I’m sure you’re wondering how I could control myself and not rush up the stairs to see what Allie was doing to my room. If it had happened at any other time, that’s probably exactly what I would do. But I was tired of fighting, and tired of being upset, so I thought it would be easier to just give in and let Mom buy me ice cream. I knew that whatever Allie did would look good, because it always does. I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be “me,” though.
I was 100 percent, absolutely, positively sure I was going to return and find my room bright and colorful and “sparkling with pizzazz,” and that even if it didn’t need a complete do over, I was going to have a lot of work to do to tone it down a few notches.
Mom stalled as much as she could. After ice cream, we stopped at the mall; then we went to the office supply store to pick up some ink and printing paper, and then finally we returned home. Allie was sitting at the kitchen counter, trying to look calm and cool, but I could tell she was really excited. I didn’t think I had it in me to hide how I would really feel.
“Close your eyes, Sam,” Allie said as she grabbed my hand.
She led me up the stairs, and we stopped at the entrance to my room.
“Okay, you can look now,” she said, clapping her hands with delight before I could even sneak a peek.
I actually gasped when I opened my eyes. It couldn’t have been more perfect if Allie had snuck into my brain and pulled out a vision of my perfect room.
Three of the walls were painted a grayish lavender. It was subtle; it was pretty; it was so, so me. Allie had stenciled words on the walls: “Dream” and “Write” and “Create.” The most shocking part was the fourth wall. It was my Maybe box. Allie had turned the whole wall into a collage with every scrap of paper, every movie ticket, every memory that was in the box. For the hundredth time that week, my eyes filled up with tears.
“You hate it,” Allie said. “I’m really sorry.”
I grabbed Allie and hugged her so tightly it hurt. I couldn’t stop crying, but I didn’t want to.
“It’s perfect,” I whispered.
I lifted my head and saw that Allie was smiling, but Mom was crying too.
“I thought it would be,” Allie said. “I love you, Sam. Even though we argue, even though we fight, ever though we’re probably as different as two sisters can be—I love you, okay? Always remember that. And I know that you’ve been going through some tough stuff lately, so I just wanted to make you happy.”
I smiled at her, and this time I didn’t have to force the edges of my mouth up. It was a real smile.
“I love it,” I said. “And I love you, too. You’re amazing.”
“Group hug,” Mom said, putting her arms around us.
The three of us stood there laughing and hugging and crying.
“It’s not finished yet,” Allie said. “We need to pick up some new furniture and accessorize and stuff, but I had this idea when I was going through your box and I wanted to surprise you.”
“I’m surprised.” I laughed. “But if you don’t mind, there’s something I need to do.”
“Are you going to call Hailey?” Allie asked. “Because I don’t want to tell you what to do, but I do think you should.”
“No, I’m not,” I answered. “Not now, anyway.”
Mom and Allie went downstairs and I sat in the middle of my room for a minute, just to take it all in. I couldn’t wait to go to sleep that night, just so I could wake up and see it all again.
I turned on my computer and reopened the Dear Know-It-All document. I knew my first answer needed a revision.
Dear Tight Fit,
I don’t think you have to move on, but you can move forward. If you’re happy wearing the sweater, then I say don’t worry about what anyone thinks. But if you outgrow it, you could always turn the sweater into something else, like a big bag you can carry your stuff in, or mittens and a hat, or a throw pillow for your bed. This way you can keep it close to you all the time, just in a different way.
—Dear Know-It-All
On Monday morning, I got to school early so I could stop by Mr. Trigg’s office and apologize for leaving the game early. I handed in the Dear Know-It-All column and told him I had e-mailed my article draft to Michael and was waiting for his revision. I hadn’t heard a peep from him since the game.
I almost tripped over him in the hallway, though, but he ignored me and kept going. I could tell he was really upset, probably because he thought I was cheering for West Hills—and Danny Stratham. What was that advice you gave me about sharing your feelings, Michael Lawrence? I figured he needed a reminder, so I waited by his locker at the end of the school day.
He almost turned around and walked the other way after he saw me standing there, but then I could tell he realized how dumb that would look. I mean, it was his locker.
“Excuse me, Sam,” Michael said as he plopped his backpack on the floor.
“I know you’re upset,” I said. “I just wanted to explain.”
“Who said I’m upset?” Michael asked.
“No one said it, although you should,” I replied.
“Why should I?” questioned Michael.
“Because you’re not following your own advice,” I informed him. “You told me that I should just say how I’m feeling. But you’re not. So I’m going to tell you what happened, and you’re going to listen. And then if you’re still upset, fine.”
I explained why Mr. Trigg and I were sitting on the West Hills side of the bleachers and that I didn’t know why Danny acted like that to me, but probably a big factor was that he knew it bothered Michael, and that I left because I had spilled a drink all over myself and was embarrassed and I was upset that Hailey had laughed at me, not because of any other reason. I could see Michael listening closely, and I could tell he was feeling better about the whole situation.
“Well, thanks for explaining about the bleachers, because that did really upset me,” Michael admitted. “I can see Mr. Trigg’s point, but next time you come to my game, you better be a fan and not a reporter.”
“I promise,” I replied.
“And, Sam, honestly, if you like Danny Stratham, I understand,” he said. “A lot of girls do. He’s a pretty popular guy.”
“I think I told you this before, but I guess I need to repeat it,” I answered. “I do like Danny Stratham. He’s funny and he’s easy to talk to. But he can also be kind of a jerk. He’s not my friend. You are. And I don’t feel the same way about him as I do about you at all.”
Then I stopped. I figured that was a kind of subtle way to let Michael know that even though I considered him a friend, the way I felt about him was a little deeper than that, without having to embarrass myself and say it outright. Or at least I hoped it was subtle.
“You didn’t have to tell me that,” Michael said. “But it does make me feel better.”
He reached over and rumpled my hair again, and I knew that things were going to be back to normal for the best reporting duo Cherry Valley had ever seen. One down, one to go, I thought. Unfortunately, the one that was left was the really tough one.