“Thanks.” Jessica beamed as she sat down, inching her chair closer to mine.
I hadn’t told Ruthie about us holding hands, and no one else would’ve told her. No one else really talked to her, except for the other geeks in the science club and Mathletes, who would be clueless about it too, no doubt. I was going to tell her, but then I was thinking that maybe I didn’t want to. Maybe it was something that I wanted to keep all for myself. Just for a while. Just until I’d have to tell her. I knew by the fierce red splotches on Ruthie’s cheeks that she had a crush on Jessica too. Was that what it was? Did I have a crush on Jessica? But she took my hand, I reminded myself. She took my hand. She held tight. She pulled me in.
A third for a science project was one thing. But a third in a friendship sent everything off-kilter. And a third for anything more than that? A disaster.
—
The next day Jessica and I were sitting on the floor in Ruthie’s basement ripping newspaper into shreds so we could start on the papier-maché cell model, while Ruthie was upstairs mixing flour and water for paste, and getting snacks.
“We need snacks,” Jessica had said. “It’s the hospitable thing to do, Ruthie.” And so Ruthie had hefted herself off the floor and tromped upstairs. I could hear her crossing the kitchen. A cupboard door slammed. The fridge opened and closed.
“I better do this now,” Jessica said. She leaned over and kissed me on the lips. I froze, and Jessica kissed me again, and then I was kissing her back, and that’s how Ruthie found us, with our mouths glued together and Jessica’s hand up my shirt, the strips of newspaper scattered around us. Ruthie dropped the tray, and the bowl of paste; a plate of cheese and crackers and three glasses of apple juice crashed to the floor.
“Ruthie.” I sprang to my feet. “Let me help.”
Ruthie just stood there, her jaw slack.
“I’ll get paper towels,” I said, too loud and too fast. I ran up the stairs and grabbed the paper-towel roll from beside the sink. When I got back downstairs, Ruthie was still standing amid the broken bowl and the broken plate and the broken glasses, the paste oozing onto the dingy carpet, and Jessica was standing on the other side of the mess, chewing on her lip, hiding a smile.
Ruthie said it was no big deal, and she might have been talking about the mess, or maybe she was talking about me and Jessica, but it didn’t matter, because she disappeared. She switched to another biology class, arguing that she wanted to learn from a teacher who was working on his PhD, not the one who’d just graduated from college, and so the principal signed off on her request. She was the top science student, after all.
That could’ve been the worst of it. But it wasn’t. It got much worse, and so much messier than a heap of broken dishes on the floor.
—
I wasn’t off to a good start when it came to girls. Jessica—and then what happened with Ruthie after—and now Salix. Each time I thought about texting Salix back, I didn’t. A couple of times I’d start a text, but I never sent them.
Tell the cookie that I’m sorry for leaving it behind.
Or Can I buy you a sorry-I-bolted coffee?
Or Django called from beyond the grave and he wants me to tell you that he was listening that day and to tell you that you’re really good.
Stupid.
Or Do you know Grandview Park? It could use a really good violinist. It’s all hippie drummers and one guy on a trumpet who sounds like a dying goose.
Stupid and pathetic.
So I just didn’t text her back.
The new neighbor moved in exactly a week after Mrs. Patel’s service. He was an old man—older than Mrs. Patel—short and pudgy, with shaggy white hair and thick glasses barely perching on the tip of a bulbous red nose. A wino nose, my mom called them. The boys and I watched the movers bring his things in from the street. Dollies stacked with boxes, a leather armchair, and so many bookshelves that I lost count. When the movers left, he disappeared inside and came out a few moments later with four ice cream sandwiches.
“I always keep a box in my freezer,” he said. “It’s the only thing in there right now. Let’s introduce ourselves when our fingers are filthy with chocolate, shall we?” But he took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of his mouth as he said it. “I’ll go first. I’m Oscar Heidelman.” He had an accent. German, I guessed, although I didn’t really know.
“I’m Corbin,” Corbin said with his mouth full. “And this is my brother, Owen. We’re twins. Only, we don’t look alike. And I have a broken arm.”
“I see.”
Owen looked at Mr. Heidelman, unsmiling. I knew what he was thinking. No one should be living in Mrs. Patel’s place except for Mrs. Patel. Ever. Especially not so soon after she died in the apartment. The building owners could’ve waited until the end of the month at least.
“I’m Maeve.”
“Lovely to meet you all, neighbors.” A horn honked from the street. “Excuse me.” He pushed his glasses up. “My babies have arrived.”
“Babies?” Owen said.
“Come see.”
So we followed him through the courtyard. A bright yellow truck was parked at the curb. ELLIS PIANO MOVERS. Mr. Heidelman popped the last of his ice cream sandwich into his mouth and greeted the men. He stood at the foot of the ramp while they wheeled a small grand piano down. I tried to count the instruments. Another smaller piano. A bass. A cello. Five violins, and maybe a viola, all with cases as beat-up as Salix’s.
“Do you play all of those?” I asked.
“I do.” Mr. Heidelman nodded as one of the movers carried in another black case.
“What’s that one?” Owen asked.
“A French horn.”
“I was looking for you guys.” Claire joined us at the street, her feet bare and swollen. “Lunch is ready.” She turned to Mr. Heidelman. “Care to join us?”
“No, thank you,” he said. “I’m far too eager to get settled. Perhaps the boys would like to come help me unpack a million boxes of books after lunch? I pay in lemonade.”
—
Corbin came home after only twenty minutes and one glass of lemonade.
“It was too sour,” he said. “And the books are really dusty.”
Owen was there until it was nearly suppertime.
Just as Claire was pulling things out of the fridge, Dad texted to say that he was on his way home with pizza—early, for once. He had hardly shown his face since the day of Mrs. Patel’s funeral.
So pizza was a big deal.
Usually when Dad came home, he went straight upstairs and had a shower, almost before even saying hello. But he didn’t that day. And there wasn’t any pizza.
“Where’s the pizza?” Corbin asked, the disappointment clear on his face.
“I said I was going to order it.”
“No, you said you were bringing it home,” Claire said. She pulled up his text and showed him.
“Thanks, Text Officer Claire.” He saluted her.