The Pages Between Us (3 page)

Souper (Super) Saturday actually looks like it could be fun. We'll be together—it'll be fine. I may even strike up a conversation with someone I don't know! (I can't believe that sentence just came out of my pencil. We all know “striking up conversations” isn't really my thing.)

But whatever, let's go. I'll make those organic cranberry cookies you love—and I'll cram in a bunch of chocolate chips “to make them go down easier” just like you like 'em!

I'm sorry you had to spend the rest of lunch in the nurse's office enduring that turkey gravy/VapoRub smell. I know the smell well. It stinks that you had to sit next to those girls at lunch. And thanks, by the way, for always having my back.

Honestly, I think the whole Savannah Swanson Incident gave me a disease . . . Social Sickness. Which consists of me COMPLETELY REPELLING PEOPLE.

Seriously. Whenever I even TRY to start up a conversation
with a fellow middle-schooler it seems to turn into a disaster every single time. It may be due to the fact that I use phrases like “fellow middle-schooler.” (Help. Me.)

So, for example, this morning when I was at my locker, Tara Long said (to no one in particular), “Oh, darn! I broke my pencil.”

As luck would have it, I happened to have a finely sharpened extra pencil on me. (Three; I had three finely sharpened extra pencils. Stop laughing.)

And it would have been the perfect moment for me to say, “You can have mine, Tara.” And we could have carried on from there as we walked side by side down the hall.

But what came out of my mouth?

Just a stutter of the word “you.” Which sounds like this: “yuh-yuh-yuh.” Don't try it, you'll hurt your tongue.

Tara turned to me looking horrified and said, “Are you choking on something?”

I waved her off as politely as possible. She whirled around and took off.

Impressive, right? She probably thinks I'm possessed by a demon. A stuttering demon.

Honestly, the only other bright spot besides French is math class with Jackson. Oh, look at that! I mentioned him already.

Here are all the necessary details:

I don't think the act of me “saying” “things” to “his face” will ever happen. That means our future wedding will be quite awkward.

So I need to lay some groundwork. I'm going to focus all my energy into getting a note to him. Jackson is almost within note-passing range.

Which means getting it to him might require the help of a middleman.

Or middlewoman.

To be specific, Jackson is one seat up and two seats over. Like, if this was a chess game and I was a knight, he'd totally be MINE.

Dad and I don't play chess as much since he went back to teaching at the university. While he was taking that year off to “do research on economic growth in Midwestern cities during the 1850s” (a phrase he constantly muttered), we played a game of chess every day. On good days, we played two.

Of course, he'd stop mid-game if Jason happened to call from school. Chatting about Jason's coursework seemed to be Dad's true passion in life. I guess I sort of assumed that he would start chatting with me as soon as Jason moved out. All I got was one to two chess games a day.

Maybe I should have been grateful for that.

Now that Dad's back to work full-time? I can hardly get the word “chess” out of my mouth before he's running out the door, gripping his mug of coffee and barely saying good-bye.

This explains why I recently Googled the phrase “Can you teach chess to a cat?”

In related news: YouTube videos of cats playing chess is A THING. And also how I lost forty-five minutes of my life.

But I did find out that you, of course, were right, and Jackson being in my math class wasn't a ghostly vision. Yes, they had to rearrange his schedule because of student council. But the best part of that news? He was voted in as class secretary. Secretary!

Secretary is such a vital part of any organization. I'd really like to read his notes sometime. I could give him some tips on when to use bullet points instead of outline form.

Anyway, since every chess player thinks two moves ahead, I was brainstorming conversation starters in case I found myself in a position to chat with Jackson.

I wrote these down on the bottom of my math worksheet.

Oh, sheesh, Piper! THESE ARE AWFUL.

Your idea to get a scarf and some fierce fake glasses is way better. Like a mini-makeover, tutoring style. I am sort of jealous that you wear glasses for REAL. You're halfway to becoming your favorite soap star, Ashley Desdemona.

I should probably take you shopping with me next time because my shopping experience with Mom this past weekend only resulted in the purchase of three skirts and a book, all of which I really didn't want.

Let me explain:

As soon as we got in the car, Mom rattled off all the things we were going to do for “girls' day.”

“First a stop at the Tea Room for a little something to eat, honey.” Her adorable Southern accent slipped out. Considering how often she tells people here in California that she's originally from Atlanta (Atlaaaaanta)—as if it's an exotic land—I'm pretty sure she likes her Southern accent to slip out. I like it too, actually.

“Already had a juice smoothie. Really, all I need are some practical pants. So can we just—”

She crinkled her nose and patted my hand. “It's girls' day, Olivia. We're having lunch, going department-store shopping, then getting our nails done and eyebrows waxed.”

Waxed?! Does she think I am her forty-year-old coworker? I'm a KID.

But she looked excited so I painfully eked out a smile. I didn't know how to tell her that all I wanted to do was eat orange sorbet at Rite-Aid and go buy some sturdy slacks at the outlet mall. Mom doesn't seem to understand that I grow out of pants approximately twenty minutes after I buy them.

And then came the avalanche of questions.
How are you? Are you liking your new school now that you've been there a while? Have you found any nice people to eat lunch with? Do you need more school supplies? Skirts? Are you happy?

You know Mom. She practically has a PhD in prying. OK, fine, maybe not prying. More like EXTREME INTEREST.

I just wish she'd ask me these things when we weren't in public. And when I wanted to share my feelings. And when there was dimmer lighting. Seriously, who opens up near fluorescent lights?

At that moment though, I really did want to tell Mom everything . . . that middle school isn't what I thought it would be. That fifty-two minutes a day is well, well below my Recommended Daily Allowance of Piper Time and I'd have scurvy if you were Vitamin C.

But instead, I clammed up. There was so much to say that I couldn't say anything at all. I shrugged my shoulders and said softly, “Fine. It's fine.” Then I put an extra pat of butter on my bread.

I think Mom could sense something was wrong. My “fine” was not fine enough.

She slung her purse over her shoulder and stood up. “I know what to do.”

She paid the check and led me down the sidewalk to the Happy Hearts bookstore.

She scanned up and down the aisles as if she were on an important mission. And it looked like she knew this store well.

“CarolineGrace!” The store clerk knew her name. (Her
double name, because every Southern girl in Mom's family has two names jammed together. If you call me OliviaRose, I will write you out of my will, Piper.)

Mom told the clerk she needed something for “her daughter's emotional growth.” Which was, of course, humiliating. They went on a hunt up and down the aisles until they spotted their treasure.

“Aha! Here it is. Some help for you.” Mom placed a book in my hand. I looked at the title and shuddered. It was called
A Girl's Guide to Happiness through Southern Charm!!
And there was a double exclamation mark, as if it were written by a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader.

I . . . well, you know me Piper. I faked it. Put on a sweet smile, thanked her, and later threw it under my bed, as far back as it could go.

The book kind of haunts me at night. Am I really the kind of girl who needs advice from a self-help book? One that uses “y'all” too much?

Anyway, my mom did get excited about shopping, and I'm now the proud owner of three new A-line skirts. They're pretty cute, actually.

Okay, gotta go. I need to work on my plan for lunch today. I'm thinking about asking the counselor if she needs help filing papers. Or maybe I could help her put up inspirational
posters on the wall. Like the one that says
COURAGE!
and there's a photo of a girl in an A-line skirt chatting up a group of lovely people.

And in case you didn't notice, yesterday I wore red because I was feeling spunky. Today it's yellow—the color I wear when I overthink things.

Forever at your side,

Olivia

Grateful for:

1. Famous cats who play chess

2. Pats of butter

3. The perfect side view I get of Jackson's head every day starting at 10:47

4. Your problem-solving skills (you will find a way to keep me from spending every lunch period in the counselor's office—I know you will)

5. A mom who tries

Your mom took you to a place called the Tea Room? I've never even had tea. It looks so gross. You stick a bunch of crushed-up leaves in a little packet and call that a drink? Mmmm, yummy, let's try dirt soup next—maybe they'll serve that at Souper Saturday.

And the book! We won't even talk about the book. But you are going to show me that book next time I sleep over, and we are going to act out scenes from the made-up conversations.

This is going to be the best skit ever, just wait.

That's assuming your dad has gotten over his anti-sleepovers thing. He can't still be worried about how “being off a sleep schedule isn't good for your growth” when you're now the tallest girl in our grade. (Your parents are so
overprotective
concerned.)

I just wish we lived closer to each other. I'd try biking to your house again, but the last time I tried that I only made it halfway before I had to call my dad from a random 7-Eleven. Another roadblock in our quest for Togetherness.

Speaking of Togetherness, let's talk about Jackson (oh my gosh, that sounded JUST LIKE YOU). Did you notice that I asked you about passing notes and you wrote back like you would actually do it? So do it! Go big, Olivia!

(I even wrote the first note for you, since I was coloring with my brothers and bored out of my mind. You have my permission to use this whole, or bits and pieces.)

(I don't care if you ball up the note and throw it at the boy. It would still be progress. Oh, I would be so PROUD.)

So another school day over, and it was Mom's busy driving day. Since
someone
has soccer and
someone else
plays a musical instrument, someone (
me
) had to watch the twins. This is me stating a fact, not complaining. Regular middle children complain about these things, and we both know that even though I am in regular-kid classes, I am far from REGULAR. (Although if I did have “something to be taken to,” I'd get more car time with Mom and Dad. They listen to a lot of ABBA. I love ABBA.)

So, I was told to watch the kids, and watching is exactly what I did—watched them watch their second episode of
The Pittlehorners
. That's the actual name of the show. Kid-TV-show writers must be getting desperate.

It's kind of funny, Olivia, how you are the only kid in your house and you feel alone. Because sometimes I feel the same way. Like there are all these activities happening around me. Things to do, people to see, diapers to change. And I'm just kind of . . . there. Watching it happen. Not really A PART of anything. Except dealing with the diapers, and who wants to be a part of that?

I wonder if anyone else in my family ever notices that. Doubtful. Noticing me isn't something that's written on my mom's big whiteboard of family events.

Anyway, my brothers were being pretty good. They were
halfway into their show when Flynn looked up at me with his little angel eyes and asked, “Can we get some lemonade?”

I looked in the cupboard for the barrel-size container with pink dancing lemons, but we were out. “Water's healthier. I'll get you water.”

“Not from OUR house.” Spencer rolled his eyes at Flynn, as if to say,
Can you believe her?
They have this secret twin eye-rolling language. Also, they are three. (Almost four. They would want me to mention that.) “Danny has a store.”

Ugh, Danny Moss. Yep,
that
Danny—the one who lives seven doors down. I know you think he's cute, Livvy, but he IS NOT. He is in seventh grade and still sets up that stupid lemonade stand all the time, and our neighborhood still buys because they know if they don't, Danny will come door-to-door with his braces-free smile looking for buyers. Not that I'm keeping tabs on him.

He bought a
new skateboard
with his lemonade money, and now he annoyingly wheels around on it like he owns the street. (Again, not keeping tabs. Danny? Danny who?)

And he wouldn't let me sell brownies at his stand that one time I asked. It was to raise money for camp, not to buy my own selfish
toy
. Jerk.

The twins had already decided they were getting
lemonade, so I was helpless. And I had to use the money that I got from babysitting them to buy it, which seems totally wrong, right?

“Hey, Pepper.” Danny grinned at me when we walked up, like he's so cool. Cool is working at a record shop, or even Target, not a neighborhood lemonade stand that serves three-year-olds.

“Two cups, Danny.” I raised my chin. I think I look in control when I do that.

“Please,” Spencer added solemnly.

“Your name is
Pepper
?” Danny's friend sitting next to him sneered. There are always three or four dorks with him. I don't even know where they come from, because they don't live nearby and don't ride our bus. Danny's friends are the only thing worse than Danny. It's like he picked them to make himself look good. Which is HARD TO DO.

“Her name is Piper,” Flynn said while he was drinking, lemonade dribbling down his face. Also, he pronounces my name “Pipe-Or.”

This made Danny and his friends snort. Flynn looked hurt, like they were laughing at him, which they might have been, I don't know. Either way, they were being jerks.

I put my arm around Flynn. “Yeah, it's too bad I don't have a cool name that rhymes with stuff like
fanny
and
granny
.”

That smile slid right off Danny's face. “Go away.”

I pulled my brothers away from the table and dropped a penny in his tip jar. One cent. Which wasn't the nicest thing to do, but seriously. A TIP JAR?

“You need to work on your customer service,” I said.

Danny must have agreed with me because he leaned over the table and gave the twins high fives. “Thanks for coming, little dudes. You should come over and play with my sister, Andrea, sometime.”

Flynn wrinkled his nose. “Andrea is nine. We are free. Almost four.”

“And Andrea is
Piper
'
s
friend,” Spencer said, like he was being helpful.

That sent the guys into a fit of hysterics. Technically, I babysit Andrea because Danny is always out selling sugared beverages when his mom needs to run an errand. She probably pays me more than Danny makes at his stand, but I'm not cluing him in on that.

And yes, I happen to get along with Andrea. We are only three years different, four years in school. My mom's best friend is ten years older than her!

So she wants to play Barbies all the time. But it's fun to create scenes from
Love and Deception
, which involves love potions, scandals, and at least one doll in a coma. We should
play it sometime, Liv. I'll let you be Ashley Desdemona and Randall Menard as long as I can direct.

“Hey, Andrea is nice!” I said.

“Dork,” one of the boys said.

And here we are again, because Danny is the closest kid my age in the neighborhood, while my brother Luke has four friends nearby he goes to high school with and Talin is best friends with a girl around the corner. It's like the numbers are never going to work out my way.

Not that I want new friends. I just want to clone you. That's not creepy, right?

“I would rather be a dork than be mean,” I said. Not my best comeback, but it was all I could come up with right then. And then I stormed away with my brothers, Danny and his biking/skateboarding loser friends laughing as I went.

It's raining tonight. I wish it had rained on Danny's stupid stand. After I was done babysitting the twins, I played Barbies with Andrea and didn't even charge her mom.

Anyway, the note you should sign with YOUR name and pass to Jackson is attached.

Love ya like a sis (a sis who is my age and likes my company),

“Pepper”

Grateful for:

Pennies, Barbie dramas, when you get a splinter out (I had a nasty one today), my mom reimbursing my babysitting money, using the words “ambiance” and “reimburse” in the same letter