“Order pizza? But I’m a great cook!” He turns back to the cookbook and flips it back to the pot roast recipe.
“Ellie’s a vegetarian,” I try.
He points to a package that’s sitting on the counter. “I’m making her a veggie burger.”
“Yeah, but . . . Dad, this has to be fun.” I imagine all of us sitting around the table, eating pot roast and having stilted conversation. I mean, I’m sure the pot roast will be good and everything, but I’m trying to make this a fun, normal night, not a night filled with pot roast and vegetables. That doesn’t say “party.” That says “family dinner where my dad is going to interrogate Brandon and everyone is going to have the worst time ever.”
The doorbell rings, and my heart drops to my shoes. “That can’t be them already, can it?” I haven’t even put on my dinner outfit (black ballet flats, black tiered poofy skirt, white long-sleeved shirt with little hearts all over) or done my hair (straightened and curled at the bottoms, but with a string of tiny heart jewels woven through it).
“Uh, no,” my dad says. He wipes his hands on one of the dishcloths that’s sitting on the counter, and looks guilty. “That’s probably Cindy.”
“Cindy! Why is Cindy here?”
“I thought it would be good for her to meet Brandon,” my dad says.
I narrow my eyes at him. This is turning out to be a very, very bad idea. Now not only are Kyle and Ellie coming (which at first seemed like a good idea because it would be more of a party, but now I’m not so sure), but we are having pot roast and Cindy is coming. Which is okay, because Cindy will probably like Brandon and say something to my dad, but it’s not really her place. She’s not my mother. She’s not even my stepmother. She’s not even my dad’s girlfriend! I mean, talk about trying to weasel your way into the family. I know I keep saying that, but come on! It’s true! I might need to have a talk with my dad about this. I really do not need a female role model.
“Do you want to go and get the door?” my dad asks. He’s opening a can of corn.
“Not really,” I grumble. But I get up from the table and go to the door.
“Hello!” Cindy says when I open it. “Don’t you look adorable!”
I raise my eyebrows and look down at what I’m wearing. Black pajama pants, a long-sleeved white T-shirt, and a gray and pink hoodie. “I haven’t gotten ready yet,” I say. And then I add pointedly, “No one’s coming for another couple of hours.”
She’s oblivious to the fact that she’s super-early, and breezes by me and into the kitchen.
“Kendall,” my dad says, “you could offer to take Cindy’s coat.”
“Can I take your coat, Cindy?” I ask, sighing.
She slides it off and hands it to me. I hang it up in the hall closet, then return to the kitchen. “Cindy,” I say, “how do you feel about pot roast?”
“Oh, I love pot roast,” she says, and then she giggles. Seriously. She totally giggles. She’s kind of too old to be giggling, but whatever. “Your dad makes the best pot roast.”
“When have you ever had my dad’s pot roast?” I ask.
My dad clears his throat and starts getting super-busy pulling out an onion and peeling it. “Oooh,” he says, swiping at his eyes, “chopping onions always makes me cry.”
Great. Obviously my dad and Cindy have had some kind of clandestine dinner involving pot roast. And they didn’t tell me about it. Which means that there had to be some kind of reason they didn’t want me to know. Was it a date? Are Cindy and my dad having secret dates together? This is way too much for me to process.
“Cindy,” I say hopefully, “don’t you think we should have pizza? Or maybe tacos or something?”
She frowns. “Why would we do that when your dad is making pot roast?”
Oh, for the love of . . . “Well, because it’s supposed to be a party. You know, and pot roast isn’t exactly that much of a party food.”
“Pot roast is perfect for a dinner party,” she says. “And don’t worry, your friends will love it.”
Great. When it comes right down to it, Cindy is totally loyal to my dad. Either that or completely clueless. I should have known. “I’m going to take a shower,” I announce. When I leave the kitchen, they’re chopping potatoes and Cindy’s still giggling.
• • •
I take a bath instead of a shower and stay in there so long, reading and soaking in my honey wheat vanilla bubble bath, that my fingers get all pruney. But my skin is super-soft and my hair smells delish. Hopefully this will be enough to distract Brandon from the fact that we’re having pot roast.
I dry my hair, use my straightening iron, curl the ends, and then finally weave the strands of sparkly heart jewelry into my hair. It looks fab. Very festive and very hip. I have to be super-careful when I get dressed, though, because pulling my shirt over my head has the potential to really mess it all up. I should have gotten dressed before I did my hair, but then I would have had to wear my outfit for way too long. What if it got wrinkled, or I spilled eye shadow on it or something?
After I’m dressed, I carefully apply some sparkly lip gloss to make my lips totally kissable, then fasten a silver heart necklace around my neck. I slide my feet into my ballet flats and survey the result in the mirror. So. Cute.
As if on cue the doorbell rings, and I rush downstairs just in time to see Cindy opening the door. Ellie, Kyle, and Brandon are all standing on the steps.
“Hi, guys,” I say.
“Hi!” Ellie says. I invite them in, and then introduce them to Cindy.
“Dinner’s almost ready!” my dad calls from the kitchen.
“I’m starving!” Kyle yells back. “Is it pizza?”
Great.
• • •
Twenty minutes later we’re all sitting around the kitchen table, and, um, it’s not going that well. The pot roast is good, but it’s, you know, pot roast. Also, my dad has this whole thing about mashed potatoes and how you mash them at the very last minute and then bring the pot over and put a big dollop on everyone’s plate. It has something to do with the potatoes not getting hard, which is kind of an unnecessary worry. I mean, I don’t think this crowd is really going to be worried about things like that.
Anyway, when my dad tried to bring the potatoes over to the table, he dropped them. And mashed potatoes splattered all over the floor. And Ellie started laughing, and then so did I (because once she starts laughing, I usually start laughing), which I don’t think my dad appreciated. And then Kyle was like, “It’s okay, Mr. Williams. I don’t mind eating them!” And then he reached over and grabbed his spoon and scooped up some potatoes from the floor and popped them into his mouth. “Delicious,” he said, and then took another scoop. I think he was doing it just be nice, but still.
Cindy looked like she was going to flip out and/or be sick.
So then my dad was like, “No, it’s okay. We have some instant ones.” And so then everyone had to wait while my dad made instant potatoes on the stove. It was super-awkward, you know, because no one really knew what to say. And at that point no one even really wanted the potatoes, but we had to wait anyway because it was so obvious that my dad was all upset. And by the time the instant potatoes were done, all the other food was cold. Honestly, it was kind of a debacle.
• • •
“So,” my dad says now as he scoops big bunches of instant potatoes onto all of our plates. He somehow read the directions on the package wrong and ended up making, like, twenty-four servings. So now he’s giving everyone way more potatoes than they’re going to be able to eat. “Time to dig in!”
Kyle picks up his fork and takes a taste of potatoes. “Instant is definitely not as good,” he says sadly.
“So, Brandon,” Cindy says, serving herself some pot roast. “Do you play any sports?”
“Baseball,” Brandon says.
“Oh, really?” my dad says. “I used to play baseball. What position do you play?”
“Catcher.”
“Catcher
? We used to say the catcher was nothing but a place for the pitcher to throw the ball.” He laughs, but it’s actually not that funny of a joke, and it’s also pretty insulting at the same time.
“Do you have any ketchup?” Kyle asks. “I like to have ketchup on my pot roast.”
My dad looks at him like he’s lost his mind. But then Cindy says, “Of course. I’ll get it.” But I don’t want her getting the ketchup in my house, because why should she? She doesn’t live here, and besides, they’re my guests.
So I get up to go and get the ketchup, but when I push my chair back, I somehow end up slamming my chair into Brandon’s fingers. I don’t even know how it happens, but he screams, “Ow!” and my dad looks up and gives Brandon a look like maybe he’s overreacting.
“So!” Ellie says brightly. “Did you tell your dad about how well you did on your math test?”
“I did great on my math test,” I say, opening the refrigerator and pulling out the ketchup.
“That’s amazing, honey,” my dad says.
“Yup,” Brandon says. “I always knew she could do it.” I feel myself blush. How sweet!
“No offense, Brandon,” my dad says, giving him a smile, “but you do know that you helping Kendall isn’t the only reason she got that good grade.”
“Yes, sir,” Brandon says. He looks a little scared now. I put the ketchup on the table in front of Kyle and slide back into my seat.
“Especially when you’re studying at the mall,” my dad goes on. He puts another big scoop of mashed potatoes on Brandon’s plate. “I think we can all agree that’s not really the best environment to focus in.”
“Well, it must be working,” I say, “since I’m doing so well.”
“This pot roast is absolutely amazing,” Kyle says. “Do you use a garlic rub?”
“Yes,” my dad says proudly. “I buy a prepackaged one and then tweak it.”
“Smart,” Kyle says. He drags a big slab of roast through the pile of ketchup on his plate.
As if all of this isn’t going horribly enough, Daniella picks that moment to pop up. “Wow,” she says, surveying the scene. “This dinner party looks like a disaster.” She wrinkles up her nose. “And who decided to have pot roast? Tacos would have been way better. Oooh, or make your own pizzas!”
I don’t say anything. And then she bends down to whisper into my ear, which is ridiculous, since no one else can even hear her. “Kendall,” she says, “I figured it out. Everything! I know what happened with me and Jen.”
Chapter
12
I’m so startled that I drop the serving fork as I’m going to put it back on the pot roast plate. I didn’t even want more pot roast. I was just doing it to make my dad feel better, but when I drop the fork, it goes into my chocolate milk. And chocolate milk goes running and dripping everywhere, including onto Brandon’s jeans. Oops.
“Oh no!” I exclaim.
“Wow,” Daniella says. “What a klutz.”
“It’s okay,” Cindy says. She hops up from the table and grabs a dish towel. “No use crying over spilled milk.” She forces a laugh.
“No,” I want to say, “but you can cry over the biggest disaster of a date in your life.” And if Brandon wasn’t sure about being my boyfriend before, there’s no way he’s going to be super-psyched about it now.
I take the dishcloth from Cindy and crawl down under the table to wipe up the milk on the floor, but also so that no one will see that I’m about to start crying. Ellie will know, of course, since Ellie always knows when I’m about to start crying.
“Anyway,” Daniella says, crawling under the table with me. God, she’s flexible. I mean, there’s hardly any room under here. “I remember now! About the digging!”
I stare at her blankly. “You remember about the digging?”
“Yes! We buried something!”
“You buried something?”
“Yes,” she says. “I don’t know what. Or where.” She shakes her head and then smiles. “But that’s really not important, since I’m sure we can figure it out. Maybe you can ask Jen.”
“Ask Jen?” Suddenly all my frustration is coming out. About this disastrous dinner, about Daniella, about Mrs. Dunham, about everything. “Are you crazy? Did you miss the part where she said she was going to get a restraining order on me?”
“She did not,” Daniella says, and rolls her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Who are you talking to?” Brandon asks. He has the tablecloth pulled up, and he’s looking down at me, a worried look on his face.
“Um, no one,” I say, and quickly stand up.
“I just heard you, though,” Brandon says. “You were talking to someone.”
“No, I wasn’t,” I say, smiling. “I’m fine. You must have been hearing things.” Hopefully he doesn’t remember the other day in math, when he also heard me talking to myself. Well, not myself. Daniella. But still.
“Probably,” Brandon says. But he doesn’t look convinced.
• • •
The rest of the night is pretty much a complete and total disaster. Kyle and my dad at least fill the silence by talking about recipes (turns out Kyle loves to cook, which Ellie thinks is adorable—I know because she’s beaming at him the whole time), and then finally everyone goes home.
People shouldn’t have gone home at eight o’clock on a Saturday! They should have hung around until at least nine or something. I even brought out that game Catch Phrase, but when I asked if anyone wanted to play, people took one look at Cindy settling in on the couch, and then Brandon was all, “Oh, I’m sorry, but I texted my mom already and she’s on the way to pick us up.”
I’m not sure if it was my imagination, but I felt like he was acting weird after he caught me talking to Daniella under the table. I mean, I thought I was being quiet, but I guess when I got emotional, I got a little loud.
Sigh. After everyone leaves, and my dad and Cindy settle down in the living room with cups of coffee and chocolate chip cookies, I head upstairs and change into pajama pants and a long tank top. Then I take the heart jewels out of my hair, brush it until it’s smooth, and pull it back into a plain ponytail. I wash my face with my special peach scrubbing facial wash and climb into my bed. I just want to fall asleep and forget all about this night.
But Daniella has other ideas.
“You’re not lying in bed feeling sorry for yourself, are you?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say, “I am. And I don’t feel like talking, thank you very much.” I don’t say that if I did feel like talking, it certainly wouldn’t be to her. It would be to Ellie, who texted me as soon as she left to see if I was okay. And I said I was, but that I didn’t really want to talk too much right now, and that I would text her later. Which she totally understood. Because she’s a good friend.
“Well, you don’t have to,” Daniella says.
“Thank you.” I roll over in my bed so that my back is to her. “I appreciate your understanding.” I expect her to go away, but after a couple of minutes I can still feel her there. So I turn around. She’s doing a headstand against the far wall of my room. “Go. Away.”
“That’s not nice,” Daniella says. She comes over and sits down at the foot of my bed. “Come on,” she says. “I know just what you need.”
• • •
She convinces me, somehow, that we have to go to the cemetery. She says it will cheer me up. It’s late, and it’s dark and kind of cold out, but I do need to clear my head, and walking in the cemetery does always calm me.
My dad’s still in the living room with Cindy, and I don’t tell him I’m going out, mostly because I don’t want him to say it’s too late. Instead I write a note and leave it on the kitchen table, telling him that I went for a walk and that I’ll be home soon and he can text or call me if he needs me.
Then I grab my coat and slip out the door.
The cool air immediately starts to make me feel better, and I do my best to push out of my mind all thoughts of how ton
ight’s craziness probably ruined my chances with Brandon.
Daniella, for once, is silent while we walk, but when we get to my usual bench, she looks at me and says, “Aren’t you freaked out, being here at night by yourself?”
“No.” I shrug and reach into my pockets, pulling out my fluffy white gloves and sliding my fingers into them. “What’s to be scared of?”
“Well, I’m not scared,” she says, “but I’m dead. Nothing really worse can happen to me, you know?”
“Nothing bad can happen to me either,” I point out. “I can see ghosts. I can talk to them. I know they’re not going to do anything horrible. If anything, they should be afraid of me, especially with the mood I’m in right now.”
“Yikes,” Daniella says.
We sit there for a while, not saying anything, just looking around. And then Daniella says, “So me and Jen buried something.”
“So you said.”
“Yup, me and Jen. We buried something here, at the cemetery.”
“You buried something at the cemetery?” Is she crazy? That’s, like, so illegal.
“Yes.”
“And you have no idea where?”
“No.”
“But you know that it’s important that we find it so that you can move on?”
“Yes.”
“Great.” How the heck am I going to do that?
• • •
There’s only one thing to do. I enlist Ellie to help me dig up the cemetery.
“You want me to help you do what?” she cries at school on Monday morning.
“I need to find something that I lost,” I explain. I’m digging around (ha-ha!) in my locker, looking for a hair clip. I overslept this morning, and I had no time to do my hair. So I figured that I could put a hair clip in, sweep my hair to one side, and keep it kind of disheveled. Kind of like how I feel right now. Disheveled and out of sorts.
“You lost something in the cemetery?”
“No,” I say. “Well, sort of. I buried something there.”
“Like a treasure?” she asks, frowning.
“No, like a . . . I can’t remember.”
“Kendall, are you okay?” Ellie asks. She looks at me, concerned. “Is this whole Brandon thing throwing you for a loop? Because honestly, he’s not worth it.”