I notice a gap in a row of hedges, and before I can think twice about it, I slip through and sink to the grass on the other side. I bring my knees to my chest and pull my mossy-green sweater over them, so I’m as small and hedge-like as possible. I’m afraid to look toward the house to which this hedge belongs, as any movement will only draw attention. So I rest my forehead on my knees, let my hair fall around me, and try to get my breathing under control.
I think about what my mom said, about facing the fear, but I just don’t know how. I’ve never known. Avoiding things like parties or groups is what I’ve always done and I wouldn’t begin to know how to change that. Especially all by myself, without Jenna to speak for me when I can’t find the words.
I’m not sure how long I sit here before someone passes on the sidewalk with a tiny little dog that’s sniffing at the hedge. It barks at me, but the owner yanks its leash and says, “Jasmine!”
The dog makes a whimpering sound and scampers away.
I exhale.
Then something furry rubs up against my wrist and I spring backward.
“Mawrr!” It’s a cat, gray with white markings, now with its back arched and fur fluffed out in fright.
“Sorry. Sorry,” I whisper, extending my hand for it to sniff.
The cat slowly un-freaks itself, pacing in front of me, eventually approaching my hand and rubbing against my wrist. God, what I wouldn’t give to be a cat. Nobody thinks it’s weird how skittish they are. Or that they rub their face all over you, or knead their paws into your lap and circle three times before sitting down. Cats are gloriously odd, and people still love them.
The cat is now rubbing its full body on my legs, practically lying on me. I unhook my sweater from around my knees and sit cross-legged. The cat makes itself right at home in my lap and I pet it until it is purring so loud I’m afraid someone in the house might hear.
The house.
I kind of forgot it was there. I glance toward it, scanning the windows to see if anyone’s looking out at me, then lower my gaze to the back patio. There’s a grill, a table with an umbrella, some reclining lawn chairs, and . . . a guy.
He’s sitting in one of the lawn chairs, reading a book. Maybe if I slink away quietly, he’ll . . . oh, no. He raises his arm, palm facing me like he’s hailing a cab. He slowly rises and starts walking toward me.
I’m too terrified to run. Also, the cat is now nestled and sleeping in my lap. I focus my gaze on the guy’s feet, and when he’s about halfway across the lawn, I see it.
His left pant leg is tucked into his sock. A bright blue sock.
“It is you,” Lipton says as he comes within a few paces of my kneecaps. “I was just sitting there reading, minding my own business, and I looked up and thought, Is that Vicky Decker in my backyard? And it is. It’s you.”
His face is all incredulous delight. “What are you doing here?”
“I was just, uh . . . petting this cat. Your cat, I guess?”
Lipton nods slowly. “Yeah. That’s my cat.” He gestures toward the house behind him. “That’s my house.”
I keep petting the cat, because I’m not sure what else to do.
“Are you . . .” Lipton’s eyebrows go all squiggly as he tries to figure out why I’m sitting in his yard. “Did you . . . um . . .”
“I came for the party.” I nod in the direction of Marissa’s house. “But I couldn’t . . . I, you know.” My face contorts and my hands wave around my head in what my screwed-up brain apparently thinks is an acceptable form of communication.
Remarkably, Lipton seems to understand. “Ah,” he says, nodding. “Parties are not my thing, either. I’d much rather, uh . . . sit on my patio. Read a book. Talk to cat-petting girls who appear in my yard.”
I smile. “Were you invited?”
He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Nah.”
“Would you go if you were?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Probably not.”
It suddenly occurs to me that I’m having an actual conversation. And not completely sucking at it. He spoke, I spoke, he spoke. I didn’t blurt out anything strange. I should be knocking on wood this very moment, since I obviously just jinxed myself.
The cat seems to sense it, too, because it stretches, rolls off my lap, and saunters off. It pauses about ten paces away to look over its shoulder at me and lick its paw.
I brush the fur from my lap. Lipton extends a hand to help me up. And I panic. Because he’s about to touch me and hardly anybody ever touches me and he’s smiling his adorable smile and I’m sweating and what if he can smell me?
So, instead of taking his hand, as any normal person would, I push myself backward. Into a somersault. A backward somersault. Then spring to my feet. Like a lunatic.
Lipton steps away, scratching his chin. “That’s, uh, quite a dismount you’ve got there.”
“Yep! I like to keep myself nimble.” I groan inwardly while brushing off the leaves that are now stuck to my back and hair.
“You want to come in?” Lipton’s chin scratch moves to a back-of-head scratch, and he doesn’t look all that certain it’s a good idea to invite me into his house. “Play Minecraft, maybe?”
I blink at him. Playing a video game sounds strangely appealing, even though I don’t know the first thing about Minecraft. But it would also involve going inside his house. Meeting his parents, probably. Maybe a sibling or two. Cue sweat glands.
“I can’t,” I say, arms swinging at my sides like I’m about to do the standing long jump. “But thanks for letting me pet your cat. And hide behind your shrubbery. It’s very nice shrubbery you have. I would definitely recommend it highly to anyone seeking shrubbery to hide behind. Or . . . behind which to hide, rather. Yes. Yours would definitely be the shrubbery of choice for grammatically correct shrubbery hiders.”
Lipton bites his lower lip, nodding. “Okay, then.”
“Okay. Bye!” I make my escape before my mouth can spew anything more ridiculous, slipping through the gap in the hedge and walking toward home. Or in the general direction of home, because I was not paying attention on the drive here. Anyplace that is not Marissa’s house or Lipton’s backyard should suffice.
Just get me out of here.
14
I’VE WALKED ABOUT A HALF mile before my vital signs have calmed enough for my brain to start functioning properly and remember that I have a phone in my pocket that has a map app. Which might be useful at the moment, because I have no idea where I am.
My phone screen is alive with messages for Vicurious. Every time I see one I think it’s a text from Jenna. I open my Instagram settings as I’m walking and turn off the notifications. Then I punch in my address and get directions for walking home.
It’s 4.7 miles. I haven’t walked that far since . . . ever? My phone says it’ll take an hour and forty-two minutes.
I trudge along, checking the map app every few minutes to make sure I haven’t wandered off course. I wish there was a life app for that. Instead of “turn left” and “turn right” it could remind me to “breathe” and “walk” and “speak” and “shut up” and “please, seriously, stop talking.”
My phone bleeps a notification, and now I really think it’s Jenna, because who else would it be since I shut off the messages from Instagram?
Are you having a good time?
Ugh, Mom. I ignore it and keep walking.