Out of Order (11 page)

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

The darkness makes me brave, and I ask her, “So how come you never called me? You know, when you said you were going to invite me over?”

Max's reply comes quickly. “I know. I know. I'm sorry.” She hesitates before she continues. “You and Zelia just seemed... I don't know. Like you didn't need anyone else. I started think­ing, maybe you were just being polite, you know? Like you didn't really want to be friends.”

I can feel the blankets shift as she rolls over to face me.

“I wanted you to call,” I say. “It's just...it's complicated sometimes. With Zelia.”

“Just me being insecure,” Max says.

“You never seem insecure,” I blurt out.

Max gives a sleepy laugh. “Everyone's insecure,” she says. “Everyone.”

There is a long silence.

“Max?”I whisper. “You know how I used to live in Ontario? In Georgetown?” My heart is pounding.

I can hear Max's steady breathing.

“Are you awake?” I ask.

Silence.

I wait a moment, and then I whisper my secret into the darkness. “I was kind of a loser,” I say. “I used to get bullied. Called names. stupid like that.”

I listen to her breath. In. Out. In. Out.

I match my breathing to hers and slip into an exhausted sleep.

IT IS STILL
dark outside when we are woken by the high- pitched shouts and squeals of Max's half-brothers. Light streams in from the brightly lit hall, and I crack my eyes open to see two identical toddlers clad in matching red sleepers. They are bouncing around Max's room, wreaking havoc. One is system­atically pulling all the books off the shelves. The other is trying to put my boots onto his tiny feet.

Max pulls a pillow over her head and gives a muffled groan.

I rub my eyes. “Do they do this every morning?”

“Every morning,” she says. “It was okay when they were in their crib—I had earplugs—but they learned how to climb out. So now they have regular beds, and they come in here to torture me when they wake up.”

“I'd get a lock on my door,” I say.

From under her pillow, Max makes a sound that is half laugh, half groan. “Yeah. Somehow I don't think my mother would go for that.”

I watch them for a minute. “They are pretty cute, I guess.”

“Yeah. Lucky for them,” Max says.

I look at my watch. It is six o'clock. Middle of the night. I close my eyes. “How do you do this every day?” I groan.

Max laughs and pulls her head out from under her pillow. “Hungover?”

“Not too bad. Feel a bit sick. If I could just stay in bed...”

She laughs again. “Not a chance, chickie. Come on. You're going to help me feed the little monsters.”

“What? Doesn't their mom—I mean your mom—do that?”

“Today's Saturday. My turn to get up early so my mom and Jim can sleep in.”

She is grinning.

“You don't mind?” I ask.

“Nah.” She laughs. “Well, okay. Sometimes I mind. But not too much.”

“O-kay,” I say as I sit up. “Ugh.”

Max is already up and pulling a sweater over her pj's. Toddler Number Two has succeeded in putting on my boots and is trying to shuffle around the room.

“What are their names?” I ask.

“Caleb and Conor.” Max throws me a sweatshirt and a pair of socks. “Catching them is the first challenge. And changing their diapers.”

“Oh no,” I say firmly. “Oh no. I am not doing that.”

Max's brown hair is sticking out in all directions, and she is grinning widely. Her teeth are small, white and very even. “I'll let you off this time,” she says, winking. She manages to grab one twin under each arm and hoists them onto her hips.

“Meet me downstairs,” she says.

I flop back in the bed. “Sure. Sure.”

Zelia pops into my head, but I don't feel as upset as I thought I would. Last night seems a bit unreal.

THE KITCHEN IS
painted bright yellow, garish but cheerful. A black and white border collie is bouncing off the walls, chasing the twins, who are squealing with excitement.

Somehow, Max gets the dog fed, both boys strapped firmly into matching high chairs and a pot of coffee brewing. I try to stay out of the way. It isn't until the twins are shoveling Cheerios into their mouths that the chaos subsides enough for Max and me to talk.

“So,” Max says. She hands me a steaming mug.

I curl my hands around the warm surface. “So.”

“Are you going to call Zelia and find out what happened?” Max asks.

I make a face. “I don't know. Don't really want to know the details.”

Max deftly catches a little plastic cup that one of the twins has tossed from his high chair. “Mmm. No. But she must be wondering where you are. I mean, since you were supposed to go to her place.”

I remember the fight Zelia had with her mom the night before. “I don't even know if she went home. Anyway, I don't care. If she wants to talk to me, she can call.” I push away the mug of coffee. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Sorry,” Max says.

There is a moment of awkward silence; then Caleb, or maybe Conor, empties his bowl of Cheerios on the floor.

“More Cheerios,” he says happily.

Max shakes her head at him. “Not if you're just going to dump them on the floor,” she says.

“More Cheerios,” he repeats patiently.

Max sighs. “You won't throw them?”

Caleb or Conor, whichever it is, smiles angelically. “No throw Cheerios.”

Max dumps a small handful of Cheerios into his bowl. “Okay, Caleb.”

Caleb picks up his bowl, looks at us and immediately turns his bowl upside down. Cheerios scatter and bounce across the floor, and the border collie dashes madly around the kitchen, nails skidding on the ceramic tiles as she chases down every last little piece of cereal.

Max looks at me ruefully. “My cleanup crew,” she says.

I laugh.

“So.”Max puts down her mug and leans forward.“I'm going out to the barn today. Do you want to ride with me?”

I hesitate.

Max looks right at me and reads my mind. “She'll call,” she says softly. “But you can't just wait around.”

I nod. “Okay. I'll come with you.”

I call my mom and tell her I'm going to the barn with Max. I don't mention that I spent the night at Max's instead of Zelia's, and she doesn't ask too many questions. My mom is
kind of strict, but she isn't nosy. I am thinking about Zelia and Lee when Max's mother bounces into the kitchen.

She looks so much like the twins that I almost laugh out loud: white blond hair forming a static halo around her head, a broad grin and a chubby body wrapped in an ancient house­coat the exact same shade of red as the twins' sleepers. I like her instantly.

“Morning, girls,” she says, giving Max a kiss on the top of her head. “And boys,” she adds, ruffling the twins' hair. “Max, thanks for the sleep-in.”

Max looks at her watch. “It's not even seven. Go back to bed, if you want.”

Her mom winks. “Jim's snoring loud enough to wake the dead. So I'm up, and you two are officially off duty.”

She looks at me for the first time. “I don't think we've met. I'm Georgie.”

“Sophie. Hi,” I say, feeling a little shy.

“Sophie. Of course. The good rider. Max has talked about you.”

I look at Max, surprised, but her face is turned away as she lifts the boys from their high chairs.

“Well,” Georgie says, “I'll take these two and let you girls get going. You're heading out to the barn, I take it?”

Max nods. “If we can borrow the car.”

“No worries. Pick up milk on your way home. Oh, and lettuce. And bananas for the boys.”

IN THE CAR
, Max is quiet. She drives the way she does every­thing else, giving it her full attention. I keep pushing thoughts of Zelia out of my head, especially thoughts of her and Josh together in that dark room. I don't know what I feel. There's a weight in my belly that could be anger, but I think it's mostly fear. I'm scared of losing her. I wish things could go back to the way they were in September: the excitement of a new friend­ship, the secret thrill of starting over, re-creating myself.

I sneak a glance at Max from the passenger seat. She has a strong face with definite features: dark eyebrows, clear skin, straight nose, square chin with a small dent in its center. So different from Zelia. Max isn't exactly pretty, but I like her face. It suits who she is.

“What?” Max says suddenly.

“Huh?”

“You're staring at me.”

I feel my cheeks and ears get warm. I wish I didn't blush so easily.

“Sorry,” I say.

“S'okay. I just wondered what you were thinking about.”

“Nothing,” I say.

Max always seems so confident. Of course, I've always thought that about Zelia too. Maybe I'm the only one who can't just be myself. Whoever that is.

“Hey, Max,” I say.

“Mmm?”

“Have you ever had Mr. Delgado for art?”

“No. Why?”

“He said this thing in class last week,” I begin. I hope I can explain this properly and that Max doesn't think it's totally dumb. “He said that this sculptor, Michelangelo, believed that statues already existed within the marble, and the sculptor's job was to chip away all the excess stone. You know, to reveal the figure inside.”

“Cool.” Max looks at me expectantly, like she knows where I'm going with this but wants to hear it anyway.

I bite my lip, hesitating, and then plunge forward. “So I was thinking...what if we're kind of like the statues, you know? Like there is some way we are supposed to be or really are inside...and all this stuff we're doing now is just the way we chip away at the stone. Just living our lives and bumping up against things, knocking bits of stone off here and there...” I hold my breath and scrutinize Max's face for any sign of scorn.

There is a long pause in which Max nods thoughtfully.

“I like it,” she says. “Though, I don't know. Do you really think we are supposed to be one particular way?”

She keeps glancing sideways at me while she drives, watching my face for my reaction. As if my answer is really important.

For some reason, a picture of Gran pops into my head: her shocked face when she saw me on the sidewalk that day. I watch the trees flashing past, and I choose my words care­fully. “Yeah. I guess it's not a totally rigid thing—I mean, we can change and make choices and all that, as long as we're honest about who we are.”

When I finish talking, I look over at Max.

Her cheeks are suddenly flushed, and when she speaks, her voice is forceful, almost angry.

“You can't always be honest about who you are,” she says.

There is a long silence. I stare down at my feet, wishing I could snatch back my words although I don't know what I have done wrong.

Max sighs. “Sorry, Sophie. I didn't mean to bite your head off. It's not you.”

“What is it? What's wrong?” I whisper.

She shakes her head. “It's nothing. Forget it.”

We drive in silence for a few minutes, and then Max starts asking me questions about riding. It is obvious she wants to change the subject, and I chatter on, wanting things to feel normal between us again. Inside, though, I'm dying to know what it is that Max can't say. I'm wondering if her secret is anything like mine.

MAX PARKS NEATLY
beside the barn, and we pull on gloves and hats before we even get out of the car. It's cold and clear and the barn smells like apples, sweet feed and leather. Tavish is sitting on a bale of hay, cleaning a saddle.

“Hey, Sophie. Hey, Max,” he says. He looks up, and then he quickly drops his eyes back to the saddle. His light brown hair flops forward over his eyes. It reminds me of a horse's forelock.

“You riding today?” he asks, rubbing a sponge against a block of saddle soap.

Max answers. “Yeah. You should ride with us, Tavish.”

“Lots to do,” he says.

Tavish never says much. I guess some people would think it's weird, the way he never makes small talk, but it's one of the things I like about him. He never talks just for the sake of talking.

Max laughs. “Yeah, and you have to exercise Schooner too...and Honey...and your own horse. So come with us.”

Tavish looks at me. “Is that cool?”

“Sure. Of course,” I say, surprised. “I mean, that'd be fine. Great.”

A quick grin creases his face, lights up his eyes and disap­pears just as fast as it came. “Okay then. I'll go get Schooner ready.” He lifts the saddle and places it gently on the door of an empty stall. Then he disappears down the aisle of the barn.

Max looks at me and winks. “He likes you,” she whispers.

“Shhh. He does not,” I say immediately. I'm embarrassed but curious. I've never really thought about Tavish much. “Why? I mean, what makes you think so?”

“Obvious.”

“Not to me.”

“Well...he's all shy around you. He keeps looking at you, then looking away. He practically blushes when you talk to him.”

My own cheeks are burning. “Max! Stop it.”

Max laughs. “I think it's kind of sweet.”

We ride into the woods and follow the wide dirt trail around the edge of the lake. We are quiet, and I keep thinking about what Max said. I wish she hadn't said it. I want to enjoy the silence, feel the rhythm of the hoofbeats, lose myself in Keltie's speed and power. Instead I find myself sneaking glances at Tavish, noticing how his long legs wrap around Schooner's narrow sides, how his gray leather chaps are old and stained with mud. I wonder if Max was just teasing me.

We come to a long gentle slope where we often gallop, and Keltie starts dancing sideways in anticipation. I close my fingers on the reins and sit deeply in the saddle to steady her.