A few days later, my mom and dad take Bessie in for new brake pads. Instead of doing homework, I scramble to the phone attached to the wall in the kitchen and start dialing.
“Burns, Menendez, and Watson,” a bright voice chirps from the other end of the line. “How may I direct your call?”
“Is there anyone there who would talk to me about suing my parents?”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
The woman laughs so loud through the receiver it practically shatters my eardrum. “What’s wrong? Your mom took your iPhone away because you missed curfew?”
My face heats with anger. “No. I have a serious issue to discuss. About vaccinations.”
“Sorry. We don’t represent minors.”
I collect myself and try again. “May I please talk to someone who might be able to send me in the right direc—”
She hangs up on me.
“Well, that’s real professional,” I mutter as I stand there with the dial tone blaring in my ear.
I slam the phone back on the hook and turn to the next page of the Yellow Pages. This copy is so old that half the legal practices don’t even exist anymore. After a few wrong numbers, the next person is nicer. She says she can take down my name and contact information and have someone call me back.
“I need to talk to someone now,” I say. “I can’t risk anyone calling my house.” I sound like I’m in the witness protection program.
“Well, you can try again tomorrow morning.” I can hear her tapping her fingers against her computer keyboard, like talking to me is secondary to forwarding an email.
“Maybe,” I say, and hang up.
So much for that one. I can’t exactly get up in the middle of Kitchen School to call my attorney.
I continue to thumb through the Yellow Pages.
Poppy waltzes into the kitchen. “Whatcha doin’?” she says.
I slam the phone book shut. “Nothing.”
“Sure.” She eyes the Yellow Pages.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I won’t.” She opens the fridge and pulls out a pitcher of fresh orange juice. Fills a glass. Takes a sip. Leans against the counter. Studies me. Sips again. “Need help with your nothing?”
“No.”
She takes another sip. Makes the same smug ahh sound my dad makes when he drinks his boring black coffee. I tap my fingers against the wall.
“Why not?” she says.
“Are you staying here all day or what?”
“Depends. Are you?”
“Not with you.”
She lets out a dramatic sigh and finishes off her orange juice. “Fine.” She rinses out her glass and leaves it in the sink. “I’ll leave you alone to call your boyfriend.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Then who was that boy who came over here the other night? The tall one who looks like he doesn’t comb his hair.”
“His name is Nico, and I’m sure he combs his hair. It’s just … floppy.” I get discombobulated remembering Nico and his floppy hair. I’m not sure my mouth can make words. I try anyway. “There’s a difference between a friend who’s a boy and a boyfriend, by the way.”
“Whatever you say.”
“And anyway, he’s neither. He doesn’t want to see me again.”
“Oh. Why?”
“Why do you think?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“There was way too much drama here the other night. It scared him off. Our family is a freak show.”
“Speak for yourself.”
I roll my eyes. “Can you please just go now?”
She finally leaves. I shut the phone book. It’s outdated and useless. I need to figure out something else.