Devon Delaney Should Totally Know Better (3 page)

“Hello?” I answer the other line.

“Yes, hello, this is Dr. Meyerson’s office calling to confirm the appointment for John and Marcia Delaney tomorrow at five o’clock?”

“Yes,” I say, making a mental note to remind my parents at dinner. “They’ll be there.”

“And to whom am I speaking to, please?” the secretary asks, kind of snotty.

“Um, this is their daughter, Devon, and I would be happy to pass that message right along.” I infuse my voice with the right amount of responsibility, and maybe a little bit of sadness. I mean, my parents are basically fine, but she doesn’t need to know that. Maybe she’ll be a little nicer to me if she thinks I’m very worried about them.

“Yes, well, I’d like to speak with your mommy or daddy. Are they available?”

Mommy or Daddy? Does she know I’m thirteen and on the other line with my maybe possibly very first dance date ever? “Well, they’re not really available,
per se,” I tell her. Which is true. My mom is making dinner, and my dad is . . . um, helping her. Plus the phone isn’t
technically
available, since I’m on the other line. “But like I said, I will be sure to give them the message.” I look around for a piece of paper and a pen, but I don’t see one. I hold the receiver up to the sweater I’m wearing and scratch my sleeve. “See? Writing it down.”

“Thank you very much, Miss Delaney,” she says, “but—”

“Please, call me Devon.”

“Uh, Devon. But unfortunately I have a note here that says messages are not to be left with the children.”

“Oh,” I tell her. “They probably meant my little sister, Katie. She’s five, and horrible with messages. One time it took her two days to tell me my friend Mel called.”

“Well, it doesn’t just say Katie,” she says. “It says here that—”

“Okay, fine,” I say. “Just hold on one second.” It’s obvious that I’m going to have to tell Luke to hold on, give the phone to my mom, and have her talk to this crazy woman.

I push the button to click over. “Luke? Can you hold on for like one more sec? It’s for my mom, but
it’ll be quick.”

“Sorry,” the same annoying secretary says. “It’s still me.”

Must not have pushed the button all the way. I try again. “Luke?”

“Nope.” Again.

“Hello, Luke?”

“No, still me. Maybe he hung up?” she offers helpfully.

Ugh.

I call my dad to the phone, since my mom is now at the stove, peering into the pot and saying, “I’m not sure it’s supposed to be this color.”

“It’s okay, Mommy,” Katie says, patting her arm. “I wanted pizza anyway.”

I come back into the kitchen and plop back down in front of my homework. Why would Luke hang up right before he was about to ask me to the dance? Did he have another call, too? Did his mom call him to dinner? Did he get so nervous that he needed some more time to collect his thoughts?

“Try this,” my mom says, holding a bowl out to me. In the bottom is a small spoonful of what looks like red slime, over a hard bump. “What’s that bumpy thing?” I ask.

“Chicken,” she says. She pulls a paper towel off the roll and uses it to wipe a small spot of tomato sauce off her forehead.

“I want to try it, I want to try it!” Katie sings, dancing around.

“Okay,” I say. She grabs two forks from the drawer, and I use one of them to cut the piece of chicken in half. Katie spears one, and I spear the other. “Blow on it first,” I tell her. “So that it’s not too hot.” Katie blows on her chicken obediently.

“Now keep in mind that it’s going to be over rice,” my mom says, as if that will change the entire taste of what I’m about to put in my mouth. She gives the box of Minute rice that’s sitting on the counter a shake. She looks nervous.

“This isn’t going to give me food poisoning or anything, is it?” I ask.

“Devon! No, it’s not going to give you food poisoning!”

“This is poison?” Katie looks worried.

“No,” I say. “It’s fine. Ready?” She nods. “One, two, three!” We both pop the food into our mouths at the same time and chew. It tastes exactly like it looks— like rubbery chicken in tomato sauce, but with some sort of weird spices.

“Well,” I say, after I swallow. “It’s not bad exactly.” My mom’s face falls. “But I’m sure it will be better after the rice.”

“Excuse me, please,” Katie says, her mouth full. And then she leans over the bowl and spits her chicken back in. “But I don’t really like that, thank you very much.”

“What don’t you like, Katie-bug?” my dad asks, returning the phone to its cradle.

“Did anyone call for me?” I ask hopefully, thinking maybe Luke called back. But my dad shakes his head.

“The Indian is a disaster,” my mom says. She laughs and grabs the pizza menu out of the drawer by the fridge.

“Ooh, I want extra cheese on mine,” I say. Delish. “Me too,” Katie says, just to copy me. “John?” my mom asks. “What do you want on your pizza?”

“So we’re just going to throw this out?” my dad asks, looking at the big pot of disgustingness that’s on the stove. “After we spent all that money on Indian spices?”

My mom tightens her mouth into a hard line. “Well,” she says. “Do
you
want to try to make the tikka masala?” She unties her apron and holds it out to my dad. “The girls and I will just go and watch a movie,
and you can call us when it’s ready.”

“Mommy,” Katie says, wagging her finger. “You’re using harsh tones.”

Harsh tones are something my mom and dad are working with their therapist on. Basically it means that when you get upset, you have to do your best not to express your dismay in harsh tones. You just convey how you feel with words. I think it’s all well and good for my parents to be working on their harsh tones, but Katie is like the Harsh Tones Police.

“I’m sorry,” my dad says. “I wasn’t trying to imply that I was mad about the dinner. Of course we can order pizza.”

“And I’m sorry if I got defensive,” my mom says. “I just was disappointed that the dinner didn’t turn out right, and it felt like you were criticizing me.”

Katie claps her hands. “No harsh tones! No harsh tones!” she sings, dancing around the kitchen.

The phone rings. Yay! Must be Luke, calling me back. “I’ll get it!” I cry, rushing over to the receiver to check the caller ID. Oh. Lexi. Again.

“Hey, Lex,” I say. “I can’t talk long, we’re about to eat dinner.”

“Okay,” she says, sounding nervous. Lexi never sounds nervous. Ever. Even a few weeks ago, when she
and Kim Cavalli, the most popular girl in seventh grade, got into a fight over this guy Matt Connors. Lexi didn’t even care when it almost came to blows in the hallway at school. She was the picture of calm. Okay, maybe not the picture of calm, but she was pretty calm for the situation.

“What’s up?”

“Well,” she says. “I don’t mean to upset you or anything, especially because of that whole thing in science today.”

“What whole thing in science?”

“The thing about Bailey Barelli, and how she’s the bane of your existence.”

“Oh, that,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my mom ordering the pizza from her cell phone. “That was just a temporary bout of insanity. In fact, I’m totally over it. I’m sure it was nothing. Besides, Luke called me when he got home from mock trial, and he was totally about to ask me to the dance.” I lower my voice when I say that last part, just in case.

“He was?” Lexi squeals. “Ohmigod, that is amazing! We can all go together, just like I said! We can probably get my mom to bring us in the Hummer!” Lexi’s mom bought a Hummer last week. It’s this huge car that pretty much looks ridiculous, but I guess Mrs. Cortland must have really wanted it, because they’re super expensive.
My mom says Lexi’s mom must not care too much about the environment, since those cars are horrible on gas. “That does sound fun,” I say, starting to get excited. “I just have to ask my parents first.” I look into the kitchen, wondering if now’s the time. Maybe I should wait until they’re all full of pizza and in a carb coma.

“Oh, I’m so glad he’s going to ask you,” Lexi says. She lowers her voice. “Actually, Devi, I was worried about telling you this, but now that I know it’s okay, I’ll tell you.”

“What?” I ask.

“Wellll,” she says. “I just got off the phone with Jared, and he just got off the phone with Luke.”

“Wait, Jared just got off the phone with Luke?”

“Yeah, and then he called me. Jared, not Luke.” My head is spinning, trying to keep track of all the calls. This would be so much easier if I could just text like a normal person. “Anyway,” Lexi goes on. “Jared said that Luke had a really fun time at mock trial.”

“I know,” I say. “He told me.” Who cares that Luke had a fun time at mock trial? The more important thing here is that Luke obviously hung up on me and then called Jared. How rude! He should have called me back immediately. Oh, wait. That’s not right. Because Lexi was beeping in while I was on the phone with Luke.
I relax. But then I realize that means that Luke must have called Jared
before
he called me. Hmm. I’m not sure which is worse.

“Wellll,” Lexi says again.

“Lexi,” I instruct. “Spit it out.” Honestly, the girl is killing me.

“Bailey Barelli is in mock trial.”

“Oh. Well. Whatever. I mean, I can’t stop her from signing up for some extracurricular activity. Besides, I told you, I’m not worried.”

And then Lexi decides to drop a bombshell. “Devi, you’re so awesome!” she says. “I would be freaking out if Jared was doing something with one of his ex-girlfriends.”

“What do you mean, ex-girlfriend?” I frown at this new bit of information.

“Barelli is Luke’s ex-girlfriend,” Lexi tells me.

“What do you mean, his ex-girlfriend?” I repeat. Obviously, this is some kind of mistake. Luke doesn’t have an ex-girlfriend. I’m his first girlfriend. Just like he’s my first boyfriend.

“They dated last year,” Lexi explains, “Oh, God, Devi, I thought you knew.”

The doorbell rings. “Devon!” my mom calls from the kitchen. “Can you get that? It must be the pizza.”
Already? What are they, Speed Demon Pizza?

I consider yelling back that I’m busy, but then realize if I want to portray myself as the sensible, responsible daughter who is allowed to go to the dance, then I should probably go get the pizza. I sigh. “I gotta go,” I say to Lexi. “We’ll talk about this later.”

I go to the door to get the pizza, even though I’m not sure I’m hungry anymore. An ex-girlfriend he never even mentioned? This makes his note-passing even more unacceptable. But how to handle this? Ask him? Ignore it? Get it out of him in some roundabout way?

When I get back to the kitchen, pizza in hand, my mom’s at the computer in the corner. Probably doing work stuff. My mom quit her job to pursue her dream of a freelance web design career, so she works any chance she gets.

“Where’re Dad and Katie?” I ask.

“They’ll be down in a second,” my mom says, clicking away.

“Mom,” I say, deciding to seize the opportunity of having my mom alone. “What would you do if you thought that maybe the guy you liked might like someone else? Or that he used to date someone else, but he wasn’t telling you?” I’m very careful not to use the word “boyfriend” since my mom doesn’t
exactly
know
that I have one. A boyfriend, I mean.

My mom frowns, and her eyebrows crinkle in the middle. “You mean like he lied to you?”

“Not exactly lied,” I say. I grab some plates from the cupboard and start setting the table. “But just . . . didn’t mention it.”

“Lying by omission is still lying,” my mom says ominously. She gets this certain serious look on her face, which probably means she’s quoting something she learned in therapy.

“So you think I, um, that this person should be mad?”

“Devon,” she says, “Come here.” I walk over to her.

“You,” she says, “are amazing and perfect and any guy who can’t see that, or who is going to lie to you by omission, is not worth it.”

I sigh. She has to say that. She’s my mom. Plus she doesn’t exactly know the whole situation, that Luke is my boyfriend. But . . . I start to think about it. Maybe she’s right. I mean, Luke’s with me now. Not Bailey. And besides, what does Bailey have that I don’t have? Who cares if she has a key chain that says Italian Princess in sparkly letters and long tumbling dark hair and smoky eyes? Anyone can buy a keychain. And anyone can get smoky eyes with a little bit of help from
some eye shadow. (Well, anyone whose mom lets her wear eye shadow.)

I start to feel better. I’m much better than Bailey Barelli. Who cares if she’s cute but also tomboyish and is a great athlete and is in stupid mock trial? I played intramural soccer when I was in fifth grade, and I could join mock trial if I wanted.

“Oh, honey, you didn’t tell me you played a part in English today,” my mom says happily.

“What?” I ask. “How did you know about that?” I look over her shoulder at the computer screen. She’s logged onto Mrs. Bancock’s website, where there’s a section where parents can click to see what’s going on in our English class, along with a section to check our grades, etc. Sometimes Mrs. Bancock even puts up pictures. And right there, in the middle of the website, is a picture of me this morning in English.

Bailey Barelli is standing on Mrs. Bancock’s desk, her long curly hair like a halo around her face, and her smoky eyelids lowered. I’m on the ground, down on one knee, and whoever took the picture (probably Mrs. Bancock—I was so worried about what I looked like, that I must not have noticed she was playing photographer) snapped it in the middle of me saying a line. My mouth is half open, and since I’m down on my knee,
I’m off balance and almost falling over. Not the most flattering pic.

“Why are you down on your knee, honey?” my mom asks, peering at the screen. “And who is that girl? She looks like she’s about seventeen!”

Sigh. So much for beating Barelli.

Whatever. I’m not thinking about it. I am
an independent woman, who does not need to be insecure about my relationship with Luke. So what if he never called me back last night? I am way above waiting by the phone for a guy. Which I totally didn’t. And fine, maybe there was a little bit of waiting by the computer for him to IM me (which he never did), but I would have been on the computer anyway. Chatting with friends, googling my hobbies and interests, doing things online that people do when they’re busy and important.