I woke up thinking about Anderson’s. It was too late to sneak into the basement, because I could hear the faint voices of Mom and Claire in the kitchen. I pulled on my bathing suit, shorts, and a shirt. I had a mission—we were going to the pool no matter what! I needed to know what that sign said. Part of me was hoping I was wrong, that it was somewhere else, that it didn’t say Anderson’s. The wishes by themselves were enough. I didn’t want it to get bigger. I wasn’t sure I could handle bigger.
I sat on the side of the bed and pulled on a sock. The PJ Walker book was next to me. I picked it up, flipped through the pages, and found Percy’s letter. Peter had been right; it was a twist in the story, and it explained a lot. Now I liked Percy more, even felt sorry for him. The letter explained Percy’s childhood—how he’d lived in an orphanage and had never been adopted. Mostly it was because he was different—he had one short leg and his foot turned in the wrong way; and then there were the three moles on his nose, and his crossed left eye. The kids at the orphanage had liked him once they got to know him, but no parents ever did. That explained why he’d told Viola those crazy stories about his childhood. The truth was boring—and maybe too painful.
It was hard to imagine Percy as a funny-looking kid. Now that he was a grown-up, he seemed handsome, confident, and outgoing, but that was the new him—after all the operations. Now he was perfect, and no one would ever be able to tell what he used to look like. It made me wonder: Which was harder—having something different about you that everyone could see, or having something different about you that was hidden? I didn’t have time to decide, because five seconds later Claire charged into my room. When she’d first arrived, I’d made a rule about knocking first, but now it didn’t seem as important.
“Do you know how to make Miss Sato and Mr. Gripes fall in love?” asked Claire.
I shook my head.
“Well, I do.” She sat on the side of my bed. “All you have to do is find out what Miss Sato’s handwriting looks like, copy it, and write a love letter to Mr. Gripes. It’s perfect, because when Mr. Gripes gets the letter, he’ll think it’s from Miss Sato and he’ll fall in love with her again.”
Claire was extra pleased with herself. I could tell she couldn’t wait for me to get started, but her plan had flaws—lots and lots of flaws. Mostly I was stuck on the “write a love letter to Mr. Gripes” part—there was no way I would ever be able to do that. Part of me even felt sorry for Miss Sato—Mr. Gripes didn’t seem very lovable.
I shook my head. “I can’t write a love letter.”
Claire was surprised. “But it’s perfect!”
Her plan was nothing close to perfect. But I knew Claire—if I didn’t have another plan to offer her, or a really good reason not to do it, she wouldn’t give up.
I wanted her to believe me, so I looked her in the eyes and said it again: “I can’t write a love letter.” There were about a hundred reasons why I didn’t want to do it, but I told Claire the one I thought would make the most sense to her. First I explained that it was against the law to write a letter and pretend to be someone else. I wasn’t sure if it was really against the law, but it seemed like it should be.
We sat there for a few minutes, both silently thinking our own thoughts. I studied the swirls and splotches on my bedspread—I seemed to be doing that a lot lately.
Finally I spoke. “Plus I’ve never been in love.”
Claire stared at me, shocked.
“You haven’t?”
I nodded, shrugged, and stood up.
“So I don’t even know how to write a love letter.”
Claire looked at her hands. I had won.
But I wasn’t done. I had a plan—a plan to get us to the pool and satisfy Claire, both at the same time. We were going to be love detectives. On the way down to the kitchen, I described it to Claire. At first she said no, but I was ready for that.
“If we don’t go to the pool and talk to Sam, I won’t find out any more information about Miss Sato and Mr. Gripes. We need to be good love detectives.”
Claire was quiet. I took that as a win. I had a good feeling about everything working out.
But suddenly Claire changed the subject. “Do we have to go into the water?”
Why would you go to the pool and not go into the water? The swimming was the only good part. In the water, you did your own thing. Nobody bothered you, and you didn’t have to meet or talk to anyone.
“I’ll go, but only if we don’t go in the water!” Claire turned her back to me.
Now I was annoyed. “What’s the matter? Can’t you swim?”
Suddenly Claire burst into tears and ran out of the room.
I found her in the living room. She was lying on the sofa, her head buried in the cushion, but she wasn’t crying.
I sat down next to her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know, but guess what. Learning to swim is a lot easier than learning to ride a bike.”
Claire looked up. “Is that true?”
“Yes, and I can teach you.” I smiled, and she sat up.
Now I felt even better about going. It would be good to have something to do at the pool. I liked having a plan—a plan was good.