Finding Perfect Page 7

  Kate stops walking. “She could have gotten a different job. People do it all the time.”

  I think about Hannah’s dad.

  “Kevin’s mom got laid off and within a month she found something else. She didn’t just leave her kids and move to a different country.”

  “Mom didn’t leave us,” I say.

  “Yes. She did. And the sooner you get that, the better!” Kate barks.

  “You’re wrong. She went to a job. And when that’s over, she’s coming home.” Maybe even sooner if everything goes according to plan.

  “You always did believe everything she said. Like when she promised to take us to see Wicked in New York City, and then bailed the day we were supposed to go. Or the time she was supposed to leave work early so we could ride the new roller coaster at Six Flags, but then asked for a do-over when she got too busy.”

  “She had the flu before New York and some big juice guy came into town the amusement park day.” Pause. “She’s never lied to us, Kate.” In my mind I wonder if promising to come home on a particular date and then not coming home on that date is a lie.

  “She said the separation from Dad was temporary,” Kate argues.

  “It is. What’s your point?”

  “Moving to Canada seems pretty permanent.”

  “She didn’t move there for good. It’s for one year, at most.”

  “I’m not even sure I want her to come back,” Kate says as she plucks a pinecone from the ground.

  “You don’t mean that.” I search her face for a speck of untruth, but don’t find any.

  “I might.” She throws the pinecone across the lawn of the school and it bounces off the top of the picket fence.

  Panic lodges deep in my gut. If Mom thinks Kate doesn’t want her back here, she may never come home. “Did you tell Mom that?”

  Kate shakes her head no.

  I should feel relieved, but I don’t. I just feel scared that everything is falling apart. Spinning.

  Out.

  Of.

  Control.

  * * *

  WHEN WE GET HOME, Kevin’s waiting in the driveway to take Kate to school.

  “Want a ride?” he asks me.

  “Nope, I’m good.” I go into my own room and close my door, thankful for Late-Start Thursdays. I pop in my earbuds, take out my ruler, and organize my glass figurines. It’s not until I leave my house and see Hannah waiting for me, that I realize she’s the one.

  She’s the one I need to tell.

  Everything.

  20

  my right side

  “HI. I LIKE WHAT you’re wearing. The glasses are totally working with your outfit,” Hannah says as we head to school.

  “Thanks.” I readjust them so they stop sliding down my nose.

  “How did it go with Ian?”

  “Other than him refusing to leave Spider, and insisting on wearing his Spider-Man costume, it went fine.” I decide to leave out the argument with Kate.

  “Spider-Man. Hmm. A bold choice.”

  I look her in the eyes and squeeze her hand. The eye-squeeze combination is our signal that something’s important. When my mom first told me about her juice job in Canada, I gave Hannah the combo.

  This is it. I’m going to tell her. Everything. She’s my best friend. It’ll be okay.

  But before I can bring the words to my lips, Mrs. Melvin walks over to us. “Good morning, girls.”

  She’s wearing her creamsicle-colored slippers.

  “Morning,” Hannah says.

  I give my best fake smile that keeps in all my lies.

  “Hannah, dear, with Nate arriving last night, I forgot to give this to you.” She holds out some money. “Your father told me about your business and I think that’s quite ambitious for a young lady. I would love to buy a bracelet that’s red and green and yellow.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Melvin.” Hannah takes the rolled money and stuffs it into the ziplock bag.

  Still no wallet, but at least she’s moved away from the bug jar.

  I decide that I’m going to tell Hannah and start with the glass figurines. Or maybe I should begin with the hand-washing at the lemonade stand or the pizza dinner with Ian. No, my glass collection.

  When Mrs. Melvin walks away, I say, “Hannah, there’s something I have to tell you.”

  She gives me the go-ahead nod, but then tears roll down her cheeks.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She wipes her face. “Nothing. I’m fine. I swore I wouldn’t do this. You go,” she says.

  But I can’t. It’s a sign. I should wait.

  “No, seriously, what’s the matter?” I ask.

  Her dad got another rejection from a local restaurant, and then this morning she got an e-mail from Mr. Samson, her drama teacher, about a new book she needs to buy for class and a message from the tennis coach to order the team jacket for twenty-eight dollars. “I can’t ask my dad for the money. And if I use what I make from my bracelet business, I’ll never get enough money for the contest entrance fee.”

  I feel sad all over for her. “Here.” I pull my wallet out of my bag and hand Hannah the babysitting money I made last summer. I was saving it for this cool five-drawer storage box with built-in dividers that organizes your papers and stuff, but I’d rather give it to her.

  “Are you sure? I mean, I don’t know if I can pay you back.” She starts to twirl her hair. “I mean, if I win, I can, but if I don’t … I, um, don’t know.”

  I take her hand and wrap it in mine. “We’re cool. It’s yours.”

  She hugs me tight. “You are the Best. Friend. Ever.” She gives me a full-braces smile. Eyes, too. “Thanks, Mol, I mean it.” She adds the money to her baggie.

  Hannah’s tears come to a slow roll. “Now, your turn. What’s up?” she asks.

  As we cross the street, the school comes into view, and Hannah navigates around a muddy puddle and ends up standing on my left side.

  I wish she hadn’t done that.

  I wish she knew.

  That.

  Nothing.

  Works.

  On.

  The.

  Left.

  21

  frozen

  I CAN’T MOVE. I’M frozen like an ice sculpture. My confession is far from my lips.

  Why’d she do that? My left side. It feels wrong, so uncomfortable.

  What do I do now?

  Hurry, think of something.

  Hannah’s forehead’s all wrinkled. She’s talking, but I’m not listening.

  Our eyes lock like it’s a staring contest, but it isn’t.

  My body feels like I’m wearing my right shoe on my left foot. I don’t know what to do.

  Slowly, Hannah moves back.

  Again, I’m standing on her right side. She really is my best friend.

  “Of course I can hear you. I’m fine.” I swat her flailing hands away from my face. I look around, hoping no one noticed. I pause to gather the pieces of my lie. “I must’ve gotten a rock in my boot and when I stepped down it pinched the bottom of my foot.”

  Hannah looks at my boots, which are firmly planted on the cement sidewalk that’s clear of dirt. “Yeah, that can hurt. Do you want to sit and shake it out?”

  Thank you.

  I know it’s another sign. First Dad, then Kate, now Hannah. Every time I try to share what’s hidden, something goes wrong. Maybe I’m not supposed to tell my secret.

  To anyone.

  I sit on the bench outside of school, slip off my boot, and shake it out as if it truly held the very thing digging into my soul.

  I stare at Hannah. Her uneven hair blowing in the wind. I tighten my hair clip.

  She tilts her head.

  “Molly, what were you saying before, you know, we, um, sat down?” Hannah asks.

  22

  another weird thing

  BEFORE I GET A chance to say anything, Bridgett walks over. “Molly, Mac’s having a party Saturday night and I’m in charge of the
invites. Want to come?” She snaps the pink bubblegum that’s popping around in her mouth.

  Hannah coughs. I know it’s fake.

  Bridgett completely ignores Hannah.

  “Well”—I look at Bridgett, then at Hannah, back to Bridgett—“only if Hannah can come, too.”

  Bridgett says, “Really?”

  “Really,” I say.

  “Whatever,” she says, never once looking at Hannah.

  I know Bridgett can be kind of prickly. Sometimes. To some people. But for me, for now, she’s easy to hang with. She doesn’t see me the way Hannah does. She doesn’t see through my weird habits. All she cares about is dead people, obituaries, and herself.

  The bell sounds. Bridgett and the herd of kids stampede past us.

  I slip my boot back on and we head into the school.

  “Thanks,” Hannah says.

  “You’d do the same thing for me.”

  We walk down the hallway side by side. “What did you want to tell me?”

  “I don’t even remember,” I say. Lost my nerve. Too many signs screaming, Don’t Tell! She’ll think I’m crazy and weird and never want to hang out with me. No one will want to be with me. I’ll be the girl everyone avoids. I’ll be that girl. In fifth grade it was Liza Lempkin. She was fine and then she was absent. For a really long time. There were whispers about her being hospitalized. Not like cancer-sick, but the other kind. Super sad and sleepy all the time. She didn’t return to school for the rest of the year. When she finally came back last year at the start of sixth grade, I saw her sitting alone at lunch. I should have sat next to her.

  Besides, even if I wanted to tell Hannah, which I’ve decided I don’t, how could I even explain what’s happening to me?

  “Enough about me.” I turn to Hannah to change the subject far away from me and my confession. “We need to talk about last night at Mrs. Melvin’s.”

  “Not now,” she says, pointing to Bridgett, who’s standing at my locker. “I promise we’ll talk later. Maybe you can come by and practice your poem and help me with my pic and the rest of the application. I’m almost done with questions one and three.”

  “Sounds good. And about Saturday night at Mac’s, let’s go together. It’ll be fun,” I say. While we walk toward class, a new weird habit finds me. I start counting my steps by multiples of two. 2, 4. Thankfully, my brain defaults to even numbers, but I don’t want another weird thing. Leave me alone. But it doesn’t listen. 6, 8, 10, 12. It’s another sign. Now I know I can’t tell Hannah. Or anyone. Ever.

  “I don’t know. I mean, I’m glad you got me invited, sort of, but I’m not sure I want to go. Those girls don’t even like me.”

  “They just need to get to know you,” I say. I hung out at Bridgett’s two weekends ago. Bridgett and Arianna went on about how Hannah and I are nothing alike. They told me that I could be in their trio, but not Hannah. I told them Hannah’s been my best friend since Eagle Nest Day Camp, and they didn’t mention the trio thing again.

  “Anyway, I told my dad I’d help him deliver meals Saturday night.”

  14, 16, 18, 20, 22, 24. Stop counting.

  Between numbers I manage to say, “I’m sure your dad can handle the deliveries without you. It’ll be fun. And if you hate it, I promise we’ll leave.”

  Count. 26, 28, 30, 32, 34, 36.

  “Come on,” I say. “I think Jared’s invited.”

  Hannah’s had a crush on him since fifth grade. I struggle to smile and count.

  38, 40.

  “Maybe. I’ll talk to my dad later.”

  42, 44, 46, 48, 50. We’re at our classroom.

  Hannah walks in. I can’t. Not yet. I’m at 50. It’s even. That’s good, but it’s not a multiple of four. And, if I stop now, that’s five numbers. Five is a terrible number. I hate myself. This doesn’t even make sense. Stay focused. Even numbers. Multiples of four.

  I keep walking.

  Then Hannah yells out, “Molly, where are you going?”

  My joy disappears like water down a drain.

  I feel my face turn brick red. I know what I’m doing. I didn’t miss the class. I walked by it on purpose. Next time I’ll count by fours. Fours are better. They’re made up of two twos. The square is sixteen and the square root is two.

  “Where did you go?” she asks, running toward me. She stares at me a second longer than necessary.

  I look away. I wish I could tell Hannah. Everything. But I can’t.

  “Nowhere. I’m fine.” Fake smile, fake laugh. Start again. 4, 8, 12, 16.

  “We have to talk.” She pulls out her ziplock bag, and floating at the bottom is a fifty-dollar bill.

  23

  stop it! stop it! stop it! stop it!

  “OKAY, CLASS.” MS. P. writes something on the whiteboard. “Put your notebooks and papers inside your desk. We’re having a short pop quiz.”

  Groans ripple through the class.

  Ryan calls out, “Ms. P., we really haven’t gone over the material enough to fully prepare us for this quiz.”

  20, 24, 28, 32. I say nothing. I’m sitting, but the numbers still flood my brain. They won’t stop. It’s a struggle to keep up Fake Molly while I count.

  “Hands down. The quiz is just a review. No more talking. Clear your desks and take out a pencil.”

  I open my pencil box and carefully remove a newly sharpened No. 2. I run my fingers along the flawlessly smooth tip. Joy hugs me like a new, stark-white bedsheet just out of its packaging.

  Ms. P. passes out the paper, still warm from the printer. “You may begin.”

  36, 40, 44, 48. I like pre-algebra, so I’m not nervous until I look down at my paper. There are eleven word problems on the sheet. Eleven. Eleven is a terrible number. It’s odd. It’s prime. In fact, it could be the worst number. I lose count again. I close my eyes for a moment. Think good, even thoughts. Begin again. 4, 8. I open my eyes, ready to start. But I can’t. It’s not working. My good, even thoughts aren’t erasing my worried, Tilt-A-Whirl feelings. 12, 16, 20, 24. I look at my watch. 9:09 a.m. Okay. I’ll wait until 9:14 a.m. to start. That’ll be a lucky time. It contains the number 4 and if you add together the digits 9, 1, and 4, you get 14! Perfect.

  I hear the scratchy sound of my classmates’ pencils on their papers. 28, 32.

  9:14 a.m.

  Start.

  1) There are twenty-four crayons to be shared among four students. One quarter of the crayons are primary colors. How many primary-colored crayons can each student have?

  Is Ms. P. doing this on purpose? Does she hate me? The answer is obviously one and a half crayons. But who breaks their crayons? Who has one and a half of a pomegranate red or spring-grass green or middle-of-the-ocean blue? 36, 40, 44, 48.

  I begin to write my objection to the question. Oops. Made a mistake. I flip my pencil over and erase what I’ve written. A big black smudge replaces my mistake. I bite the inside of my cheek. I erase again. The black mark becomes a larger, charcoal-gray cloud at the top of my paper. I open my pencil box and gingerly pluck another pencil. I turn it over, admire its shade of never-used pink eraser, and rub it over the rain-cloud smudge on my paper. I rub and rub and rub and rub. 52, 56, 60, 64. It’s getting lighter. Lighter still. Almost. Rub. Oh, no! It ripped. The paper tore right through my dusty puff. Why’s the room so hot? A drop of sweat slides off my forehead and lands on my desk. Not now. Come on. Get it together.

  Wipe the sweat.

  Fix the paper.

  Count. 68, 72, 76, 80.

  Take the quiz.

  Be normal.

  I reach back into my pencil case and remove a roll of tape. I’ll just patch the tear and begin again. I pull a piece of tape and rip it straight along the sharp edge. 84, 88. Crooked. Let me try again. No. Again. Again. Again.

  “Molly, is everything all right? You seem distracted.” Ms. P. leans over my desk.

  “I’m fine. You just startled me.”

  “I apologize for that, but I was referring to your quiz. Is every
thing okay?”

  “Uh, yeah. It’s just my eraser was broken and then my other eraser made a hole and now I have to fix it.” 92, 96.

  Shut up! I silently scream at the person who sounds like me, but isn’t me at all.

  “Well, move along. There are only five minutes left. This quiz is meant as review. It shouldn’t take too long, and relax, you’re not being graded on the condition of your paper.”

  Fake smile, push up my glasses that are now halfway down my nose.

  I look around the room just long enough to notice Hannah’s eyes on me.

  Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!

  As the five minutes wind down, I neatly write my name on my quiz and turn in a blank, taped-up sheet of paper to my teacher.

  100.

  24

  hangers-on

  “WE NEED TO TALK. In private,” Hannah whispers to me after Mr. Benny, the cafeteria man, dumps a scoop of mashed potatoes on my tray.

  “I know. As soon as we find a table.” I scour the lunchroom, willing the numbers to stay put inside me. “Not this one. It’s so dirty. How about that one over there?” I point to the table to the far right.

  “Whatever. It looks just like all the other ones. I don’t really care. It’s the cafeteria. We can either sit at this ketchup-splattered table over here or that pizza-greased table over there. I just need to talk to you,” Hannah says.

  “But we don’t have to sit at the most disgusting table.” Fingers crossed—a clean table means no counting.

  “It’s just a place to eat our high-in-mystery-meat, low-in-nutrition school lunch.” Hannah follows me.

  “No, not that one, it’s gross, too.”

  “Molly, there’s nothing wrong with this table. It’s no dirtier than it’s ever been,” Hannah says, pointing to the table next to us.

  “Other than the hard peanut butter chunks stuck to it,” I say on my way to another table.