You’re Invited Too (10 page)

2 tbsp milk

1 small bag of chopped peanuts or colored sprinkles

Wash and dry the apples. Remove their stems and carefully insert a craft stick into the top of each apple. Coat a baking sheet with butter. Unwrap all the caramels and place them into a microwave-safe bowl with the milk. Microwave for one minute; then stir; then microwave for one more minute. Allow the caramel mixture to cool for a short while, and then roll each apple in the mixture. Once the apple is coated with caramel, dip it into the chopped peanuts or sprinkles. Place the apple on the baking sheet until the caramel coating cools completely.

**This is a really great snack to make with little kids.

**Or with friends who are getting braces and won't be able to have these for a while!

B
linding sun streams through the kitchen windows as I pull the breakfast scramble from the oven. As much as I never minded living with just Dad in our trailer at Sandpiper Pines Mobile Home Park, I will seriously miss this amazing kitchen and the view of the beach when Meemaw comes back home. She was only supposed to be in Maine for the summer, but she said she was having so much fun with the friends she was visiting that she decided to keep the cottage she was renting up there for a few more months. When Dad heard, he frowned. He thinks she's only staying there so that we can keep living in her house. And there's nothing Dad hates more than charity.

While the casserole dish cools on the counter, I drop the exact number of scoops of ground beans into the coffeemaker's basket and press the start button. Sure enough, as soon as the coffee finishes gurgling into the pot, Dad appears in the doorway.

“Vi?” he asks as he rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. He's thrown on an old Tar Heels T-shirt and jeans, and his hair is sticking up every which way. He looks So Very Dad that I almost chicken out on my plan.

Almost. All it takes is Linney's sneering face popping into my head to remind me that I
have
to do this. That girl really dills my pickle, and I can't deal with her making fun of my dad the rest of the year.

“Good morning, Dad!” I say, way too chirpily. “There's coffee and breakfast scramble.” I cut a piece from the casserole dish. “It's got eggs and sausage and tomatoes.” I drop the plate on the table and go to fill his mug.

He eyes the plate. “I see that. And it looks great, sweetie. But . . . it's seven a.m. on a Saturday. Why are you up?”

I carefully place the coffee on the table and then fetch a fork and knife. “Oh, um . . . I have soccer practice this morning.”

“At ten, right?”

“Yeah . . .”
Come on, Vi. Just say it.
I've only been psyching myself up for this all week, and I have what I'm going to say all planned out. I just have to do it. Fish or cut bait, Meemaw would tell me.

Dad digs into his food, and I fill a plate for myself. Except I'm not really hungry. I sit down and fold my napkin into triangles.

“This is really good,” Dad says through a mouthful of eggs. He looks up at me, and I open my mouth to say what I planned . . . and shovel a forkful of food into it instead.

“Thanks.” I barely get the words out past the food.

Dad's done in about three bites. He picks up his coffee and leans back in his chair. He's studying me like he's never seen me before. Which is so not helping. I push a piece of sausage across my plate.

“Oh wait,” he says softly. “I know what this is about.”

“You do?” I look up, really hoping he brings up the subject himself. That would make this
so
much easier.

He goes red under what's left of his summer tan. “It's about that Travis boy, isn't it? The one you went to the Founder's Day dance with.”

I choke on the orange juice I just tried to swallow. Dad passes me another napkin as I cough.

“Now, Vi, sweetie, he's a great kid, and his family is good people, but you're twelve. And maybe I'm a little old-fashioned, but that's just too young for dating. I know it's weird to talk to me about this, but since your mother isn't here . . . well, I'm glad you brought it up anyway.”

Except I didn't bring it up. I take a huge gulp of orange juice, partly to stop coughing and partly so I don't have to say anything just yet. Because Lance is not—not
at all
—what I wanted to talk to Dad about. In fact, he's probably the last thing I'd ever want to talk to Dad about.

I drain my glass. Dad's looking at me all expectantly, like he's not sure if I'm going to fight him on the no-boyfriends thing. Which is so embarrassing and so not at all on my mind right now. Mostly.

Deep breath, Vi. Just say it.

“Um . . . it's not about Lance . . . ,” I finally say. And I swear Dad sags a little bit in his chair, like he's just dropped a bag of rocks. “It's about . . . I want you to quit your job.”

There. Said it.

And watching Dad frown, I feel like the biggest jerk ever.

He takes a sip of coffee. I flatten out my napkin on my knee and start folding triangles all over again.

“First,” he finally says, “if I did that, I'd have to go back to construction, and that means I'd miss all of your soccer games.”

Right. I'd hate that, but it'd be worth it to get Linney off my back at school.

“Second, you realize that was the first Founder's Day I've been to in years? And I liked it, even the old-people-on-a-cruise-ship game. If I didn't have this new job, I would've missed seeing you get all dressed up.”

That's true. Before we were old enough to go around town by ourselves, I usually tagged along to Founder's Day stuff with Sadie's family. It was nice to see Dad out that day, for a change.

“And third, didn't you buy us those kayaks so we could paddle together? I can't do that if I work all the time. And I like this job. Sure, it ain't a job that comes with an office or anything, but I like it. I like being around the kids and knowing that I'll get off work at five o'clock every day.”

The whole time he's been talking, I've felt as if I swallowed a piece of gum. And that gum's been sitting in my stomach like a water balloon that keeps growing and growing and growing.

I'm starting to wish I hadn't said anything at all.

Dad drains his coffee and goes to refill the mug. I clear the table, as quietly as possible, kind of hoping he won't say anything else.

“I know I embarrass you,” he says.

I drop the dishes into the sink a little too hard, and one of Meemaw's pretty shell-patterned plates cracks right across the middle.

“Dad . . . ,” I start, but, really, I don't know what to say right now.
I'm sorry I don't care that this job makes you happy
?
I'm sorry I'm a shallow meanie who only cares about what people think of me
?

“Being twelve is hard,” he says. “I get that. But the Vi I know—the one who plays a mean game of soccer, the one who's stood up to that Linney girl for years—that Vi wouldn't care.” He holds up the lid to the kitchen trash can as I dump the two pieces of plate into it.

I want to agree with him and say that of course I don't care what Linney thinks. But then I flash back to that whole scene in the school hallway, with Becca by my side and that new French guy coming to my rescue.

Maybe that's it. Maybe I don't want to be rescued. But it wasn't as if I was standing up for myself right then. And I don't know why I wasn't.

“So I'm sorry if my job embarrasses you, but I'm not going to quit.” Dad puts his mug into the sink. “Thank you for breakfast.”

And then he's gone.

•  •  •

If it hadn't been crack-of-dawn a.m. and if I didn't have practice in a few hours, I would've sent the Bat Signal to Sadie, Lauren, and Becca. Instead I baked six dozen muffins for no reason, and then Dad drove me to soccer. After the most uncomfortable car ride ever, I had to spend the whole practice ignoring Lance, who kept staring at me every time we got anywhere near each other. I don't even know why—it's not as if he likes me. He made it pretty clear at the Founder's Day dance that he's into Linney. And ever since then, she's been eating lunch at his table. Mostly, I pretend to ignore them, because it's easier that way.

I snagged a ride home with Evan Miller, so at least I didn't have to feel so guilty sitting next to Dad again. His new green kayak was gone when I got back, too. So I texted Lauren, who talked to me for a few minutes before her alarm went off to remind her that it was time to finish her pre-algebra homework. Then I got ready as fast as possible for Becca's sleepover, even though it technically didn't begin till five. And I tried not to think about Dad in his kayak, wondering why he isn't good enough for his own daughter.

I drop my bike under Becca's house and haul my overnight bag up the stairs. Cooper, the resident Lab at Polka Dot Books next door, barks and jumps with all of his doggy enthusiasm against the wooden fence.

“Hey, buddy.” I hang over the railing on the top step and wave at him.

“Hey, buddy, yourself.” Becca's opened the door. “Why are you here so early? Not that I mind, of course. I need someone who can com . . . comser . . .”

“Commiserate?” I suggest. It's been Lauren's word of the week, and I think we've all heard it in every possible way it can be used by now. Lauren's going to be single-handedly responsible for all of us acing the SAT in high school.

“Yeah, that,” Becca says. She slumps against the door frame. “Because my life is over.”

“Becs, they're only braces. I mean, yeah, you can't eat a few things, but it's not that horrible.” I dump my bag inside the door, underneath the Sandpiper Beach Citizens of the Year awards honoring Becca's parents, and head straight for the kitchen. “And besides, this party is all about having one last blast, right? You'll eat so much of that stuff tonight, you won't be able to miss it for the next couple of years.”

Becca trudges behind me. “It's not that. Well, maybe it is a little. But mostly it's my face! I'm gonna be a brace-face, and Philippe will never, ever, ever in a hundred million years find that cute.”

“Philippe?” I stop in the middle of pulling out ingredients for caramel apples.

“He's just . . . really nice. And megacute. Don't give me that look! I
know
I swore off boys. It doesn't really even matter now, does it? Plus we have school pictures next week, remember? So when I'm fifty and trying to recapture my youth by looking at my seventh-grade picture, all I'll remember is braces.”

Poor Becca looks so upset. I give her a hug. Then I hand her a bag of caramel candy to unwrap. “Put that in a bowl so we can melt it, okay? I promise cooking will make you feel better. It always works for me. I baked a pile of muffins this morning. Which means we've got breakfast for tomorrow.” I nod toward my backpack in the living room.

Becca slowly unwraps the caramels while she looks at me. “What happened? Did you run into Lance and Linney?”

Ugh. Why does
everyone
think everything has to do with Lance? “No. Wait, why would I have run into them together? Are they, like . . . boyfriend and girlfriend?”

Becca shrugs. “No, I don't think so. But she's been hanging out at Stewie's a lot. So if it isn't Lance, what's bothering you so much that you had to bake?”

I run water over a bunch of apples in the sink and start scrubbing them dry. I'm not really sure I want to talk about it. Becca would totally get it, of course. She was there for the whole awful puke scene, and she was even there when Dad announced he'd gotten the job at school. She looked about as horrified as I felt about that news.

But it's Becca's birthday party, and honestly, I don't really feel like talking about it. If I could go the rest of the night without thinking about that look on Dad's face, I'd feel a whole lot better.

“I don't really want to talk about it,” I say.

So we make caramel apples, and I listen to Becca worry about how much the braces will hurt and whether anyone will call her names (which is crazy, really, since lots of girls in our class have already gotten braces) and whether she'll have the braces off before she's in high school and goes to prom and whether she should get all one color bands or mix it up with two or three.

By the time Sadie and Lauren arrive, we've not only got caramel apples; we've also got deep-dish pizza (Dr. Bernstein told Becca that the crust can damage her braces; who knew pizza crust was so dangerous?), saltwater taffy, bowls and bowls of every flavor of popcorn we could think of, sunflower seeds, and even beef jerky, which Becca said she was only going to eat because she wouldn't be allowed to eat it after Monday.

“Ooh, popcorn!” Lauren digs a hand into the nearest bowl. “I've been studying pretty much all day. I am
so
ready for this party!”

“Pizza! I'm starving.” Sadie goes to grab a slice, and I have to smack both their hands away.

“Let's get it all upstairs first,” I tell them. Becca's parents have a strict no-eating-in-your-bedroom rule, which totally makes sense since food could get lost really easily in Becca's room, but I guess Becca was so miserable that they decided to bend it for tonight.

Upstairs, we shove aside piles of clothes and school papers and things I can't identify (I swear I think I saw some squished papier-mâché we did in second grade). Then we eat and eat and eat. Becca wants to watch her favorite teen-romance movies, since, she says, “This stuff will never happen to me now.” That just sounds way too depressing, so we talk her out of it and into dressing up and taking pictures instead. Which is So Very Becca.

“Then you won't care about your school pictures because you'll have these to look at instead!” Sadie says as Becca pulls on the fanciest dress she owns.