The microwave beeped. Mom popped it open and distributed our biscuits.
“So can I?” I asked. “Have a sleepover with Dinah and Cinnamon?”
“I suppose,” Mom said.
“And can you take us to the mall?”
“I thought you hated the mall,” Sandra said.
I groaned. I knew she was purposely trying to be annoying.
“FYI, I’m going to be a teenager,” I explained.
“So?”
“So. Teenagers go to the mall.”
“Oh, good Lord,” Sandra said.
“Ty, what are you doing?” Mom said. The biscuit part of his sausage-and-biscuit was full of holes, and crumbs littered the table.
“I’m drilling tunnels,” he said. “It’s what Cody and I do in the sandbox.”
“No more tunnels,” Mom said. “Eat.”
“We call it Tunnel Town.”
“You can make Tunnel Town in the sandbox, not in your breakfast.”
“And at the mall, we want to get makeovers, okay?” I said.
“I don’t know,” Mom said. “You look beautiful just the way you are.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Mothers always said that. “I know, but just to see. Please?”
Mom looked at me. I smiled.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
“Okay,” I said happily. In Mom language, “I’ll think about it” meant “yes.”
I wolfed down my biscuit, eager to get to school so I could tell Dinah and Cinnamon. It was shaping up to be a very good birthday.
“Wow,” Dinah said. “I mean . . . wow. You’re going to be a teenager.”
“So are you, eventually,” I said. We were sitting on the bench outside the junior high, enjoying our last few moments of freedom before the bell rang to signify the end of lunch.
Cinnamon cleared her throat. “Already am,” she said, waving her hand like, ahem, let’s not forget about me.
But Cinnamon had seemed like a teenager from the day I first met her, even though at that point she hadn’t been. So there was nothing weird about her being thirteen.
Me, on the other hand.
I kicked my feet against the ground. In less than two weeks, I’d say “thirteen” to the question of how old I was. On forms and stuff, “thirteen” was what I’d write. It sounded so much older than twelve—and I wasn’t making that up. It did. I felt sorry for Dinah, knowing that she had five more months to go.
“Who’s going to do our makeovers?” Dinah asked, referring to our spectacular shopping-mall plans. “They won’t put on too much, will they?”
“They won’t,” I assured her. Although really, I had no idea.
“You can tell them what sort of look you’re after,” Cinnamon said. “Natural, sophisticated, evening . . . whatever.”
"I’ll say ’natural,’ ” Dinah said.
“What’s ‘evening’?” I asked.
“For a night on the town,” Cinnamon said. “When you want to look really glam.”
“Ahhh,” I said.
“That’s what you should pick,” Cinnamon said to me. “And then afterward, we should hunt down Lars. And you should kiss him.” She grinned. “That would be your birthday present!”
I blushed. “Ha ha.”
“I’m so serious,” Cinnamon said. “It’s high time you made your move. Isn’t it, Dinah?”
Dinah giggled.
“Shut up,” I said. “If you didn’t happen to notice, we’re at school? With thousands of people all around?”
“Where?” Cinnamon said. The only people in sight were a couple of high-school kids, cutting across the quad.
“Well, there could be,” I said.
“You’re going to have to kiss him sometime, so you might as well do it on your birthday,” Cinnamon said.
“When you’re glam,” Dinah added.
“I am going to have to hit both of you if you don’t be quiet,” I said. Even my scalp was burning. “Please.”
The bell rang, and the kids who’d been lingering in the cafeteria came streaming out. Voices rang out as they headed for our building.
“Look at that, time to go,” I said. I hopped to my feet.
Cinnamon stood up with me. “You’re such a wimp,” she said. “But we know you’ll do the right thing when the time comes.”
“When the time comes,” I said. “Operative word: when.”
“But you are going to kiss him?” Dinah exclaimed. “Oh my gosh!”
I quickly backpedaled. “If the time comes! If!”
Cinnamon laughed. “Too late, you said it!”
But instead of torturing me any more, she mercifully changed the subject. “Hey, let’s go to Lenox this afternoon and scope out the different makeup counters, so we can choose who we want to do our makeovers.”
Dinah’s brow furrowed, then cleared. “I can. I don’t have piano, because Mrs. Schneider’s sick.”
“I’m sure I can, too,” I said. “Maybe we can get Sandra to drive us.”
“Let’s meet at pickup,” Cinnamon said. We did a group handshake to seal the deal, and I thought how lucky I was to have them, even when they teased me. Or maybe especially when they teased me, because it made me feel so loved.
When school let out, I grabbed my books and went to the sidewalk by the junior-high parking lot. Kids lounged by the wall, waiting for their rides, and a row of moms in station wagons snaked along the asphalt. I scanned the line: no Sandra. But I’d tracked her down during her free period, and she’d said yes about taking us to the mall. Then I’d called Mom from the school phone and told her not to worry about coming to get me.
There was something bugging me in my shoe, so I pulled it off and shook it. A pebble flew out. I hopped on one foot as I tugged my sneaker back on, then lost my balance and nearly fell on my butt.
Someone caught me.
It was Lars.
“Whoa there, Bessie,” he said. His hands gripped my shoulders, and he eased me back into a standing position.
“Thanks,” I said, feeling myself—as always—turning red. Would I ever have a moment with him where I didn’t turn red for one reason or another? He probably thought this was my natural color. He probably called me “tomato girl” in his head.
But his hands, his strong beautiful hands. On me. It was worth being a klutz if this was the reward.
Lars dropped his backpack and lowered himself to the concrete stairs so that he was sitting at my feet. The sun shone on his face as he squinted up at me, making his eyes look almost translucent.
“So what’s up?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Want company?”
“Well . . . I’m waiting for Dinah and Cinnamon. We’re going to the mall.”
He hesitated a fraction of a second, then said, “Oh. Cool.”
I could have kicked myself. I’m waiting for Dinah and Cinnamon sounded like No, I don’t want company, which was as far from the truth as you could get.
“But they’re not here yet,” I said, dropping down next to him on the step. Our jeans practically touched, that’s how close we were. I thought about what Cinnamon had said, the whole “you should kiss him” business, then willed the idea from my brain. What if he could sense it? What if he could read my mind?
“What’s going on at the mall?” he said. “Going to throw some pennies into the fountain and make a wish?”
“Maybe,” I said, even though I knew he was kidding. “I loved doing that when I was a little kid.”
“Me, too.”
“Actually, I still do.”
He laughed. “Me, too.”
I could imagine him with all the toddlers, thrusting his fist in the air and going “Yes!” when his penny landed in the highest, trickiest spot.
He shifted, and I felt a feathery warmth on my fingers. Him. His skin. Our hands next to each other on the concrete step, pinkies touching. Did he know it? Did he feel the energy sparking between us, like I did?
I edged my hand closer, and his slid over mine and closed around it, just like that. I could hardly breathe.
“There you are,” Cinnamon said, appearing from behind. Dinah followed after. “I’ve been calling and calling, but you were lost in your own little world.”
Panic rose up, and my instinct was to jerk my hand free. But Lars squeezed tight.
“Ohhh,” Cinnamon said, noticing.
“What?” Dinah said. Then she noticed. Her eyes widened, and I was afraid she was going to faint right then and there. Or if she didn’t, I would.
“I was waiting for you guys, and Lars just happened to come by,” I stammered.
“So I see,” Cinnamon said.
“Um . . . yeah.”
Lars grinned at me, and even though I was embarrassed, I was really really happy, too.
We held on.
Lauren Myracle, Twelve
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