Serendipity and Me (9781101602805) (10 page)

 

Already I'm missing

the feel of her in my arms.

Six hours is a long time to wait

for a cuddle.

Six hours of clock-watching

and busywork.

Six hours of hard chairs

and hard pencils.

Six hours is too long

without her.

 

What will I do

if she has to go?

 

 

 

Kelli looks different today.

She's sitting even straighter

and tossing her shiny hair

and laughing

without covering her mouth.

 

I think that could be me

if I were glowing from stardom

 

but I feel pasty from the flu

and I have nothing at school

to laugh about.

 

Then Taylor raises her fingers at me

like silly cat claws

and she grins

 

and laughter

bubbles out of my body

just as free and light

as the ting-a-ling

of a Tinker Bell chime.

 

 

Something has happened

while I've been gone.

It seems to revolve around the thimble

that Wendy gave Peter

and Peter gave back—

 

a substitute for a kiss.

 

There is a kind of energy

in the classroom

that has to do with giggling girls

and oohing boys

 

and thimbles appearing mysteriously

on people's desks.

 

I'm not sure

if the pretend kisses

are real wishes

or just teasing.

 

But I'm pretty sure

 

I'm not a part

of any of it

anymore.

 

 

 

Garrett gets up to sharpen his pencil

and I can't help but watch him.

He moves so easily and confidently.

 

Our Neverland time is over

but yesterday's smile gave me hope

for real time.

 

Now I'm not sure where

that Garrett went.

 

I stare at the back of his head

and wonder if his hair

is as soft as my kitten's.

 

As he passes Kelli's desk

his hand makes a quick movement

and suddenly

there is a folded triangle note

in front of her.

 

What happened between my Peter Pan

and the Wendy-imposter?

 

And if not for the flu

 

would that note

have been for me?

 

 

 

When I get home

Serendipity is waiting for me

in the window.

 

I open the door

drop my backpack

and give her a quick snuggle.

 

But something in the air

is wrong.

 

No Dad-greeting.

 

I go through the house to find him.

He is in the kitchen

kneeling in front of the potted tree

digging in the dirt with an old spoon

wearing a disgusted face.

 

What's wrong?
I ask.

 

That cat,
he says

did her business in this pot.

 

The kitchen smells bad.

Not like burned food

or spoiled milk

or rotten fruit . . .

 

like bad kitten.

 

 

 

Now is definitely not the time

to ask questions.

But I have to ask one eventually

after the smell weakens.

When are we going to buy cat food?

 

Dad raises his eyebrows at me.

Do we really want

to put anything more in

now that we know what comes out?

 

Serendipity mews and I take a chance

hold her up near his face

and say in a kitty-voice

Please feed me, kind sir.

 

Dad smiles with his eyes

 

his mouth still holding

those petrified tears.

 

 

 

We walk to the store

like we walk everywhere.

 

Dad hasn't replaced the car

since The Accident.

 

Dad tells me I should

bring along the posters

to put up on the way.

 

He mentions utility poles

and bulletin boards

at the used book store

and the coffee hangout.

 

I tell him the posters

aren't quite ready yet

and I'll do it later

with Taylor.

 

I'm beginning to think

I really am a good actress

because he buys it.

 

Aren't parents supposed to know

when their kids are lying?

 

Dad and I slip silently past the stone dorm

where Mom used to live.

 

Two kittens

are in one window

 

looking like fuzzy slippers,

the same as Serendipity.

They must be the same age.

 

Once before when we saw

a cat in a dorm window,

Dad told me

students aren't supposed

to have pets in their rooms.

 

 

I have a funny feeling

that is Jocelyn's window.

 

I see Dad notice the kittens,

blink,

and turn away

 

like he hadn't seen

Serendipity's family

watching us walk by.

 

 

 

I see Taylor's mom

in the cereal aisle

and an awful scene

begins to play in my mind.

 

Dad bringing up the kitten situation.

Taylor's mom knowing nothing about it.

Me—busted.

Taylor an accomplice.

 

Dad,
I call

pointing to something

in the opposite direction

like a cliché in a movie.

 

Dad looks at what I'm pointing to

and so do I.

It's a tabloid with a headline about aliens

and a fuzzy green impossible picture.

 

He looks at me with a question

etched in his face.

It's a where-did-I-go-wrong question

a that-settles-it

no-more-stupid-movies decision.

 

He's ready to lock me in my room

with books, the old classics.

 

But it's okay.

Taylor's mom has left the building.