They arrived at school and parted ways, and Natasha’s shoulders finally relaxed.
When lunchtime came, Natasha saw Stanley again.
Natasha sat with Molly, as usual, and Stanley sat with Benton, as usual. Stanley wasn’t wearing his puffy green coat anymore, and his basic blue T-shirt was too big on his thin frame. Benton, on the other hand, looked insanely adorable in his random-on-purpose T-shirt of the day. It was gray, with cartoon drawings of two old men on the front. The old men were wearing suits and ties, and their expressions were stern. Beneath them, in bold block letters, was the phrase HATERS GONNA HATE.
It looked soft, Benton’s shirt. It wasn’t too loose or too tight, and Natasha could tell he had muscles all over the place. Muscles for writing notes? Well. That was silly. But muscles for sprinting from one place to another, and then away again without ever being seen?
“Omigosh,” Molly said. She snapped her fingers in front of Natasha’s face. “Natasha. Natasha!”
“Huh?” Natasha said.
“You’re staring at Benton,” Molly said. “More than usual, even. Just go over to him and say, ‘Hey, hot stuff, wanna go fishing?’”
“Fishing?” Natasha said.
“Or ice-skating! Or rock climbing!”
“Excellent ideas, but I don’t think so. But terrific brainstorming.” She gave Molly a thumbs-up.
Molly studied her for a long moment. “You’re too happy,” she said. “There’s something going on, isn’t there?”
“Of course not,” Natasha said.
“Oh, right, of course not,” Molly repeated. “Natasha, what aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing!”
“That’s your answer? Really? ’Cause I know you, and you’re hiding something. Why do you never tell me stuff?”
“I tell you tons of stuff!” Natasha protested. “Why don’t you tell me stuff?”
Molly tilted her head. “Like how Zara hurt my feelings when she said I was too loud? Like how I want to whiten my teeth, but my mom won’t let me, so I try to smile just using my lips?”
“You have a great smile,” Natasha said, her heart beating a little too fast. “Your teeth are perfect.”
“Like how it makes me sad when you keep everything to yourself?” Molly pressed.
Natasha held still, hit by a realization she didn’t know what to do with. She did keep big chunks of her life from Molly. The notes, for example. Why hadn’t she told Molly about the notes?
“Molly . . .” Natasha said.
Molly rubbed her forehead. Then she sighed and placed her palms on the table. She leaned in and said, “Do you have intimacy issues? Is that why you keep everything locked inside?”
Natasha stiffened, and she felt the sudden shock of tears.
Molly reddened. “Never mind. Forget I said that. Intimacy issues. What a stupid term anyway, right?” She hesitated. “But if you ever do want to tell me anything . . .”
Natasha felt exposed. What had begun as an ordinary conversation had crossed into unknown territory.
“Natasha?” Molly said. Her voice was small. “Are you mad at me? Did I make you mad?”
“No!” Natasha said.
“Then why are your eyes all wide?”
Natasha’s heart pounded. She took a breath. “There is something I kind of want to tell you, but it’s embarrassing.”
“I won’t be weird about it. I promise.”
“You already know, anyway,” Natasha said. “It’s just . . . you’re right. I do have a crush on Benton.”
Molly squealed.
“Molly! Shhhh!”
“That was my happy noise!” Molly protested. “You have a crush on him, and you finally admitted it! I’m so proud of you!” She reached across the table and patted Natasha’s head. “Has anything, you know, happened between you two?”
“Not really,” Natasha said. Although earlier, in history class, she’d asked Benton what set of questions they were supposed to be working on, and he’d said, “Five through ten, and if you finish those, go on through fifteen.”
“Oh,” she’d said. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” he’d said, and his easy smile had made Natasha’s cheeks grow warm.
“Then that’s our next step,” Molly announced. “To make something happen. Ooo! You should go over to him!”
“I don’t think so.”
“You could give him your apple!”
“Um, no.”
“Why not? You could give him food, because guys like food, and he would fall in love with you. You guys would be so cute together! You’d be . . . Nabenton!”
“Nabenton?”
“Nataben? Nenton? Or, I know!” Molly clapped. “Bentasha! It’s perfect!”
Natasha tilted her head, weighing the sound of it. Bentasha. It did sound good. She was about to say so when Molly got a funny expression on her face.
“What?” Natasha said. She looked where Molly was looking, and her heart sank.
Belinda Berry stood next to Benton, chatting and twirling her hair. She was a hair-twirling expert. Benton said something and patted the spot beside his lunch tray, and she laughed. Then she shrugged, turned sideways, and boosted herself onto the table. She perched on the edge and swung her legs.
“It doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Molly said.
Benton grabbed Belinda’s feet. She was wearing big fuzzy boots, the kind Darya hated. Her legs were bare, and her skirt was short. She was cute and bubbly and nice—she really was—and Natasha couldn’t compete with her in a million years. The magic it would take to make such a thing possible . . .
“Belinton,” she said desolately.
“No,” Molly moaned. “Bentasha is so much better.”
A guy with even bigger muscles than Benton’s sauntered toward Benton and Belinda. It was Dave Smith. He fist-bumped Benton and ruffled Belinda’s hair, reaching up a bit to do so. Belinda smiled and caught his hand in hers. She slid off the table and nestled up beside him.
“Omigosh,” Molly whispered. “Omigosh!”
Dave looped his arm over Belinda’s shoulders. Belinda slipped her arm around Dave’s waist. She rose up on her toes and let him kiss her, a sweet quick peck on the lips.
“Bedave,” Molly said, turning to Natasha. A grin stretched across her face.
“Dalinda,” Natasha said.
Molly held up her palm. Natasha gave her a high five.
I wish Klara wasn’t so sad.
I wish I could make her feel better.
—ELENA KOVROV, AGE THIRTEEN
CHAPTER TEN
A week passed. Natasha didn’t receive any more notes.
Another week passed, and on Friday, Natasha’s English teacher talked to the class about “the ides of March.” Natasha already knew what the ides of March were. It was a fancy way of saying March fifteenth, which was tomorrow, and which was Ava’s birthday.
Tomorrow, Ava would turn twelve, which meant that she’d be the same age as Darya. She and Darya would both be twelve until Darya’s birthday in August, when Darya would turn thirteen. Then Darya and Natasha would both be thirteen until Natasha’s birthday rolled around again in November.
It wasn’t a normal family configuration, Natasha knew. Papa and Mama had popped out three baby girls in quick succession, bam bam bam. But it was normal for Natasha. She was used to it. She knew nothing else, since Darya had come along before Natasha was a year old, and Ava had joined the pack less than a year after that.
“Ava came early” was her autopilot response when kids asked how the three sisters could be so close in age. Early and teensy and perfect, twelve years ago tomorrow.
As Natasha walked from English class to her locker, she thought about her birthday present for Ava. It was a gold necklace with a crystal-encrusted heart dangling from the middle. It glittered and sparkled, just right for Ava.
The hall was packed with kids. The air smelled like books and Pop-Tarts. Outside, the weather was gloomy, but inside, everyt
hing was bright and cozy. Everyone was cheerful, including Natasha.
She reached her locker, twisted the lock, and pulled on the latch. It didn’t open. She banged it with her fist. It still didn’t open. Benton saw her struggling with it, and he strode over and banged on it himself. The door sprang open.
“Thanks,” Natasha said.
“No problem,” Benton said. He turned to go.
“But I banged on it too,” she said, casting about for a way to keep him there longer. “Why did it work for you and not for me?”
Benton turned back. “You have to hit it in the right spot.”
“I did!”
“Well, and you kind of have to be me. I am pretty awesome.”
“Ohhhhh, of course,” Natasha said, fizzy with delight. They were flirting, maybe-possibly-practically. She fought not to smile too widely. “What was I thinking?”
Benton grinned. Then he looked worried. “You do know I’m kidding, right?”
“Wait—you’re not awesome?”
“No, I am, but . . .”
He floundered. Natasha kept her expression innocent, but on the inside, she was buzzing.
He crossed his arms over his chest, leaned back on his heels, and said, “Ah-ha. Pretty tricky, Natasha Blok.”
The way he spaced out the syllables was adorable: prih-tee trih-kee.
The way he said her name made her skin tingle.
“That was funny,” Benton said, nodding. “That was good.” He looked at her in a new way. “There’s more to you than people think, isn’t there?”
“Benton!” a guy called from down the hall. “Dude, you’re holding us up!”
“Dude, chill,” Benton called back. Then he said, “All right, well, see you around, Natasha,” and he loped off to join his friends.
That afternoon, Natasha lay on her bed and re-played the moment. She tried to decide what it meant, if it had meant anything at all.
She wanted it to have meant something, very much. But could wanting something make it come true? Because on her Wishing Day, Natasha’s last wish had been to be someone’s favorite. To be seen as special just for being herself.
Benton’s notes (which was how she thought of them, even though she didn’t know for sure that he’d written them) had made her feel special. Absolutely! And today, when he looked at her the way he did, that made her feel special too. When he’d said there was more to her than people thought, her stomach had flipped over.
Except then he took off without a backward glance. He said, “See you around,” but there wasn’t anything special about “see you around.”
So it was confusing. He’d flirted with her at her locker, but he never beckoned her over during lunch, like he had with Belinda. He never patted the table he was sitting at, encouraging her to hop up on it so they could talk.
And! Who said the notes were from Benton anyway?! She’d let herself imagine that he’d written them, and somehow the possibility of Benton being her secret admirer had lodged in her heart as truth. But what if that was just wishful thinking?
Wishful thinking. Of course it was wishful thinking. Making wishes, by definition, was wishful thinking.
Natasha sighed. She had a hard time imagining herself ever perching on a lunchroom table, to be honest. But maybe thinking wishfully required taking risks. Maybe she could be that girl, adored by a boy who grabbed her feet and playfully swung them back and forth.
Or not.
She stared at the ceiling, which was a good ceiling, with a familiar pattern of cracks that she’d turned into a multitude of things over the years. An old man’s profile. A chapel. A duck.
Today she made a question mark out of the cracks. It was a stretch, but it suited her purpose. There were so many things she didn’t know!
Her third Wishing Day wish was to be somebody’s favorite. The wish before that was to be kissed, and according to the Wishing Day rules, she was supposed to make that wish come true herself.
But how???
Benton was the boy she wanted to be kissed by, if she was going to be kissed by anyone. But what was she supposed to do? Approach him in the hall, grab his shoulders, and pucker up? Find him in the cafeteria and say, “Hey, Benton, want to smooch?” Hide by the path he took to school and pounce on him when he came strolling along?
No, no, and no, with an especially big no to the hide-by-the-path scenario. She’d scare him to death if she sprang out at him with no warning. She’d scare herself to death. They’d both fall over, dead, and foxes would feast on their bodies.
Or, worse, she’d jump out, waggle her hands and arms, and go “Boogidy-boogidy-boo!” like the bogeyman. She wouldn’t want to. She just would, accidentally, for the simple reason that the idea had floated into her imagination and was now lodged there forever.
Ugh. No. You will not go boogidy-boogidy-boo to Benton, Natasha, she told herself firmly. Understand?
She shifted positions, taking her hands out from beneath her head and splaying her arms wide, palms up. She tried to relax her muscles and let them “fall off her bones,” a phrase she’d picked up from her gym teacher during a unit on yoga.
It was a horrible phrase when taken literally. Wonderfully horrible, and she and Molly had latched onto it for that very reason. For almost a month, they let their muscles fall off their bones every chance they got.
“Sorry, Mom, but I can’t,” Molly would call from her bedroom, when her mother asked her to come back downstairs and clean up her dishes. “I’m letting my muscles fall off my bones!”
Or Molly and Natasha would flop onto the lawn of the school courtyard and spread out their arms and legs like stars.
“What’s new?” Natasha would ask.
“Oh, nothing, just letting my muscles fall off my bones,” Molly would say. “You?”
“Same.”
Natasha smiled, remembering. She could call Molly now, if she wanted. She could say, “Hey, dollface. Are your bones falling off your body?” Wait. Not bones, muscles. “Are your muscles falling off your bones?”
Then she could ask Molly for her advice. She could kill two birds with one stone. (Another dreadful expression, if you thought about it. Why kill the birds at all?) But she could ask Molly how to proceed with Benton, and that would prove to Molly that she didn’t have intimacy issues. That she did open up to her.
She owed Molly a call, regardless. Molly was going out of town next week for a family thing, which meant she would miss the Spring Festival. But Molly was okay with it because her parents were taking her to some big outlet mall to shop for a dress, because the family thing was something she had to be fancy for.
Her cousin’s bar mitzvah. That’s what it was. Molly had been talking about it all week, and today at lunch, she’d said, “Omigosh, and I haven’t even described my aunt and uncle’s house to you. What is wrong with me?”
Then the bell had rung, and Molly had groaned. “Remind me to tell you about my aunt and uncle’s house. It’s seriously a mansion. Okay?”
Hmm, Natasha thought, shifting again on her bed. She was fine with hearing about Molly’s aunt and uncle’s house, but maybe not right now.
She could get out her journal, she supposed. Writing things down might make them clearer.
Or she could do push-ups, which her gym teacher said were an excellent all-body workout.
She sighed and shifted positions, stretching her legs out long and pointing her toes. She pulled her pillow into a better position beneath her head and continued to stare at the ceiling.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Saturday night was game night at the Blok house. Aunt Elena was the one who’d started the tradition, and she was the one who came up with the games. Aunt Elena told Natasha and Darya it was for Ava, because Ava was the youngest, and Ava liked playing games. But Natasha knew that Aunt Elena liked playing games, too.
In the past, they’d played Rat-a-Tat Cat or Trouble or Monopoly, but Monopoly had been taken out of rotation because it took so long, and because Darya g
ot overly competitive when it came to getting Boardwalk and Park Place.
Aunt Elena came up with nongame games, too. Games that were actually activities devised to make everyone laugh. Last month, Aunt Elena instructed everyone to stick their elbows out in front of them (one elbow per person) while lifting their hands to their shoulders (one hand per person, the hand that “belonged” with the lifted elbow).
Then Aunt Elena went around and balanced a quarter on each person’s upraised elbow. The goal, she said, was for everyone to cup their hands and then whip them down, fast enough to catch the falling quarter.
Aunt Vera’s quarter kept plonking to the floor. “My elbows are too pointy!” she’d complained.
Darya had mastered the trick quickly. She’d place a quarter on her elbow, swish her hand down in a graceful arc, then flip her hand over and open it. “Did it!” she’d cry, revealing the captured quarter.
Ava, Aunt Elena, and Natasha were good at it as well. Along with Darya, they’d started adding quarters to make the challenge harder. Two quarters. Three quarters. Four quarters balanced neatly on top of their elbows, then caught just as neatly when they whipped down their hands. Or clattering noisily to the floor. It went both ways.
Papa would have been good at it, Natasha suspected, because he was good with his hands. But although he’d stuck around and watched for ten or so minutes, he hadn’t participated.
“Just once, Papa,” Ava had pleaded. “Just try once. Come on.”
“I’m too old for games,” he’d said. Then he’d smiled vaguely, ruffled Ava’s hair, and headed back to his workshop.
Aunt Elena had been the grand winner that night, ultimately balancing twenty quarters on her elbow and catching every single one.
“Impressive,” Natasha had said.
“Why thank you,” Aunt Elena had replied, her cheeks flushed and her hair coming loose from her ponytail.
Tonight, for Ava’s birthday, Aunt Elena came up with a game that would appeal especially to her. They’d already had Ava’s favorite meal for dinner, spaghetti with meatballs. They’d sung to Ava and eaten cake and passed out presents, and Ava had beamed.