I bet if Bridget had turned pretty overnight but everything else about her had stayed exactly the same, we’d probably still be best friends. And I’m sure our friendship would be stronger than ever if I had been the one to undergo some major physical transformation. Like, we’d still be besties if I had awoken to two big reasons for trading in my nonsupportive training bralette for an actual bra.
Anyway, I slowed down when I reached Hope’s street. She hadn’t given me a house number. She’d simply told me to “look for the psychedelic mailbox.”
“What does a psychedelic mailbox look like?” I had asked.
Hope laughed. “You’ll know it when you see it.”
And she was right. I didn’t know what I was looking for until I saw what was—unmistakably—a psychedelic mailbox. It was shaped like a dolphin jumping in midair and painted in a neon, tie-dyed/hypercolor camouflage motif. What made the psychedelic mailbox even more unusual was how loudly it contrasted with what was otherwise a totally normal-looking place to live. Like, if the whole yard were zooed out with statues of glow-in-the-dark animals, the psychedelic mailbox wouldn’t stand out at all.
Hope was sitting on her front steps next to a large sunken-in pumpkin. The squirrels had gotten to it, chewed through the skin, and exposed the flesh and seedy guts. That’s creepier than any jack-o’-lantern, I thought. Followed by, Um, that was a weird thought.
Hope must have noticed me noticing the pumpkin. Hope is a noticer.
“THE ZOMBIE SQUIRRELS EAT PUMPKIN BRAINS. MWAHAHAHAHAHA.”
I laughed, she laughed, and I didn’t feel so weird anymore. I mean, I’d thought the weird thought, but Hope actually said it. Hope’s utter unembarrassibility is one of her best qualities.
“You were right,” I said, pointing to the psychedelic mailbox. “I knew it when I saw it!”
“Told you so.”
Hope went on to explain that she had picked out and hand painted the psychedelic mailbox as a present for her mom’s fortieth birthday a few years back. I should have known it was her creation. Hope is artsy like that. She’s got an eye for the absurd and the talent to make it work.
“That’s so cool,” I said, following Hope down a path that led us from the front to the rear of the house. I hadn’t met Hope’s parents yet, but I liked them already. I mean, my parents wouldn’t use the napkin holder I’d made in Woodshop even when it was just the three of us having dinner. Mom said it clashed with our decor, which I had to admit was true, because my napkin holder is ugly and our house is very tasteful and beige. But still. The making of that hideous napkin holder put several important fingers in jeopardy, and it would be nice to have my dangerous efforts acknowledged. I could only imagine what Mom would think of the psychedelic mailbox. Or worse, the massive plywood skate ramp that dominated the Weavers’ backyard. It was covered in illegible graffiti—definitely not Hope’s handiwork.
“My brother’s,” Hope explained.
I heard the sound of wheels scraping cement. A dark mop of hair popped up over the lip of their in-ground swimming pool, then dipped below the surface again. I was too busy watching to pay attention to where I was walking.
“Watch your step!”
Hope threw out her arm to stop me from stepping on the ugliest mutt I’d ever seen. It was also, by all appearances, dead.
“Yikes!” I was more stunned by the creature’s hideousness than its deadness.
“Meet our geriatric, narcoleptic Lhasa apso,” Hope said. “He only looks dead. He’s actually in a very deep sleep.”
“He’s, um…” I curled my lip. “Ack.”
Hope laughed good-naturedly.
“He’s a mess, but we love him. He lost a fight with a feral cat, so his face was like that when we picked him out at the shelter, all jumbled up and wrong-looking. That’s why we named him Dalí.”
“Dalí?”
“Salvador Dalí?” she said. “The surrealist painter?”
I shook my head, and Hope shrugged like name-dropping surrealist painters was no big deal.
“He was twelve years old when we got him, which is eighty-four in dog years, so he already had a different name.” She smiled adoringly at her hideous pet. “But Dalí suits him much better than Diamond and he’s deaf, so he can’t hear what we call him anyway, so we changed it.”
Hope was speaking so endearingly about this poor creature that I suddenly felt the urge to show him some love. I bent down to pet him, but Hope grabbed my arm.
“You don’t want to wake him,” she said. “He will bite your arm off.”
I snatched back my hand.
“Yikes! Really?”
“No, not really,” Hope said, giggling. “Dalí’s missing too many teeth to bite anyone.”
My mother would approve a pet velociraptor before she’d ever allow me to bring this pathetic pooch into our home. I was liking Mr. and Mrs. Weaver more and more, but I guess it’s easy to like people before you’ve even met them.
Hope picked up a battered helmet that had been carelessly left on the ground. As we approached the empty pool, we got a better view of her loosey-goosey-limbed sixteen-year-old brother swooping around on his skateboard.
“Heath!” Hope yelled.
Heath was plugged in to music and tuned out to the world. Hope hopped up and down and waved her arms to get her brother’s attention.
“HEATH!!!”
Finally, she sat on the lip of the pool and kicked her legs directly in his path. I thought for sure that he’d crash into her, but at the very last second, he shifted his weight to the tail of the board and came to a grinding stop.
“Dude.”
“Helmet.”
I saw the family resemblance immediately. He was very tall and slender and pale like Hope, with large, expressive eyes. But his shaggy hair was darker and lacked Hope’s five-alarm-fire intensity. He wore the typical skater uniform: white T-shirt and baggy, long shorts with holes at the knees.
“Duuuuuuude.”
“Helllllllllmet.”
“Dude.” Heath’s whole body slumped. “I hate that thing.”
He picked up his board and spun the front wheels with the palm of his hand as if the discussion were over.
“Heath.”
I’d never heard her use this sharp tone before. She sounded like a mom. And Heath sounded like a kid four years younger than Hope, not four years older.
“But I wanna feel the wind in my hair.…”
“Yeah? And do you want to wake up from a coma with a face like Dalí’s, too?”
“Dude.”
Hope lowered her gaze and narrowed her eyes, but she didn’t speak. Her expression said it all.
“Fiiiiiiiiine,” Heath said, dragging himself over to his sister. He took the helmet, reluctantly squeezed it over his head, extended his neck, and snapped the chin strap. Striking a pose, he sought her final approval. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Hope replied drily. “This is my new friend, Jessica. We’ll be inside.”
“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Dude.”
He held up his hands in protest. Only then did I notice the words written in blue pen on his palms: RIGHT and LEFT. If Heath were directionally challenged, his notation would only make it worse: He’d written each word on the wrong hand.
“Do you have parental permission to invite New Friend Jessica inside?”
Hope sighed testily as if they had been through this many, many times before.
“It’s your friends who lost inside-the-house privileges. Not mine.”
Heath nodded with mock solemnity.
“Here’s a tip, New Friend Jessica.” He set one hand down on the board. “Don’t jeopardize your inside-the-house privileges by setting our kitchen on fire.”
Then Heath kicked off and spun out to the deep end.
Chapter Four
While Hope’s head was in the fridge, I surveyed the countertops, cabinets, and appliances, looking for fire damage.
“Did Heath’s friends really set your kitch
en on fire?”
“Technically, yes.” Hope came out holding two cans of Coke. “But it wasn’t intentional. Someone put a Hot Pocket in the microwave for thirty minutes instead of thirty seconds and forgot all about it until the explosion.”
Before I could stop myself, I asked, “Was it Aleck?”
“Aleck? Who’s Aleck?”
Whoops. It’s no wonder Hope was confused. Aleck is known as Aleck only in Woodshop because our teacher is bonkers and prefers nicknames to real names.
“I mean Marcus, Marcus Flutie,” I clarified. “Didn’t you tell me he hangs out with your brother sometimes?”
At first I thought it was a little weird that a high schooler would socialize with a seventh grader. But now that I’ve actually met Heath—even briefly—I can see how Heath and Aleck might be friends despite their age difference. Hope is waaaaay more mature than her brother. And Aleck would look at the RIGHT and LEFT on Heath’s hands and find a way for it to make perfect sense. Heck. I wouldn’t be surprised if Aleck was the one who gave Heath the idea in the first place.
“Oh, right, Woodshop Aleck is Marcus Flutie,” Hope said. “Well, that makes sense because if anyone needs an alias, it’s him.”
“He’s getting an F plus in Woodshop.”
“Then it should come as no surprise that it was Woodshop Aleck who blew up our microwave.”
Yikes! What if his failure to correctly set a timer on a microwave indicates an inability to properly operate machinery in general? WOODSHOP IS ALL ABOUT MACHINERY. As his mandatory partner, my life and limbs could be in more danger than they already are! I got so panicky, that Hope felt the need to offer reassurance.
“I might be wrong,” she backtracked unconvincingly. “It could have been any one of Heath’s friends, really. They’re all equally irresponsible.”
This didn’t make me feel any better.
Hope took a few steps toward the sliding glass door and looked out to the pool. I did, too. The tip of Heath’s helmet rose and fell above and below our sight line. Satisfied that her brother wasn’t about to crack his head like an egg, she turned back to me.
“Heath and his friends aren’t bad people,” Hope said diplomatically. “They just make bad choices.”
The way Hope said it led me to believe that this was something that got said a lot around the Weaver household. I couldn’t help but ask myself: How many bad choices can you make before you’re officially a bad person? I might have asked for Hope’s opinion on that question, then followed it up by introducing her to the Top Secret Pineville Junior High Crushability Quiz, if I hadn’t caught a pink blur in my peripheral vision. Hope saw it, too. Our heads turned toward the backyard at the same time.
Ugh. What’s she doing here? I thought.
“Ugh. What’s she doing here?” Hope said out loud.
Apparently Manda was here to flirt with Hope’s brother.
ACK. For several reasons:
1. Manda is Hope’s friend.
2. Heath is Hope’s brother.
3. Manda is twelve.
4. Heath is sixteen.
5. HEATH IS HOPE’S BROTHER AND MANDA IS TWELVE AND HE IS SIXTEEN.
Manda sat on the steps in the shallow end of the empty pool. She was doing this thing she does, where she arches her back, then leans forward and smooshes her boobs together with her elbows to make them look even bigger than they already are, which is just greedy if you ask me. The maneuver succeeds only if you’ve got something to work with. OKAY, CONFESSION TIME: I’ve tried this move at home alone in front of my mirror, and all I’ve gotten to show for it was a set of bruises where my elbows knocked together. If my sister’s IT List mattered at all, I might have worried again about breaking #4: DO. NOT. COMPARE. But it doesn’t, so I’m not, so there.
While I’m at it, please allow me to use Manda as an example of the bogusness of IT List #1: Early bloomers have it bad. As one of the most advanced girls in our class, you know, developmentwise, she gets noticed by the boys. And she loves it. How do I know this? Because when she isn’t getting the attention she wants, she goes out of her way to attract it.
Like she did with Heath.
“What’s that move called again?” she asked as we made our way outside.
Her voice was pitched an octave higher than usual, which is also something she does when she’s talking to boys she thinks are cute, which she does A LOT, even though she’s dating Mouth from Woodshop, which is—again—greedy, if you ask me.
“It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.”
She gazed up at Heath through her eyelashes.
“Um. It’s just your basic ollie.” Heath rolled the board back and forth with his sneaker. “Nothing special. Um. Dude…”
Heath was obviously beyond bored by this conversation with Manda. If he was tolerating her presence at all, it was only because he’s a naturally nice person, but that’s about it. Even so, Hope looked like she was about to barf all over both of them.
“Hey, Heath!” she said, punching him in the arm. “You remember Manda, who is in seventh grade and the same exact age as your baby sister.”
Heath swiveled his head in his sister’s direction.
“Dude. Come on. That’s nasty. Dude.”
“Nasty?” Manda’s jaw dropped. “I’m nasty?”
“You’re not nasty,” Heath explained. “I mean, you’re not my type or anything. But you aren’t nasty.”
Manda blinked in disbelief. One. Two. Three times.
“What my sister was hinting at, though,” Heath continued, “like, that I was interested in you in a romantic way? That is nasty. Because you’re twelve and that’s just wrong. Dude.”
To sum up: Everyone in the backyard agreed that Manda’s flirting was ACK-worthy. Except her, of course.
“WHAAAAAAAT?”
It was a horrible, horrible sound that roused a deaf old dog from his narcoleptic slumber.
“Woof.” Cough. “Woof.” Cough. “Woof.”
I didn’t know dogs coughed.
“This is Dalí in attack mode,” Hope whispered helpfully. “He hates Manda. Always has.”
“Woof.” Cough. “Woof.”
Dalí limped about as slowly as I’ve ever seen a four-legged animal go. Manda had plenty of time to carry on with the hysterics until his angry arrival. But before she could screech another syllable, Heath turned up the volume on his headphones and took off for the depths of the deep end. If he heard the rest of Manda’s rant over the music, he didn’t let on.
“Excuuuuuuse me! You’re not my type, either! And I have a boyfriend!”
And then she very emphatically formed a circle with her hand and pumped it in Heath’s direction.
“ZERO!” she screeched at the unhearing Heath. “ZEEE-RO.”
I didn’t understand the meaning of this gesture for sure, but it definitely didn’t translate as friendly. Hope knew it, too. We exchanged looks that said, “Let’s get her the heck out of here.”
“You have some nerve! Like I’d ever go out with a skate rat. Puh-leeze.”
“Woof.” Cough. “Woof.”
Pause.
Zzzzzzzzz.
I’d hoped Dalí might chase Manda away, but the old mutt had dropped into another dead sleep.
“Some attack dog, huh?” Hope said.
Manda kept “zeroing” one fist in the air as she clutched a sheet of paper with the other. It was getting crushed in her violent grip, but I could still make out the Pineville Junior High Spirit Squad logo at the top of the page. Even though I had my own important piece of paper in my back pocket, the Top Secret Pineville Junior High Crushability Quiz that required Hope’s attention, I had to put personal concerns aside for the time being.
“Hey,” I said, gesturing toward the document. “Is that a new Spirit Squad petition?”
Hope joined in on the act. Then elevated it to the next level.
“Ooh! A new petition? Come inside and tell us all about it.”
Manda dropped he
r “zero” hand and looked down at the crumpled paper.
She and Sara had cofounded the Pineville Junior High Spirit Squad when they were rejected by the Pineville Junior High CHEER TEAM!!! The two clubs are archrivals in pep and popularity. In a few short months, the Spirit Squad has become best known for two things: tight pink T-shirts and petitions. Manda and Sara make it a priority to get a new one going around the school every week. Past petitions include protests against the dress code (because freedom of expression), the vulgarity rule (because freedom of speech), and sloppy joes (because gross). None of these petitions has actually resulted in any changes to school policy—bra straps and four-letter words are still banned, and the cafeteria continues to reek of mystery meat every Thursday—but Manda and Sara insist that they have been very successful at raising awareness.
“And it’s an excuse to talk to cute boys we don’t know!” Manda has said more than once. LIKE SHE EVEN NEEDS AN EXCUSE.
The point is Spirit Squad petitions were already a big deal. But for Manda to come over to Hope’s house on a weekend with a petition in hand? Well, that had to mean this latest protest was the biggest deal of them all.
“We love a good petition, don’t we, Jessica?” Hope continued. “Why, I was just saying earlier, the only thing missing from this otherwise perfect day was a good petition. A good petition is the highlight of any weekend, isn’t it, Jessica?”
Manda—miraculously—cracked a smile. If I’d shown any snark about official Spirit Squad business, Manda would’ve told me to shut up—or worse. But Hope has known Manda much longer than I have and can tease the humor out of these tense situations in a way that I cannot. With Manda, I have to be more straightforward.
“What’s the Spirit Squad protesting against now?” I asked.
“We’re not protesting against anything,” Manda snapped. “We’re protesting for something.”
“A positive protest,” Hope said, coaxing Manda into a standing position. “I love it.”