My Fake Boyfriend is Better Than Yours (6 page)

“What?” I ask. I pull a tiny piece of bread off of the top of my sandwich and put it in my mouth.

“Something's wrong. You're a little off tonight. Did you get in a fight with your mom?”

“No. Mom's fine.”

“Got a crush on a boy and he doesn't even know you're alive?”

I giggle. “No . . .”

“Your teachers are all mean and out to get you?”

“Daaaaad!”

“Okay, okay.” He put his hands up in surrender. “Want to just tell me what's bugging you?”

“Nothing. Nothing is really bugging me. I told you, I missed you. I'm happy to be here.” I try to sound convincing.

“And I'm happy you're here too.” He reaches over and ruffles my hair. “But if you decide that you want to tell me about ‘nothing,' I'm a really good listener. It was my major in college. I got all A's.”

I roll my eyes and laugh. “You're so goofy, Dad.”

“Really? I always felt more like Donald than Goofy,” he replies, and I groan.

“Come on, hit Play,” I tell him, and dip my sandwich into my soup.

The next morning Dad peeks into his bedroom, where I'm staying. “You almost ready to go?” he asks.

I walk around the room checking out his latest artwork. I'm super impressed. Sometimes it's hard to see
your parents as these real people who can have talents like Dad so obviously does.

“Dad, these are really
really
good! Are they going to be in your next show?”

“You like them?” He pulls a hand through his wavy brown hair. He always gets a little shy when I see his paintings.

“Uh-huh, a lot,” I reply. The walls of his bedroom are lined with painting after painting of people who work around the city. There is one of a CTA bus driver looking down and out of the window at the traffic, another of a baker putting up a box of macaroons on a counter, and another of a commuter sitting on the train, listening to her iPod. I stop in front of one of the paintings, recognizing the smile. “Hey, is this that pretzel guy you pointed out yesterday?”

Dad laughs. “Yeah, that's Max. Do you like it?”

I nod. “The salt on the pretzels looks so real I almost want to lick it.”

“Well, don't do that. I got bagels so we can eat before we head out to the museum.”

“Mmmm, yum,” I comment.

An hour later we're walking up the steps of the Museum of Science and Industry. It was just a quick bus ride to Lake Shore Drive from Dad's. He's so lucky, getting to live near so many cool places. The closest
museum to our house is the teacup museum, and really, who wants to spend an afternoon looking at teacups? Not me.

Once inside, we pass right by the guy handing out museum maps. We've been here dozens of times, so you could say we're pros.

“Where to first, my dear?” Dad asks.

I glance at the elevator.

“Straight to the top then?” he says.

“Yes!”

A few minutes later we are walking around the You! The Experience exhibit, looking for the new giant heart. There used to be a sixteen-foot walk-through heart that I loved to run in and out of when I was little. Dad has dozens of pictures of me standing in front of it from over the years. The new heart is much cooler though; you can make it beat with your own.

We reach the heart and I look at Dad and smile.

“Okay, okay. Hold still a sec,” he directs.

I put my hands on my hips and grin. Dad snaps a picture with his camera phone.

Next we go to the prenatal development section of the exhibit. It's this long wall of babies,
real babies
, from the different stages of gestation. From a teeny-tiny little embryo all the way up to a fully formed baby. The babies here passed away from one thing or another back in the
1930s, and I guess their parents must have donated their bodies to the museum. I've seen it more times than I can count, but it always freaks me out a bit each time. I'm not sure if I'm more freaked out by the fact that they were once living or by the fact that this is what a baby growing inside a woman looks like. Seriously, the school system could skip the sex education lecture in fifth grade and bring kids here and show them what happens if they're not careful.

I step up to the display case and look at the first few babies. I don't stay freaked out for long. Mostly because Dad always makes me laugh.

“Ah, yes. I remember when you were just a speck. I swore if you never grew another centimeter I'd carry you around just like that. If that big storybook elephant, Horton, could do it, well then so could I.” Dad nods for emphasis.

“Dad!” I scold, but then I giggle.

We move to another case and peer in.

“The good ol' tail days,” Dad says. “Yours was quite a cute one as I recall, and I'm not only saying that because I'm your father. Your mother worried that it might be there forever, and I said, So what? If our child has a tail, then we'll teach her to be proud of it!”

I shake my head, laughing. “You're so crazy, Dad!” I say, though really I like it when he tells stories about
him and Mom, things they said or did when they were still together. When Dad lived with Mom and me in the suburbs, we would drive down to this museum every New Year's Day. It was sort of our family tradition. But then one year we didn't go on New Year's, and the next year Dad moved out. I don't think Mom has even been back to the museum since. But Dad and I go a lot, so I guess Mom sees no reason to. We continue walking along the wall, and any fears I had of the babies have disappeared and my fascination has completely taken over, as it always does.

Next, we head straight down to the fairy castle, this monster huge dollhouse that looks like an enchanted castle that Cinderella would live in if she was real. And five inches tall. It's visually stunning, and I've always thought it a mad waste that it is locked up under the glass case, where no one can play with it. The castle was always Mom's favorite exhibit, and she used to say she'd make me a little one someday. But I'm sure she's forgotten that too by now.

From watching other people here, I find that most museum visitors are boring and look at everything on one floor before moving to the next. But not us. We go in order of our favorite exhibits to least favorite, so we tend to bounce all over the museum. Dad says it's good exercise.

We go up one floor to Yesterday's Main Street and walk along the brick and cobblestone streets in 1910 Chicago. We window-shop at the old stores, watch a short silent movie in the cinema, and stop at the old-fashioned ice cream parlor for a vanilla cone. Then it's straight back to the top floor of the museum to see the transportation section.

I climb aboard the once-in-commission United Boeing 727 airplane, the only real airplane I've ever been on, and take a seat. It's suspended from the ceiling by some super heavy-duty wires, so it's sort of like we're flying. Except we're not moving. There is a real cockpit up front and everything. A minute later Dad sits down beside me and buckles in.

“So what's today's in-flight movie?” he asks.

I groan.

“I have to take you on a trip somewhere soon,” he adds, gripping the armrests. “On a real plane. One with an engine.”

“Engines are good,” I mutter.

I look out the small plane window into the museum. I wonder if this is like the plane Sienna took on her family vacation to the Keys. I wonder if she saw a movie on it. She didn't tell me about the plane ride. She hasn't really talked about anything on the trip that didn't involve Antonio.

“Come on, what's wrong, sweetie?” Dad urges.

“Hmm?” I raise my eyebrows.

“Something's obviously bothering you. Spill.”

I hesitate. “It's just . . . Sienna. She changed so much over the summer. Everything is different about her. It's like I don't even know her anymore.”

Everything that has been going on with me and Sea over the past week comes flooding out. Dad doesn't say a word while I'm talking but listens and nods occasionally. When it's all out I feel a wave of relief.

“Well, I'm pretty good with these things, Tor. After all, I majored in friendship in college,” he starts.

“You said you majored in listening,” I interrupt.

“I double-majored. But anyway, I think Sienna must be feeling like she needs to be this different, more fantastical person at school for some reason. I think if you get her away from school and somewhere familiar, like, say, the house, then she'll go back to normal. Why don't you ask Mom if you can have Sienna for a sleepover or something?”

“Dad! You're brilliant!” I throw my arms around his neck and squeeze tight. Of course! She's only acting like this for other people. She won't act like this when it's just her and me.

“Obviously, darling daughter. One has to be brilliant to keep up with you.”

“Pop quiz!” Mrs. Wittler announces Monday morning in science class. “Clear everything off of your desk 'cept for a pencil.” Mrs. Wittler's clothing selection today is a bit more on the lax side than last week's. She's wearing a black and silver pin-striped shirt, misbuttoned by one button all the way down, a navy blue lightweight cardigan, and brown poofy pants that taper in at the ankles.

“Shut. Up,” Daphne says to me. “Seriously? She just gave us a pop quiz last week. What is she starting, another bad habit?”

Bella snickers and covers her face with her notebook. I grin.

“Somethingz funny, ladies?” Mrs. Wittler sniffs really hard and rubs her nose.

“Of course not, Mrs. Wittler,” Daphne replies in a syrupy-sweet voice.

“Is it abnormally hot in here?” Mrs. Wittler asks nobody in particular, waving a hand in front of her face. Her cheeks are pink.

No one says a thing.

“Get out yer pencils! C'mon then,” Mrs. Wittler says.

The students pass looks back and forth, but everyone clears their desks and takes out pencils.

“Geez, what does she have, a wedgie or something?” Daphne mumbles. It's too much for us. Bella and I dissolve into a pile of giggles.

“Girls!” Mrs. Wittler yells at us, and my back stiffens. “That's strike . . .” She pauses and rubs her bottom lip with her thumb and index finger like she can't remember how many times she's yelled at us today. “Let's say strike two,” she finally says, holding two fingers in the air in a shaky peace sign. “One more and yer outta here!”

Daphne glares at Mrs. Wittler and mumbles under her breath. “Now she's an umpire.” I look down at my notebook, concentrating on the swirl of the
T
in my name on the cover. I can't get in any more trouble today for laughing.

I busy myself looking for a pencil. I take out an extra so I don't have to get up during the quiz and sharpen. I don't even care about the pop quiz today. I'm in too good a mood. I had a fantastic weekend with Dad, and I already talked to Sea this morning about having a sleepover
at my house this Friday night, just the two of us. It'll be like old times, like the sleepovers we used to have before the summer and everything changed. She said it was a great idea and that she was totally in the mood for a girls' night. Things will be back to normal in no time.

Twenty minutes later, the last student has turned in his quiz and we're waiting for Mrs. Wittler to say something. She's been sitting up in the front of the room at her lab table, both hands wrapped around her mug, sucking down her coffee and staring off into space the whole time.

I reach down to pick up my stuff off the floor and hear a rumble and a curse.

“Oh my god,” Bella whispers. “Did you see that? She just stumbled. She's loaded!”

“Kyle Anthony, why're your things in the middle of the aisle? I coulda got hurt.” Mrs. Wittler is staring down at Kyle with wild eyes, her hands on her hips.

“But, Mrs. Wittler, they weren't,” Kyle says.

“So I'm lying? Zthat what yer saying?”

Daphne leans over to me. “Look at her eyes. They're totally red.”

I squint, studying Mrs. Wittler's eyes. I guess they
are
sorta red. I suppose she could have allergies or something too. But I highly doubt it.

“Open your books to, um, page ten,” Mrs. Wittler
says. She widens her eyes and squints a couple of times, like she's trying hard to focus on the words.

We open our books to a picture of a plant, and Mrs. Wittler reads the paragraph at the top of the page.

“Did you hear that?” Daphne hisses. “She totally slurred
photosynthesis
! I can't believe she's drunk again.”

“Me neither,” I whisper.

Daphne watches Mrs. Wittler for a second and then leans toward Bella and me. “We have to report her to Principal Brown.”

“I don't want to get in trouble,” Bella announces.

“No. None of us will get in trouble. We can do it anonymously. Wednesday night is pizza night at my house. Come over for dinner and we'll make a plan,” Daphne replies.

I smile and nod. Bella gives a thumbs-up.

I'm running late for lunch on Wednesday. Actually, I'm the last kid in the lunch line, which is never a good thing. It's hard to take a fruit cup knowing that any one of the hundred kids who passed by it before me could've flung a booger into it. I put a plastic-wrapped turkey sandwich and a bag of chips on my tray and head for our lunch table. Sienna is already there chatting with Natalie, Avery, and Maya.

I catch the tail end of Sienna's sentence as I sit down. “. . . prefers cherry.”

“Sebastian likes banana,” I say, confident that there's a 99.9 percent chance she's talking about Antonio and not wanting to miss any opportunity of bringing Sebastian into the conversation too.

“Really?” Sea scrunches up her nose. “Where do you find banana lip gloss?”

Oh. We're talking about lip gloss. “Well, I special-order it online. Since he likes it so much and all. I call him my little monkey, heh heh.”