Part of me wants to email Olympia and ask her to explain what I read online. The other part wants to pretend I never heard of OCD in the first place. It seems weird, and scary, and very, very serious. I know I could ask Dad about it, but he’s never mentioned OCD before and I don’t want to put any ideas in his head. Besides, I know what he’ll say: “Come live uptown with me!” But that’s not something I’d ever want to do, no matter how many times he asks.
I’ll write to Olympia later, I decide, after I’ve had time to think about things. For now, I’ve got to get ready for my study session with Sam. I throw on jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, snatch my jacket from the hall closet, and go into the kitchen to get Mom. She insisted on taking me to Dad’s in a cab herself, even though I told her it’s babyish. I guess you can’t win every battle.
I find her at the kitchen counter, a paper towel in one hand and her phone in the other. She smiles when she sees me. “I’m using the timer to increase my cleaning speed,” Mom says, holding up her phone. “Great idea, don’t you think?”
If she wants to know what I really think, I’d say the timer is fine but maybe she should work harder at talking to me. But that’s not what she wants to hear. I’m not even sure that’s what I want to say. I tell her to get her coat so we can go.
There’s little traffic on the FDR Drive, so we get to Dad’s in record time: twenty-five minutes from door to door. Mom waves good-bye from the back seat of the cab rather than taking me upstairs. She’s still in her cleaning clothes, but that’s not it. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want to see Dad. My parents get along fine, but some things—like coming face-to-face with Dad’s happy second family—are just too hard. I get it.
Before I can show Dad the French quiz I forgot to bring with me last week, or even say hi to Barbara and Henry, who are playing Candy Land in the family room, the doorbell rings. It’s Sam and Chloe, ten minutes early.
“Nice place you have here, Mr. Greene,” Sam says, stepping into the entrance hall. “Do you own or rent?” He hands Dad his jacket and beckons to Chloe to follow him inside.
Dad raises an eyebrow at me, but I just shrug. If he wants to answer Sam’s nosy question, that’s up to him.
“Well, we were renting before the building went coop,” Dad says, still holding Sam’s jacket, “but then, with the favorable mortgage rates, we figured we might as well put in an offer.”
“You didn’t pay the asking price, I hope?” Sam is frowning now.
“Oh, no. Way below. We got a good deal, actually.”
“That’s good to hear, sir. Well played.”
“Thanks.” Dad is trying not to smile.
Sam gestures to his little sister. She’s picking her nose with her pinkie. “This is Chloe.”
Chloe takes off her yellow slicker and drops it on the floor. “Do you have Barbies?” she asks me.
“Um, I don’t think so, Chloe,” I say, trying to ignore the finger rammed up her nose. “My brother, Henry, has other toys to play with, though. Want to go into the family room and see?”
Chloe nods and inches closer to me. I should take her hand, I realize. That’s what nice people do. But I don’t feel like being nice. I feel like dousing Chloe’s hands in Purell, starting with her pinkie. If only I’d taken one of Mom’s extra bottles.
Barbara appears and kneels down to Chloe’s level. “I’m Barbara,” she says, putting her arm around the little girl’s shoulders. “Henry’s mom, and Kat’s step mom.”
“Stepmom?” Chloe’s eyes bug out in alarm. “Like in Cinderella? She’s mean!”
I want to laugh, but I feel bad for Barbara. I duck down too. “Barbara is nothing like the stepmom in Cinderella, Chloe. She’s a nice stepmom. The best!” I lean over and give Barbara a hug.
“I owe you one,” Barbara whispers to me before grabbing Chloe’s hand and leading her down the hall.
Later, when the grown-ups have left, I go into the family room to check on Henry and Chloe. They’re squished together in front of the TV, watching Big Bird count to ten in Spanish. I hand each kid a sippy cup and a box of raisins and head for the dining room to find Sam. He’s already at the table, flipping through a spiral notebook. We decide to start with The Boy with the Purple Socks.
“ ‘What is the significance of this character?’ ” Sam reads off the directions sheet. “ ‘Back up your answer with concrete examples.’ ”
“That’s easy,” I say. “The Boy with the Purple Socks is new to the school, which makes him an outsider. Harriet feels like an outsider too, when her friends read her notebook and get mad at her for all the mean things she wrote about them.”
Sam scratches his chin. “I don’t know if I agree with you, Kat. Harriet didn’t say anything mean. She was just being honest. Her classmates shouldn’t have looked at the notebook. It’s their own fault they got hurt.”
“Well, sure,” I say, “but people do things they’re not supposed to do all the time. Think about it, Sam. If I had a diary lying around and you found it, wouldn’t you take a look?”
Sam crosses his arms over his skinny chest. “I would not. I would respect your privacy.”
“That’s what you say now. But what if the diary was out in the open? You know, on a table or something? Chances are, you’d read it.”
“Nope.” Sam shakes his head. “That would be an invasion of Kat World.”
Kat World? “Let’s move on,” I say, tapping the directions sheet. “Read.”
Sam starts reciting the next question, his voice high and squeaky. “ ‘How has this character changed throughout the course of the novel? As above, back up your argument with concrete examples.’ ”
I rack my brain for ways The Boy with the Purple Socks changes, but I can’t think of a thing. He’s too boring to change. I tell this to Sam.
Sam puts down his chewed-up pencil. “The Boy with the Purple Socks changes significantly by the end of the novel. Not only does he allow the Spy Catcher Club to borrow his purple socks, but he also wears green ones during the club’s parade. For another thing…”
While Sam is blabbing on about how The Boy with the Purple Socks has changed when I know he really hasn’t, I start counting the days until this stupid project is over. I like Harriet the Spy as much as the next person, and I even like Sam. But with everything going on with Mom lately, it’s hard to care about purple socks. Or green ones.
“Kat?” Sam leans in closer. “I really like you.”
“I like you too, Sam, and I like this book. I’m just having a hard time liking The Boy with the Purple Socks. He doesn’t really do much.”
Sam grins, revealing a flash of blue tooth elastics. He puts down the directions sheet. “We’re a lot like Sport and Harriet, you know.”
“Um, that was random. What do you mean, Sam?”
“Well, Harriet isn’t like everybody else. She does her own thing, without caring what people think. You’re the same way, Kat. You’re different. I mean, look at your hairstyle. You still wear pigtails.”
I touch one of my pigtails. I never gave my hair much thought. I just like the style because it’s easy. But now that Sam’s pointed it out, I worry that pigtails are weird or babyish.
“And I’m like Sport,” Sam continues. “He isn’t afraid to tell Harriet how he feels about things—like admitting his father sleeps all day and his mother ran away with all the money.”
“So?” I ask. “What’s your point?”
Sam’s smile gets bigger. “I feel as if I can tell you anything, Kat. Anything at all.”
“That’s, um, good to know, Sam, but can we please get back to The Boy with the Purple Socks?”
As I’m reaching for the directions sheet, Sam comes closer and squinches up his eyes. Before I know what’s happening, I feel a pair of squishy Sam lips on mine. Blech! Sam Teitelbaum is kissing me!
I leap out of my seat. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry, Kat. I couldn’t help myself.”
“Oh, yes, you could!” I’m shouting now, but I don’t care. I point in the direction of the family room. “Go get your sister and leave. Now!”
Sam hangs his head. “I said I was sorry. Don’t make such a big deal out of it. I wanted to show you how much I like you—that’s all.”
“And I want you out of my house!”
“Okay, okay. I’m going.” Sam slinks off to the family room and returns with Chloe.
“I didn’t get to play Barbies,” she says, clutching her box of raisins.
If I were in the mood to care, I’d say something like, “That’s too bad, Chloe,” or “Maybe next time.” But why lie? There will be no next time.
I open the front door and watch as Sam and his little sister step into the hallway. As I’m closing the door behind them, Sam appears in the open crack. “I’d like our jackets,” he says stiffly. “And my directions sheet.”
I flounce over to the closet and grab the jackets. “Here!” I yell. “Take them!”
“And the directions sheet?”
In reply, I slam the door in his face.