“He’s an idiot.”
I throw my arms out, exasperated. “I’m not saying he’s a brain trust. But he looks like Mena Massoud. And he has boy-band hair. And he can run an interception back thirty yards for a touchdown. So if you want Holly, you’re going to have to let me do my job.”
I punctuate the speech by grabbing the T-shirts back out of his arms. We glare at each other over the pile of cotton, both of us angry breathing. Without breaking eye contact, I pointedly drop the shirts on the floor at my feet. Noah flinches but doesn’t look down.
We hold the stare-off for a few more silent beats. He blinks first.
“Fine.” His jaw works. “Fine. You can give me advice on clothes and stuff. But I’m still going to be me. And if I don’t see results by homecoming, I’m outing you.”
“A week?! Not happening. Granting wishes takes time.” My inner fact-checker brings up Vindhya, but I tell her not to interrupt me while I’m ranting. “I can guarantee results by Christmas.”
“End of September.”
“Thanksgiving.”
“Fall break.”
I hesitate, making quick calculations in my head. Fall break is about four weeks out. It’ll be tight, especially for the likes of Noah, and I’ve got nothing to go on—I’ve never tried to grant a wish without a glimpse before. Plus I have to get a crown on Vindhya’s head six days from now. On the other hand, it would be nice to get this on the “done” pile. And hey, I believe in me.
I give a curt nod. “Fine. You cooperate. I guarantee results by fall break.” I jab my hand toward him to shake on it. He holds out his pinkie with an audible sigh. Either he’s really committed to the pinkie swear, or this is the maximum skin-to-skin contact he can stomach. Like I care. I lock my finger with his. For reasons unfathomable to me, Noah looks profoundly sad the moment our fingers touch. Like he’s lost a piece of his soul in the deal.
7 Families Are the Worst
No sooner do we break the sad pinkie-link than my phone cheeps and the door opens in the same moment.
Noah’s mom says, “I told you to leave this open, Noah. You’ve earned yourself poop duty.”
A girl’s voice calls, “Are you guys making out?”
Noah slaps his hand over his face and groans. “NO! Leave us alone.”
Instead, they both walk in. His mom surveys the pile of clothes on the floor. “What is going on in here?”
This is not the first time I’ve run interference with parents. I volunteer, “We’re doing a donation drive. It’s part of the project Noah mentioned.”
His mom picks up the WHERE NO MAN HAS GONE BEFORE shirt. “You aren’t getting rid of your Star Trek T-shirts, are you? You love these.”
“No. I’m not.” He plucks the shirt from his mother’s hand and stuffs it into his open dresser drawer. He bends down to pick up the rest, while she takes the shirt back out and folds it.
A girl I’m assuming is his little sister comes to stand between us. She looks to be in middle school, with braces and the family’s signature curls. She chimes in, “Are you giving him, like, a Queer Eye makeover? He totes needs one.”
Noah shoves her. “Get out of my room, plebe.”
She sticks her tongue out at him. His mom tsks, continuing to fold and replace T-shirts. I smile at Kid Sister. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced—”
Noah says, “Oh yeah. This is Charity. Charity, this is my sister, Nat the Brat.” The way he says our names, he might as well have been introducing Loki to Thanos.
“Natalie,” she corrects. “You seem way too hot to be hanging out with my brother.”
I smile to make the next thing I say seem like a joke. “Well, he blackmailed me to get me here.”
Natalie snorts.
Noah growls, “Seriously, get out of my room.”
His mom says, “Okay, okay. We’re going.” She propels Natalie out the door, leaving it open a few inches.
Eight seconds of uncomfortable silence ensue. He breaks it with “Sorry about my family.”
I cross my arms. “It’s fine. They actually make you seem a tiny bit less like a budding domestic terrorist.” I rock on my toes. “So. What’s ‘poop duty’?”
“When we piss off my mom, she makes us clean the cat’s litter box.” He crosses his arms.
I pull a face. “Ick.”
Then I drop my arms, because his are crossed.
This is plain awkward—the two of us standing in the middle of his room, talking about cat poop, trying not to mirror each other. Besides, I have more work to do. I brush past Noah, sit on his toddler bed, and pull my phone out. There’s a message from Sean: Call me.
Obviously, I can’t call him right now with Noah and his whole family dogging my every step. It’ll have to wait. I swipe away the text and open my browser. I glance up at Noah. “Wi-Fi?”
“The network is TrekkieFam. The password’s, uh, ‘stardate-2-2-8-5.’ All one word.”
Oh swell. The whole family is obsessed. I shake my head as I tap it in. Once it connects, I navigate to one of my favorite online shopping outlets.
Apparently to fill the silence, Noah asks, “So… what’s the punishment of choice at your house?”
I’m caught off guard. I wasn’t expecting him to ask about my life. To be honest, pretty much all my human interactions are based on what I can do for other people. My stuff never really comes up. I keep my eyes on the selection of trendy shirts on my phone. “There is none.”
“You literally never get punished for anything?”
I shrug and add a button-down shirt to the cart.
He mutters, “That explains a lot.”
I look up, eyes narrowed. “Don’t do that. You don’t know anything about my life.”
“Then enlighten me.”
“Nope. Backstory is not included in our arrangement.” I return to picking out clothes. I’m on to jeans now.
The bed dips as he plants himself next to me. “Then you leave me no choice but to make assumptions.”
I pry my eyes off the task at hand and level them at Noah. How is it possible for anyone to be this exasperating? “If you must know, my dad lives in DC and my mom’s too busy for things like rules and consequences.”
He grins. “That sounds awesome.”
I train my eyes back on my phone and swipe away a pair of guy jeggings. “Well, it’s not. It’s not awesome.”
He makes a hmm noise. For a few blessed seconds he says nothing. Then, “So what are we doing now?”
I don’t bother looking up. “Buying you better clothes, of course.”
The bed shifts as he settles back further. “Oh goodie. Are we going to do the shopping montage, where I try on all the outfits for you while a One Direction song plays?”
I roll my eyes. “No. I already picked out what you need. You’re going to give me some form of payment, and, poof, it will arrive at your door in a few days. Magic.” I hold out my hand and wiggle my fingers expectantly.
His brow knits. “How much is it?”
“Less than a vintage Star Trek action figure, I bet. Pony up.”