I brought her from home,
and Pixel’s curled in her lap,
his bushy tail thumping as she
runs her fingers through his fur,
it’s almost
like having a sleepover
with a regular person.
Until it isn’t.
Riding the Red Roller Coaster
One minute she seems so normal—
telling me all these funny stories
about the pranks she
and this guy named The Duke
used to pull when they were my age.
The next she’s wild-eyed and manic—
telling me how much she loves her bed,
calling down to the front desk
to ask them if she can buy the mattress
and the pillows and the bathtub!
One minute she’s saying she’s not hungry.
The next she’s dialing room service,
waving me off when I try to keep her
from ordering every single item
on the kiddie menu.
One minute she’s wishing me
a Happy Hanukkah, thanking me
for giving her this perfect night,
telling me she hopes her little sisters
grow up to be just like me.
The next,
she’s staring at the balcony,
with eyes as big as pies,
asking me if I see the cyclops
who’s standing out there
watching us.
Pixel Hops Up onto Red’s Bed
And rests his head on her knee,
while I try to think
of the most tactful way
to answer her question.
“No . . . ,” I say. “I don’t see the cyclops.
All I see is . . . is the lights on the Ferris wheel.
See them? Down there on the pier?
Maybe they looked like a cyclops to you?”
Red goes to the balcony
and peers at the view.
Then she lets out a breath.
“Maybe . . . ,” she says.
A minute later, room service arrives.
She rushes over and grabs a fork.
But then she hesitates and looks off into space,
like she’s listening to something.
She heaves a deep sigh and says,
“No thanks. I better not. The Duke says
the spaghetti and the chicken fingers and
the hot dog are laced with royal rat poison.”
The . . . Duke . . . ?
I wait to see if she’s kidding.
But she doesn’t nudge me
or wink or anything.
So I say, “What about the pizza?”
“The Duke says the pizza’s okay.
But that it’s not as good as Domino’s.”
And then she does start laughing.
So I do too.
But a Little Chill Shoots Up My Spine
Because it’s just dawned on me
that this guy she calls “The Duke” isn’t real.
He’s just a voice inside her head!
And maybe
I’m in way over
mine . . .
I mean,
this girl is really sick.
What if she runs amok or something?
What if
she flat-out loses it
and tries to jump off the balcony?
I can feel
my stomach
tying itself into knots.
Maybe
I should call the police . . .
But what would I say?
“This girl I’m with is crazy
and she might do something bad
any second now”?
Suddenly a part of me
wants to make up some excuse
and just get the heck out of here.
But then another part of me kicks in—
the part that knows how I’d want Noah to be
treated if he were in a situation like this.
So I grit my teeth
and serve us each
a couple slices of pizza.
A Second Later
I get a text from Cristo.
It’s a photo of a huge deli sandwich
with these words underneath it:
This would have been more delicious,
if you were sitting next to me
while I ate it.
So I snap a picture
of a greasy-looking chicken finger
and write:
This wouldn’t have been delicious
under any circumstances.
But I still wish you were here.
He texts me right back.
No photo this time.
Just two xx’s.
So I send two xx’s back to him.
And then—I freak.
Because . . . Oh my gosh . . .
Did we just have our first kiss?!
My Heart Does a Little Cartwheel
“Girl,” Red says. “Your cheeks
just turned pinker than bubble gum.
Has Cristo been sexting you?”
“No!” I say, turning even pinker.
“Lemme see,” she says,
plucking my phone from my hand.
She scrolls through the texts
and cries, “I knew you two
were gonna be a thing!”
“We’re not a thing,” I say.
“But you will be soon,” she says.
“Your auras are a perfect match.”
“Our . . . auras?” I say.
“You know,” she says. “Those colorful
lights that surround a person’s body?”
“Ohhh . . . ,” I say. “Those . . . ,”
trying not to let it show on my face
how nutty I think this sounds.
“Your aura and Cristo’s
are the exact same shade of gold,” she says.
“That means you’re meant for each other.”
And even though I know
this is just part of her craziness,
a little thrill runs through me.
Yikes . . .
I just Googled auras
and it turns out they really exist.
At least some people think they do.
Totally sane people, even.
And some people claim
they can actually see auras . . .
Is it possible that Red
is one of those people?
Is it possible that she’s right
about Cristo and me?
Is it
possible?
Multitasking
Red and I are munching
on Pringles and Skittles
and playing with Silly Putty
and using the knitting needles we bought
at the drugstore to put up our hair
while watching Miracle on 34th Street.
When the movie’s over,
Red turns to me with a totally straight face
and asks me if I believe in Santa Claus.
I nibble on my lower lip,
and then, as kindly as I can,
I tell her that I don’t.
“Me neither,” she says with a shrug.
“And the tooth fairy’s BS too.
Do you believe in God, though?”
“I’m . . . I’m not sure,” I say. “Maybe . . .
He hasn’t exactly been very reliable in the
answering-all-my-prayers department . . .”
“Mine neither,” she says with a sad little laugh.
“Do you believe in God?” I ask.
“I used to,” she says. “But not anymore.”
So I ask her why not, and she explains.
She Tells Me That God Used to Visit Her
Almost every day.
She says they’d hang out in her room
and have all these deep talks about stuf
f.
She says he seemed so real to her.
Like an actual person
who was standing right there next to her.
“God,” she says. “He was so hot.
He had this swimmer’s body,
long brown hair, big green aura.
I had such a crush on him.
But then I started taking
a new medication.
And a couple of weeks later
God stopped showing up.
Which is when I realized
he’d just been a hallucination—
no more real than any of my other ones.”
“You must have really missed him,” I say.
“Yeah,” she says. “I missed him so much
I stopped taking my medication.
But he never came back.”
“It’s awful, isn’t it,” I say,
“when someone you love disappears
and never comes back?”
“It sure is . . . ,” she says.
She looks at me for a long moment.
Then she adds,
“It’s good to have a real friend.
Like, as opposed to an imaginary one.
You . . . you are real, aren’t you?”
“Let me check,” I say.
Then I pinch myself
and shout, “Ouch!”
Which Cracks Her Up
So I start laughing too.
And then we channel surf,
till we land on
Dancing with the Stars.
She stands,
pulls me up after her,
and starts waltzing me
around the room.
I close my eyes
for a few seconds
and pretend it’s Cristo
I’m waltzing with . . .
Then she scoops up Pixel too,
and the three of us waltz
the goofiest, giggliest waltz,
until we’re so dizzy
that we
have to
flop down
onto our beds . . .
Then Red and I Are in That Awful Coffin
Our arms wrapped around each other,
singing this weird wailing duet,
not even trying to escape,
strangely resigned to our fate . . .
And next thing I know—it’s morning.
And I’m lying here
bathed in my usual puddle
of post-nightmare cold sweat.
I dry my face
on the sleeve of my pj’s,
then roll over to see
if Red’s awake yet.
But—
Oh no . . .
No!
Her bed is empty!
I dash to the bathroom.
But she’s not there either.
I slide down
onto the cold marble floor,
pull my legs up to my chest,
and try to breathe.
But I can’t.
I can’t breathe.
Because
Suddenly
I’m flashing back
to how I felt on the day
Noah disappeared—
like
I’d
fallen
into
a
cold
dark
well
and
I
was
tumbling
down
and
down
and
down,
but
never
ever
reaching
the
bottom . . .
Then Pixel’s Beside Me
Cocking his head at me.
“She’s gone,” I tell him.
“Red’s disappeared.
Just like Noah.”
Pixel rolls his eyes,
then gives my sleeve a gentle tug
and races into the bedroom.
I scramble up to follow after him.
When I round the corner,
he’s standing by the sliding glass doors
that open out onto
the balcony.
And right behind him is Red—
curled up on the cement,
wrapped in the comforter from her bed.
Tears of relief sting my eyes.
Suddenly, an ambulance howls past
and Red sits up in a panic.
But when she sees me,
she seems to relax.
“What are you doing out there?” I ask.
“I missed sleeping under the stars,” she says.
“And besides, there were a coupla things
I had to discuss with Lana . . .”
“Who’s Lana?” I ask.
“Oh . . . ,” Red says with a nervous little giggle.
“She’s . . . she’s a friend of The Duke’s.
I thought I introduced you guys.”
Then she whisks past me
into the bathroom,
pours the last of the bubble bath into the tub,
and turns the water on full blast.
Oh, man . . . Red hears two voices?
While Red’s in the Tub
I slip out onto the balcony.
The ocean’s almost turquoise today,
dotted with diamonds of light.
I snap a photo and text it to Cristo
with these words: Operation Red in
full swing. Subject is in tub. I am on
balcony. Here’s my view.
What are YOU looking at right now?
He texts me back a second later:
I’m looking at the view
from your balcony! ☺
And I text back: Hahahahaha!
Then a second later
he sends me a picture
of the view from the top
of the Empire State Building.
It’s beautiful! I type.
I wish I were up there with you . . .
Yuck! Way too mushy! So I delete all that
and just write: It’s pretty!
And he replies: Yeah. But not as
pretty as you. FaceTime me?
So I wait till I’m through blushing.
And then—
I do.
It Turns Out
That when you FaceTime
a boy who you’ve only
just met,
who you only spent
six hours with
before he had to jet,
and
that boy’s face
pops onto your phone,
you’re
suddenly thrilled
right down to the bone.
And when you
see his curls
and those soulful brown eyes,
you feel
like you’re made
of a handful of sighs,
your knees so wobbled
you can’t even
walk.
And for
just a few seconds,
you forget how to talk . . .
But Then Cristo Asks Me
To tell him how Operation Red’s going.
So I snap out of my stupor
and say:
“Well, the good news is
she smells great now.
And I think she’s starting to trust me.
The bad news is she’s even sicker than
I realized—she hears voices.
She calls them ‘The Duke’ and ‘Lana.’”
Cristo furrows his brows and asks,
“Do you think maybe you should try
to check her into a hospital?”
“No. She doesn’t need to be hospitalized
unless she’s a danger to herself
or to someone else.”
“Wow,” he says. “You sound like an expert.
How do you know about all that stuff?”
<
br /> But, of course, I can’t tell him how.
So I just say, “I . . . I Googled it.”
And he says, “Well, good job, Agent Molly!”
Then he grins at me.
And he looks even cuter when he does that!
I mean, if such a thing
is even possible.
Suddenly I Hear Red Shouting
“Holy Moly! Come quick!”
So I say a hurried good-bye to Cristo
and dash into the bathroom.
There she is—standing in the tub,
modeling a frothy ball gown for me,
made completely out of bubbles.
“That’s amazing!” I say,
as I start snapping pictures of her
posing like she’s Cinderella.
And when I show them to her,
her smile’s so bright
it practically gives me sunspots.
Here’s my chance! I think to myself.
“Want me to text these to anyone for you?”
I ask, as casual as anything.
She shakes her head no.
“But I bet your mom would love these,” I say.
“Why don’t you give me her cell number?”
Red shoots me a sharp look.
“No thanks. I better not.”
“Would email be better? Or Facebook?”
She scowls at me
and plops down into the water,
obliterating her foamy gown.
“No thanks,”
she says more firmly.
“I better not.”
At Noon
The front desk calls up to the room,
to remind us that checkout time
was an hour ago.
So we head out of the hotel
and let Pixel lead us across Ocean Avenue
into Palisades Park to pee on some palms.
Then Red decides
she wants to get a few things
from her hidden stroller on the bluff.
We’ve only been walking a few minutes,
when up ahead we see the statue
of Saint Monica.
Red runs toward it,
shouting back over her shoulder at me,
“Race you to the top!”
And then—
she’s scaling right up the side of it,
like some kind of manic monkey.
“Get down from there!” I shout,
as I sprint over and manage to catch hold
of her ankle just before she climbs out of reach.
“Let go of me!” she cries, trying to shake me off.
“No!” I shout. “This thing’s twenty feet tall!
You’ll hurt yourself!”
Suddenly Pixel’s here, barking up at her