Monkey Business (12 page)

We carried our supplies over to his truck and got
to work scrubbing and rinsing and scrubbing some more. Somehow, instead of merely cleaning the car, we came out looking as if we'd magically transferred all the filth from his car onto our bodies. And it turned out that his car had plenty of filth for the five of us! The car looked great and the dude was so thrilled, he gave us a two-dollar tip.

We hung out at the Home Depot parking lot for another hour, and we managed to wash two more cars. By the end of the day all our ponytails had drooped. We were sunburned and exhausted and wet and tired.

“What's that smell?” asked Claire.

“Oh, that's me,” said Emma. “My deodorant isn't built for this kind of work!”

“To be fair, I think it's all of us,” said Yumi.

“How much do you think we made?” I wondered.

“Three hundred,” said Claire. “Maybe four.”

“I think two hundred and fifty is more accurate,” said Yumi.

“Well, that's still pretty good,” said Rachel.

“Maybe we'll be able to buy the tickets tonight,” I said. Then I reconsidered. “Or maybe after next weekend. Then we can retire.”

“That would be awesome,” Emma said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “Let's count so we know for sure.”

We all headed over to the corner of the parking lot
where we had our sign and extra supplies. Emma reached for our cash box and opened it up.

Then she began smoothing out the bills and counting. This took a while, since most of them were crumpled or folded, and some were even damp. But we were patient—all five of us kept our eyes on the money.

“And seventy-three,” Emma finished. She dug around the box and lifted up the top tray in search of stray bills, but there were none.

We looked at the pile of cash. So many bills added up to so little money.

“It's not that bad,” said Claire. “Right?”

“It's fine,” Emma said. “Definitely a huge improvement over last weekend, but it's not going to get us to the Panda Parade anytime soon.”

“Should we try again next weekend?” I asked.

“I don't know if it's worth it,” said Emma. “The All Saints car wash is happening for the next five weekends, and it's the biggest church in town. If we make seventy-three dollars every weekend for the next five weekends, that only comes to three hundred and sixty-five dollars—less than half of what we need.”

“So what are you saying?” asked Claire.

Emma sighed as she emptied a bucket of dirty water into the gutter. “I'm saying, doing the same thing every weekend is too risky. We need to think of something else.”

Just then a Taylor Swift song came on the radio, but instead of dancing to it, this time Rachel turned the music off. “I can't believe we failed again,” she said.

“Well, it could be worse,” said Yumi. “At least no one got injured today.”

My mom teaches high-school English. She has ever since I can remember. But on Monday night, over dinner, she told me she was going to take next year off. This news was so shocking to me, I almost dropped my fork.

“The entire year?” I asked. “What are you going to do?”

“Well, the baby will keep me busy,” she said.

“Oh, right,” I said, staring at her stomach. It seemed to be getting bigger and bigger by the day—if that were possible.

It was weird thinking about a human being growing inside her. And it was almost weirder for me to think about my mom not working and being at home all the time. When I was first born, she was in school and she finished nights, and my grandparents babysat for me. Then I went into day care so she could teach. Even in the summer, she usually taught summer school. As long as I'd been alive, she'd never not worked.

“Are you sure you're
allowed
to take a year off?” I asked. “What if they don't let you come back?”

My mom laughed. “Yes, I'm allowed, and I will go back. I worked it all out. I've been teaching for ten years straight—the school is willing to give me this time.”

“Oh,” I said. And I guess I had a pensive expression on my face because suddenly my mom ruffled my hair.

“Don't worry so much, Annabelle. The baby will be sleeping a lot, so I'll have plenty of time for you. We can hang out all the time. It'll be so much fun!”

I laughed at first, figuring my mom was kidding. Except by the look on her face, I realized she wasn't.

My mom really wanted to hang out with me all the time? Yikes! This was not exactly ideal. Don't get me wrong—I love my mom. A lot. She's my mom. Plus, she's fun and cool and easygoing as far as moms are concerned. But that didn't mean I wanted to spend the entire summer with her. I had a life—tons of friends and a boyfriend, too. I tried to think of a way to remind her of this, without being rude. But I couldn't. Anyway, my phone was vibrating in my back pocket. I pulled it out and read a text from Oliver:
What's up?

“No phones at the dinner table, sweetheart,” Ted gently reminded me.

“Sorry,” I said, looking up. “Um, may I please be excused?”

“Are you finished eating or just wanting to call your boyfriend?” my mom asked.

“How'd you know it was Oliver calling?” I wondered. “And for that matter, how did you know that Oliver was my boyfriend?”

“I could tell by the way you swooned,” she said.

“I did not swoon,” I said.

Ted laughed.

“I didn't,” I insisted. “Whatever swooning means. And by the way—I'm done eating
and
I want to call Oliver back. The two aren't mutually exclusive.”

“Well, then,” said Ted. “I guess you are free to go.”

I cleared my plate and ran upstairs and called Oliver.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I replied.

“Want to shoot some hoops?” he asked.

“Sure, but my hoop isn't up yet,” I told him.

“Too bad,” said Oliver. “Want to do something else?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Like what?”

“I don't know. How about if I come over and we can figure it out?”

I smiled. “Okay.”

“Cool—I'll meet you in front of your house in five.”

After we hung up I went to the bathroom and checked myself in the mirror. My hair was kind of tangled, probably from when my mom rumpled it—I'd have to get her to stop doing that. I ran my brush
through it a bunch of times. But then it got all flyaway and static-y, so I ended up pulling it into a ponytail, which I turned into a loose bun on the top of my head. I changed out of my new jeans and into some older jeans because I didn't want to seem too dressed up. And then I ran downstairs to wait outside on my front lawn for Oliver.

My lawn slopes down to the sidewalk, and I sat at the top of it, cross-legged, my elbows on my knees and my chin resting on my knuckles. I tried to look casual, as if my stomach weren't fluttering like crazy. It was fun having Oliver right down the street. We'd probably be hanging out like this a lot. Rachel and I used to meet outside after dinner on lots of nights too, back when I lived across the street from her.

I wondered what Rachel was doing now. Even though I'd been annoyed with her lately, I still missed her. Also, I'd been thinking about the situation a lot, and I guess I could understand her being upset that I moved away, but it didn't excuse her behavior. As I'd told her before, I didn't ask my parents to move away. I had no choice in the matter.

I was tired of her snide little comments. They always left me with this weird hollowed-out feeling inside. Not to mention a gazillion questions.

How could moving from one end of town to the other—simply a mile away—turn me into a snob? It seemed completely impossible. So where did her idea even come from? Or was I taking Rachel's comments
too seriously? Maybe she had been kidding around this whole time. Everyone makes a bad joke on occasion. Maybe she was having a week's worth of bad jokes.

Of course, someone once said to me that every single joke contained a kernel of truth. If that were the case, where was the truth in what Rachel was saying? I was the furthest thing from a snob in the whole entire universe. And I wasn't rich. It was true: we'd moved to a bigger house—and okay, the new neighborhood was nicer too. Or at least, it was filled with bigger houses. I wasn't sure if that made it nicer or not. Nicer seemed like a matter of opinion. My old house had been perfectly nice; same with the tiny apartment I had lived in with my mom before that, before Ted came into our lives.

But none of those facts had anything to do with me. Where I lived didn't make me who I was. And by the way, if you hadn't figured it out already—I was a very nice, not-at-all-snobby kid. I knew all this to be true, but I wasn't about to say it out loud in front of all my friends. Why did I need to defend myself? They all knew the truth about me, and that's why we were friends in the first place.

When Oliver showed up, he said, “Hey, sorry to keep you waiting. My mom made me take out the trash first and some of her coffee grinds got all over my sweatshirt and I had to change.”

“That's okay,” I said.

He got down on the lawn next to me, leaning back on his elbows with his legs kicked out in front of him. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Fine,” I said. “Why?”

“You seemed upset when I first saw you.”

“No, I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About Rachel. And how I used to live across the street from her. And how she's kind of acting all mad now that I don't, even though it's not my fault.”

It felt good, being so honest with Oliver. I couldn't really talk to any of my friends about the problem because my friends were Rachel's friends too.

“It's dumb for her to be mad at you for things you can't control,” said Oliver. “It's not like you asked your parents to move away from her and closer to me. Although I'm glad you did.”

“I'm glad I did too,” I said. “But it's not only the fact that I moved. She's acting like just because I live in Canyon Ranch now, I'm a snob, and she's treating me differently. And I haven't changed, have I?”

“Actually, I've been meaning to talk to you about that,” said Oliver. He had the most serious expression on his face, like he was about to give me horrible news. “You have changed, and I feel as if I don't know you anymore.”

“What?” I cried.

Just then he smiled, and his slow smile turned
into a laugh. He clapped his hands once. “I totally got you, Annabelle!”

I punched Oliver's arm.

“Ouch!” he said, rubbing it.

“That didn't hurt,” I said. “And if it did—good. You totally deserved it.”

He laughed again. “Come on, I was only having fun.”

“But this is serious. Rachel's, like, my very best friend.”

“Then you need to talk to her,” he said.

“But what do I say? ‘I don't like your jokes'? They hurt my feelings. It's hard to know when she'll be nice or mean, so I'm always caught off guard.”

“Do you want me to talk to her?” he asked. “Because I totally will.”

Getting Oliver involved seemed weird and unnecessary, but I still felt flattered that he offered, like he wanted to protect me or something. It was sweet. Even though I knew I had to handle this myself, I was still curious.

“What would you say?” I asked.

“Back off my girlfriend,” said Oliver in a fake-tough guy voice as he shook his fists. “Or else there'll be trouble.”

I laughed.

“What? I don't sound super-intimidating?” he asked. “Should I flex my muscles instead?”

“What muscles?” I asked.

This time Oliver socked me in the arm.

“Ouch!” I said. “Okay, no more punching. Truce?”

“Truce,” he repeated.

We shook hands and I smiled at him. “You're too sweet to sound intimidating, and I mean that as a compliment.”

Oliver shrugged. “Whatever. I hate to see you upset. It's not fair. I think you need to talk to her. Honesty is the best policy. I know that's a cliché, but it's true.”

“I wish it were that simple,” I said with a sigh. “But don't worry. I'll be fine.”

“Okay,” he said. “Hey, want to see this new trick I learned on my skateboard?”

“Sure.”

He got up and ran back to his house and came back with his skateboard, which was black with a purple skeleton face on the top and neon green wheels. He was also sporting a matching helmet.

“Don't laugh about the helmet,” he said. “My mom makes me wear it.”

“That's okay,” I said. “It's probably a good idea.”

Oliver got a serious look on his face as he buckled the chin strap on his helmet. Then he headed to the top of my driveway. “Ready?” he asked.

“Yup,” I replied.