”
I open my mouth to argue and then close it. Maybe she’s right. If we wait for my scarf to be done to send the care package, Margot will probably be out of college already. “All right,” I say. “We’ll send the care package sans scarf. I’m not saying I’m giving up on knitting, though. I’ll keep chugging along on it and have it ready for you for your Christmas gift, Kitty.” I smile at her sweetly. “It’s pink. Your favorite.”
Kitty’s eyes go wide with horror. “Or Margot. You could also give it to Margot.”