And then
it’s morning.
And I wake up drenched in sweat,
relief washing over me.
But as soon as I’m fully conscious,
that relief turns to dread.
I don’t even take the time to check and see
if there’s a new text from Cristo.
I just throw on my clothes, grab Pixel,
scrawl a note to my parents,
hop onto my bike,
and whiz off.
Fifteen Minutes Later
When we finally round the corner
and head down Cristo’s alley,
Pixel cocks his head
and looks at me like,
“Don’t worry, kiddo. She pinky swore.
You don’t go back on a pinky swear.”
But my fingers are tingling
as I fumble the key into the lock,
pull open the gate,
and—
There’s Red!
Waving at me from the lounge chair,
like a girl on one of those floats
in the Rose Parade.
“Don’t look so surprised to see me,” she says,
as she strokes Sequoia’s head.
“You don’t go back on a pinky swear.”
Pixel raises
an I-told-you-so eyebrow at me
as I hurry over to hug her.
Sequoia stretches luxuriously,
then spies Pixel and streaks toward him.
He takes off running.
Except for the shadows
under Red’s eyes,
she looks beautiful—
her hair
in damp ringlets,
like she’s just had a swim,
her face
all fresh-looking
and rosy-cheeked.
And the strangest thing of all?
She doesn’t look even
the slightest bit crazy.
But Looks Can Be Deceiving
“Girl,” Red says,
“you shoulda been here last night.”
“Why? What did I miss?”
“Sequoia and I were abducted by aliens.”
She says this with a totally straight face.
“You . . . you were?” I ask weakly.
(Because, I mean, what do you
say to a person who tells you
they’ve been abducted by aliens?)
“Yeah,” Red says. “But they only drew
a little tube of blood from each of us.
Then they let us go.”
“That must have been . . . uh . . . scary?”
“It was,” she says. “But not half as scary
as The Duke and Lana can be sometimes.”
“How long have you . . .
have you known those two?” I ask.
Red smiles this strange little half smile.
Then she bugs out
her eyes at me and says,
“You mean how long have I been bonkers?”
I Can Feel My Cheeks Burning Up
“Well . . . yeah,” I admit.
“I guess that kind of is what I meant.”
Red doesn’t seem offended, though.
She just says, “I’m not sure when it started.
I think it was around a year before my dad left us.
But I’ve got schizoaffective disorder.
Which is kind of like being bipolar
with a little schizophrenia thrown in—
paranoia, hallucinations, voices . . .”
She pauses then, and tilts her head
as though she’s listening to something.
Or someone.
“Are you . . . Are you hearing
voices right now, Red?”
“Just one,” she says.
“Yours.”
Then She Bursts Out Laughing
So I do, too.
But my thoughts are racing because, I mean,
she seems so relaxed and open right now.
Maybe if I play my cards right,
I can get her to tell me
what I need to know.
“Were the kids at your school . . .
Were they . . . Were they cool with it?
With your being sick, I mean?”
She looks at me like this is the dumbest
question anyone has ever asked.
“Yeah. If ‘cool’ means they froze me out.”
Pixel’s been romping with Sequoia,
but now he trots over to me
and nudges his nose into my palm.
I scratch him behind his left ear,
and then, without even looking up at Red,
I ask, “What school did you go to?”
I try to ask this like I don’t really care.
Like finding out the name of her school
isn’t basically the whole key to everything . . .
But she must sense what I’m up to,
because she just shrugs
and says, “I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?” I ask, as casual as anything.
“Because if I told you,” she says,
“I’d have to kill you.”
We Share Another Laugh at This
Though mine is forced—because
Christmas Eve is only a week away now.
But I tell myself there’ll be other chances.
Then I change the subject and suggest that
we have another get-something-for-nothing day.
“Great idea!” Red says. “Let’s check Craigslist.”
Pixel zips off to play with Sequoia,
while Red and I scroll through
the FREE STUFF posts.
We take a pass
on the “L’il Swimmers swim diapers”
and on the “free gerbils —WITH cage!!!”
We nix
the “used peanut oil”
and the “like new airtight turkey bags.”
Then finally, after hundreds of other equally
weird listings, we reach the very last post:
“free haircuts at Vidal Sassoon Academy.”
Red and I grin at each other.
“Thanks!” we cry in unison.
“We better!”
But When I Call Out to Pixel
And tell him it’s time for him to hop into
the bike basket, he doesn’t hear me—he’s too
busy being chased around the yard by Sequoia.
His eyes are gleaming and his tail is wagging
and I swear to God, if dogs could laugh,
he’d be giggling hysterically right now.
I call out to him again.
He glances over at me and seems to sigh.
Then he slows down and lets Sequoia catch him.
They tumble together in the grass for a minute.
Then he untangles himself and trots over to me,
glancing back wistfully over his shoulder.
“Those two were having such
an amazing time together,” Red says.
“Seems a shame he has to leave . . . ,” I say.
“Then why don’t you let him stay?” Red says.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea . . . ,” I say.
“He’s not used to being separated from me.”
Red gives me a look.
Then she says,
“Are you worried about him?
Or about you?”
I Look Down at My High-Tops
“Maybe . . . maybe a little bit of each?” I admit.
“Well, never fear!” she says. “I’ll take care of you,
and The Duke will take care of Pixel!”
“Besides,” she adds, “Lana says she saw
eleven mockingbirds this morning.
She says that’s an excellent sign!”
I pick at a hangnail, still not sure.
“I know it’s a little scary,” she says,
�
��but you’ll do fine without him.
Besides, Pixel’s been
working his doggy butt off.
I bet he’d love a little vacation.”
I’ve never thought about it like that before.
Suddenly I’m swimming in a sea of guilt.
I’ve been so freaking selfish . . .
Pixel wags his tail at me
as if to say, “I don’t need a vacation.”
But I swallow hard and say, “Yes you do!”
He cocks his head at me like, “Are you sure?”
But I just reach down and give him
a quick squeeze good-bye.
He gives me a sweet little thank-you lick.
Then he dashes off again,
Sequoia tailing him like a squad car.
A Half Hour Later
When the student stylist approaches Red
with a pair of glinting scissors in his hand,
she flinches
and sucks in a sharp breath.
The Duke and Lana
must be talking to her.
I’ve spent so much time with Red
that I’m starting to feel like I can predict
exactly what they’ll say
in any given situation.
And right now,
The Duke is asking,
“How do you know that twit isn’t going to
drive those scissors right into your royal heart?”
And Lana’s warning, “The omens are bad.
The signs are not favorable! Beware! Beware!”
“Shut up,” I hiss at the two of them
under my breath.
And then I clamp my hand
over my mouth.
Because oh my God—
did I just talk to the voices
inside Red’s head?
Two Hours Later
When we leave the salon,
Red looks like
she stepped right out
of the pages of Vogue—
her ringlets smoothed
into shimmering, rolling waves,
her bangs cut at an impossibly
chic angle.
And me?
My boring wisps of dirty brown straw
(which usually wisp boringly
around my face)
are two inches shorter
and three shades lighter
and not even remotely wispy.
Or boring. Or straw-like!
I snap a selfie and send it to Cristo
with the caption: The new me!
He texts back: I like the new you.
But I also liked the old you.
I like all the yous.
When We Get Back to Cristo’s
We find Pixel and Sequoia
fast asleep on the lounge chair,
wrapped around each other like they’re
the costars of a viral video.
I snap a picture of them
and text it to Cristo.
He texts back a selfie of himself,
snuggling with his stuffed Yankee bear.
My heart melts faster
than chocolate on a s’more.
Don’t go anywhere, I text him.
I’m gonna call you in a minute.
I give Red an enormous hug
and make her pinky swear a zillion times
that she’ll still be here
when I come back in the morning.
Then I pop Pixel into his basket,
switch on the headlight, put in my earbuds,
guide my bicycle out through the gate,
and dial Cristo’s number.
When You’re Riding Your Bike
While talking to a boy you like,
and there’s a smile of silvery moon
shining down on you
(the same smile of silvery moon
that’s shining down on him,
three thousand miles away!),
it feels like
the street’s turning to silk
beneath your wheels . . .
When you’re riding your bike
while talking to a boy you like,
the lampposts glow like candles
and it seems as if
every car that cruises past
is full of cupids—
all of them smiling
and waving at you,
blowing cupid kisses . . .
When you’re riding your bike
while talking to a boy you like,
the sound of that boy’s voice
vibrating against your ear
feels almost like the brush
of his lips might feel . . .
And if someone were to tell you
that that boy was about to drop off
the face of the earth
you would
have thought
they were . . .
well—crazy.
But an Hour Later
When you text him
to say good night,
he doesn’t
text you back.
You shrug it off—telling yourself
that you forgot the time zones.
That it’s much later in New York.
That he’s probably just asleep.
But when you text him
the next day,
and then you text him
again,
and then you call him
and call him,
and he doesn’t respond
and doesn’t respond
and doesn’t respond
to any of it,
you feel like
you’re being swallowed up
by a sinkhole
of suck.
For the Last Couple of Days
I’ve been wandering
around Santa Monica with Red,
looking for ways to get something for nothing,
feeling as stunned as a bird
that’s just smashed into
a pane of glass.
Time’s running out
for me to accomplish
my mission.
But the truth is,
it’s been hard for me to think
about that . . .
Instead, I’ve been rereading
all of Cristo’s texts,
and all the ones I sent him, too—
double-checking them
to make sure I didn’t come across
as seeming too desperate.
And I’ve been going over and over
that final conversation I had with him,
trying to figure out if I said something wrong—
dissecting every syllable I uttered,
and every syllable he uttered,
searching in vain for even the slightest hint
that he was getting ready to dump me.
I Don’t Get It, God
Why did you create Cristo and then go
out of your way to make sure that I got on
that Ferris wheel right when I did,
if you knew all along
that he was nothing but
a no-good heartless jerk?
I mean seriously—
if you really want people
to believe that you’re up there,
you know,
like watching over all of us
or whatever,
you gotta
do a better
freaking job.
When I Tell Red What’s Going On
She says maybe there’s a logical
explanation for Cristo’s sudden silence
and maybe there isn’t.
But she says a girl’s gotta do
whatever it takes to hang on
to her dignity and her self-respect.
And I know
in my heart
that she’s right.
So I leave Cristo one final voice mail
telling him I don’t know
what the he
ck is going on with him,
but that unless
we hear otherwise,
Red will keep feeding his cat,
and that it wouldn’t be fair
for him to throw her out just because
his feelings for me have changed.
Then
I stop trying
to contact him.
I stop
texting him.
And calling him.
But
I can’t stop
thinking about him.
There’s Only Five Days Left Till Christmas Eve
And I know I shouldn’t be
wasting any more time on Cristo.
I should be putting all my energy
into finding out where Red’s family lives.
But it’s hard to stay focused
when my emotions are bouncing around
like one of those shiny metal balls
in a pinball machine—
ricocheting from hating Cristo
to worrying about him
to hating him
to missing him to pieces
to hating him
to not understanding him
to wishing
I never met him
and then back again
to missing him to pieces.
I’ve Been Trying My Best
Not to let Red see
the full extent of my misery.
But apparently my murky gray aura
has given me away.
She’s been incredibly sweet to me,
telling me she’s sure
that this silence of Cristo’s
is just a temporary thing.
Telling me his feelings for me
haven’t changed.
That she feels it in her bones.
Especially in her ribs.
She says Lana told her
that she consulted the oracle
and that all signs point
to a positive outcome.
She says even The Duke thinks
there’s nothing to worry about.
She promises me again and again
that Cristo will call soon.
I just wish I could believe her.
Finally
After seventy-two excruciating hours
of not hearing from Cristo,
I decide that it’s time to move on.
I mean, what kind of a guy just cuts you
off like that without an explanation?
The terrible kind, that’s what!
The reality is
I only went on one measly date