“He wrote your name,” I can’t help but interject. “He wrote out all three letters of your name!”
“Exactly!” she says, pounding her fist on the table, as if she’s just won some argument. Whatever deadness loomed in her eyes is gone. Maybe I imagined it.
I let her recite the entire thing from memory, even though I’ve got it right there on the screen in front of me.
“You were going to release your turtle into the wild?”
“Of course not. I’m not stupid.”
“Okay, just checking.” I study her face as I hand back her phone. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she responds.
Granddad is not dead. That’s the important thing.
I nod. “So . . . marathon watching sesh of your new buddy, Legs?”
She hugs her phone to her chest like it’s Legs himself. “Yes!”
Later, when we’re sprawled on the couch with our chips and chocolate, and there’s a brief pause as we switch from one video to the next, I turn to Meg. “By the way, thanks for last night. For being there.”
“Of course,” she says. “Anytime.”
Which makes twice in one day that someone has said that to me.
MEG
“MEG SAYS WHAT’S ON HER MIND.”
“Meg has no filter.”
“Meg is so outspoken.”
I’ve heard it a hundred thousand times—from teachers, friends, my mom, everyone.
The Meg they’re talking about would walk into Kat’s house and report, immediately, that she’d had sex. “I’m wearing a pad,” she would say, “because there was blood and it’s not my period. Also, Grayson and I broke up, I think, but it’s good riddance, really, because he was boring and a jerk.” That Meg would give a complete play-by-play of how and where and what it looked like.
And then once that weight was gone, that Meg could move on to talking about exciting things, like LotSCON and how she bought tickets and how we can go together and it will be epic and great and it won’t matter that I had sex because who cares about Grayson because I don’t even like him as much as Legs anyways.
That Meg would say all the things.
I know this because the words are hopping around in my head like an angry wasp buzzing about under a glass, like a horde of winglings stuck in a lava trap, screaming to get out.
So why aren’t they coming out?
CHAPTER 19
MEG
THERE’S NOTHING SCARY ABOUT THE DARK. I’VE NEVER HAD MONSTERS UNDER my bed, just lost jigsaw puzzle pieces and dirty laundry and probably an old, discarded pizza crust.
But tonight I can’t sleep, and it’s the dark’s fault. I can’t see my magazines or my LumberLegs posters or my phone or even the fly that’s been buzzing about in the corner even though he should be dead, shouldn’t he, because it’s winter?
There’s nothing to distract me from the realization that I am fundamentally unlovable. Grayson doesn’t want me. Neither did Brad. My friends. My dad. Even my stepdad, Stephen. All of them realized, at some point, that Meg is not worth having.
I flick on the light beside my bed.
LumberLegs—the knit doll Kat gave me for Christmas—sits across the room on the shelf he was demoted to in case Grayson would be jealous if I slept with him. I thought it was a silly fear, but I guess I was right to worry.
I don’t have to worry about that now.
I get up, snatch Legs off the shelf, then cozy back into bed, the top of Legs’s head tucked just under my chin. I don’t need Grayson. I’ve got LumberLegs.
I turn on my tablet and search for flights to LotSCON. Then stare through the darkness at the glowing screen.
Lizard balls.
Lizard. Balls.
Flights are expensive. How the heck do people fly all over the place? Are they made of money? Because I am not. I drop the tablet on the floor and squeeze Legs tighter.
If I slept with Legs in real life, I bet it would be different. I bet he’d know what to do to make sure I don’t bleed, and he’d be gentle and kind, and afterward we’d cuddle just like this except my head would be under his chin instead of the other way around.
I don’t have real-life Legs, though, only the doll, and apparently that’s all I’m ever getting, so I try sliding the doll up so his head is above my own. But then my face is buried in his belly button—or at least, where his belly button would be if he was human and not a doll—which just feels weird.
So I slip him back down under my chin and hug him close until I finally fall asleep.
KAT
IT’S SCIENCE PROJECT CHECKIN DAY, WHICH IS FINE, BECAUSE I HAVE ALL twenty of our questionnaires and test results completed and ready to show Mr. Carter.
“And I hope your projects are all coming along swimmingly,” he says before he makes his rounds, “because I’ve got some exciting news. The school board has approved our funding, and this year, in addition to the regional fair, the winners from each school in Edmonton will be flown to Toronto to compete at the national fair. It’s on March fifteenth, so mark your calendars. But remember, only one team can win!”
In front of me, Meg’s lying across her desk with her right arm sticking out into the aisle, her head resting on her bicep. With her left hand, she lazily flips the pages of her planner. January. February. March.
She sits up abruptly, then turns around and thrusts the planner practically in my face. “He said March fifteenth, right?” she whispers.
I nod, then look down at the page. And suddenly I understand, with a tightening of my chest, her unexpected glee. From Friday, March 16 to Sunday, March 18, Meg has giant words written over and over across the space in green pen:
LOTSCON
LUMBERLEGS
TORONTO
“Ms. Winters. Ms. Daley,” Mr. Carter says before I can burst Meg’s bubble and remind her that I don’t fly. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class?”
Meg snatches her planner out of my hand and whirls back around in her seat. “Only that our project is going to whup their butts!”
Mr. Carter’s mouth contorts in a half grimace, half smile, as if he’s not sure whether to reprimand her or to laugh. “You heard it here first, folks,” he says finally. “The project to beat.”
Meg glances over her shoulder and flashes me her sparkly white grin.
My heart crashes into my stomach like a plane from the sky.
MEG
I KNOW LUMBERLEGS CAN’T DATE EVERY LOVESTRUCK FAN WHO’S EVER LAID eyes on him. And I know he’s got a lot of fans.
But . . .
He’s got to date somebody, right? And why couldn’t that somebody be a lovestruck fan? And why couldn’t that lovestruck fan be me? Especially when the universe is basically handing us this free flight.
Grayson practically thought Legs and I were dating already. Plus, we both like to joke and we both like turtles and we’re both bad at LotS and we’re going to meet at LotSCON and I already know what our wedding colors would be.
Plus, dating him would be like a swift kick to Grayson’s balls.
KAT
THE MOMENT WE STEP INTO THE HALL AFTER SCIENCE, MEG TURNS ON ME like a shadowwolf who’s just spotted its prey.