“Grayson,” he says. “My name is Grayson.” He glances at the phone in his hand. “Unfortunately, I have to go. I’m late for archery practice.”
“Archery? Like with bows and arrows and stuff?” I’ve never thought of archery as an actual thing people do—maybe at those festivals with the court jesters and Robin Hoods and stuff, not in real life—but it’s suddenly on my bucket list. I’ve never written out my bucket list (does anyone in the world actually have a written bucket list?), but if I did, it would probably fill a book. Things like skydiving, yodeling, yo-yoing, climbing Mount Everest, riding a hot-air balloon, riding a camel, riding an elephant, riding a dolphin, marrying LumberLegs, of course, and now archery.
“Yeah,” Grayson says. “I’ve only been doing it for a couple of years, so I’m not that great. There’s this ten-year-old at the range who’s always giving me tips.”
“How do you keep your pants from falling down?” The question just pops out of me. For one long, frozen moment, the words hover in the air between us like wintry puffs of breath.
Then, thankfully, he laughs. “Invisible suspenders. Standard issue.” He backs away down the hall, still looking at me. “Catch you around, Flash,” he says.
“Only if you can catch up with me,” I call after him.
He grins broadly as he waves and disappears out the side door.
I’m still floating on his dreamy grin when I arrive home from school to find Kenzie dragging her pink suitcase down the stairs, one thud after another. My own grin falls off my face.
I grab her suitcase from her hand and march it over to the door. “Don’t you have stuff at your dad’s place? I thought you didn’t have to pack anything.” I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice. It’s not her fault she has an entire life over there, and I’ve never even seen where Stephen-the-Leaver lives now. Not her fault he’s still her dad, but not mine.
“I have to take my ponies!” Kenzie snaps open her plastic case to reveal a huge, jumbled pile of hair and plastic hooves.
“Doesn’t your dad have ponies?”
She snatches one out of the suitcase. “He doesn’t have Rainbow Dash!”
If that’s reason enough for her to take them all, I’m not arguing with her. “Well, have fun,” I say, with as much enthusiasm as I can muster, which admittedly isn’t much.
Kenzie looks up at me with wide eyes, like she’s worried my frustration might be her fault.
I plaster a grin back across my face. “You’re going to have an epic time,” I say. “Now go watch your show until he gets here.”
She scampers off, abandoning her open suitcase, as if she can’t get away from my terrible acting fast enough.
I head toward the stairs to disappear into my room, but Mom pops her head out of the kitchen before I reach them. “Meg—” She breaks off and studies me. Her curls puff out of her ponytail like mine. She hasn’t had time to style them today either. She tries again. “Meg, maybe you should go with them tonight.” The corners of her eyes crinkle, like it physically pains her to say it. She’d rather none of us ever saw Stephen-the-Leaver again.
“I’m not invited,” I say.
She fiddles with the beads on her necklace. “He said you were welcome to come along anytime.”
“I don’t need his pity invite,” I almost say, but don’t. He doesn’t want me. That much is clear. “Well, I already have plans tonight,” I say. “Kat’s coming over.”
“Oh!” Mom says. She should get mad at me for not asking first, maybe, but she just looks relieved.
I’ve had enough of this conversation. “I’ll be upstairs,” I say, then whirl around and bound up the stairs two at a time.
In my room, I plop down on my stomach on my bed, pull out my phone, and text Kat.
Come over tonight.
While I wait for her response, I pull out my laptop and find Legs’s channel. My phone roars just as I find the new FaceCam Friday video.
I’m not great with spontaneous.
Right. She likes plans and schedules. I sigh, then type my response.
Come after supper then. That gives you a couple of hours.
I want her to come now. I want something fun and epic and amazing to do now. But later is better than never. I roll over onto my back, not bothering to push my hair away from my head or neck. Some days, it gets so big it could be its own pillow. You know, if I wanted it to end up totally squashed and lopsided.
My phone is silent. What the heck is taking her so long? She needs to come over. I need her to come over. I refuse to let tonight be blah.
I grab my phone and start typing again.
We can work on our project proposal.
Okay, so maybe tonight will be a little blah. But at least I won’t be blah and by myself. It’s not long before Kat’s answer arrives.
OK. I can be there at 7.
Perfect. Well, mostly perfect. Perfect enough. I text back to confirm, then sit up and grab my laptop.
Even on the highest volume, Legs’s FaceCam Friday video isn’t loud enough to drown out the sound of Stephen-the-Leaver’s car in the driveway. Or the sound of Kenzie’s giggled greeting and Nolan’s serious one. Or the sound of the front door closing and the car pulling away. Nothing is ever loud enough to drown out the sound of Stephen-the-Leaver leaving.
KAT
THIS IS NOT ME. I DON’T GO OVER TO CLASSMATES’ HOUSES ON JUST A COUPLE of hours’ notice. I don’t go over to classmates’ houses, period. Except Meg’s, apparently, because here I am standing on her front step. Again. Ringing her doorbell. Again. But she said we could work on the proposal. Which we really need to get done. How could I say no to that?
One control factors . . . two spontaneity . . .
Meg’s mother greets me at the door instead of the miniature butler, who is nowhere to be seen. “Meg’s upstairs. You remember where her room is?” she asks as she hangs up my coat. I nod.
I ascend the long staircase, trudge down the long hall.
Seven schedules . . . eight hermit . . .
Meg’s room is empty—maybe she’s in the bathroom?—so I wander over to the terrarium. The turtle is motionless again but sitting on a different rock this time.
“Hi, Snappy,” I say.
“It’s Mr. Sparkles, actually.” The voice comes from behind me. I whirl around. Meg’s disembodied head sticks in through her window.
A tiny part of me tenses to scream, but the rest of me must be acclimatizing to Meg’s . . . uniqueness, because all I say is, “I thought it was Snappy.”
“Well, yeah, it was Snappy. But now it’s Mr. Sparkles.” The rest of her body, I have figured out, is on the small bit of roof just under her window.
“You changed his name?”
“What’s wrong with that? He’s a turtle. It’s not like he knows what his name is. Now come on out. Weather’s nice. The interweb says it’s supposed to snow this weekend, but screw that.” It’s only September 29. In Ottawa, the leaves are probably still rich oranges and reds, the monochrome of winter still weeks if not months away.