I pull the phone away from my ear and listen. At first I think it’s the fast drumbeat of Dream Zone’s “Love Like Whoa.” But no, that’s a knock. A loud one. And it’s followed by a faint but shrill “I know you’re in there!”
The Doorbell Ringer is back, or maybe they never left. I guess I said I would answer on the third try. . . .
“Hey, Caroline, I gotta go.”
“Okay, but tonight I better get—” The doorbell rings two more times in quick succession, drowning out the rest of her demand.
Are you kidding me?
I sigh, close my laptop, and say a silent prayer that I won’t lose the faint flicker of inspiration I was chasing, that Tallulah and Thomas’s first kiss will wait. The baby, baby, babys float in from Miles’s TV as I maneuver around the boxes still littering what will eventually be the living room. He’s singing along now, and he’s turned it up even more—way past the fifteen volume limit that Mom has written on two Post-its next to the set.
The bell goes off again, just as I’m opening the door.
“Jesus Christ, have some patience!”
It comes out meaner than I planned, and my cheeks immediately redden when I see Mrs. Hutchinson there, reeling back like she’s scared for her life. She clutches her pilled hunter-green coat around herself, even though it’s a million degrees outside. “Sorry,” I say, quieter. “Just . . . I was on my way.”
I’m usually better at regulating my tone. I mean, I have to be. Because one note too loud, too aggressive, and I’m labeled as an angry Black girl forever. I can tell that’s already what Mrs. Hutchinson thinks of me. But my apology seems to appease her enough for her stricken look to transform into her signature scowl.
“If you haven’t memorized your address yet, you need to write it down.” Her voice sounds like it’s scraping the roof of her mouth, and she clenches her cheeks when she talks, as if she’s passing something back from one side to the other. “I really shouldn’t have to walk this over to you.”
She holds out a pizza box and tries to push it into my arms, but I step back.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hutchinson, but that’s not ours.”
“Yes, it is.” She says it like she’s having to explain that the sky is blue.
“We didn’t order anything,” I insist, shaking my head.
“Yes, you did.” She steps closer to me, so I can smell her stale, minty breath. Her slipper-clad feet are right on the doorjamb. “I called Domino’s because the young man who delivered it was no help . . . basically threw it at me! They said it was ordered by someone named Johnson.”
Her watery blue eyes drift to a sign hanging above the front door. My dad got it made by this lady who works in his office and operates an Etsy shop on the side. THE JOHNSON’S. He was so proud that I didn’t have the heart to tell him the apostrophe was wrong.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Mrs. Hutchinson. It’s just me and my brother home, and neither of us—”
I’m interrupted by an explosion of laughter rising above the piano and synthesizer of Dream Zone’s most popular ballad.
Miles’s laugh is difficult to pin down. It’s kind of like a sharp chord on the far right side of the piano, played by a little kid with no training but a lot of enthusiasm. It’s also reminiscent of that squeal a car makes when someone slams hard on their brakes to narrowly avoid a collision. His laugh is equal parts joyful and jarring.
And right now, it’s making Mrs. Hutchinson stretch her neck and step even closer, trying to figure out what’s going on.
I know exactly what’s going on.
We only have one landline in the house, tucked away in my parents’ room, but I unplugged that this morning, like I usually do when I’m home alone watching Miles. The only other options are my phone or my computer, which can make calls when it’s connected to WiFi. He could have gotten to either when I went to the bathroom a little while ago.
Mrs. Hutchinson’s frown lines, which were already cavernous before, deepen further. “Now what exactly are you two trying to play here, young lady? What is this?”
“Uh, I—” Miles’s gleeful laughs cut me off again, which makes her whole face turn red.
“Is this supposed to be funny?!” Her voice was already loud, but it’s ear-piercing now. I try to scan the block to see if anyone is outside watching us, but she shifts her body into my view. “Is this the kind of reputation you want to get? Playing tricks on the neighbors? I can tell you right now, this . . . this . . . foolishness isn’t taken too kindly around here!”
A reputation is actually the last thing that I want. But I can already see it now: her spreading around the neighborhood that we’re trouble—if they can’t already hear her hollering it now. Two weeks in, and already our chance to be normal is shot. I can feel my chest get tight and my breath start to speed up at the thought. My parents are going to be upset, and of course it’ll be my fault. I’m supposed to be watching Miles, like I have been for most of the summer, while my parents settle in at their new jobs. I was watching him. But not close enough, apparently.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Hutchinson.” A kind voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “Did my pizza accidentally get sent to your house?”
A guy steps up onto the porch, seemingly from nowhere. He looks around my age, with floppy golden hair that’s overdue for a haircut, fair skin noticeably lacking the default SoCal tan, and big green eyes. His faded red Hawaiian shirt could be an ironic choice on someone else—one of those fake vintage pieces that they sell for a million dollars at Urban Outfitters—but matched with his cargo shorts, it’s just . . . unfortunate.
Who is this guy?
Mrs. Hutchinson seems to recognize him, and his presence makes her bring her voice back down to a reasonable volume. “This isn’t yours.”
“Um, actually, I think it is?” Hawaiian Shirt’s eyes flick to me, and then he tries it again. “It is mine. I’m sorry for the mix-up.”
Mrs. Hutchinson considers both of us, moving that nonexistent thing between her cheeks again. Finally she smacks her thin lips together. “Well, whoever this belongs to owes me some money. The young man from Domino’s told me I had to pay for it or he’d report me to the manager. Honestly! Like I’m some sort of criminal.”
I turn to get my wallet from the entryway, but Hawaiian Shirt is faster than me, slipping a twenty into Mrs. Hutchinson’s hand and taking the box out of her arms. She glares at me one last time before walking across the lawn back to her house, grumbling as she goes. Hawaiian Shirt stays planted on our porch, though.
“Thank you for that,” I say quickly. “I’ll pay you back—”
“It’s okay.” He cuts me off, waving his hand. “I just wanted to, I don’t know, help? I saw what was happening across the street. And I know you’re new, and Mrs. Hutchinson . . . she can be a lot. That’s where I live, by the way. Across the street.” Miles’s maniacal giggles start again inside (because of course they do), and Hawaiian Shirt’s eyebrows press together. “Is that . . . your brother?”
“Yeah, he did this.” I nod too much. While my breathing is starting to slow down, I can feel my neck flaming, the familiar anxiety settling in. I want to shut the door and be done with this interaction, but the words keep coming out. “The Pizza Hut in Roseville—that’s where we lived before—they literally started just hanging up whenever they saw our number on caller ID, which really sucked when we actually did want to order a pizza.” I try to laugh, but it comes out hollow.