CHAPTER TWELVE

BOMBSHELL

bomb·shell

noun \bom-shel\

—something that comes as a great surprise

Each day, I realized more and more that Aunt Willa had turned into one disappointing roommate. I’d had certain expectations, and she hadn’t met any of them. The hours of girl talk, a photography lesson or two, and a clean, organized room were all nonexistent. She didn’t even draw anything cool on my cast—she just signed it.

Chewy still shoved me off the bed each night, but I decided to keep quiet about it. I figured sleeping on the sofa was better than listening to him bark all night if Aunt Willa put him outside. Mom and Dad didn’t even know I was on the sofa—I usually was up and ready for school before either one of them ever made it out to the kitchen.

The biggest bummer, though, was the fact I was no longer allowed to use my own bathroom. Aunt Willa had completely taken it over with her photography junk. The chemicals she used for developing her photos stank to high heaven. She often tried to mask the stench by lighting a scented candle in the bedroom, but that made things smell even worse. The scent was called Sandalwood. Half the name was right. It smelled like sandals … sweaty gross ones.

On Sunday, I’d decided that another pedicure would be the perfect way to spend the afternoon. Friday night’s slip-n-slide fiasco in the hallway had completely messed up the polish on my toes and I’d been wanting to redo them. Aunt Willa had gone to check on the renovations at her condo, so I stole a peek behind the heavy black curtain she’d hung in the bathroom doorway.

The nail polish collection I kept on the countertop was nowhere to be seen. I had a particularly complicated system for grouping my nail polish. It had taken me hours to come up with it and a whole Saturday to arrange all the bottles just right. The entire structure was based on color, whether or not there was glitter, and glow-in-the-dark ability. I had no idea where any of the bottles were, and I was pretty sure whoever moved the collection hadn’t kept the bottles in the right order.

I walked into the kitchen and slumped down on a stool. Mom was pulling a sheet of dark chocolate chip cookies out of the oven.

“Why the sour face?” she said.

“Aunt Willa moved my nail polish and I don’t know where it is,” I said, picking at a piece of lint on my cast.

She shut the oven door and cocked her head. “What do you need your nail polish for?”

“I want to redo my nails since they got messed up Friday night. I’ll be able to do it—I can still move my fingers,” I said. I held up my right arm and wiggled my fingers around. “See?”

“It’s probably under the sink or something. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“But it took me forever to organize it all. I don’t like it when people move my stuff,” I muttered.

“Ella,” Mom said. “It’s nail polish. That’s all.”

“It’s not all. It’s the fact that my stuff got moved and nobody even asked me! My dresser’s in my closet, my top two drawers were emptied out, I was kicked out of my own bed, I can’t even use my bathroom, and now my nail polish is gone.” I took a deep breath and continued. “Plus, I’m stuck listening to Aunt Willa’s Peruvian panpipe music every time I walk into my room.”

Mom chuckled.

“It’s not funny.”

Mom slid another cookie tray in the oven and then pulled out the stool next to me. “You’re going to have to be flexible for the next few weeks, hon. I know you’re used to having things done a certain way, but don’t let pettiness get in the way of a good relationship.”

“I’m not.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Okay, maybe just a little,” I said.

“You need to process these feelings, Ella—don’t keep them bottled up inside. Talk it out with your aunt and enjoy this time. You never know, you might learn something new.” She handed me a warm cookie.

“Like what? How to move other people’s stuff around and annoy them with weird music?” I replied.

She smacked me on the head with her potholder and stood up.

“No. More like just because you’re an only child doesn’t mean things will always go your way. I know Aunt Willa has her faults, but nobody’s perfect.”

I felt like she was treating me like one of her counseling clients again. I took my cookie and walked back to my room. Mom’s words stung. I didn’t always get my way. I just wanted things done a certain way. Surely I wasn’t asking too much.

A couple hours later, Aunt Willa came into the room carrying a set of architectural plans under her arm. She plopped down on her bed and patted the spot next to her. “Want to see what I’m doing at the condo?”

I shrugged and walked over.

She shook the plans out of the tube and handed me one rolled end. She unfurled it and held onto the other side. Numbers, dimensions, symbols, and lines filled the page.

“Whoa,” I said.

“I know this might look confusing, but I’ll explain.” She showed me her bedroom and where the walk-in closet was being built. Then she pointed to a double line in the kitchen. “See this wall here? It’s going to be taken out so the kitchen can be enlarged.”

“How big are you making it?” I asked.

“You tell me. See the dotted line here?” She pointed to the plans.

“Uh-huh.”

“The dotted line is where the new wall will be. How do you find the area of something?”

“Really? You’re giving me a math test right now?”

“It’s not a test, goofy.”

I sighed. “Fine. I think area is length times width.”

“Good! Now look at the dimensions right here.” She tapped the plans with her finger.

“Eleven by fifteen?” I said. “I multiply those two together, right?”

“Yep.”

I stood and walked to my desk.

“Where are you going?” said Aunt Willa.

“To get a calculator.” I opened the top drawer. “There’s no way I can multiply that in my head.” I plugged in the numbers. “One hundred and sixty-five square feet,” I said.

“Bingo!” said Aunt Willa. “My current kitchen is only one hundred square feet so this will add a lot of extra space. You sure know your geometry.”

“Geometry really isn’t my strong point.” I paused. “Actually, math in general isn’t my strong point.”

“That’s okay. Your strengths lie in other areas. Not everyone was made to be a math whiz. But you still need to be able to handle everyday math.”

“You don’t use math,” I argued, putting away my calculator. “That’s one of the reasons I want to be a photographer. That, and I think it’d be a lot of fun to travel.”

She laughed. “I use math all the time—especially when I’m traveling.”

I spun around to face her. “What do you mean?”

“I have to estimate the weight of my baggage so I don’t bring too much. There are different time zones to work with and various currencies to exchange. When I turn in expense reports, I have to make sure everything adds up to the right amount. I need to estimate distances correctly when I’m taking pictures to ensure I use the proper lens. And as I develop photographs, if I don’t measure the amount of chemicals correctly, I could have a serious problem.”

She rolled up the plans and stuffed them back in the tube. “You can’t think of it as a test every time you do something math-related. You’ll freak out if you do that. Anybody would.”

I gripped the edge of my desk. “You sound like my mom.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She pushed herself off the bed. “I’m going to work in the darkroom for a bit.” She placed her panpipe music in the CD player and disappeared behind the curtain, oblivious to the fact that she’d just destroyed my hopes of dodging the math bullet by becoming a photographer. I squeezed my eyes shut. Why do adults have to ruin everything?