After a long moment of admiration, Emma took a picture of me with her phone.
“I’m sending this to Kai.” She grinned. “You’re my first model.” Blythe raised an eyebrow, but I shrugged. I was not about to argue with an up-and-coming designer.
At the picnic table, I tried to sit without drawing attention to myself, but Kai looked up right away, his phone in his hand, my picture staring out at me.
“Emma made the outfit she’s wearing now, too,” Kai said as we sat. I began to admire her dress, but a cough drew my attention down the table.
“I’ve met one half of this dynamic duo already . . .” Kai’s friend was so tall and slim it looked like a challenge to fold and unfold his limbs. “I’m Nate. Blythe’s best chance for an A in bio.” I gave her the side-eye. He must be the “idiot” because he was competition.
“She might not need help,” I told him, and looked back to Emma. It was quieter now; several lunch tables had emptied out. “Do you make all your clothes?”
Kai was looking at Emma with something I couldn’t quite place. But it made me nervous. “Pretty soon her art will be in Paris or Milan.”
“It’s not art,” she said, but she flushed. “And that’s impossible.”
“Like a polar bear,” Kai said, and they exploded into laughter.
No, no, no. People only laughed like that if they had history, if they had trust, if they had years of inside jokes. If they had a serious relationship. The girl I liked and the guy I liked could not like each other . . . it was too unfair.
When she stopped laughing, Emma gave me a significant look. “I don’t make clothes out of necessity. I love working with textiles. I’ll make anything. Even a pillowcase into—”
“Art,” Kai interrupted. They laughed again.
I glanced at Blythe, whose glare told me I was crazy for being into Kai. I wished I could tell her it wasn’t just his looks. It was how, when I’d poeted in front of him, he’d just gone with it. He hadn’t judged me or said I was weird.
“You know . . .” Nate reached across the table to tug Blythe’s sleeve. “Anything can be art.”
“That’s not art.” She yanked her sleeve away. “It’s homework.”
“I want a pillowcase covered with words,” I heard myself say. “Then maybe the ones in my head will fall out while I’m sleeping and I could read the story of my life.” I didn’t mean to be funny, but Emma laughed.
Kai leaned across the table. “You could read your dreams.”
“Or nightmares,” Nate said.
“I could make a pillowcase for you,” Emma said.
“Show-off,” Kai said and met my eyes. He smiled. I held my breath. “Hate to break this up, but I promised Sabine a school tour.” He stood, grabbing his backpack and gesturing for me to follow him, but Emma put a hand on his wrist.
“You have class. You can’t be late.” Kai looked at his watch and the flutter in my chest died as he frowned. “Maybe tomorrow?” I didn’t get a chance to respond because a second later, the bell blared. We all grabbed our bags. I tried to wave goodbye, but Blythe was rushing us toward our next class—thankfully together.
When we were across the quad, I couldn’t stop myself from looking back once more. Blythe saw, and said: “She’s not prettier than you.”
“You know you’re giving yourself a compliment when you say things like that.”
“I know.” She shrugged.
She also knew this: I’d never had a boyfriend. I’d never even had a real kiss. The closest I’d come was a pseudo-boyfriend. And I’d stolen him from her. In sixth grade, she’d started hanging out with a white guy named Gerard who wore glasses that were so wide and thick, he was unrecognizable without them. His hair was lank, mousy, and hung behind his glasses in little clumps. He liked first-person shooter games, Skrillex, and old episodes of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. I tried to talk her out of dating him, for all the above reasons. But she ignored me, and he started hanging out more. I saw them kiss a few times. And when they were together, she smiled a lot. It seemed nice to have someone. Even someone like Gerard.
One day we all went biking together. They were riding side by side, and I had to ride behind. I guess I was jealous. So I flirted. And it took exactly eight minutes for him to decide he was done with Blythe and into me. Twin swap. When Blythe stopped speaking to me, I realized I didn’t even like him. I’d just wanted to feel special. I tried to apologize, but she wouldn’t listen. Her silent treatment went on so long, my dad got involved. Who was this Gerard? he wanted to know. What was so special about him? We hadn’t spent fifteen words describing Gerard—including glasses, skinny, and sweaty hands—before our dad had us both laughing over the annoying way Gerard said identical sis-thhhhhers.
Thinking of Dad made me remember the house documents, and I turned to tell Blythe, but she gave me a big smile, and I hesitated. Then, without warning, she unzipped her backpack and pulled out her Sharpie. She grabbed my arm, drew an arrow on my wrist pointing at my sleeve, and wrote: Is this ART?
I burst out laughing.
Then I swiped the pen, grabbed her sleeve, and wrote: Is this LIFE?
5
IT’S EASY TO INVENT A FAKE LIFE
We’d never had a babysitter. And definitely not one who brought in a construction crew the second Mom disappeared. But we did now—in our entry hall. We had a full-on construction crew with four sawhorses, a ton of two-by-fours, and a deafening circular saw. And Charlie.
Blythe glared at them all. “How am I supposed to work?!”
I shook my head and covered my ears. “How am I supposed to think?!”
“I have snacks!” We both jumped as Charlie shoved a tray between us: cheese-and-cracker stacks. A solid choice. He shouted over the circular saw that Mom was gone to Los Angeles for Topanga Vintage Swap and a client consult. I thought of the sparkly dresses, vintage boots, and long necklaces I’d miss out on because I had school. “She’s gone through the weekend!”
The saw cut off abruptly, and weekend! echoed through the house.
“Does my mom know about this?” I gestured to where the crew had ripped up half the entryway floor. The saw started up again.
“Of course!”
Blythe rolled her eyes, grabbed half the contents of the tray, waved, and headed upstairs. I glanced after her, then back to Charlie. I still hadn’t told Blythe about the house documents. And I hadn’t returned Charlie’s letters. All week I’d thought about doing both, but there was never a good time to irritate people. Besides, maybe there was something in the letters about Mom? Or, with Mom gone, maybe I could go right to the source? It was the first time I’d been alone with Charlie in the week since we’d moved in.