Oliver glanced down at me, blinking a few times in slow motion and reminding me of Mr. Snuffleupagus on Sesame Street. “Why are you apologizing?” he asked. “Did you do this?”
“What? No! No, of course not.” I shook my head and crossed my arms. “No, I just . . . I’m sorry this is your first day and people are treating you like this.”
He pulled a brown-bag lunch out of his backpack (so new that I could see where either he or his mom had forgotten to remove the sales tag) and shoved it into his locker. The milk cartons were still thudding against the door, drawing even more attention to the spectacle. Behind me, I heard someone’s camera phone click. “Like what?” he asked.
“Like . . .” I gestured toward the locker. Like what, Emmy? Like a kid who was missing and then came home? Like the new kid who has to be hazed? Like Caro said, it’s milk, not arsenic.
And then Oliver blinked again and it was like a shutter went off in his own eyes so I could see the picture of the anger, the hurt, the embarrassment. It was a private viewing just for me, gone a second later when he blinked once more and his face smoothed back into its normal, passive shape.
“Emily, right?” he said.
It took me a few seconds to realize he meant me. No one ever called me Emily, not unless they were my parents and they were furious. “Um, yeah,” I said. “Emmy, actually.” It felt odd to introduce myself to him all over again.
“Want some milk?” he asked. He snapped a carton from its wire and handed it to me before I could even answer. “In case you’re vitamin D deficient. Courtesy of our classmates.”
“But I—I’m not—okay, thanks.” The carton was cold, which meant someone had done it right before school started.
Small mercies. The milk could have been spoiled.
Oliver slammed his locker shut, then took his own carton, opened the top, and drank the whole thing in one gulp as he walked down the hallway. Just before he rounded the corner, he sank it into a trash can.
“What did he say?” Caro said, suddenly at my elbow again.
“He gave this to me,” I said, showing her the carton.
“Yeah, I know, genius, but what did he say? Is he pissed?”
I couldn’t help but smile as I shook my head. “He said I could have this in case I had a vitamin deficiency.” I handed it to her as she frowned at me. “And he called me Emily.”
Caro wrinkled her nose. “Do you think he’s . . . you know . . . ?” Caro tapped her index finger against her temple. “Addled?”
“No,” I laughed. “No, I think he’s really smart.”
“Well, I hope so, for your sake.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“Because it’s Wednesday.”
Wednesday.
“Oh my God,” I said, whirling to face her. “It’s Wednesday.”
“That’s right.” She smiled and handed the milk carton back to me. “Babysitting night.”
CHAPTER SIX
I’ve been babysitting for Nora and Molly off and on for the past six months. It was originally my idea. I needed cash to buy a new surfboard and wet suit because my old ones no longer fit me, and Maureen had asked me to watch the girls that night so she and Rick could have a date night. Which, judging from the tension that always seems to be between them whenever I go there, they desperately need.
“Oh, hi, Emmy. Hi!” Maureen said when I let myself in through the back door. She was fluttering through the kitchen, stacking magazines and newspapers on top of the counter before going to fluff the couch cushions. Their house has always looked impeccable, even after the twins were born. My dad says that Maureen has control issues.
“Well, wouldn’t you if your child was kidnapped?” my mom always says in her defense. “You have to do something, you might as well dust.”
“Is that what you would do if I went missing?” I had asked her, incredulous. “Dust?”
“It’s a metaphor, sweetie.”
I do not think my mom understands the meaning of metaphor.
“Hi, Emmy!”
“Hi, Emmy!”
I glanced up to see the twins looking at me through the banister. “Hey, ladies!” I said to them. “What are you doing up there?”
“Playing spies!” Nora whispered in a way that, not to be critical, was not very spy-like at all. Next to her, Molly nodded.
Molly definitely had the better chance of making it into the CIA.
“I left money for pizza—” Maureen said.
“Pizza!” Molly cried, pumping her fist in the air.
“Pizza!” Nora echoed.
“—and Oliver’s upstairs if you need anything. Rick’s still at work so I’m going to meet him and . . .” Maureen trailed off as she wiped crumbs off the crumb-less table. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t even think I should be going out tonight.”
The pizza celebration stopped midcry.
“You should go,” I told her. “We’ll be fine. We’re going to do awesome, fun things. Right, you guys?”
“Yeah!” Nora said.
“I’m not a guy, I’m a girl,” Molly announced as she trooped down the stairs. “And I want pizza.”
Maureen took a deep breath. “I’m just not sure that it isn’t too soon. The therapist said it’s important to stick to a routine but—”
Nora came over so she could hang on to my leg. Her hands were probably sticky and I tried to peel her off without wincing. “The therapist said that I’m a good colorer,” she said, head tilting back so she could look up at me. “I can see up your nose!”