I told Colin that my mother was sick upstairs, and that I was just rushing home from the store.
“You got her chocolate milk?” he asked, pointing at the bottle in my hand.
“Yeah.” I headed for the stairs. “She loves it.” And I sprinted up to the second floor before he could say anything else.
When I unlocked our door, the apartment felt like a warm hug—the refrigerator was humming, the light was streaming through the living room windows, and the voice in my head said “Safe” and then got quiet. I went to the kitchen, opened my chocolate milk, and took the last bag of Lay’s. Those pregnant jailbirds were out of luck.
Then the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Have I reached the Sinclair residence? May I please speak with Miranda?”
I rolled my eyes. “Hi, Julia,” I said. “It’s me.”
That first time, we only talked for five minutes. Julia said her mom had a recipe for a flourless cake we could make for Annemarie’s birthday. Without knowing whether I really wanted to, I agreed to go over and make a practice cake with her after school the next day.
It was dark outside when there was a tap at the door. I sat up on the couch. A tap on the door was a strange thing. Everyone rings our doorbell, except for Louisa, who always knocks her regular knock. I was afraid—your notes had done that to me.
Another tap.
“Hello?” I called.
Silence. I got up and looked through the peephole.
Colin stood there, holding his skateboard in front of him like a shield, looking not exactly like himself.
I opened the door. “What’s wrong?”
He took two steps forward and kind of hovered right in front of me for a second, and then he kissed me. And then he stopped and waited. And then I kissed him back. He smiled and ran down the stairs.
There are days when everything changes, and this was one of those days.
Things That Are Sweet
Julia’s mother had a whole shelf full of books about cooking: No-Fat Cooking, Cooking Extra-Extra-Light, Skinny Cooking.
“My mom is always on a diet,” Julia said, pulling a book from the shelf. “I think she bought this one by mistake. It actually has the word ‘butter’ in it.” She laughed and held out the giant bag of Fritos she had bought on the way home.
I shook my head. I’d eaten too many already. “Should we start making the cake?”
I had to call Mom at work three times to ask her questions like how many tablespoons are there in a stick of butter, and is it okay to use a potato peeler to skin an apple. The third time I called, she said, “Hold on, Mira. Are you planning to use the oven? Is there an adult in the house?”
When I said I thought Julia’s mother was home, though technically I had not actually seen her, Mom said, “But is she watching you? Where is she?”
“Where’s your mother?” I whispered to Julia.
“She’s meditating,” Julia said.
“Here?”
“Yes—in the … closet. And she absolutely cannot be disturbed.”
“Um—did you just say your mom’s in the closet?”
Julia looked down at the French pot holder in her hand. “It’s a walk-in closet,” she said quietly.
Mom said we couldn’t light the oven until Julia’s mother came out to supervise us, so we put our clumped-together cake batter in the fridge and went to Julia’s room to watch television.
Julia’s room was like a ruffled version of Annemarie’s—ruffled curtains, ruffled bedspread, lots of ruffled pillows. And books all over the floor, some stacked in piles, some worn-looking, some brand-new, some splayed upside down, some sliding off the pink bedside table next to the lamp with the orange fabric shade.
I tried to think of something to say about all the ruffles. “Nice lamp,” I said.
She put her hands on her hips and looked at the lamp. “Really? Because I think it’s kind of ugly. My mom picked it.” She waved one arm across the room. “She picked out all this stuff. And she won’t let me put up my outer-space posters. I had to hang them in my bathroom!” She jerked a thumb toward a door. Her own bathroom.
Something very familiar caught my eye. It was on the bedside table, under the ugly lamp. It was my book—or maybe it was my book’s twin sister, just as old and beat-up-looking as mine, but with different creases and one corner ripped off the cover. I went over and picked it up.
“Yeah,” she said. “I notice you carry yours around. I leave mine at home.”
“I got a first edition for Christmas. That means it’s one of the original—”
“You did? You are so lucky,” she said. “All I ever get is clothes. And jewelry.”
I stared at her. “I thought you liked all that stuff,” I said.
“Yeah, actually, I do.” She smiled. “But I like other stuff too.” That was when I noticed her Mysteries of Science poster leaning up against a wall. Hers was called “Is There Intelligent Life in Outer Space?” Her bubble letters were a lot better than mine.
She flopped down on her shaggy pink wall-to-wall carpeting, glanced at her digital clock, and reached out automatically to turn on the TV. And I realized that we probably spent our afternoons the same exact way. Except I can at least get my mother on the phone. Julia’s apartment is a lot nicer than ours, but I’m pretty sure there’s no phone in the closet.
I stretched out on the rug and rested my head on my arm. Julia looked me up and down. “Hey, you know what color your hair is?” she asked.
“My hair?” I touched it and made a face. “It’s brown.”
She looked at it thoughtfully. “No. When you see it in the light, it’s really more of a caramel.”
Caramel.
The Last Note
I’m up to the part about what happened on the corner. If I ever do write your letter, I’ll tell this part very carefully.
I was walking home alone after school, thinking about what to get Annemarie for her birthday
It was cold but not too cold—the boys were standing outside the garage making noise, as usual. They were also throwing potato chips at each other.
Sal’s class must have been dismissed a few minutes before mine—he was walking a little ahead of me. I did not run to catch up.
I watched him pass the boys outside the garage; they said some stuff to him like they sometimes do. I saw a couple of potato chips hit him on the back.
Sal seemed to lose it. He turned and screamed “Shut up!” He was wearing his dark blue knit cap pulled down over his forehead again.
The boys just laughed. My heart started going very fast, but I wasn’t really worried they would hit Sal because it is officially beneath them to hit smaller kids. Torment, yes. Hit, no.
One of them reached out and pushed Sal in the chest—not too hard, but Sal stumbled back a few steps. He yelled, “Jerks!” and the boys all cracked up, but no one else touched him.
Sal pointed himself toward home and started walking again.
Marcus came walking out through the dented metal door next to the garage.
Sal saw Marcus and broke into a run.
Marcus yelled, “Hold up!” and started running after Sal.
I saw the laughing man, across the street on the corner. He was in his nutcracker position, facing us.
Marcus was catching up to Sal, yelling, “Hold up! Wait!”
This is where things got weird: I saw something next to the laughing man, like an old movie that flickered for just a few seconds and then went out. It was between two parked cars, and it looked like a man holding his head in his hands. He was naked. And then he was gone.