Get Real (12 page)

“Penny shoplifted a necklace. From Banana Republic. And a salesperson saw her do it. But the security guy dragged me along with Penny because I was older and he thought I made her do it, but I didn't. And Penny even told him I didn't, but he didn't believe her, at first. But later, after the cops came, he did.”

Words are firing out of Jil like bullets.

“And Jane came to rescue us, but she … she … didn't … I mean … not me … see—”

Jil is crying again and can't talk. I wait.

“Jane thought I did it. No way her precious Penny could have done it. And she wanted the cops to take me to jail. She only wanted to take Penny home. Just her. Not me. She was so mad. You should have seen her. But they don't really arrest ten-year-olds, or thirteen-year-olds, either, if they've never done anything wrong, which I haven't. They just needed a parent to come pick us up. Later we'll have to see a guidance counselor or a shrink or another cop or something. I don't know, but whatever … the police sent me home with Jane.”

For the second time today, I feel exhausted. Like I've paddled fifty miles again. “Where are you now?”

“At Mom's. Mom-2's. You were right. ‘Mom-2' is a great name for her. But I'm leaving.”

“Good. Are your parents coming to get you?”

“Dez. You're not listening. I'm leaving. I hate her. But I'm not going home. I can't. My parents think I'm going to be here a whole month, and I can't tell them about this. I just can't.”

Uh-oh. I don't even want to know what she thinks she's going to do next. So I don't say a word.

“Dez? You still there?”

“No.”

“Come on, Dez. I've got a plan. I need you here. But don't tell your parents why. Promise me you won't. Just ask them if you can come spend the month with me, and—”

“The month! Are you crazy?”

“Promise you won't tell.”

“Okay, fine, I won't tell, but—”

“I've got credit cards. I have a cell phone. I can get money from ATMs. We can stay in a hotel. Swim in their pool. Go to the mall every day. Dez, it will be so cool—”

“You're crazy. You know that?”

“Well. Okay. Maybe not for a month, but until I figure out what to tell my parents.”

“Jil. Stay with Jane. I bet she'll apologize. Give it a day.”

“She already did. She even cried. Said she was sorry. Said she loved me. But it's just no good anymore. I'm not sure it was ever any good.”

“This is so awful. I mean … terrible. Devastating. The worst. But Jil, give it a day. Okay? Please? You'll feel different tomorrow. Maybe not better, but different? All right?”

“You mean you won't come?”

There's a roaring noise in my head that's louder than Niagara Falls. What am I supposed to say? What's the matter with her? Live in Greensboro? In a hotel? For a month? Give up the only chance I'll ever have to own a piano?

“Jil,” I say softly. “We're not old enough to rent a room.”

“I need you. Are you coming or not?”

“Listen to me. Stay at Jane's. Please. Just for tonight. Call me in the morning—”

“Will you come, Dez? Just answer me. Yes … or no?”

I think about it. I take a deep breath. I close my eyes. I answer her.

“No.”

Chapter Seventeen

I am totally wiped out with exhaustion, but there is no way I'm going to sleep.

I jump up from my still unmade bed, and pace.

Three steps to my bookshelf.
Arrested! Jil got arrested!
Two steps to my desk.
Penny swiped a necklace.
Five steps to my closet.
Her mother is a snake. A skunk. A creep.
Seven steps—between both beds—to my bedside table.
Poor Jil. She really does need me. Big-time.

I sit down on the bed.
A bus to Greensboro! Live in a hotel! No way!
I stand up.
No piano!
Eight steps back to my desk. I straighten the tilted lampshade.
Forget the piano.
Five steps to the closet.
I can't forget it. I've got to babysit Denver. Mom and Dad are counting on me.
Six steps to the bookshelf.
Jil's counting on me too. I mean, no way I'm going to live in a hotel, but shouldn't I go help her get through this?
I kick the bookshelf.
No. I had to say no.
Three steps back to the bed.
Whoa! What about the last time I said no? When I thought I was doing the right thing. Saving her from a psycho. And then Jane turned out to be nice. And everybody lived happily ever after.
I lean forward and stack three CDs so that the edges line up perfectly.
But she isn't so nice after all, is she? And happily ever after is nothing but a fairy tale.

I sit down on my bed again, slumped, one leg straight, one bent, studying my feet.
My big, brave, just-say-no—it didn't matter then. Why should it matter now?

I pick up the phone to call her back.
At least talk to her. Keep her occupied for a while. Until she feels better.

I jump back up.
No. I don't want to hear the convincing Christopher Columbus voice. By tomorrow she'll be over it. No big deal. Get some sleep. Denver duty tomorrow.

I plop back down.
Denver duty. Another fifty miles. Upstream.
I curl up in a ball and groan.

I stare at my clock.

Go to sleep.

No way.

10:45
P.M.
I'm still staring at my clock.
Didn't Mrs. Macon say people should be respected for doing what they think is right?

Midnight. Still staring at my clock.
Wouldn't that include people like terrorists?

3:00
A.M.
Staring at my clock.
Who the heck gets to decide what right is, anyway?

4:00
A.M.
Still staring at the stupid clock.

7:00
A.M.

“Dez-Dez-Dez! Dez-Dez-Dez!”

Nooooooo.

*   *   *

Denver-wise, today goes better. He breaks only two things—a dinner plate that was chipped anyway and a clay pot that I'm guessing no one will ever miss. That's because the plant that was shriveled up in it didn't look as if it had been watered in my lifetime.

No cut toes. No bathroom accidents. The only important thing he ruins is my fake piano keyboard, which is totally trashed by a Denver creativity attack—one blue crayon, one brown. Yesterday, that would have sent me into orbit. Today it seems trivial.

I am so worried about Jil.

While Denver eats breakfast, I dial her cell phone. Mom brought home eggs yesterday, so I make him egg-in-a-hole—an egg fried in a piece of buttered bread with a circle cut in the middle.

All I get is, “Hey. This is Jil. Leave a message and I'll call you back.”

I leave a message that says, “Call me. Please.”

But she doesn't.

During the course of the day, I call, I don't know, fifty times, maybe. I leave only one more message, though. I say, “Hey. I am so worried about you. Call me. I'm sorry I said I wouldn't come to Greensboro. Maybe I will come. For the day or something. Just call me. I need to talk to you. Please.”

By afternoon, I've frantically punched in her number so many times that three times I get wrong numbers. One time I get that stupid recording that says, “If you'd like to make a call, hang up and try again. If you need help—”

“I don't need help!” I scream into the phone. “Jil needs help!” I slam it back into its holder.

Denver gapes at me, mouth wide open, and then he shrieks.

I hurry over to hug him. “It's okay,” I say, holding him close and smoothing his silky blond hair with one hand.

His hair is nothing like mine. Lighter, finer. Mine is dark brown and thick. We look nothing alike. Penny and Jil look exactly alike.

“You scared me,” he whimpers.

“I'm sorry, Denver.” I snuggle my neck over the curve of his head. “Let's do something fun. You want to play in the sprinkler?”

“Yes!” he shrieks, shooting straight up like a missile. His head smacks my jaw like a hammer. The first thing that registers is the pain. The second thing is the salty taste of the blood that's pouring from the tongue I just bit.

“Sorry, Dez. Sorry, Dez. Sorry, Dez.” Each time he says it, he shrinks smaller.

“'S'okay,” I reassure him, my cupped hand catching most of the blood.

*   *   *

By the time Dad gets home, I've stopped bleeding, but Denver has played in the sprinkler so long he could pass for a prune.

“And how are swift runner Achilles and the beautiful fairy queen?” greets Dad.

“Peachy,”
I answer, and bolt straight for my room. I grab my telephone and dial Jil's cell number one more time.

“Hey. This is Jil. Leave a message and I'll call you back.”

I click off the familiar message and dial Information, speaking clearly to the recording. “Greensboro. North Carolina. Jane Simons. Um … er … Simmons.” Is her name Simmons or Simons? I can't remember. My stuttering brings the operator on.

“Would you please look up both names?” I ask.

“I have a J. Simmons on Dellwood Drive.”

Quickly, I dial the number she gives me. After three rings, a voice that sounds like Mom-2's answers.

Oh, great! What do I call her? Jane? Mrs. Simons? Or was it Simmons?

“Hi … um … This is Dez Carter. May I speak to Jil?”

“Dez! How are you?” Mom-2 sounds totally pleasant. “Jil isn't here, honey. Her dad picked her up early this morning.”

I'm so thankful to hear that, I almost hang up on her. “Thanks, Mrs.… uh … thanks! I'll try her at home.”

“How's your summer going, dear?”

My summer? All two days of it? What's with this woman, sounding like life is all lovely when we both know it's not?

“Just fine, thanks. Bye.” I hang up before she can tell me how terrific Penny's summer is going.

Relieved, I dial the Lewises.

“Mrs. Lewis.” I actually heave a sigh into the receiver.

“Dez!” Her greeting is warm, and I can tell she's genuinely happy to hear from me. None of that fakey, how's-your-summer-honey? garbage.

“Hi, Mrs. Lewis. Can I speak to Jil, please?”

There's silence. Uh-oh. Maybe Jil's in so much trouble she's not allowed to come to the phone. Maybe that's why she didn't return my messages. But wait, Jil didn't steal anything. Penny did. What's she told her parents?

Mrs. Lewis, her voice in kind of a fog, finally says, “Jil's in Greensboro with Jane, Dez. All month. I thought you knew that.”

“Uh … yeah … of course. I guess I forgot. Is … is … Mr. Lewis home?”

“Well, yes, Dez. He is. Would you like to speak to him?”

“Oh. Well, no. I mean, thanks, but never mind.”

I hang up, knowing she thinks I'm a nutcase. But that is only one tiny reason that my stomach has just turned ten somersaults. And my face has flamed up like a furnace.

Where is Jil?

My fingers are already dialing Michelle Redmon's number.

“Michelle,” I gasp into the phone. “I need a huge favor. Can you babysit Denver for me tomorrow?”

“Denver?” she asks, clearly incredulous. “All day?”

“I'll pay you double! Please. It's an emergency.”

“Okay, Dez. Sure. I can handle—”

“Thanks!” I practically shriek into the phone. My head's spinning with a million details that don't fit yet. But they will. I'll make them. When's the bus leave? How'm I going to do this?

“Michelle, come at nine tomorrow morning. Okay?”

I hang up and flop back onto my bed. My head hits the pillow—a muffled explosion of feathers.

What am I doing?

Chapter Eighteen

Okay. So maybe I panicked.

In the heat of the moment, all I could think of was Jil hanging out by herself in some sleazy motel. Having gone from two moms to none. Overnight.

So I called Michelle to babysit Denver for me, so that I can … can … do what? Take a sleazy bus by
my
self? All the way to Greensboro?
Are
buses sleazy? I've never ridden one. They're safe. Aren't they?

Then what? Am I clairvoyant? Telepathic? I think not. I think I don't have a clue where to find Jil.

Basically, I'm just trying very hard to think straight. But my brain won't cooperate.

Eventually, I regroup enough to realize that Jil is definitely listening to my messages. I know her. She's just not returning them. Because she knows how to scare me into doing exactly what she wants. Or, she's been kidnapped. I'm praying it's the first one.

So if leave a new message telling her I'm coming, she'll get it. She can meet me at the bus station. Then I'll talk her into coming back.

That'll work. Won't it?

So, do I let Mom and Dad leave for work tomorrow thinking I'm staying with Denver? Then slip Michelle in as a sub for the day? Can I get back before they get home? What's the bus schedule?

Dez, you idiot! Denver can talk, you know. He's three years old, not one. Don't you think he just might notice that Michelle is too short to be his sister? Don't you also think he just might mention that to Mom?

Besides, that is so dishonest, it hurts to even think about it. I can't believe I did think about it.

I pace back and forth again—desk to bed to closet to bookshelf—over and over. Sometimes I stop at the window and look out, thinking of a million possibilities that won't work.

Tell my parents.
That's
the plan that'll work. But Jil made me swear not to. Besides, if I show up with a parent, she'll lay low. She'll split. I know she will. And end up who knows where?