She thought she could just show up and work on our science thing? Without calling ahead to make plans?
I already have plans. I’m going to go to the water cave to collect more coral rock, then use it to patch up the hole in my castle. Then I have to fix the water damage in the hall, and then I’ll finally be able to organize my armory, which I’ve been dying to do forever. I need a big block of time to do that, so I can log and chart everything in a spreadsheet and decide how best to sort it. And then watching Legs this evening. I have the entire rest of my day planned and full of glorious awesomeness.
I can’t just leave her standing there, though.
Two helium balloons . . . three peeing on plants . . .
I hop off the treadmill, take the steps two at a time, then unlock the front door and swing it open.
Meg is halfway down the sidewalk, striding away from the house, but she must hear the door open because she whirls around to face me. “Oh, I thought you weren’t home,” she calls out.
So I could have just waited and she’d have left? Crap, screwed that one up!
“Sorry, I was working out,” I say, still breathing hard, though not from the exercise.
She drops the skateboard she’s holding, hops onto it, starts speeding toward the front step, then kicks back or something and thrusts herself and the board into the air. She almost lands on the top step, but then her skateboard goes skittering out from under her, and she bashes her knee into the porch column. I lurch forward to help her, but before I can even reach out my hand, she’s already back on her feet, grinning. “Still working on that one.” She rubs her knee, still grinning, then scoops up her skateboard. “Okay if I bring this in? Don’t want it to get stolen.”
I blink at her. “You skateboard?”
“I’ve been trying it out. Stephen-the-Leaver gave this to my brother, and he didn’t want it, and I don’t believe in trashing things just because they’re from Stephen-the-Leaver. I mean, why should I deprive myself just because he’s a jerk? Anyway, I was just trying some jumps at the park down the street—it’s got some good benches for it—and I realized I was near your house and I thought I’d see if you were home, because I have this really cool idea for our science thing. You free?”
“No!” I want to yell at her. “I’m not free. You can’t just show up here and expect me to be available! I have plans. That armory won’t sort itself.”
I guess our science project won’t do itself either, though. And she’s voluntarily offering to work on it. That was something my last partner never did.
“You said you have an idea?” I ask.
She grins. “Sure do. Just thought of it.”
It would be nice to have the brainstorming done and not have to worry about that part anymore. Maybe we could have our topic ready to submit to Mr. Carter by Monday—a couple of weeks early. I’d have to change my afternoon plans, though. I hate changing plans.
I take a deep breath and do my best to smile at her. “I guess now’s fine. I just have something on at five, so I have to make sure we’re done by then.” I kick myself as soon as the words leave my mouth. Five is two entire hours away. I should have lied and said it was at four. Or even in half an hour. Now I have no excuse to evacuate if things get awkward. “Come on in.”
She steps inside and leans the skateboard against the hallway wall. She’s not wearing a coat, but she strips off her fingerless orange mittens and tosses them onto a nearby chair. Then she follows me into the living room.
I gesture toward the couch, but she either doesn’t notice or chooses to ignore me, because instead she wanders over to the wall of shelves. This is why I hate spending time with people. It’s like when I started playing The Sims and didn’t realize you could turn off free will. I kept telling my Sim to go to the bathroom, but she kept ignoring me and playing on the computer and dancing and eating until eventually she just peed on the floor.
I mean, what exactly am I supposed to do now? Sit down on the chair like I had planned? Join her by the shelves? I haven’t even offered her a drink yet, which makes me a terrible host.
One lemonade . . . two chocolate milk . . .
Right, just offer her a drink. That’s something I can do. “Do you want—”
“Okay, so I was thinking about this, and what if we threw cantaloupes off the roof? I mean, not just threw them. My six-year-old brother could do that. He’s technically my half brother. Nolan and Kenzie. I call them the halflings. Of course Nolan never would throw cantaloupe. He’s a goody-goody. Who’s this?”
“I—um—what?” Is she talking about science?
She points toward the shelf. I’ve been backing away toward the kitchen to get us drinks, so I have to step toward her and lean to the side to see which picture frame she’s pointing at. “Oh, that’s my brother, Luke.”
“Is he around? He’s cute.”
“No. Toronto. University.” For the first time the words are a relief instead of a knife in my gut. The last thing I need is for her to start flirting with my brother.
“Too bad.” She sets the photo down and continues her survey of the wall. “I know the cantaloupe thing sounds simple, but you can take something that a toddler could do and make it complex, right? And epic. We could totally do that with the cantaloupe. This guy’s adorable.”
“What? My granddad?” I’ve given up on my quest to get drinks—keeping up with this girl requires my full attention—so this time I can easily see which picture she’s looking at. I try to see the adorableness she mentioned, but all I see is the rosy skin that’s since gone gray, the white hair that covered his head, the cheeks that hadn’t yet sunk into his face. I look away from the picture.
“Is that who this is? Yeah, I love the bow tie. And those eyebrows. Have you ever seen eyebrows like that before?”
“Well, sure, I mean, he lives here.” At least his eyebrows haven’t changed.
“Okay, yeah, obviously on your granddad himself. But I meant other than that. I bet you haven’t.”
“I—” I break off and bite my lip. How did we end up talking about eyebrows? This is not what I let her come in and ruin my afternoon plans for. “You were saying something about cantaloupe?”
“Have you read this book?” she asks. I shake my head without even looking at the cover, and she slides it back onto the shelf, then picks up another. “Okay, yeah, with the cantaloupe, we could get some fancy equipment and test the force of impact depending on what we throw it at—grass or concrete or wood or whatever. Or maybe . . . what’s it called . . . that speed thing . . . velocity? Depending on the weather. Like would a cantaloupe drop slower on a windy day?”
“Did you find that idea on the internet?” It didn’t come up in any of my searches.
“Nope, in my brain.” She taps her forehead, then shrugs. “We don’t have to do that. I don’t know where we’d get the equipment for it anyway. Can I borrow this? It looks good.” She holds up the book she’s been thumbing through.
“Um—I—I guess so?” I don’t mean for it to come out as a question.