“Sure,” I say, glancing at the blue sky and thinking that it should be illegal to comment on the weather in San Diego. I look at the slow-moving numbers on the pump and wonder if I should stop it, then start again to see if it’ll go faster.
“Do you go to Woodbury?” the woman asks, gesturing toward school.
“Uh-huh,” I say. “I’m on lunch break.”
The woman nods, then tips her head to the side. “You look familiar,” she says. “Do you live in Mira Mesa?”
“No, up in the hills,” I say, waving in the general direction of my house. After a lifetime of being taught to fear strangers, I don’t get too specific.
“I’m Mary,” she says. “What’s your name?”
“Uh…” I say, looking down and toward my car. I don’t want to tell her my real name, but right now I can’t think of a single other name in the world. Then, finally, I say, “Natasha.”
“Nice to meet you, Natasha,” the woman says, smiling in a funny way. I have no good reason to think this, but I don’t believe that her name’s Mary. Then again, I just told her I’m Natasha, of all people.
The pump keeps crawling and the lady keeps gabbing. I try the stop-and-restart thing; it doesn’t work.
“So, are you from here?” she asks.
“We moved here when I was nine,” I say, seriously considering just going to school and letting Betsey deal with gas later.
“Where did you move from?” Mary—or whoever she is—asks. Just as I’m formulating another lie in my brain, the gas tank goes clink. Relieved, I reach over and pull out the nozzle, and replace it in its holder. The screen asks me if I want a receipt; I punch the No button.
“Sorry,” I say to Nosy Mary, “I’m late for school.”
“Have a good day… Natasha,” she says.
I get into the car and buckle up, then drive around past the woman’s side of the island to leave the gas station. I’m not sure what makes me look over but I do: The little computer on her side is stuck on the welcome screen. I think back to when she arrived: Did I hear the beeps when she punched in her selections, or did I just assume she was getting gas because she put the nozzle in her car?
More important than what I remember, though, is this: If she wasn’t actually getting gas, then what was she doing?
nineteen
I look over my shoulder for a couple of days, but when I don’t see Nosy Mary again, I call the enounter random and move on. By the night of the Halloween Dance, I’ve all but forgotten about my awkward conversation with the strange lady at the gas station.
Betsey and I help Ella get ready for the dance. With two dryers to make it go faster, we each take half of her head and diffuse dry her curls. Then Bet and I each hold one side of the yellowing strapless dress we got on eBay while Ella steps in. I feel like a forest animal helping Cinderella, but Cinderella’s ball gown was a lot cleaner.
With a black ribbon that hits the smallest part of Ella’s waist, her dress was probably pretty once. But then it sat in someone’s closet for a few years, and once in our hands, it was tossed in the dirt and intentionally slashed to serve as the perfect outfit for a Zombie Prom Queen.
“You look so creepy,” I say, smiling.
“She doesn’t even have on her makeup yet,” Betsey says devilishly. “Wait until she’s got exposed brains on her forehead.”
“Just don’t make it too gross,” Ella says. “I don’t want to turn off Dave.”
“Not possible,” Bet says. “That dress may be old, but it was made for you. He’s going to drool, exposed brains or not.”
At eight o’clock, Bet and I are reading in the rec room when my spy phone rings. I glance at Betsey and she smiles, but doesn’t take her eyes off the page.
“Hello?” I say quietly.
“Hi there, Lizzie B.,” Sean says in a tone so low I can barely hear him.
“Why are you whispering?” I ask, sitting up on the couch, because I think my voice sounds weird when I’m lying down.
“I’m just… I don’t want anyone to hear me.”
“Where are you?” I ask curiously.
“On your front porch.”
Panicked and overjoyed at the same time, I throw down the phone and jump off the couch.
“What’s happening?” Betsey says, looking at me funny.
“Sean’s here,” I say as I run out of the room. I race down the stairs, skidding around the landing in the middle, and rush to the front door. When I fling it open, there’s no one on the porch.
“Hey!” I whisper into the darkness. “Sean?”
“Hi,” he whispers from somewhere to my left. “Is your mom here?”
“Now you ask me that?” I say, stepping out onto the porch and looking in the direction of his voice. I see him standing in the bushes, smiling. His hair’s not stuck up in its usual style tonight; instead it looks like he put his chin down and shook his head hard and his hair stayed that way. There are shiny pieces crisscrossing each other on his forehead, threatening to conceal his eyes. But thankfully, they don’t. He’s so gorgeous in the moonlight.
“Surprise,” he says.
“You’re insane,” I say, rolling my eyes at him despite feeling overjoyed to see him. “Get in here.” He gently climbs out of the bushes and carefully wipes his feet on the doormat, then steps inside. He kicks off his shoes without me asking. He’s wearing holiday-appropriate orange-and-black-striped socks that I find adorable on him. He stands there, holding his shoes in one hand and his bag in the other, just looking at me.
“Hey,” he says seriously. There aren’t any lights on in the entryway; we’re shadows.
“Hi,” I say.
“I’m really sorry for being a jerk this week,” he whispers. “I mostly came over to tell you that.”
“You weren’t a jerk,” I say. “You were just… upset. I can see how you would be. I know it can’t be easy to have Dave—”
Sean steps so close to me that our noses could touch.
“I was a jerk,” he says. “And I’m sorry.”
A wave of emotion rolls through me; I just nod once so I don’t cry or anything embarrassing like that. I turn toward the steps.
“Let’s go up.” I wave for him to follow me. His sweet apology still floating in the air like bubbles, I walk softly up the edge of the stairs for fear that my footfalls will ruin it. Maybe feeling the same way, Sean’s quiet behind me. But when we get to the top of the stairs, Betsey shouts a loud hello.
Pop.
We head into the rec room.
“Look what I found in the bushes,” I say, smiling. Bet laughs.
“Did you take some ballsy pills tonight, Sean?” she asks.
He laughs as he sits down on the couch opposite Betsey. He sets his bag next to him; I want to ask what’s in it, but I decide to wait until we’re alone.
“I figured that if I couldn’t take Lizzie to the dance, I’d bring it to her.”
“That’s barfingly cute,” Betsey says. “Later, lovebirds.” She stands and leaves. I blush a little at the “lovebirds” comment, but Sean doesn’t seem to mind.