Blended, page 9
“Looks like we’re gonna have a bit of an auto adventure!” she tells us.
John Mark gets out his phone. “I’ll call Triple A. But it’ll take them forever to show up.”
Mom catches my eye with a gleam in hers and says with sass, “Don’t worry—I got this!”
John Mark looks at her with a Prove it! face.
Mom smirks at him with the confidence of a lady who long ago figured out how to do things without a knight in shining armor to save her.
She pops the hood, fiddles with some wires, then pulls a toolbox from the trunk.
“C’mere,” she says to me. She hands me a wrench. “Hold this secure while I turn this gauge.”
I’ve seen her do stuff like this before—fix leaky pipes, unplug a clogged sink, or smack a glob of spackle on a hole in the wall. She tinkers with the guts of the car, getting her hands covered with oil. It takes her a while, but eventually she calls out to John Mark, “Crank it up!” He does. The motor gives one short cough, then roars back to life.
“You are amazing,” John Mark hoots at Mom as she wipes her hands on a rag. He’s looking at her like she’s just cured cancer or something. She beams back at him. Oh, gag me.
“Are we gonna be late?” I ask, checking my phone.
“Not if I break the speed limit!” Mom answers, winking. She guns the engine and takes off.
But even though she hurries, and turns some corners way too fast, we are still crazy late as we pull into the parking lot. Mom’s pale. John Mark’s face is flushed. Even I am starting to sweat.
Then I spy Dad’s Mercedes parked two cars over. Dad’s sitting inside. This is not gonna be good. He must have gone into the mall and come back out. Ooh—not good at all.
Next to Dad’s car is an empty handicapped spot. There are no other free spaces. Taking it is really bad, I know. So does Mom. But she pulls into it anyway. “We’re only going to be a minute!” she assures us.
She shuts off the engine. I grab my bags.
Dad and Anastasia get out of the Mercedes and just stand there, arms crossed. They are not smiling, either, and they don’t even have a reason to be upset after last time!
Mom and John Mark climb out of her car. No smiles there, either. I feel like I’m watching a bad TV movie and can’t change the channel.
I scurry out of the backseat, my right shoulder braced against the weight of my bags, and kick the door shut. I honestly don’t know what to do.
“Get back in the car, Izzy,” Mom tells me. “Now. You don’t need to witness this conversation.”
She hardly ever speaks to me in that tone of voice. I hesitate, then open her car door. I put one foot in. . . .
Then Dad roars, “Isabella! Get in my car! It is my custody week!” His voice is downright scary.
I step out of Mom’s car just as she hisses, “Don’t you dare, Izzy! You get right back into my car!”
I just stand there, not sure whether I should turn right or left, go forward or backward, get in the black car or the tan one.
I sniff. I will not cry. I will not cry.
“It is my week!” Dad says, fire in his voice. “Isabella, move! Now!”
I’m standing in the middle of the mall parking lot, tears not listening to my not-cry order, rolling down my face. Folks are staring. And my parents are glaring at each other, not at me. I drop all my bags in a heap, then I plunk myself down on the asphalt.
“I’m not going anywhere!” I shout. “I’m moving to . . . to Paris! Why don’t all of you just leave me alone!” I’m so angry I can’t even cry. I sit there, arms crossed, waiting for the grown-ups in my life to come to their senses.
It’s Anastasia who reacts first. Even though she’s dressed in a velvet-looking business suit, she sits right down on the asphalt next to me and puts her arms around me.
Mom, of course, can’t stand this, her ex-husband’s girlfriend comforting me, so she runs over and sits down on my other side. Her soft apologies mingle with Anastasia’s. Dad and John Mark just stand there, looking at the sky, at the cars, anywhere but at each other. If they say anything, I don’t hear it.
Finally, my two moms—yep, I said it!—each take an arm, lift me up, and brush me off, and while Anastasia smooths my hair, Mom gathers my bags and places them carefully in the backseat of Dad’s car. Then she walks back over to me and hugs me so tight I almost lose my breath. When she lets go, her eyes are filled with tears. She then does the unimaginable—she walks over to Anastasia, arms outstretched. The two women embrace.
I open the door to Dad’s car.
Mom and John Mark drive away.
CHAPTER 38
Dad’s Week
AFTER THAT MESS in the parking lot, Dad has been extra attentive, almost tiptoeing around me. I’m used to saying I’m sorry for doing stupid stuff—like for spilling nail polish on the bedspread, or for hiding a bad grade I got on a math quiz. But when parents apologize, it’s just plain weird. Dad bought me a new pair of jeans, and he hates shopping in the teen stores. He keeps hovering when I’m practicing the piano, or saying good night, like, fifty times after I go to bed.
I just want the grown-ups in my life to act normal again—whatever that is. Is normal living week to week at different houses? Is normal never being sure of what normal really is?
I have no idea.
Since my slime stuff is at Mom’s, I’m focusing on getting ready for the recital and practicing my music instead. I complain about Madame Rubenstein and her bangles and her snotty attitudes, but she really is a good piano teacher. My recital piece is nearing perfection, even according to her. But I’m starting to get nervous about the performance. What will I wear? How will I do my hair? What if my fingers get jumbled up?
As she left yesterday, Madame Rubenstein touched my shoulder and said, “You have real talent, my child. Treasure it.” Then she took off one of the bangles and gave it to me.
“Thank you,” I sputtered. “This is, like, awesome!” I was for real. The woman rarely gives compliments and seriously loves her bangles. I placed it on my wrist. It’s way too big, but I love it.
“Don’t feel obligated to wear it to the recital—it might slide down and make you miss a note!” she warned, but there was a hint of tease in her voice. “I just want you to have something special on your big day.”
Now I give the bracelet a gentle twist. I think it’s real gold. I’m gonna wear it the rest of the day. I play for another hour—serious pieces, and a fun little number that Anastasia found for me called “Choo-Choo Charlie.”
Then I hear my phone ding—it’s a group message from Imani and Heather, asking if I want to meet them at the mall on Saturday. Oh yeah!
We begin furiously texting as we try to figure out what to wear, what to eat, and what stores we will hit. Imani’s mom will be there with us, but she’ll just sit in the food court with baby Kendi. Her rule is that we just have to check in with her every half hour or so. Perfect.
We decide to wear leggings and long shirts, but not the same colors—that’s for little kids—and Converse sneakers. I’ve got two gift cards left over from Christmas, one for Lush, so we’ll go there. Heather—who is so lucky—got her ears pierced for Christmas, so we’ve got to hit Claire’s for new earrings. Neither Dad nor Mom will let me get my ears pierced, but it’s still fun helping Heather. Group effort!
Of course we have to hit that Pink store that just opened, too.
CHAPTER 39
Dad’s Week
ON SATURDAY MORNING, I get out of bed and soak my hair in axle grease to make it lie down smoothly for the day. Well, not really, but I did find some extra-hold, superstrong hair gel at Walgreen’s.
I’m dressed and ready by nine. I tiptoe down to the kitchen and make myself some toast. I’m very particular about my toast—at least at Dad’s house. I like 100 percent whole grain wheat bread, thin sliced. I slather two slices with butter and pop them in the toaster oven for three minutes. They come out soft in the middle and crisp on the edges. That’s when I layer on the jam—one with strawberry and one with grape. Perfection! I pour a large glass of milk, and breakfast is fine and mine.
Darren comes in as I finish the last piece. “Izzy’s famous toast and jelly,” he says, pulling up a chair.
“Jam,” I say with a fake British accent. “It’s jam, sir!”
He cracks up. “Well, you’ve got jelly-jam all over your face, so here’s a paper towel, m’lady!” He hands me one.
“What are you doing today?” I ask him when my face is presentable again. He’s pouring milk over a huge bowl of Frosted Flakes.
“Looks like I’m driving you to the mall,” he says. “Mom has a consultation at a house out in Milford, and your dad’s playing golf.” He stops and crunches. “Gotta love Saturdays!”
“Yep,” I tell him as I lick jam from my finger. “I’m glad you’re driving, though. We have to pick up Heather, and she’ll freak when she sees you!”
He smirks, nods. “That’s me—hero of the sixth grade!”
“I’ll have to hold her hand in the backseat,” I joke. “She will be having a heart attack. Can you come in with us?”
“Not this time—just have to make sure Imani’s mom is there, then I already promised the guys I’d shoot some hoops at the gym.”
“Don’t tell Heather,” I warn him. “She’ll give up shopping to go with you.”
“To watch us play?”
“No, to play against you. She is so good.”
“She’s eleven!” Darren says with a flip of his hand, shoveling in more cereal.
“She’s pretty amazing—she has four older brothers she plays with all the time. I wouldn’t underestimate her!”
Darren laughs as I gather up our dishes and wash them, but I think about Heather and her brothers. I kinda like having a brotherlike dude in the house. Especially one who drives!
After Darren does the check-in with Imani’s mom, and he heads out to the gym, it dawns on me: I have four full hours to just be me! Four hours of not belonging to anyone! It’s not Mom’s time or Dad’s time. It’s just a little me time. Is it terrible to admit I feel like dancing?
CHAPTER 40
Dad’s Week
AFTER NUMEROUS WARNINGS and reminders, Imani’s mom finally lets me, Imani, and Heather go off on our own. Slime store? No, save the best for last. We’ll head to Lush first, we tell her.
“Have fun, little Lushies,” Imani’s mom calls after us as we jog off.
It smells good even before we get there. I think the Lush people must have a fan blowing scent into the mall concourse to make customers want to come in. Cotton-candy bubble bars. Ocean coconut. Mango mousse. Boysenberry lotion. Hyacinth bath bombs, and one called Cheer Up Buttercup. The place is like heaven.
“Whoa, I love her hair,” I low-voice to Imani, nodding at a woman working there whose hair is streaked with purple and yellow and green.
“Ooh, look—Intergalactic!” Heather is squealing, holding a turquoise-colored bath bomb. It smells a little like peppermint. The purple-yellow-green-haired clerk tells us it spirals when you put it in bathwater, and kinda looks like a galaxy while you bathe. She looks as cool as the bath bomb. She’s covered in ink—like dozens of tats—faces, flowers, birds. It’s hard not to stare. Plus, she has more piercings than I can count. Even her name is cool—her tag says GRISELDA.
“I want to do that when I get to high school!” Heather says as Griselda moves to help another customer.
“The tats or the piercings?” I ask.
“Both,” she gushes, still gawking.
“My mom would kill me!” Imani says wistfully. “But I feel so boring standing next to her.”
“I feel ya,” I agree. I look again at the lady’s amazing hair. Then I think—if I dyed my hair purple, maybe no one would notice, or even care, how frizzy it is.
I tug on Heather’s arm. “Ooh, look! It’s Whoosh!” I laugh because it feels just like slime as I squeeze. We make our slime for less than a dollar. This stuff costs almost ten dollars, but then, it is professional.
The Lush ladies let us sample and sniff as long as we want. Heather buys the stuff to make mermaid water—a Big Blue bath bomb and a Sunnyside bubble bar. When you crumble it into the bathwater, Griselda tells us, it turns emerald green with gold shimmers. Cool!
Even though I usually take showers, I really want to try a Dragon’s Egg bath bomb. It will burst into, like, a zillion colors but will leave a gold, shimmery center in the tub. I take it to the counter, dig in the little purse Mom got me last Christmas, and pull out my wallet.
“That will be seven dollars and eighty-eight cents,” the salesgirl named Griselda tells me. I pull out my gift card and pass it to her.
Then she pauses, kinda tilts her head to one side, and says, “You are so pretty—really exotic looking!”
“Uh, thanks.” I feel myself blushing. Exotic? What does that mean? Is that good? Or creepy?
Griselda’s smiling, and continues, “Are you from one of the islands?” Before I can say I’m from six miles away from here, she finishes her question, “Or are you mixed?”
I open my mouth and close it, like a fish that’s just been pulled out of the ocean. This is not the first time someone has asked me a question like that. I’m never quite sure how to respond. This time I whisper, like I’m telling her a deep, dark secret, “I’m from the Isle of Patagonia—don’t tell anyone!”
She nods like we just shared a joke. But it’s not a joke. Now I wish I’d never come into this stupid store, even though I’ve decided she was complimenting me. Imani and Heather chatter about soap and lotion and head to the counter to pay for their stuff. I wait for them by the entrance.
Imani decided on a Marmalade jelly bomb—orange and yellow and smelling better than any jelly I know of. Their purchases are tucked into cute little bags, and she and Heather join me in a sort of floral cloud.
Heather makes me sniff inside her bag. “I’m never gonna be able to smell pizza again! My nose is full of honeysuckle!” I have to laugh, which helps bring my mood back up.
We pop in and out of a bunch of other stores, sometimes just to feel the fabric and check the prices. We hit a dress shop—way too expensive; a top shop—nothing cute there; then we find a place that sells only jeans. Skinny jeans. Cropped jeans. Even old-lady jeans that look like something out of a commercial for Rocky Mountain hiking. We try on seven pairs between us. Heather buys a pair with embroidered designs on the back pocket. Imani can’t find anything that fits her height. The ones that are long enough are way too boxy.
“My mom special-orders lots of my clothes,” she explains. “A girl’s gotta do what she’s gotta do.”
We hurry down to check in with Imani’s mother, then get slushies. I always order raspberry.
“Where next?” I ask as we drop one off for Imani’s mom.
“Second floor!” Imani says.
“I’ll meet you up there,” Heather calls out. “Your mom says the baby needs a change, and I gotta make a pit stop anyway.”
Imani kisses Kendi, we get warned again about all the stuff parents say to mess up a girl’s fun, then Imani and I take off.
We head up the escalator and as we turn left toward Nordstrom, Imani notices a new store.
“Ooh, look!” she cries out, pointing. “It’s called Prestige.”
“Sounds expensive,” I say.
“Looks like ladies’ designer clothes,” Imani says as we get closer.
Anastasia would love this, I think. I can already imagine her in that sleek outfit in the window.
We pause just outside the entrance, our purchases and slushies in hand. A security guard standing just inside the door gives us a once-over. I stare right back at him. He’s blond, ruddy faced, and really built—the dude’s got serious muscles.
“A security guard?” Imani whispers.
We’re probably both thinking the same thing—what’s so special about this store? We stroll past another couple of storefronts, then, as if we planned it, turn around together and head back to Prestige. We finish our drinks and toss them in the trash at the same time—kerplunk—and walk in. Even the air of the place smells luxurious. I recognize the Mozart symphony playing in the background. Why is it that people connect classical music to expensive stuff?
The security guard immediately leaves his post. I’m aware he’s behind us, and I’m betting Imani is as well.
I let my fingers feel a baby-blue cashmere sweater. It’s feathery light. I check the price tag—$495! I clear my throat and show Imani. She doesn’t even touch it.
We walk quietly throughout the rest of the store. The purses are all by well-known designers. A coral-colored leather one that I like is . . . $2,000. Whoa! I touch it with my pinkie finger. The leather is as soft as Kendi’s face. The guard seems to edge closer. We are the only customers in the store.
We head to the back, where the dresses are hung on gold-colored hangers. Only one of each style is displayed. The man continues to follow us.
I lean in to tell Imani, “I guess they bring out your size,” and as I do, the security guard leans in as well—almost like he’s listening.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he announces in a loud voice.
We freeze. What? Then I turn around. “Why?” I ask.
“Just following security protocol,” he says. “This store is probably not the best choice for you two.”
Imani gapes at him. “What does that mean?”
“This is a store for those who . . . can afford it,” he replies, with a small, hard smile that really isn’t a smile at all. “My job is to remove possible . . . threats.”
“Threats?” I echo loudly.
A pale, slender clerk at the register looks up, then looks away in a blink.
“Yes. Now let’s not make a scene. It’s time to leave. I don’t want to have to call the authorities.”
“But we didn’t DO anything!” Imani objects.
“Lower your voice, miss,” the guard warns. “And please leave.”
