I’m at Lacey’s house in no time. It must have taken fifteen minutes, but it seems like I blinked and I’m there. Now what? I look at the house, that ugly house, and I don’t get it. Why is it so neglected on the outside but so crazy perfect inside? It makes no sense. It doesn’t match the people who live there because Lacey and her mean mom look great on the outside, perfect clothes, hair, all that. Maybe her mom leaves it like this to annoy the neighbors? Maybe she figures it’s a man’s job and her husband is so busy doing art he never bothers?
I’m not going to figure it out by standing here. I march around the back and knock on the door. Nothing happens. I knock again. Still nothing. Well, that’s what I expected. But then, I hear a small sound. “Psst!”
I look around but don’t see anyone. Then I hear it again. It’s coming from the far side of the house. I pick my way through the weeds and crane my head around the corner. And there’s Lacey, peeking out a window.
“Sable,” she whispers, “come here.”
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Keep your voice down!” she hisses. “I don’t want my mom to hear you.”
I glance around nervously but don’t see Psycho Mom. “Don’t you think she heard the knocking?” I whisper.
Lacey grimaces. “For sure. But she never answers the door unless she’s expecting someone.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, I brought your stuff. But I guess I should go, hey?”
“No, just wait. She’s going out in a minute. Then I’ll let you in.”
Sure enough, I hear the clatter of heels and a door opening. I flatten myself against the wall and hold my breath.
“Lacey?” Psycho Mom’s voice comes clearly through the window. “I’m going now. I’ll lock the doors.”
“Okay,” Lacey answers.
“Love you,” the voice calls. Did I hear that right? Then the heels clatter again, the sound fades. A door on the far side of the house opens and closes. A car engine starts. She’s gone.
“Sable?” Lacey’s face appears at the window again. “You can come in now.”
She lets me in through the back door, and the inside of the house is even whiter than I remember. I can’t help it, I have to ask, “Lacey, why is your place so strange?”
“What do you mean?” she asks. She’s stalling, I can tell.
“You know. So perfect inside and so messy outside. Do you guys have allergies or something?”
“So what’s the something?” I ask.
“Someone’s sure nosey today.”
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“But you know what?” Lacey doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Maybe we could finish our game of Truth or Dare.”
“I thought we were finished,” I say.
“Why did you come here then? I know you didn’t just want to return my stuff.”
I sigh. I tell her the plain truth. “I came because I’m confused. And I need to talk about it.”
Lacey’s eyes widen. “Wow. I think that’s the first time I ever got a straight answer out of you, Sable.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I think.”
Lacey giggles. “Come on, I want to show you something.” She leads the way into the living room. Or rather, the room most people would use as a living room. I’m thinking, Oh good, I get to see it. But some things are best left unseen.
It’s like a carnival freak show. Standing shoulder to shoulder, lining every wall, are giant Barbie dolls. No, not Barbies. They’re mannequins, and their solid blank faces stare across the open floor at each other, past each other, past us.
“What,” I breathe, “is this?”
“This is a studio,” Lacey says.
“Oh! Right! So your dad makes...fake people?”
She shakes her head. “Not my dad. My mom.”
“Your mom?” I repeat. “She’s an artist too?”
“If you can call it that. She’s a fashion designer. Or more like a wannabe. Anyway, she keeps bringing these mannequins home, and she’s supposed to be making clothes for them. Only...she never buys any fabric.”
“They’re creepy,” I blurt.
“Yeah,” says Lacey, “I know.” She stands there with her arms folded, staring at them as if she could stare them down.
“Um,” I say, “can we get out of here?”
“What? Oh. Sure.”
I bolt for the kitchen but I don’t feel any better. Those dummies are still too close. Maybe Lacey sees how edgy I am because she says, “Let’s go to my room instead.”
And her room is normal. Pictures on the wall, clothes on the floor, a flowery bed, a desk strewn with a mix of paper, perfume and jewellery.
“Whew,” I say.
“I know,” she says.
We both sink down at the same moment, her onto the bed, me into a pile of fluffy pillows. About a million questions are zipping around in my head, tripping over each other, fighting to be the first past my lips.
“Okay,” says Lacey, “I can tell you’re dying to ask me some stuff. So I’m just going to tell you and get it over with. My mom is nuts. My dad is long gone. And that’s it.”
I take this in. Slowly. More questions start bubbling in my boggled brain, but once again, Lacey cuts to the chase.
“I lied about having a dad because I wish I had one. Mine left about five years ago when my mom started losing it. My mom is mostly harmless. She holds a steady job, keeps up with the bills. That thing with the scissors, she’s not usually that bad. It’s just her disorder—she’s obsessive-compulsive. She can’t stand anything icky. I mean, that’s why the outside is so grungy, right? It’s too much for her to control, so she ignores it.”
“But...,” I search for the right way to ask, “are you okay with that?”
“I have to be,” she says fiercely. “She’s my mom, right? So don’t go telling anyone about this, Sable, like I’m some sort of case. There’s no way I’m leaving her. We’re fine.”
She’s watching me steadily and there’s no lie in her blue eyes. But there’s something else lurk ing in her gaze, something familiar. Fear. “I won’t tell,” I whisper.
She sighs. “Thanks.” She pauses, and then she adds softly, “It feels good to tell someone about it, you know?”
An unfamiliar rush of warmth washes over me. She’s saying she trusts me! Me. “Yeah,” I say, “I guess it does.”
Lacey grins. “Funny how that works, huh?”
She’s watching me, waiting, as if she’s expecting something. And I know what it is. It’s my turn to share a deep dark secret. I don’t have any, except for the doom thing. Now I need to stall for time. There are some interesting pictures in her room, stuff with vibrant colors and swooping lines. “Nice art,” I say.
“Thanks,” says Lacey.
I look more closely and notice a loopy L signature on most of them. “You did these?” I ask. And I don’t manage to disguise the surprise in my voice.
“Yeah,” she says.
“Wow! They’re really good.” They are.
“You think?” Lacey scrutinizes the portrait nearest her and shrugs. “They’re okay. I’m working on it.” She returns her expectant gaze to me.
I sigh and tell her. “I feel that doom is near.”
“Huh?” says Lacey.
“Doom,” I say shakily.
“You mean you’re, like, afraid of something?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s it. I’m afraid of everything.”
“Whoa,” she says. “You can’t be afraid of everything!”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Because,” she says, “that would be too much.” She leans forward. “Are you afraid of flowers?”
“No.”
“Butterflies?”
“No.”
“Puppies?”
“No!” I shout. “That’s not what I mean!”
Lacey leans back and asks, “So, what do you mean?”
“I mean I’m afraid the world will end. I’m afraid of aliens, the flu, holes in the ozone. I’m even afraid of other people most of the time!”
“Hah,” says Lacey. “Too funny.”
“No!” I say hotly, “Not funny!”
“You’re actually afraid of aliens?” she asks.
“Um, no. I mean I might be, if they were real.” She waves a hand. “I don’t have time to worry about stuff like that. What you need, Sable, is a real problem.”
“I need a real problem?” I can’t believe she said that. Isn’t doom a problem?
“Yes.” Lacey nods. “You do.” She ponders for a moment then brightens dramatically. “I’ve got it! You should get a boyfriend. They cause all sorts of problems. I mean, look at Chad. We were supposed to go out to a movie tonight, right? Only he suddenly needs to do an emergency workout at the gym with his buds. He’s such a loser.”
Right. I felt sorry for her for about three minutes because of her nutty mom and all, but no more. She’s ridiculous. “I do not need a boyfriend problem. Thanks anyway.”
“Oh yeah,” she says. “You’re afraid of people too. Hmmm. But then, this could be perfect. You overcome your fear of people by getting a boyfriend, and abracadabra! Everything’s great.”
“You know what?” I don’t wait for her to answer. “I just remembered what I wanted to talk to you about. And it isn’t boyfriends. It’s about changing the world.”