The Summer I Saved the World ... in 65 Days (10 page)

“I had to! That was the only way you were going to jump!”

“We screamed the whole way.”

Hitting the water, I thought I was going to drown. I plummeted so deep into the shocking cold that I thought,
This is how I'm going to die
. Jorie grabbed my arm and pulled me to the shore. Then brought me my towel. Wrapped me up and rubbed my back until my teeth stopped chattering.

She lifts her head. “It was fun that day. One of our best times.”

“Jor.” I blink back a tear, then lean against her.

She takes my hand.

For a split second of our lives, we are right there with each other.

“I love you too,” I whisper.

She closes her eyes. “It's hard. So much effort. Being
on
all the time …”

I think about her seventh birthday party. And now her new group. The guy with the plaid shorts throwing her water bottle.

“Then don't do it,” I say. “Just be yourself. Remember, everyone else is already taken.”

Jorie shakes her head. “But I want to.”

We turn into the cul-de-sac, and the moment evaporates.

“Look!” Jorie squeals.

Eli's shooting baskets in his driveway. No shirt on.

“Oh my God,” she breathes.

I have to agree.

“Mom, let us out.” Jorie unbuckles and scoots forward. Her mom stops, and Jorie tumbles out the door. “Hey!” she calls, in a voice that gives “hey” a whole new meaning.

Do I follow? Sit in the car? No rack of tank tops to hide behind.

“Are you getting out?” Jorie's mom asks.

“Um.”

“I'll pull into our garage,” she offers.

“Okay. Thank you.”

I think that was a good thing from her. In some weird way.

“I like your shirt today,” I tell her. “That color looks really good on you.”

She smiles at me in the rearview mirror. “Really? I wondered if it was a little too young for me.”

“No, it's cute.”

She gets out of the car and squeezes my arm. “Thanks for noticing.”

Okay, that's number thirty-five.

I'm more than halfway to my goal of sixty-five good things. Some of them haven't been exactly anonymous, but who says I can't change the rules midway? It's my plan, right?

I
'm walking toward my house, trying not to look at Jorie and Eli, when Thomas runs up in his scarred cape. I kneel, and he practically knocks me over with his fierce hug.

“The cape still works okay?” I ask.

“Yeah! But who fixed it?”

I grin at him. “Someone I know with special powers.”

If only this was true, then I could fix a lot more things.

“Who?” he demands.

“A person who tries to be good,” I whisper. “And fight off enemies, just like you.” He nods. “So are you catching a lot of criminals?”

He makes a muscle. “Yep! Lots of bad guys around here. But I'm tough!”

I feel his upper arm. “You sure are.” Out of the corner of my eye I see Jorie softly punch Eli's bare stomach. He grabs her little fist, and she fake yells, “Ow!”

Well.

“I'm going home, Thomas. I'll see you later, okay?”

“Don't go!” he cries. “Want to help me kill the bad guys?”

I shake my head. “You don't want to kill them. Just put them in jail, right?”

He frowns, then motions for me to come closer. He cups his mouth with his hand and whispers, “Eli says Daddy has to give Mommy some money or else he might go to jail!”

I look at Eli. What's going on?

“Daddy comes over. Mommy and Daddy fight. Daddy goes away. Eli tries to find him and get the money.”

Oh.

I pick Thomas up, and he cries a little on my shoulder. I carry him back to his mixed-up house and set him down on the grass.

“Thanks,” Eli says, ruffling Thomas's hair.

“Nina,” Jorie says, laughing. “You're such a mom!”

Thomas is up in a second, leaping through the air, his cape streaming behind him.

Eli smiles as Thomas slashes a bush with his sword. He glances at me. “So you sewed his cape, right? That day you watched him?”

“Yeah.”

“He kept asking me how it got fixed. I finally told him it was this new superhero called Mystery Girl. He loved that.”

“My secret identity.”

“Something everyone should have,” Eli says, and nods.

“I don't get it.” Jorie looks from Eli to me. “What are you guys talking about?”

Eli picks up the basketball.

“Tell me!” Jorie begs.

Eli shoots the ball. He's got a few curls of hair on his chest. Where did those come from? I don't know if I'm grossed out or fascinated.

“Okay,” Jorie says. “Don't tell me.”

Eli tosses me the ball, and I catch it. “Two on one?” he says, raising an eyebrow, looking from me to Jorie.

Another thing I can do besides sew—shoot a basketball. Matt taught me. The distance from the edge of our grass to our basket is about the same as the distance in Eli's driveway. I back up, bouncing the ball.

Jorie puts her hands on her hips. “You can't make it from there. Anyway, Eli's been showing me how to do a layup.”

Eli tips his chin. “Go ahead, Neen.”

Swish.

He bounces the ball back to me. “Shoot till you miss.”

I make four more; then the ball hits the rim.

“Okay, my turn,” Jorie sings.

“I gotta go anyway,” I say.

“You sure?” Eli grins. “Jorie could
definitely
use your help.”

Jorie gives him a little push. “Shut up.”

I start walking toward my house. “It's okay. You guys play. I have to do something for art that's due tomorrow.”

“Nina!” Eli shouts.

I turn back. I'm on my grass. Eli chucks me the ball. “Try it.”

“From here?”

“No way,” Jorie says.

I focus on the basket. This would be the shot of a lifetime. I heave the ball with all my strength, like I'm doing the shot put or something. It misses by several feet.

Jorie grabs the ball. “I knew you weren't
that
good.”

I turn, head toward my front door.

“Nice try, though,” Eli calls.

“Hey, Eli,” I hear Jorie say. “What's your favorite color?”

I stop.

“I don't know. Blue?” he says.

S
unset that night. I'm sitting on our front step, thinking how much the colors look like Mrs. Chung's marigolds, which have grown and spread. They look like marigolds on steroids. Must be the magical work of the
kumiho
.

I'm trying not to think about Jorie and Eli.

The Cantaloni boys are out as usual, playing baseball, but this time, Thomas is with them. “Can you pitch?” Jack asks him. Thomas nods and puts down his sword. Their four outlines are silhouetted against the orange and gold sky.

Jack looks my way. “If the ball goes into the weeds, will you get it, Nina?”

“Sure!”

Matt drives up, parks the Jeep in front of our house. He's in his bathing suit, a towel around his shoulders. He gets out and shakes his wet hair.

He spots me. “What're you doing?”

I shrug. “Just sitting.”

He takes off the towel and pretends to snap it at me. “How's
The Alchemist
going?”

“Not good.”

“I can give you my old notes. Except”—he laughs—“I got a C in that class.”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Okay, I gotta shower.” He walks past me, opens the door. “Hey, you should come to the pool sometime. I could get you in for free.”

Who would I go with? I think about Jorie, Eli, Sariah, and my old group, who are supposed to be back soon. I'm in between everything.

“Maybe.”

Matt goes inside as Jack hits the ball. It flies into the weeds. “Nina!” he shouts. I run over and look but can't find it. “I think this one's gone, guys.”

Jack gets another ball from their garage. “You're like our camp counselor.”

“Yeah!” Thomas grins. “Camp Nina!”

“Can you play the outfield?” Jack asks me.

I smile and back up toward the Millmans'. “I'll cover left.”

Thirty-six?

We play a while, and when it's dark, their moms call them inside. I'm walking home, and I see something stuck to the side of our mailbox. I didn't notice it before—a folded piece of plain white paper. It's a note, in small, neat printing. It says,
Thank you.—Les Dembrowski
.

So much for being anonymous.

I tuck the note into my pocket, then climb into the hammock and stretch out. Let me just review here. Mrs. Chung was elated with the marigolds, Mr. Millman and Mrs. Cantaloni are buds, Mrs. Bennett uses the foot pads every day, Mr. Millman enjoys cigars, Thomas is playing with the Cantaloni boys
and
continues to fight neighborhood crime with his repaired cape. Mr. Dembrowski is well fed, and thankful.

I unfold Mr. D.'s note and read it again, then look around at our Fertile Crescent on a starry summer night.

Mrs. Millman is right about this.
Something
is going on in this neighborhood.

Because of me.

S
ariah must have seen me in the store at the mall. She's avoiding me in art. I brought her a cup of water for rinsing her paintbrushes when I got one for myself, but she didn't even look up. I said hi a few times, but she acted like she didn't hear.

The thing is, I'm not even sure I want to be friends with her. She doesn't know me like Jorie does … that I'm scared of deep water or I'm “such a mom” or I have a habit of dropping phones.

At the breaks, I'm back to sitting on the edge of Jorie's group.

Mrs. Cantaloni is now huge. How can skin stretch that much? Being pregnant looks painful. I'd like to give Jack another bottle of lotion, but Mom might notice something is missing. Plus he'd probably make it explode again.

37. I feel bad for Mrs. Bennett, now that Thomas told me about their dad. Those gel shoe pads are good for her feet but don't help with the big picture. Not that this will either, but I find a ceramic flowerpot in our basement, dig up a few of Mrs. Chung's marigolds, plant them in the pot, and leave it on Mrs. Bennett's doorstep.

38. I put a note in Mr. Dembrowski's mailbox:
You're welcome
. I don't need to sign it.

I have something big planned for number forty. I've been thinking about it for a while. It's something I should have done a long time ago. Actually, something me, Jorie, and Eli should have done, but now that they're practically a couple, I'll just do it myself. Which is okay. Sort of.

Art goes extra slowly today. (We're working on perspective and vanishing points.) Then, finally, Jorie and I are walking to the buses. A silver minivan pulls up, and the door slides open. Eli calls, “Want a ride?” Two guys are in the front seats.

Jorie takes off, running unsteadily in her wedges, tote bag bouncing against her hip. “Absolutely! Nina,
come on!” Before I reach the car, she plops herself into the middle seat next to Eli. I climb into the way back like a little kid.