We say good-bye and I hand the phone over to Mom. One more day. Just one more day till Annabelle won’t need to call me on my parents’ phone. Soon I won’t feel like I’m competing for Annabelle’s attention all the time because I’ll be able to text, too. I nearly skip back upstairs to my room. I’m relieved to see that Dad is no longer staring sadly at my empty shelves. I close the door behind me and move the chart over to my desk. I have one last goal to add on the Big Things side.
12. Meet Jake Harrison.
I’m so delirious with anticipation of the near future that it takes me a few minutes to notice the pamphlet from the class trip on my pillow. That’s strange. I don’t remember picking it up from the floor. Dad must have found it and put it there. But instead of the drawing of a water tunnel leading into a glistening reservoir that I expect to see, a photograph of a cell phone adorns the cover. “Yay!!” I scream, grabbing it. “It’s finally happening!” I do a little dance around my room, then calm down enough to look at the pamphlet more closely. Is that … why is there … huh? The photograph shows what looks like a normal phone, but there are only two buttons on it. Just two. How is that possible? I flip open the brochure. WELCOME TO YOUR CHILD’S FIRST PHONE. THE ONLY TWO NUMBERS HE OR SHE WILL EVER NEED!
My hands start to shake as I read on. GIVE YOUR CHILD THE SECURITY OF KNOWING HE OR SHE CAN ALWAYS REACH YOU OR EMERGENCY SERVICES. SIMPLY PROGRAM YOUR HOME OR OFFICE PHONE NUMBER INTO BUTTON NUMBER 1 AND 911 INTO THE OTHER.
I sink down onto the bed as I read the last line. BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE! OUR BUILT-IN GPS TRACKER WILL ALWAYS ALERT YOU IF YOUR CHILD LEAVES THE DESIGNATED AREA. YOU’LL KNOW WHERE HE OR SHE IS AT EVERY MOMENT. NOW THAT’S PEACE OF MIND WORTH PAYING FOR!
I stare at the words. Two buttons. No texting. No megapixels. No MP3. Just Mom and the police. Oh, and a GPS tracking my every move.
My parents must really, REALLY hate me!
Chapter Three
I find Mom in Sawyer’s room, tucking him into bed. I hold up the cell phone pamphlet. “Very funny. You really had me going there for a minute.”
“Shh,” Mom whispers. “He’s almost asleep.”
I look down at Sawyer, who is running a plastic yellow race car up the side of his face and making vroom vroom noises. “No, he’s not.”
“Well, he’s never going to fall asleep with you yakking.”
I take a deep breath and exhale. “Mom, can we please talk about this?”
“About what?” she asks, purposely not meeting my eyes.
I groan and go off in search of Dad, who will hopefully be more forthcoming. I find him at the dining room table, bent over a huge poster of a mountain range. He draws a quick zigzag shape on it, then stands back to look. Even though he has a full-time puzzle designer on staff, he likes to come up with his own patterns, too, and can often be found working on them late into the night. He never brings his tools home, though. Not after that unfortunate incident in third grade. I instinctively run my hand over the scar on my elbow.
I wait until he erases his line — as he always does — before interrupting. As soon as he’s blown away the last bit of eraser dust, but before he can draw another pattern, I lay the brochure down in front of him. “Is this for real, Dad?”
He picks it up with a grin. “Isn’t it great? Don’t you love it?”
There are so many ways to respond to that question. I pause and choose my words carefully. “It only has two buttons.”
“And a built-in GPS tracker!” he says as proudly as if he’d built the phone himself.
“Dad, I’m begging you. I need a phone with more than two buttons.”
He tilts his head at me. “Are you sure?”
I nod vehemently.
He sighs. “Your mom thought you might feel that way.” He leaves the room and returns a minute later with a big cardboard box.
Relief floods through me. “You got me a real phone after all!”
“Not exactly,” he says.
I squint up at him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”
He pushes the box into my arms. “We picked up brochures for twenty different phones and service plans. Your job, if you choose to accept it, is to go over the material, choose the one you think makes the most sense for your needs and is the most economical for the family, and then explain to us why. If we agree with your assessment, you can get the phone.”
Stricken, I look down at the contents of the box. Sure enough, it’s full of exactly what he said.
“A chart with graphics might be nice,” he adds, turning back to his puzzle.
I don’t move. How can this end well? Even if I manage to sort through everything and make sense of it, how am I going to convince them to let me get the one I want?
He glances up. “You’re still here? I thought you’d be halfway through the box by now.”
I shift my weight so the box doesn’t slip. “How am I supposed to figure this out? Service plans and all that?”
“You’re good with math,” he says. “You’ll do fine.”
When I don’t answer, he adds, “Or you can just take the one with the two buttons.”
“And built-in GPS tracker,” I mutter, hurrying from the room.
“Have fun!” he calls after me.
As I pass Sawyer’s room, Mom glances up from her perch on the side of his bed. She sees the box and smiles. I smile back, as breezily as I can muster. I can’t let them see me sweat.
By the time I finish comparing and contrasting the pros and cons of each of the twenty phones and various calling/texting/photo/video/Internet/GPS options, it is almost midnight. The only time I’m allowed to stay up this late is on New Year’s Eve, and even then I’m usually asleep on the couch well before the clock strikes twelve. Mom and Dad have come in five times to try to get me to finish this tomorrow, but even though I’m delirious with exhaustion, I’m not going to quit. I’ve narrowed it down to the three they’re most likely to agree to, even though they are SO far away from my original vision.
My legs creak from sitting so long and my head feels like it’s under water. How am I going to stay awake to practice my presentation? For a second I debate making a cup of coffee (#3 on the Small Things list) to help keep me awake, but figure since it also requires #8, Use the Stove, Oven, and Electrical Appliances Without Permission or Supervision, I decide to just wash my face with cold water instead. But somehow, before I can make it into the bathroom, I wind up sprawled across my bed. The last thing I remember is trying to decide if rollover minutes are a better deal than unlimited calling to in-network customers.
I wake up with a spring in my step and a smile on my face. I’m twelve! Look out, world, here comes Rory Swenson! I leap off the bed, slide halfway across the floor on top of the phone brochures, and slam into the door. Shaking it off, I tear downstairs at top speed. Usually on my birthday a big plate of chocolate chip pancakes is waiting for me, the kitchen table aglow with birthday candles for me to wish on. But when I reach the kitchen this morning, the only things waiting for me on the table are a note and a bowl of Corn Flakes. My spirits sink. Couldn’t Mom at least have made it a bowl of Cap’n Crunch? According to the note, Mom took Sawyer to his Yoga for Toddlers class, Dad is out mowing the lawn, and I shouldn’t forget to put the milk away when I’m finished with it. I have to squint to see HAPPY BIRTHDAY scrawled at the bottom.
I’m about to resign myself to eating the cereal, alone, when it dawns on me that I can have anything I want. I can fry an egg. I can flip pancakes. I can boil oatmeal. Sure, I don’t actually know how to do any of those things, but how hard could it be? I turn my back on the cold cereal and hurry over to the pantry. My stomach growls in anticipation. I pull out the bag of chocolate chips and the pancake mix. I read the side of the box. To make 6–7 pancakes: Mix 2½ cups pancake mixture, 2 eggs, 3¼ cups water, ½ cup oil; stir until smooth; pour into greased frying pan at medium heat.
WAY too hard. I’ll just eat the chocolate chips instead. As I close the pantry,
the back door swings open and the smell of freshly mown grass wafts my way. It almost, but not quite, covers the smell coming off Dad.
“Is something burning?” Dad asks, hurrying over to the stove. He puts his hand a few inches above it to feel for heat.
I put my hands on my hips. “Very funny. Why would you think I’d try to cook something?”
“Because I know you,” he says, chuckling. Then he glances at the sink, checking for dirty pans and bowls, no doubt. “Patience isn’t your strong suit. I bet you have a whole list of all the things you can do now that you’re twelve. Including using the stove by yourself.”
I open my mouth to argue, but really, what’s the point? “Okay, I have a list, but how can you say I don’t have patience? I’ve waited patiently for twelve years! I could have sneaked around and done half the stuff on my list already, but I didn’t. If that’s not patience, I don’t know what is.”
He brightens. “You’re absolutely right. I should trust you to make the right choices now.” He reaches out to hug me.
I step back, holding my nose. “Shower first, please.”
He laughs and flips a switch on the fancy-schmancy coffee/cappuccino/espresso maker that Mom won in a raffle last year. It gurgles to life as he heads out of the kitchen. I guess I have no choice but to have cereal for breakfast.
Or do I?
I remove my hand from my nose and inhale the aroma of the brewing coffee. Or cappuccino or espresso. I have no idea what the difference is. Whatever it’s called, it smells good. It smells very good. Hurrying across the room, I grab a mug from the counter along the way. I’ve seen my parents put their cups under the spigot a thousand times, but when I put mine there, nothing happens. I look all around the machine. Rows of buttons and levers and knobs stare back. Why would someone make a coffee machine so complicated? What was so wrong with the old one with the big coffeepot under it? I push and twist anything that looks pushable or twistable. A hiss here, a sputter there, but nothing pours out into the cup. I pull the mug back out, then stick it in again. This time I hear a faint click. Within seconds, a nice thin stream of black coffee/cappuccino/espresso or whatever it is flows into my mug, steam rising gently into the air. Soon the mug is nearly full. How do I get it to stop? I pull and push and twist again, but it just keeps coming out. I’m beginning to panic. All other options failing, I yank the cup out. I’m so busy hopping up and down due to the hot coffee that has spilled out of the overflowing mug and onto my bare feet that I don’t immediately notice the stream of coffee now pouring out of the machine and onto the counter. By the time I recover, the coffee has made its way over the edge of the counter and is heading down the white cabinets.
I told my mom that white was a risky choice for a kitchen, but did she listen? She did not.
My first thought is to cup my hands beneath the flow, but luckily common sense prevails. Instead I shove another mug under the spigot, and thankfully the coffee dribbles to a stop just before reaching the top. It takes half a roll of paper towels to sop up the mess.
When I’m sure not a drop remains on any surface, I turn back to my mug. It still feels hot, so I drop in an ice cube. While I’m waiting for it to dissolve, I skim a “Dear Abby” letter about whether it’s necessary to send a thankyou note to thank someone for sending you a thank-you note. It isn’t.
When I pick it up again, my mug feels much less likely to leave a third-degree burn on my palm. I inhale deeply, take my first sip, and promptly spit it back into the mug.
THIS is what all the fuss is about? THIS is what makes people wait in line at coffee shops for hours? Then I remember I’m supposed to add things to it. I pour some of the coffee into the sink to make room for the milk, which I pour in till it reaches the top. Then I add a few Sweet’N Lows from the counter. Ah, much better. I almost can’t taste the original coffee at all.
I keep drinking. I hear Dad upstairs on the phone. While I wait for him to join me so he can see how grown up I look with my coffee, I drink some more. Before I know it, I’ve finished it and gone on to the second mug. By the time Dad comes in, I’ve finished it off.
He looks from me, to the empty cup in my hand, to the empty cup on the counter, to the also-empty coffee machine, and raises his brows.
I hold up the cup to show him, and grin broadly. “I drink coffee now!”
“Um, Rory? Is your arm shaking, or are we having an earthquake?”
“What do you mean?”
He tilts his head at my arm. I follow his gaze. It is, in fact, shaking! A lot, actually. That’s weird. Why is my arm shaking?
Dad lifts the bag to pour more coffee into the machine. He is moving oddly. First in these fast bursts, then really slow. “Why are you moving like that?” I shout.
“Like what?” he asks. “And why are you shouting at me?”
“I’m not shouting,” I shout. Maybe I am. My head feels funny.
As the machine starts to gurgle again, he asks, “Exactly how much coffee did you drink?”
“Not a lot, I mean …” I pause here because it sounds like I can hear an echo of my own voice from far away. This makes my thoughts turn to the beach over the summer, when Sawyer pressed a conch shell to my ear and I could hear the ocean and it was very cool. Although now that I think about it, we had been standing right next to the ocean, so that might explain it.
For some reason, Dad is waving his hand in front of my face. His hand looks strange. Like he has too many fingers.
“Yes, Dad?”
“Would two of these big mugfuls be a good guess?”
I look down at the mug still in my shaking hand. “Is that a lot?” I ask.
“That’s like six regular cups!” he says, his brows creasing in concern. He takes the mug from me and places it in the sink. “For someone who’s never drank coffee before, well, I think you better go lie down a while.”
“I’m fine. Seriously.”
“Then why are you bouncing up and down on your toes like you’re about to lift off into space?”
I didn’t realize I was bouncing. “Um, because I’m excited it’s my birthday?”
He doesn’t buy it and marches me to my room. He points to the bed, then leaves and shuts the door. I hop nimbly around the strewn brochures, then dutifully lie down, not feeling at all tired. What was in that coffee? Oh, right. Caffeine. I sit up, my attention drawn to my fingers and toes, which seem to be moving to the beat of some song I can’t hear. Gotta get up and do something. I’d clean my room, but packing most of it up last night has left me without anything to clean. I look down at my coffee-splattered pajamas and sprint over to my dresser. I yank out one item of clothing after the next. What’s the perfect outfit for a twelfth birthday? This shirt’s too big. That one’s too small. Too bright. Too dark. I finally pick out a top and a bottom and throw them on. I glance at the clock and am surprised to see that only four minutes have passed. Weird. I might as well work on my phone presentation. I sit down at my desk, and the next thing I know, my mother is shaking me awake. Whoa. I fell asleep? How did I fall asleep when I was so totally wide awake? I sit up and my chart slips onto the floor. So much for working on my presentation. But as I bend to pick it up, I see that the entire thing is filled in! The memory of filling it in filters back slowly and choppily, like remembering a dream. Note to Self: No More Coffee for a Long, Long Time. If ever. I quickly lean over to cover the chart. No use giving Mom a sneak peak.
She raises an eyebrow, but only says, “Ten minutes. Family room.”
“I’ll be there,” I promise as I glance casually at my hand to test for shaking. Seems pretty steady. Wouldn’t want to be a surgeon about to operate on a patient, but since that’s really not a concern, I think I’m in the clear.
“Oh, and Rory?” she says, halfway out the door. “That’s quite a … colorful outfit.”
She closes the door behind her. I look down and shudder. Black-and-white-striped shorts and a pink polka-dot shirt. The fashion police would definitely give me a ticket fo
r “Dressing While Over-Caffeinated.”
I spend the next nine minutes preparing for the presentation. First I change into clothes that don’t make me look like a character on Cartoon Network (and which should have been packed away in my box yesterday), and then brush my teeth twice to get rid of the icky combination of coffee and sleep breath. Finally, I pull my hair into a low ponytail (which Mom always says makes me look more mature) and resign myself to my fate.
When I arrive in the family room, I find Mom on the couch and Dad in his easy chair, both with arms crossed. Usually the wood paneling and thick brown carpet in this room relax me, but right now nothing’s going to slow down my racing heart. An easel has been set up across from them, and I hoist the poster onto it. I’m careful not to reveal my FINALLY chart on the opposite side, since I wouldn’t want to scare them off at this crucial moment. Plenty of time for that. I run the plan through my head again. Don’t whine or beg. No sulking. Keep eye contact at all times. Stand tall. Sound responsible and confident. Remember that even though these finalists are the most restrictive, boring, lame cell phones in the history of cell phones, they are better than the one with two buttons.
I take a deep breath and begin. “What you see here are my top three choices. All of them have prepaid plans so I can’t run up a huge bill. All will allow you, the parents, to control the usage of my phone. You can set the limit for talking and texting, and on this one” — I point to the last of the three — “you can even control which phone numbers I can accept calls from.”
“Really? Huh.” My father nods appreciatively. “I like that last option.”
I smile broadly, encouragingly. Maybe I worried for nothing. This might not be so bad. Then Mom turns to Dad and says, “But do you really think she needs one at all? Isn’t it just asking for trouble?”
My smile fades. “But Mom,” I begin, then cut myself off. Do not whine. I start again, lighter and breezier. “I understand your fears, Mom. But you don’t have to worry. I won’t talk to strangers, I won’t text Annabelle during dinner, and I won’t take embarrassing pictures and post them on the Internet.”