“I saw her take that pill the other day,” Casey said. “Was that drugs?” She looked all wide-eyed, like little kids do when they talk about something bad. Even though she was only a little younger than Amanda, I never remembered Amanda looking that way. Amanda was born a boss.
And she was one now. “No. I told you, that was a prescription. It was in a bottle with her name on it.” She rolled her eyes at me. “I hate dealing with people who can’t read.”
“I can read!” Casey said. “Mommy was supposed to help me with my AR book. I need to get two more points by Friday.”
“I’ll help you,” Amanda said. To me, she said, “Please don’t tell your mom.”
“Okay,” I said even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to add a fourth lie to my list. Or lie to Tim either. I mean, what if Amanda hadn’t been able to come over to my house?
I pushed the thought away. She always could.
We helped Casey with her reading book, pretending to work on a project. Then we made oatmeal scotchies. Amanda finally got in touch with Jackie, but Mom said they could stay for dinner, and she’d bring them home.
“What’d she say,” I asked Amanda.
“She had an appointment.”
“That’s what she said last week,” Casey said.
“Last week?”
“It wasn’t a big deal. Mrs. Garcia brought us home then. I just didn’t see her today. Mom forgets things.”
“Moms shouldn’t . . .” I stopped. I’d been about to say moms shouldn’t forget their kids, but I saw the look on Amanda’s face.
“I won’t call you next time.”
“No, it’s okay,” I said.
Over dinner, my dad remarked I was putting on a little weight. “Maybe lay off the oatmeal cookies,” he said.
Amanda and I exchanged a look. “Chris is bulking up for football,” she said.
One day, when I was over at Amanda’s practicing pitching and catching, her dad came out, singing, “Oh, Mandy, you came and you gave without taking. . . .”
“Stop that,” she said.
“Hey, I’m a Fanilow,” Tim said, because the guy who sang the song was named Barry Manilow.
I knew better than to sing myself. I knew not to get on Amanda’s bad side. Last week, Nolan had called her “Lardass Lasky” out on the playground. A few days later, she’d “accidentally” dropped a pudding on him at lunch. “I think you must have meant badass,” she told him after.
“You know there’s another Amanda song?” I said when Tim left. “My mom had it on the radio once.”
“Yeah, but you’re not going to sing that one to me. It’s all, ‘Amanda . . . I loooooove you.’” She imitated the group that sang it, which my mom had told me was called Boston.
“True,” I said.
“Let’s play, so you can be a better ballplayer than you are a singer.”
“That wouldn’t be hard,” I said, even though I thought I was actually an okay singer.
“No, it won’t,” Amanda agreed. “Okay, let’s play so you can be way better than stupid Nolan and make everyone sorry they didn’t let you in the majors.”
“Hey, I’m already better than Nolan.”
“That’s true.”
6