Pack of Dorks (8 page)

“April has a baby brother, doesn’t she?”

“And a not-so-little brother.” I closed my eyes again, my ears still ringing with all the noise from April’s house. “Mom? Do you think some people can become cool? Or are some people just meant to be dorks and they can’t do anything about it?”

Mom lowered Molly into the bassinet beside the rocker and opened her arms to me. She hadn’t held me in months, first because I’m too big for that and second because she didn’t have any room with her huge baby stomach. Her belly was still big—just a little deflated—but I sat down right on her lap and she wrapped her arms tight around me.

“What’s all this about? Are you okay, Lucy?” She tucked a piece of hair behind my ear and looked me straight in the face.

And I almost told her. Really. I almost told her about Tom hating me and Becky pretending to hate me, too. About stupid wolves and dares from Sam and how April was sort of becoming my friend, too, and how that made a really selfish jerky part of me grumble. I almost told her that I’ve been collecting change from under couch cushions and the laundry basket because Tom wanted repayment for the diamond ring I lost and now when I run on the playground I sound like Santa’s sleigh. But if I actually gave him the money, then he, Henry, and Becky would have absolutely no reason to talk to me at all. I almost told her that I’ve never, ever been lonelier than I have been the last week. I almost told her that I was ready to do anything—anything at all—to make it stop. I almost told her I wasn’t sure she and Dad had room to worry about my problems any more now that they had a whole syndrome to manage. All of these things nearly poured from my mouth onto Mom’s lap.

But then Mom’s eyes got watery and she added, “It hasn’t been easy on any of us, figuring out what Molly’s future is going to be like and how to handle her health issues. I mean, even all the Down syndrome stuff aside, her little heart needs to be monitored and . . .” She took a long, deep breath. “Friends popping by to see you. Birthday parties. I want all of that for Molly, too. I know it’s really early. I mean she’s not even a month old . . . but I just . . .” She sighed again. “I’m sorry, honey. I shouldn’t be unloading this junk on you. I’m really sorry.”

I put my head on Mom’s shoulder and wrapped my other hand behind her neck. Her head rested against the top of my head. “It’s all right, Mom,” I said. I curled my fingers around the hair at the base of her neck, the way she always did for me when I was sad or sick. “I can take it.”

She laughed. “You’re stronger than all of us, Lucy. I can’t tell you how much your Dad and I appreciate how completely loving and caring you’ve been to your sister. It feels like you’re the only one who hasn’t been falling apart lately.” She sniffled and squeezed me tighter. “It’s going to get easier, Lucy bean. We’ll be back to normal in no time.”

In that moment, when I was holding Mom more than she was holding me, I made a decision.

I was on my own. I wasn’t going to ask them for anything.

Chapter Seven

Molly looked adorable. She wore a little jean skirt with a pink lace ruffle around it and a T-shirt with a pink giraffe. The giraffe’s horns popped up at her shoulder. Her tights were hot pink with purple polka dots. She wore little pink ballet slippers even though she can’t hold her own head up, let alone stand. Mom fastened a little purple barrette in her fluffy brown hair and sat back to admire her little sunshine as she lay in the middle of Mom and Dad’s bed. Mom clapped her hands and Molly blinked.

“Watch Molly a sec, okay, Luc?” Mom said when I accidentally-on-purpose bumped into her back. Not to ask her for anything (such as, random example here, a new skirt, shirt, tights, barrette, or little pink ballet slippers). Just to remind her that I was there, too.

I nodded, not that Mom noticed. She slid by me to the bathroom. I stepped closer to the bed. Molly stared at me, probably realizing this fashionable attire of hers was temporary. I was wearing jeans, a yellow T-shirt with a pinkish ketchup stain in the shape of Florida at the bottom, and dark brown penny loafers, even though it was about 80 degrees outside and everyone else wore sandals. At least Mom didn’t notice I wasn’t wearing socks. You know, there were loads of times—such as when I looked totally rock star with my black-and-white striped poofy skirt and gray shirt with black bedazzled stars—that I wished Mom wouldn’t pay attention to what I was wearing. But right now, when I wanted her to see my too-tight shoes and stained shirt so I wouldn’t have to actually ask for new stuff, it really was not at all cool.

With zero warning, my head jerked back. “Hold still,” Mom mumbled. She yanked a hairbrush through my hair and had to mumble because she had an elastic band and a bobby pin clenched between her lips. “Did you forget to use conditioner last night? And is this toothpaste? In your hair?”

I nodded, which was the truth. I forgot to use conditioner because I also forgot to wash my hair. Or take a shower. In fact, I didn’t take one the day before, either. Plus, I guess I leaned a little far into the sink this morning when I brushed my teeth because a glob of dried up toothpaste was making this hair brushing feel more like my mom was trying to yank out my hair from the roots. I felt the skin around my eyes stretch backward and I squealed, “Ouch!”

And then something amazing happened! Molly’s little mouth stretched back, too, and her face transformed from the regular little Molly Lump into the happiest looking baby I’ve ever seen.

“She’s smiling!” Mom yelped. “Molly’s smiling!” Again without warning, she yanked the hairbrush through my hair. Again I squealed. And again Molly smiled, even wider than before. I couldn’t help smiling back. Mom wrapped her arms around me from behind and squeezed me tight. “You made your sister smile, Lucy!”

“This is so wonderful,” Mom murmured, her mouth still full of the elastic band and bobby pin. She swept them from her lips and continued, “Today is Molly’s cardiology appointment, and I was so nervous. But now, I just know everything’s going to be all right.” She kissed the top of my head and squeezed me again. I picked up Molly and held her to my chest, like we were a sandwich. Molly Lumps and Mom were the bread; I was the ham.

“Everything’s going to be great,” I said. And for a second or two, I really believed it. But then Molly Lumps burped, adding a white Pennsylvania-shaped glob to my shoulder, and Mom poked the top of my head with a bobby pin.

I barely could find Sam behind the enormo pile of wolf books at the library table. “Here’s one more, young man,” Mrs. Fredericks, the librarian, said as she added another brick-thick book to the stack. Remember how I said my grandma was the opposite of how most grandmas look? Well, Mrs. Fredericks was exactly how grandmas are supposed to look, with curly white hair, a teddy bear cardigan, and a super scary goblin face that twisted if anyone spoke above a whisper.

“Why aren’t you at the computer lab?” I whispered as Mrs. Fredericks walked off. “You said you wanted to research. I’ve been looking for you in the computer lab for a half-hour.” Henry tripped me twice as I walked through the aisle, Becky rolled her eyes and elbowed Tom as I passed them, and April kept popping up behind the little cubicles like a groundhog. I shuddered just thinking about the whole experience.

“It’s quieter here,” Sam whispered. “Plus, I don’t think wolves have changed all that much since these books were written.”

I glanced around the empty library and had to agree it was a nicer place to study. “Is this where you disappear to all the time?” I asked.

Sam looked up from a picture of a wolf ripping apart a moose or something and raised an eyebrow. “No,” he said.

Awkward silence.

I grabbed a book from the pile and cracked it open. “So, what did you find out so far?”

Sam passed his notebook to me. Wow, he was organized! He had numbered facts as he wrote them. I scanned to the bottom. Twenty-five facts. So maybe most people would be like, “Awesome. I have the coolest partner ever who can do all the research and I don’t have to do a thing.” But most people have, oh, I don’t know, lives. I have no life. I was counting on this project to give me a little bit of a distraction. And, fine. I’ll be honest. I was hoping to spend a little more time with Sam. He was nice to me (and, still being honest, also nice to look at).

Yet here he was, hiding away in the library with The Goblin bringing him every wolf book ever made and making lists—lists!—of facts. We’d have this project done in no time and I’d be back to Patheticville. I bet Sam wouldn’t sit with me at lunch anymore when we weren’t partners. He’d probably join the Everyone Hates Lucy Club. Maybe he’d ask to be president. Not that Becky or Tom would let him.

“What’s your problem?” he asked. I realized he was staring at me. Well, more precisely, he was staring at the way my hands were crumpling up the list he made.

“I thought this was a
joint
project, Samuel.”

“Samuel?” He slowly closed the book. “Why are you mad?”

“Why are you in such a rush to find out everything without me?”

“Because you weren’t here. And I was.” He actually had the nerve to look confused.

“Because I was in the computer lab! Where
normal
people go to research!”

The Goblin shot us a look, but it had nothing on Sam’s angry face. “You’re being a complete jerk,” he said in a whisper that felt like a yell.

Seems I was bringing out the angry face in lots of people lately. I swallowed hard and looked down at the book so I wouldn’t have to see Sam. “Why are you in such a rush to finish this project? I wanted to do some research, too. Together.”

I didn’t look up, even when Sam pushed the pile of books more to the center of our table, closer to me. “Let’s start over then,” he said softly.

I nodded.

“But you can’t say things like that I’m not normal, okay? I thought we were friends.”

We’re friends? I smiled, still looking down, and read from the book in front of me. “‘Wolves are social animals. They live in groups called packs.’” I finally glanced up at Sam, who was just sitting there, staring at me. “Shouldn’t you be writing this down?”

By the end of the hour Ms. Drake had given us for research, I had learned a lot about wolves. First, they aren’t a lot like dogs, who just sort of follow what people want them to do. Wolves take care of each other and themselves. Wolf packs, they’re really important. Each one has a male and female leader, or alphas, who lead the pack. But everyone in the pack works. They have jobs to do, depending on what they’re good at doing—hunting, taking care of the pups, even playing is a job. Everyone depends on everyone else. It made a lot of sense, and made me realize wolves must be pretty smart. Sam and I decided to make a big section of our report all about the different jobs wolves had within the pack. I wondered where I would fit if I were Lucy Wolf. But then Sam started sharing what he was reading about scapegoats. And I didn’t have to wonder any more.

“So these wolves, they’re the ones all the other wolves love to pick on. So they’re usually smaller and weaker than the rest of the pack. They’re mostly forced to do stuff alone, like eat after everyone else does or sleep separately while the rest of the pack sort of piles up together,” he said. “Sometimes, the rest of the pack bands together and just attacks the scapegoat for no reason.”

“They’re bullied,” I said.

“Right,” Sam said. His eyes were really bright; he got into this research stuff. Whenever it was his turn to talk and mine to take notes, I noticed he seemed really excited about what he learned. I guess I was, too, but this scapegoat stuff was depressing. “The rest of the pack bonds over picking on the scapegoat. So, in a way, that’s sort of that guy’s job.”

“Well, that’s stupid.” I dropped my pencil. I didn’t want to write any more notes about picked-on wolves. Suddenly, I hated wolves.

Sam just shrugged, though. “Yeah, but they’re not trying to be mean. It’s just the way their world works. Other wolves feel better about themselves—stronger, more capable, more important to the pack—by pointing out who is weaker and less capable.”

“Jerks,” I muttered. “Do the scapegoats ever fight back? Can they work their way back up to alphas?”