Guys don’t usually pay attention to me, and if they do, I get all tongue-tied and say dumb things. Sarah doesn’t seem to worry about stuff like that though. As soon as we’ve got our cones in hand, she marches up to them. “Hi. Are you going to Vic Middle in the fall?”
“Yeah,” says the guy I recognize. “You too?”
“Yup,” Sarah says, sticking out her hand to introduce herself. Even I know that normal kids don’t shake hands, but for some reason, the guys don’t even blink. The one I recognize introduces himself as Michael; the other is Steve.
“Ellie here is visiting from Vancouver,” Sarah adds, and I smile, like I’m an interesting kid from the big city, not someone who lives in a boring suburb and hardly ever goes downtown.
Sarah sits on the sidewalk, legs folded up beneath her in Lotus position. I plunk down on her other side.
“So what’s Vic Middle like?” she asks.
They shrug. “It’s okay.”
“Good basketball team,” adds Steve, adjusting his ballcap.
Michael leans out from behind Steve and looks straight at me. “You look familiar.”
I feel my face go hot. Any minute I’ll get tongue-tied, and he’ll either think I’m mute or a babbling idiot. “A few days ago,” I say carefully, “Sarah and I went up to the school to look around. You were there with a little boy.”
“Oh, right. My nephew, Jake.”
Sarah is still deep in conversation with Steve. Michael’s obviously trying to be friendly, and it would look dumb for me to just sit here silently, licking my gelato. “What were you looking for that day?” I ask. “In the dirt, I mean.”
“Bugs,” Michael says.
“Bugs?”
“Yup,” he says. “For my collection. Not that the schoolyard’s the best spot for capture, but my sister would only let me take Jake across the street. She’s a bit overprotective.”
“Oh.” I want to ask him how he got interested in collecting bugs, and how he can do it without everyone thinking he’s weird, but I’m afraid he’ll think I’m nosy. He looks at me for a second, but when I say nothing, he leans back against the wall to finish his hot dog.
Sarah has no trouble keeping her own conversation going. She asks a million questions about Vic Middle and life in Victoria, and within minutes she’s writing down Steve’s phone number. I raise my eyebrows at her, and she turns a bit pink. “He wants a tour of the petting zoo at the park,” she says. “He’s thinking of volunteering there.”
“Uh-huh,” Michael says. “I’ll bet he is.” He winks at me.
I smile back, for real this time, and hope he doesn’t notice my cheeks burning.
THIRTEEN
To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Subject: I love you
Dear Ellie Belly,
I’ve started this email five times, and I keep erasing it because it comes out all wrong. Mostly, I want to tell you that I miss you and I love you, even if you’re mad at me right now. Whatever I’ve done to offend you, I wish we could just talk it out. I hear your voice, and I know there’s something wrong. I’m disappointed in Jeanette for not encouraging you to tell me what’s on your mind, but ultimately, you’re old enough to make your own decisions about that kind of thing.
I can understand that teenagers get mad at their parents—that’s part of being a teen after all—but I’ve always taught you to talk things out. Punishing me with your silence is not going to solve anything between us.
Please do what you know is right and tell me what’s going on.
I love you anyway,
Mom XOXO
I stare at the library computer’s screen. How can she accuse me of giving her the silent treatment when I’ve talked to her every night, except when she didn’t call? She must know it’s not my fault that Jeanette ends our conversations almost as soon as they’ve begun. (My aunt still insists she’s trying to give me breathing space, but how does she imagine causing problems between my mom and me is helping?)
The woman next to me glances in my direction, and I realize I’m glaring at the computer, jaw clenched and hands balled into fists, my short nails digging into my palms. I close my eyes, breathe deep and try to relax. Above all, I have to remain calm.
I can’t do anything right away anyway. Firing back an email is out of the question. When Mom’s this upset, all interactions have to be in real time. I need to be able to gauge her mood and adjust my every comment accordingly.
I glance at the clock on the computer screen. I’m supposed to meet Jeanette at the check-out counter of the library in twenty minutes. I sigh, open a new Internet window, and try to immerse myself in what I came here to do. At first I’m too mad to concentrate properly, but I force myself to focus. I don’t want to think about my family anymore.