Okay, you are me again. You are at the county fair with your family, your best friend, and your best friend’s stunningly handsome older brother. Your chance to impress the stunningly handsome older brother arrives in the form of the Octopus of Doom ride. Not only will he see your adventurous side, but maybe he’ll go on the ride with you, allowing you to come into close, physical contact with his gorgeous self. But the fates intervene in the form of your parents, and instead, you are forced to ride with your own brother. As the ride spins and whirls, your little brother starts spewing lime slushee and cotton candy like some demonic fountain. Your parents respond by:
A. Demanding that the pimple-faced attendant stop the ride immediately so they can remove their son and comfort their totally humiliated daughter;
B. Yelling, “Why aren’t you helping your brother?” as the spinning arm of the Octopus flies by at 98 miles an hour; or,
C. Saying, “Wait, I’ve gotta get the video camera for this.”
Need I tell you the answer here? It could have been the perfect opportunity. It could have been my chance to make an impression on Nate. Livvy’s family was going to the fair, and Livvy invited me to come with her. I’m thinking it’s the ideal way to spend a little quality time with Nate. You know, try to get him to impress me by throwing baseballs at milk bottles to win a giant, stuffed animal. So I ask if I can go, and my delirious father, who normally hates the fair, decides this would be loads of fun for Donny.
It’s important to note here that my dad hates crowds. My dad hates amusement parks—he calls them “asphalt evil.” My dad also can’t stand the smell of barnyard animals—even the blue ribbon-winning ones. But because it’s yet another opportunity to videotape Donny, it becomes a family outing.
So instead of quality time with Nate, I get drenched in secondhand slushee. Instead of carrying home a giant stuffed panda, I’m carrying the smell of my little brother’s barf.
We pull into the garage, and I leap from the car, race to the laundry room, and strip to my undies. Then I take the stairs two at a time to hit the shower.
The warm water and steamy air help me to relax just a little. As I scrub myself with the loofah and vanilla shower gel, I picture Nate’s face the moment I dared him to ride the Octopus. Had I seen a twinkle? A glimmer of interest? A slight hint of intrigue in those oh-so-perfect brown eyes? Then I remember his expression when I got off the ride, drenched and reeking to high heaven. I had most certainly made an impression.
I wash my hair for the second time, trying to make certain there is absolutely nothing clinging to me that in any way resembles recycled cotton candy. Convinced I am now barf-free, I step out of the shower.
“Bark.”
“Mom!” I scream.
I grab a towel and wrap it around me, a little embarrassed, a lot angry. Donny scooches back into the corner by the hamper.
“Ever hear of knocking?” I ask. I storm to my room, slamming the door so that everyone will know exactly what my mood is, not that I had left any doubt as we made our way home.
I get dressed, towel-dry my hair, then head back to the bathroom for the blow-dryer. Donny sits cross-legged on the floor outside his bedroom door. He wears a fresh set of clothes and his hair is wet. He looks up at me.
“What,” I say.
“Sahwee,” he says. He crawls into his room and closes the door with a soft click. Once again, I feel like a schmuck.
I walk to his room and knock. He doesn’t answer, but I twist the knob and go in anyway.
“Evo hew oh knocking?” Donny says.
“I did knock,” I say softly. “You didn’t answer.”
“Go way.”
Donny sits on the rug that looks like you are looking down on a city. It has pictures of buildings, roads, and streams. I sit on a factory and put my hand on Donny’s shoulder. “I know you didn’t mean to get sick,” I say.
“It woh a ackident,” he says.
“An accident. I know,” I say, not really to correct him but to make sure I understand. “But I tried to tell you that the Octopus ride was for big kids.”
“I a big kid,” Donny says. He looks me right in the eye. “I go a school.”
“You go to preschool,” I say. “But the Octopus is for really big kids. Like Nate. Like me. Like Livvy.”
Donny looks down at his feet and plays with the fasteners on his shoes. He peels them apart, then pushes them closed again. Open, close, open, close.
“Donny, I’m not mad at you. Okay?”
“No,” Donny says.
I sit up a little straighter. Usually when I say I’m not mad, he says “okay,” and we move on.
“It’s okay, Donny.”
“No. Not okay.” Donny curls up into a little ball, still pulling the sandal strap apart, then sticking it back together.
“Why? What’s not okay?”
“You not like me,” he says. “You fay I fupid.”
“I didn’t say you were stupid.”
“Yeah, you do.”
“No, I didn’t,” I say. Actually, I might have said it when I got off the ride. Or in the car on the way home. I can’t exactly remember at the moment.
Donny sniffs and wipes at his cheeks with one hand.
“I’m sorry, Donny. I don’t think you’re stupid. I was just angry. But I’m not angry now.”
“You’re not a baby.” The words don’t come out too convincing, even to me. I’m getting frustrated that he won’t just accept my apology and be done with it.
Mom’s voice reaches up the stairs and down the hall. “Mattie? Would you please come down here for a minute?”
This typically means I’m in trouble—again. I’m assuming it’s because I yelled at Donny or called him stupid, or something along those lines. I trudge down the stairs to the den and stand in the doorway, waiting for the barrage of “Don’t call your brother names” and “Can’t you be nice to him?” that I’m sure is coming.
Dad sits in the recliner, scanning the paper like there is some hidden code he needs to find. Mom sits on the sofa, her legs drawn up next to her. Her hair is combed away from her face, and she has a bandana tied like a headband across the top of her head.
“What,” I say. Here it comes, I’m thinking. I’m probably grounded again.
“Mattie,” Mom says, “I’m sorry about what happened on the ride. I shouldn’t have let your brother go on that thing.”
“Buh?” I’m too stunned for a coherent reply.
“That was just too much for him to handle, and I shouldn’t have let him go on it. If you’re going to be upset at someone, be upset at me, not your brother.”
I stare at my mom. I wonder if my eyes are all bugged out. I wonder if this is some sort of a trap, like she’s really testing my response, and if I don’t say the right thing, she’ll throw in the classic, “I knew it. You’re grounded.”
I shift my focus to Dad. He looks up from the paper and nods his agreement. He gives the paper a good shake, turns the page, and goes back to code hunting.
“Then why did you let him go?” I ask.
Mom shrugs. “Your little brother thinks you are the most wonderful person on earth. He wants to go everywhere you go and do everything you do. I know it drives you crazy sometimes.”
“How about most of the time,” I say. “Just once, I’d like to hang out with my friends and do something by myself, without Hurricane Donny showing up to ruin it.”
Mom’s lips draw tight and I brace myself—but she lets out a long sigh. “Olivia called while you were in the shower. She wants to see if you can come over and spend the night.”
I’m a little stunned at the direction this conversation is going. I have yet to be grounded, and if I’m reading this right, Mom sounds like she is about to let me go to Livvy’s for a sleepover.
“I told her that would be fine with me, but that I’d have you call when you were out of the tub.”
My heart does a leap in my chest. “Really?” I ask.
“I think a night off would be good for you. You’ve spent a lot of time helping me with Donny. After today’s adventure, I think I owe you a break.”
My eyes are doing the bugged-out thing again, and I feel like I have to force my lids to close and hold them in their sockets. When I open my eyes again, Mom is still looking at me with her “I’m really sorry” expression on her face.
“I’ll go call Livvy,” I say, but I don’t move.
Dad gives the paper another firm shake. “I think there’s some microwave popcorn in the cupboard. You could take it with you. Make a real party out of this.”
Mom and Dad have not let me stay overnight at anyone’s house all summer. Not that I’ve asked, now that I think about it. I guess sleepovers become less of a big deal when you’re about to become a freshman.
“Better go call Livvy and give her an answer,” Mom says.
I turn toward the kitchen, stop, then look at Mom and Dad. “Thanks,” I say. I run and grab the phone and call Livvy.
“Hello?” Nate answers, and I momentarily forget what I was going to say.
“Hello?” he says again.
“Oh, um, hi—Nate, um, this is Mattie.” Brilliant. You sound like a moron.
Nate chuckles. “Hey, Mattie.” He laughs. “How’s your little brother?”
My face feels hot. “He’s fine, thanks. Can I talk to Livvy?”
“Yeah. Let me get her.”
The phone at Livvy’s house clatters on the counter, and I can hear Nate yelling. Livvy picks up the extension. “Hello?”
“It’s Mattie,” I say.
“Hey, chica. You coming over?”
“Yeah, if that’s okay.”
Livvy covers the phone and yells, “Nate, hang it up, you dirt bag.”
More laughing, then click.
“Sorry, Mattie, my brother’s a butthead.”
“So’s mine,” I say. “Must be the mutant Y chromosome.”
“So when are you coming over?”
I look at the clock. It’s 5:30. “Depends on if I’m walking, biking, or getting my dad to drive me.”
“Whichever is fastest. My mom said we could order pizza and rent a movie.”
Now it’s my turn to cover the phone and yell. “Hey, Dad? Can you drive me to Livvy’s?”
There is some muffled discussion in the den, then my dad steps into the kitchen. “Sure. I’ll take you.” He tucks his golf shirt back into his shorts, and I notice that he is barefoot. I immediately decide my dad has the ugliest feet in the world, and I am definitely investing in weekly pedicures when I get older.
“My dad will drive me, so I’ll be there in five?”
“Cool,” Livvy says. “I’ll let my mom know. See you in a sec.”
I head to my room to collect the important stuff, like an extra-large T-shirt, a pillow, and my fuzzy leopard-print slippers. I shove these into a duffle bag from my closet and make for the cupboard. With the popcorn added to the other essentials, I slip on my sandals and head for the car. The smell of barf wafts through the air as I open the door.
“Roll down your window, would ya?” Dad says as he slips behind the wheel.
I crank the window down, then open the back door and crank that window, too. Dad leans his head out the window like a dog as we drive. I’m glad it’s a short trip. I don’t want any of this smell to cling to me after I scrubbed so hard to get rid of it.
The garage door is up at Livvy’s, and Nate is bent over the engine of the Mazda again.
“Thanks, Dad,” I say. I open the door and climb out. Dad turns off the motor and opens his door. This is not a good thing. I turn and look at him. “Yes,” I say, “their parents are here. They will be here all night. We will not throw any wild parties without inviting you.”
“Not worried about it,” he says. He walks toward the midnight blue Mazda. I should have known. Dad is a major motor-head car geek.
He bends over the engine next to Nate. They are pointing at stuff and saying things like “crank shaft” and “headers” and “torque.” I decide to find Livvy and separate myself from my dad to limit the “guilt by association” factor. My skin prickles from the cool air as I step into the kitchen.
Mrs. Byer is on the phone. “Do you like pepperoni?” she asks as I wave at her. I nod.
“With pepperoni, extra cheese, olives, and mushrooms.”
I’m about to say, “Eww, not mushrooms,” but I am the guest, and I should just be thankful I’m eating pizza with Livvy and Nate, not watching the Disney Channel with Donny.
Livvy comes bounding down the stairs and lands with a thud in the foyer. She runs across the kitchen. “Come upstairs,” she says, grabbing my duffle bag and dragging me through the room. We are both laughing as we head up the steps.
“Cover your eyes,” she says as we get to her door. “No peeking.”
I hear the knob turn, then Livvy pulls me by the elbow.
“Okay, now.”
I look through my fingers, then drop my hands.
“Wow,” I manage. Her room is impressive. Truly impressive. Her bed is made, her dresser is cleaned off, and there is nothing on the floor except for carpet. The lava lamp is bubbling on a shelf next to the dresser, but the disco light is gone, as are the plastic beads that used to hang from the ceiling. I look at Livvy. “Who are you, and what have you done with my best friend?”
She laughs. “Mom made me promise to clean it before you got here. I have never worked so fast in my life.”
“For me?” I say, fingertips pressed against my chest.
Livvy does her Hollywood kiss-kiss thing again. “Only the best, dahling.”
The room does seem ten times bigger.
“And do I detect a hint of lemony freshness?” I ask.
“This place could pass a military inspection,” she says. “Just don’t look under the bed.”
“Where do you want it?” Mr. Byer carries a TV with a built-in DVD/VCR. Livvy taps the top of her dresser. He puts the TV down.
“Wait,” Livvy yells. She runs out of the room, then comes back carrying a small towel. “Don’t want it to scratch,” she says. She puts the towel over the top of her dresser, and Mr. Byer sets the TV on it.
“I’m leaving for the video store in ten minutes,” he says. “Better decide what you want before I go.”
I look at Livvy. She shrugs. “Horror? Comedy? Romance?” she asks.
“Romantic comedy?” I suggest.
Livvy nods. Then she grins.
“The Princess Bride,” we say at the same time. It is only our all-time favorite, and I haven’t seen it in years. Okay, maybe months.
“Good choice,” he says as he heads from the room.
“Thanks for the invite,” I say. I toss my bag on the floor and sit down on Livvy’s bed.
“Entirely my pleasure,” she says. “Not entirely my idea, though.”
“Huh?”
Livvy’s cheeks blush a little. “Not that I wouldn’t have wanted you to come, but it was really your mom’s suggestion, after she saw what happened and all.”
“Whatever,” I say. “I appreciate it all the same.”
Livvy sits down next to me. “Actually,” she says, her voice lowered, “it wasn’t all your mom’s idea, either.”
I look at Livvy, not sure what she is talking about.
“After the Octopus ordeal, while you were dashing off to—wherever—Nate said something like ‘That girl needs a break.’”
“You lie,” I say, hoping she doesn’t.
“Seriously,” she says. “Next thing I know, we get home from the fair, and your mom is calling my mom asking if it would be okay, and was I up for it.”
“Your brother doesn’t know I breathe air,” I say.
“He doesn’t think you’re a toad.”
The shimmy thing in my stomach makes me wonder if eating pizza is a good idea. I look Livvy straight in her brown eyes. She most definitely isn’t lying.