Namecalling

I don’t quite understand the concept of asking your teenage daughter to take out the trash when you have a perfectly good son in the next room. Especially when that son is so focused on working out and the trash is filled with so many different sauce bottles. (I said they should go in the recycling bin, but Dad always rolls his eyes and calls me an eco-freak.) So, really, I’m doing Adam a favor by getting him to take out the trash every Tuesday.

            The thing about little brothers is they’re so easy to manipulate. Pamela says if little brothers weren’t meant to be manipulated, it wouldn’t be so easy. Gigi says it’s cruel to take advantage of someone who looks up to me. She doesn’t have a brother.

            As it stands now, I haven’t taken the trash out in about three months, since the bag split on me, all the bottles shattered on the sidewalk, and I cut my foot on a particularly gnarly shard of an oyster sauce bottle. Mom told me I took that risk when I decided to not double back to my room to put on shoes—but, seriously, I was not about to haul that detritus up the stairs to put on shoes so I could be outside for a total of thirty seconds. Adam keeps those Addidas mandals he likes to wear with socks right by the front door to avoid that problem. This is why I always let him take out the trash. He’s so much better at it than I am.

            For the first month after the oyster sauce incident, I didn’t even have to say anything to Adam to get him take out the trash. I would slowly hobble my way to the kitchen, pull the bin out from under the sink, and Adam would suddenly slide in on the linoleum in his socks and skid to a stop, snatching the bag from me. Mom and Dad put up with this the first time when it actually pained me to walk. Once they noticed the absence of the Ace bandage, they resorted to manipulating Adam on their own, saying things like,

            “Make Rosie do it; she’s the idiot who’s too lazy to put on shoes before leaving the house.”

            Like I deserve to be punished for efficiency.

            Adam would look at me with worried but suspicious eyes, and I would put on a brave face and continue to hobble out the door. He would always steal the bag from me somewhere in between the living room and front door—where Mom and Dad could no longer see.

            A month seemed long enough for my foot to heal, according to Adam, because he started to ask before helping me.

            “How’s your foot? Can you take out the trash?” Which means, “Are you going take out the trash?” And I would say, “Oh, it’s fine. Let me go find some shoes before I go outside,” but the last part would always be drowned out by a snort from Mom.

            But I would always get distracted in my room, and I can’t help it that I have so many shoes. For some reason, my trash slippers were never where I thought they would be, so I’d spend about twenty minutes looking for them, only to find they were with my closet shoes instead of my under the bed shoes (which is really weird, because my closet shoes are only supposed to be fancy shoes, so I have no idea how my trash slippers ended up in there). I would amble back downstairs, past Mom reading the newspaper in the dining room, and, without looking up, she would say, “Adam already did it.”

            The first time that happened, I called up the stairs, “Thanks, Adam, you really didn’t have to do that. I was going—”

            But he cut me off with, “‘S okay,” which I thought was incredibly rude, so I never bothered to do it again.

            I always figured Mom and Dad were easier on Adam because he’s the baby. Parents always love the baby. Plus, he’s still got some of that roundness in his face that adults are suckers for. I always tell him not to work out so much because he’ll lose his baby face.

            “Is that why you don’t work out, Rosie?”

            I told him I lost my baby face before I had any interest in working out (which is true), but I didn’t tell him I still have no interest in working out. He probably could have guessed that anyway. Our rooms are architectural twins, but where he has a mini home gym set up, I have a mix of pair-less shoes and socks, ripped jeans, out-of-date shirts, and candy surrounding an open box of tampons. The tampons used to be at the bottom of the pile, until I—er—needed them again, in which case it took me a little over fifteen minutes to find them at the bottom of the mass of junk. Now, it all makes a sort of ring around the tampon-box island. I believe the geologic term for it is a barrier reef.

*          *          *

            “You like it when Adam’s home, huh, Mom?”

            She doesn’t look up from the paper. “I like it when the trash is taken out.”

            I check the calendar surreptitiously to make sure it’s not Tuesday—it’s Thursday.

            “I make breakfast for everyone,” I point out, snapping open a can of olives.

            “Your father and I make lunch and dinner. So what?”

            I pop an olive into my mouth. “Yeah, but there are two of you. And you like cooking.”

            “We own a restaurant, Rosie; it doesn’t mean we like to cook.”

            I shrug. “Then why do it?”

            Mom flips the page to the opinion section. “To make money. To have a job. Because we have to. Take your pick.”

            I shrug again. “I guess you have to cook for us because you’re our parents. That’s what parents do. But daughters don’t have to cook breakfast for their families.”

            “They do if their parents tell them to.”

            “You don’t tell me to.”

            “I don’t tell Adam to take out the trash.”

            “Adam doesn’t cook breakfast for you.”

            “I hardly call toasting waffles cooking.”

            I roll my eyes. “Well, yeah, because you’re good at it.”

            She finally puts down the paper and looks at me. “What do you want, Rosie?”

            I shrug and put more olives in my mouth to avoid giving a real answer. Somehow “Hearing you say Adam isn’t your favorite and getting some gratitude for cooking breakfast and can I have some money to buy new shoes?” seems petty. So I decide to reach for the can of olives instead of reach for an answer because it’s closer.

*          *          *

            “Peter’s such a little bitch,” Pamela grumbles, digging through her cup of frozen yogurt.

            “You’re probably severely murdering his self-esteem,” Gigi says while snatching a gummy worm from the cup.

            “Maybe you should take out the trash more?” I suggest, eyeing Pamela’s spoon. I didn’t have the balls to ask Dad for money; therefore, no new shoes and no fro-yo.

            Pamela looks up at me, frowning, and Gigi takes the opportunity to steal a chocolate chip.

            “I always take out the trash, Rosie. Always.”

            “So what’s the problem?”

            “That Peter’s a bitch,” Gigi recites dutifully.

            I glare at her. No one likes a kiss-ass.

            “My problem is that Mom and Dad favor a little bitch,” Pamela corrects.

            “You never said anything about your parents,” Gigi pouts. She hates being wrong.

            “Parents always favor the baby,” Pamela replies.

            I look at Pamela and nod in approval. Then we both look at Gigi accusingly.

            She scoffs. “Oh, okay! My parents definitely do not spoil me! They let Casey and Andy do whatever they want. Mom keeps me practically glued to her side—”

            “You’re only saying that because you don’t know how it is,” I snort.

            Pamela’s small, white hands close around Gigi’s dark shoulders. “You don’t know what it’s like,” she hisses.

            Gigi purses her lips but doesn’t retort. She knows we’re right. Or she’s just too weirded out to say anything.

            We sit there silently, Pamela in the middle, scooping fro-yo aggressively into her mouth, Gigi and I casting furtive, longing glances every now and then. Sundays are the only day of the week Pamela gets off from work, and Gigi and I demand that she spend at least three hours with us—which we so fondly refer to as “best bitches time.” There is an ongoing debate as to what we should do during this time, and nine times out of ten, we end up at the mall because it has everything: shopping for me, people-watching for Gigi, and frozen yogurt for Pamela.

            “Didn’t we come here for a reason?” Pamela asks, but her mouth is unattractively filled with strawberry frozen yogurt, so it sounds like, “I’nt ‘e yuh ‘ere er uh’ing?”

            Luckily, it’s a tacit best friend rule that you can always understand one another with your mouth full (which, unfortunately, says something about both our friendship and table manners), so Gigi responds, “We’re looking for yet another pair of shoes for Rosie.”       She avoids my dirty look, inspecting her fingernails.

            Her tone is completely uncalled for, because I do not have too many shoes. I know everybody says I do, but what do they know? If everyone said I should jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, I wouldn’t believe them either. Besides, that’s not even what we came here for.

            Pamela raises her eyebrows. “So what did we come here for?”

            “So you could buy fro-yo and not share,” I respond.

            Gigi’s accusations quickly turn from me to Pamela. “Yeah!” she says indignantly.

            “Plus,” I add, interrupting Pamela’s snide remark, “I’m on a break from buying shoes.”

            They exchange meaningful glances.

            “Did you run out of storage space?”

            “Did you finally buy every cute pair?”

            I narrow my eyes. “No.”

            “Then what?” they say simultaneously.

            “I am on a budget,” I reply importantly.

            “Your parents didn’t give you the money.” Gigi doesn’t even have the courtesy to phrase it like a question.

            “You know, that happened to me once—,” Pamela begins, her blue eyes widening with animation.

            Gigi and I draw a collective sigh and roll our eyes.

            “Do you know how I fixed the problem? I—”

            We give an exaggerated groan.

            “—got a job!”

            “Yeah, yeah, we know,” I snap.

            “You’ve only told us about a hundred times.”

            “You two should try it! You just put in a couple of hours and money just magically starts appearing in your pocket. Suddenly, you can buy your own fro-yo without stealing from your best friend’s cup while you think she’s not looking. And you can afford new shoes, whether you need them or not.”

            “I have extracurricular activities,” Gigi says, tossing her raven hair over her shoulder. “And I’m pretty careful with my money.”

            They both swivel and face me—but my attention is captured by the bright red, platform toe, five-inch Steve Madden heels glinting in the window. I’m sure my eyes have slowly enlarged to the size of small salad plates, and I’m vaguely aware of a strand of drool issuing from the right corner of my mouth, but it doesn’t matter. Because Pamela and Gigi are just as enraptured as I am.

            (For the record, I don’t need them to be enraptured by a pair of shoes to know they’re amazing. I pride myself in excellent taste when it comes to shoes.)

            As if some gravitational force is pulling us, we slowly shuffle over to the window, not even bothering to pick up our feet. Soon, our noses are pressed up against the glass, and only the sharp rap of the sales associate on the other side wakes us up.

            “You’re getting greasy nose prints all over the window,” she huffs.

            “It’s not greasy,” Gigi mutters, rubbing her fingers over her nose.

*          *          *

            “I have to have those shoes,” I tell the girls.

            “But I’m on a budget!” they chorus together.

            I wheel around and face them, betrayed at the sudden abandonment of our shared admiration for the shoes.

            “Oh, like you two weren’t drooling over them as well!” I snap.

            “The only difference is we know we don’t need them,” Gigi informs me.

            “You, unfortunately, have yet to come to that realization,” Pamela agrees, not even looking up from braiding her hair.

            They were heaven on my feet. They made my legs look about eight feet long, and I could walk in them without teetering. I was deaf to the protests of Gigi and Pamela.

            “Do you have anything to match with those?”

            “You complain enough about your height with flats on.”

            “You kind of look like a slut.”

            And so on.

            But this magical aura about the shoes protected me from their negative words like a force field—until the saleslady came back with the price.

            “$129.95.”

            The fragile little bubble surrounding me and my shoes shattered, and I whipped around, hair flying wildly and shouted, “What did you say?!” Which might have been construed as overdramatic by the saleslady.

            She repeated the figure coolly, and told me that if I was finished, there was another customer in the store who wished to try these on, for these were the last pair in size eight. Then she snatched the shoes together with all my hopes and dreams.

            To make matters worse, as we exited the store, we ran into Burgundy Lucas (bitch), putting my shoes on hold.

            “I haven’t the money to pay for them now,” she said in that annoying, uppity voice, running a careless hand through the hair that matches her name. “Daddy’s flying back from the U.K. on Friday, and he’ll give me the money then. I saw Rose Wong eyeing them, and I knew I must have them. They aren’t even the right size for my freakishly big feet.”

            “That isn’t even what she said,” Gigi points out in an attempt to bring me out of my moody rage. “She said she gets her paycheck on Friday afternoon and then she can buy the shoes.”

            “If you had a paycheck, maybe you could buy the shoes too,” Pamela calls over from the pet shop window.

            “Humph.”

            “And her feet are the same size as yours. They just look freakishly big because she’s so much skinnier than you.”

            “Okay, side with her, then!” I cry.

            They roll their eyes at me, and I distinctly see Pamela’s lips form the word “overdramatic.”

*          *          *

            “Did you eat all my cereal?”

            I shake the box and hear a few flakes rattling around in there. “Well, not all of it.”

            Adam rolls his eyes. “And what’s so wrong with your cereal that you had to eat mine?”

            I shrug. “Yours was in front. I’m not tall enough to reach the back of the cabinet.”

            “Well, there’s actually a way for you to extend your height, Rosie. It’s this magical thing called a stepladder. There’s one in the pantry.”

            “Sarcasm is my thing. Who gave you permission to use it? Besides, it’s too heavy.”

            “No, it’s not.”

            I turn and look at him with big eyes, protruding my lower lip. “Well, maybe not for your manly muscles, but for a little weakling like me—”

            Adam rolls his eyes again. “So what’s eating you?”

            I turn my attention back to the TV and open another box of cereal. “Nothing.”

            “So you’re just watching Up on repeat for fun.”

            I don’t respond.

            “And you’re cleaning out all the junk food from our house because you’re hungry.”

            I continue to watch my movie in stony silence.

            “Plus, you must be going for the world’s laziest person record, because—”

            “I am not lazy!” I say hotly.

            “Then why have you been picking up everything with your feet lately? Do your arms not work?”

            I glare at him. “Stuff falls on the floor. My feet are on the floor. It makes sense for them to pick it up, doesn’t it?”

            “And you traded feeding the cat for feeding the fish because—?”

            “The cat likes you better.”

            “Right. It had nothing to do with the fact that you’ve practically been living on the couch for the past three days and the fish tank happens to be on the end table next to the remote.”

            “You know, you could learn a lot from this movie.” I motion towards the TV screen with my chin and scoop some cereal into my mouth. “It teaches you a lot about respecting others’ feelings.” (Except it sounds like, “Ih ea’es you ah’ot a’ou ey’eing o’ur e—ing.”)

            “What’s wrong with you?” he asks again, ignoring my remark. Adam is the exception to the tacit best friend rule—he can also understand me with my mouth full. (Shit, after 15 years of sitting at the same dinner table together, he better be able to.)

            “It’s Friday afternoon,” I grumble.

            “So? Usually people are happy about Fridays.”

            “Burgundy Lucas buys my shoes today.”

            “You ate all the cereal because Burgundy is going to buy a pair of shoes you want?”

            “Also because she’s skinnier, richer, and prettier than I am, with her waterfall of red hair and her stupid petite frame and her fucking porcelain skin—” I break off to put more cereal in my mouth.

            For a second, Adam just stares at me with disbelief radiating out of his brown, almond-shaped eyes, then he gets off the couch and heads upstairs to his room. Over his shoulder he calls, “By the way, that’s Mom and Dad’s fiber cereal.”

*          *          *

            “Oh, come on!” Pamela huffs. She tugs at my arm, causing my shoulder to give a rather nasty pop.

            “Move faster,” Gigi grunts with both hands firmly planted in the small of my back. She is attempting to push me with an insulting amount of effort. (I know I ate all the junk food in the house last week, but seriously, I lost all that weight and more after I finished the entire box of FiberOne.)

            Using perhaps the only advantage I have as being the tallest (even if it’s not by much), I put both my arms out of reach overhead and dig my heels into the ground.

            “I do not want to go to the mall,” I say firmly.

            “Of course you do,” Pamela says impatiently. “You always do.”

            “Besides,” adds Gigi, “there’s something you’ll want to see.”

            I stand up on my own, turn my back to the mall, and cross my arms over my chest. “There is nothing for me in there.”

            I hear two audible sighs. Then,

            “Fine, I guess you’ll just stay in the parking lot by yourself.”

            The thing about Pamela and Gigi is they always try to do this to me. There was that time I told them I didn’t want to do that cookie-eating challenge—“Right, we’ll just enjoy a thousand cookies to ourselves, then.” There was the time I didn’t want to go down their homemade waterslide—“Don’t be a little bitch, there’s obviously enough water.” And the do-it-yourself waxing incident—“Of course Brazilians don’t hurt that bad.” My best friends always think I’m being overdramatic, but twelve hours of literally tossing my cookies, three days of nursing serious slide rash, and the lifetime humiliation of a bad Brazilian tell me I’m probably smart not to follow them.

            Besides, the whole point of coming here was for them to show me something. We’re not going home unless I’ve seen it; otherwise, what’s the point of going to the mall anyway? No, they’re just waiting for me to follow. They’re probably sitting on that bench facing the main entrance, eating fro-yo and waiting for me to burst through the doors so they can laugh together and be like, “We knew you would follow us!”

            Ugh.

            I can’t stand it when people think they know me better than I know myself. Like how Adam thought he knew I was depressed. Like how Mom and Dad think they know I’m lazy. Pamela and Gigi think I’m some stupid child who will follow them into the mall because there’s shopping and some “big secret” they won’t divulge. It’s probably just a sale. Or fro-yo. God, I love fro-yo. In fact, I was craving some last week. Do they know that? I must have told them. Maybe I can put on a hat or something, sneak in really quick, and nab one.

            No, wait. I live right above my parents’ restaurant. We could have just gone there for free ice cream. It must be a sale.

            Come to think of it, I did read about a Victoria’s Secret sale, didn’t I? Yes, it was seven panties for $25. Do I need new panties? What a stupid question. One always needs panties. Always. They’re a wardrobe staple.

            Oh, I know! That body store is having a semiannual sale! Didn’t the saleslady say they were discontinuing my favorite scent? I’ll need to stock up—I can’t not smell like me. It would be like losing my identity; people would no longer smell blackberry and vanilla when I walk into a room and they’d actually need to turn around and look at me to know it was I who entered.

            No, it must be because that football team is coming to sign autographs! How could I forget? Two weeks ago, Gigi, Pamela, and I automatically won entry passes to the signing when we spent $50 or more (a.k.a. more) at any store in the mall. It was one of those limited promotions that lasted from 10 a.m. to 1 p.m. for only one day or something like that—I still have the pass in my purse! I don’t exactly know who they are, but Adam would. And his birthday is coming up! Just imagine I get him an autograph from his favorite player (what’s his name? Adrian—uh—something). I could get it framed! Or, I’ll slip it discreetly into a birthday card—yes!—so he thinks I forgot all about it.

            “Oh, sorry, Adam. I wasn’t able to get you much this year—”

            (And Mom will say something about not having a job.)

            “—but I hope you still like my card.”

            He’ll look at it doubtfully and mutter “thanks” without even looking at me. He’ll rip it open, glance at the platitudinous message within, and out will fall the pristine piece of paper signed by Adrian Sandolov! (Yes, that sounds right.) That’ll shut Mom up.

            Now which one is he again? Adam pointed him out to me once—the only time I actually watched football with him. I was attracted because there was a lot of pink on the screen, and pink is my favorite color, so I sat down and watched for a little bit.  I had asked Adam why the players were wearing pink cleats and sweatbands and stuff, and Adam said it was for breast cancer awareness month. I was particularly keen on the pink Gatorade bottles, and I was thinking that maybe I should get myself one. But then the sweatbands were pretty cool too, I mean people would see them more than the water bottle. And how slick would the cleats look?

            “Which is your favorite?” I had asked him. Adam thought I was talking about players.

            “Number seven, Adrian—” (this is where it gets a bit fuzzy).

            Overall, I (sort of) remember his name because he was incredibly gorgeous. And I could meet him! I’d go up to him, casually ask for an autograph, and when he asks my name, I’d say, “Oh, it’s not for me, it’s for my little brother for his birthday. You’re his favorite player…” That would show what a good sister I am while stroking his ego. Maybe I’d tell him Adam is sick and can’t come get the autograph himself. Then I’d tell him my name, and we’d fall madly in love, and he could come over to meet Adam for his birthday!

            Oh my God, I have got to get in line now!

*          *          *

            “We really didn’t think it would take that long,” Gigi admits.

             Pamela grins at me. “Your willpower is a lot stronger than we expected.”

            I’m still breathless from running around the mall. “Where—doing—football—signing?” is all I can manage to wheeze out.

            “The autograph signing isn’t today.” Pamela frowns. Best friends can always understand each other’s incoherent sentences.

            “That’s in two months.” Gigi points to a banner behind me. Then she and Pamela turn to look at me curiously. “You don’t like football,” she adds unnecessarily.

            “Thought—you—trying—lure—”

            “Why would we lure you in with that?” Pamela asks.

            “You don’t like football,” Gigi repeats.

            I give them a dubious look, not wanting to waste the energy of putting my thoughts into words.

            “We wanted to show you some shoes—”

            My eyes snap open, and my head jerks up. “Shoes?!” I cry in what may or may not be considered excess jubilation.

            Pamela shoots Gigi a what-did-you-go-and-say-that-for look and they both say at the same time,

            “Not your shoes, Rosie, but—”

            “—your shoes are gone, but—”

            “Then why did you bring me here?” I demand. They couldn’t have seriously tried to lure me into the mall to come back to that shoe store. At least if they’re going to degrade my self-control, then they should make it worth my while. No gorgeous football players, no fro-yo, no lotion, no sales, no shoes—no money to buy said shoes anyway.

            “Well, they’re starting to bring some cute winter styles out—”

            “—and there are some really cute summer shoes on clearance—”

            This is more than I can handle.

            “Why would you bring me to this store if my shoes aren’t here? Why would I ever want to look at any other shoes in this store? Ever? And even if I did, how am I going to pay for them? I couldn’t afford my dream shoes! How can I afford new winter shoes? I can’t even afford shitty clearance shoes!”

            “Well, you can always get a job,” Pamela says quietly.

            “Or save your money,” Gigi adds.

            “You both think you’re so smart, right? Pamela has a job and can afford everything! Gigi is the lovely baby of the family and gets anything she wants!” At this point, I’m not even bothering to control the volume of my voice. “Let’s treat Rosie like a child and manipulate her into what we want her to do instead of simply asking! She won’t care! She won’t realize it because she’s too busy being fucking overdramatic!”

            “It’s a pair of shoes—” Pamela tries to intervene.

            “I know it’s a fucking pair of shoes!” I scream. “And I wanted them! But I forgot! Neither of you have ever wanted anything in your lives, right? Perfect Pamela just goes out and buys whatever she wants, and Gigi gets it handed to her! I never get anything I want! You know what I wanted today? My identity, seven pairs of panties, and to fall in love with a gorgeous football player!”

            Here, they both look thoroughly confused, but I’m too worked up to stop and explain.

            “But no! I have to wait two months! And who knows! Maybe fucking Burgundy Lucas will have taken all that too by then!”

            And then I turn on my heel, walk away from my two best friends, and stride past all the people who probably think I have MPD with as much dignity as I can muster.

*          *          *

            I don’t understand why life can’t be more like The Goonies. I don’t see why I can’t go on an adventure with my friends, beat Italian villains, find treasure, and save my house. I would be Data, because I’m Asian; Pamela would be Mouth, because she’s so sassy; Gigi would be Brand, because she’s always correcting us. Burgundy Lucas can be Sloth.

            No. She doesn’t get the honor of saving us from a crumbling cavern and her evil villain family.

            Maybe she can be Chunk because she’s always breaking things. Like my heart when she took my shoes.

            But then it’ll all be okay, because we’ll lock her in the freezer with a corpse (which I can’t do because my life isn’t The Goonies).

            I suppose it’s probably because I was a jerk to my best friends and cussed them out in public. If I hadn’t done that, we’d probably be well on our way to finding pirates’ treasure. Then I could by my shoes off of Burgundy.

            Or I could just steal them.

            Dad walks into the room, eyes fixated on the TV to avoid looking at me. I don’t blame him—I bring disgrace to the name Wong. Not only do I spend all my free daylight hours on the couch, I sleep there too. I only get up to go to the bathroom/school, get a fresh pair of yoga pants (had no idea I had this many), or get something new to munch on.

            “You planning on leaving the house today?” Dad asks while watching the credits roll past.

            “You plan on leaving the couch today?” Mom calls from the other room.

            Dad stoops down to take The Goonies out of the DVD player and replaces it with another movie.

            “If I feel ambitious,” I tell them.

            “So no,” they reply together.

            At first, they tried to be sneaky about getting me off the couch. Mom would do things like vacuum, deliberately burn food, or tell me she had to rearrange the furniture during my movies. Dad would sit down to watch with me and ask me relentless questions about plot, character development, and conflict. But none of it motivated me to get off the couch.

            Then, they (Mom) yelled at me. They said I hogged the couch, the snacks, and the TV, and those things were bought for the whole family, you know. They said I had no right to sulk about a pair of shoes when I was too lazy to get a job. It served me right to have those shoes snatched from me, young lady. They said I had 78 other pairs of shoes, and it was selfish of me to think I needed another. And it served me right if my friends weren’t talking to me, because obviously I care more about the shoes than anything else. And what did I go act all crazy in public for, hm? Did I know there were customers coming into the restaurant to ask if the girl who was screaming in the middle of the mall about shoes and football players is their daughter? And do I know how embarrassing that is? Do I? They thought I didn’t even like football; what did I go around yelling about it in public at my friends for, huh?

            And now they’ve given up. Even Adam is hardly home anymore. Either they leave me by myself, or they’re all home at once. Like no one can stand to be with me alone.

            “We’re going down to the restaurant,” Dad tells me. He tries to be a little more understanding than Mom. “Just come down if you need anything.”

            He and Mom start to head downstairs to the restaurant, and Adam catches up with them right before they reach the door.

            “Adam,” Dad says, “you stay home with Rosie today.”

            Adam looks taken aback; Mom looks furious. But Dad ushers her out the door before she can protest in front of me and leaves Adam standing by the front door looking awkward.

            “Can I—uh—sit?”

            I’ve taken to sitting upside-down on the couch, with my head on the retractable footrest, one leg stretched across the length of the couch and the other propped up against the wall. It sounds incredibly unladylike, but it’s actually quite comfortable—until I get out of that position and realize just how sore my body has become.

            “So, The Jungle Book, huh?”

            I nod.

            “I like the vultures,” he adds.

            “Me too,” I say, which is a lie. They annoy the shit out of me.

            “They remind me of us when we were little—you know—when we’d try to decide what to do?”

            I give a little snort (which can almost pass for laughter). Adam and I were the two most indecisive children. We’d never actually play games, because we’d take too long deciding what we should do. We’d make about a dozen different plans for all of our ideas, and not one of them would be put into action.

            “Do you want to watch something else?” I ask him. He’s not even watching the movie. He’s just chewing on a hangnail.

            “No, no, it’s whatever you want to watch.”

            I roll my eyes. “Adam. Now don’t start that again.”

            He grins and snatches the remote. “Well, if you insist. There’s a game I recorded on Sunday that I haven’t had a chance to watch yet.”

            Something hot starts to burn in my throat. I swallow it down before asking timidly, “Is it—is it because I’ve been hogging the TV?”

            “No,” he says altogether too quickly. “I’ve also been pretty busy.”

            I swallow again. “With what?” I ask in a small voice.

            “I—er—got a job—”

            “Adam, I’m sorry!” I wail suddenly, causing him to jump. “You must think I’m so pathetic!”

            He looks thoroughly discomfited. “No, I—”

            “It’s not because of the shoes! It doesn’t have anything to do with the shoes. The shoes were just a breaking point! I’m projecting everything onto the shoes!”

            “I see. Not the shoes. Got it,” Adam says, but really, he doesn’t.

            “I’m just a big fuck-up. I always say Mom and Dad favor you because you’re the baby, but that’s not true! They favor you because you’re perfect! You deserve to be favored.”

            I start sobbing uncontrollably, and I see Adam discreetly pause the TV. “You have a—a job, and you t—take out the trash, a—and you lift weights and stuff! I’m lazy and selfish and o—overdramatic! I don’t have any friends b—because they all think I only care about myself and m—material things.” I give a pitiful sniff. “And I th—think they’re right.”

            “I’m not perfect, Rosie,” Adam says after he’s sure I’m not going to interrupt again. “I’ve just been working hard.”

            “And n—nobody thinks I can!” I cry.

            “Because you haven’t shown them you can,” he says gently, handing me a tissue.

            I mop my eyes and blow my nose. “Sorry,” I gulp. “That’s been needing to happen for a while.”

            Adam waits for what he assumes a respectable period before restarting the recorded game (after he can ensure no more emotional interruptions from me). So I turn my attention to the game, too.

            Except I have no idea what’s going on.

            “Who’s that?” I ask, pointing to the screen.

            “Devon Carter,” Adam says without moving his eyes.

            “No, I mean what’s his—uh—player name?”

            Adam turns to me with his eyebrows raised. “You mean what position does he play?”

            I nod seriously.

            “He’s on D-line.”

            “Ah,” I say smartly.

            “That’s defensive line, Rosie.”

            “I knew that,” I say.

            “Really?” Adam says. “Do you know anything about football?”

            I think for a moment. “I know there’s a quarterback.”

            He nods in approval. “And which one is he?”

            “That one in black and white, right?”

            “Rosie,” Adam says slowly, “that’s the ref.”

            “I know,” I giggle. “I was just messing with you. Really!” I say at the look on his face. “The quarterback is the guy you like. Adrian Sandolov.”

            Adam gives me a blank look. “Who?”

            Dammit.

            “That one right there! Number seven. That super attractive one.” The camera zooms in on him. “Mmm, I think he’s my favorite player too.”

            “His name is Jeremy DeSoto.”

            “Where did I get Adrian Sandolov from?”

            “I don’t know, but let’s set you straight.”

*          *          *

            I could practically work for ESPN now, I swear. Sunday and Monday nights are dedicated to watching football with Adam, and he’s taught me a lot, which is embarrassing to admit as an older sister. I should be the one filling his vast mind with knowledge, making sure he doesn’t have to face the world in all his naiveté.

            I even tried teaching Adam about stuff, but the thing is he’s not interested in anything I’m good at. I tried to teach him about how he can always learn something about someone based on his or her shoes. Then I tried to teach him what to look for when buying new shoes. He gave a couple of polite nods but mostly ignored me. I tried to teach him about matching clothes, even though the kid only wears black, white, and grey—and red, on game days. I tried teaching him about sales and how to get bargains—not interested. Finally, I just tried to teach him about percentages in general—even less interested. Maybe I really just don’t have any worthwhile knowledge to pass on to my brother.

            “Dad, do you think I’ve failed Adam as a big sister?”

            Dad looks at me with narrowed eyes, like it’s a trick question. “What do you mean?” he asks, while looking around for Mom to help him out.

            “I mean, do you think I’ve failed to teach him about the world and life and stuff?”

             He stops and stares at me. Just then, Mom walks into the room, and Dad looks relieved. “I think when Adam needs your advice, he’ll come ask for it.” He looks over at Mom and adds, “Right?”

            She looks at Dad, then at me. “What’s he going to ask your advice on? How to have a meltdown at the age of 17?”

            Mom always handles difficult situations by invoking her humor. Unfortunately, most of her humor involves making fun of me. Dad gives me a small smile, as though he’s pleased to have answered something better than Mom. “If you’re so worried, why don’t you ask him yourself?”

            “He’s at work.” I try to state the obvious without making my parents feel stupid.

            Mom presses her palm to her forehead and says, “Ay-yuh! Rose, are you so lazy that you can’t make the long trip down the stairs?”

            “He’s at work,” I repeat blankly. They both look up at me with looks of such exaggerated disbelief that I automatically feel mentally subnormal.

            “He didn’t tell me he was working at the restaurant,” I say weakly.

            They still have the “Are you stupid?” look on their faces, but I see Dad’s fists balled up, which means he’s valiantly trying to get his face to do something else. He finally succeeds in achieving something vaguely resembling indigestion (or something of equal discomfort) and says quietly,

            “Did you ask?”

            I think my ears are about to burst into flame as I try to think of some reason to justify why I didn’t ask my own brother where he works. We’ve only talked about football these past few weeks—I guess I’d made sure of that. I thought Adam would enjoy spending time with me if we spent it talking about sports, but he probably would have enjoyed it more if I had taken any interest in his life—if I had acted like I cared.

            Mom seems to know that I’ve realized I’m a total monster, and this causes her face to snap back to normal. (Thank goodness, because if she would have stayed like that any longer, she may have maintained an expression of permanent dubiousness, and then everyone she looked at would feel inadequate. That would be terrible for business.)

            “Why don’t you come down to the restaurant”—it’s phrased more as a command—“and maybe you can help out.”

            “Help?” I repeat stupidly.

            “Yes, maybe we’ll need some waffles toasted today. Come on, let’s not make Adam open by himself.”

*          *          *

            My favorite place in the entire restaurant has got to be at the bar. The stools are wide and round, so I can sit cross-legged on them and spin myself. Plus, the tables are high enough my knees don’t hit it. This is how Adam finds me when he comes out of the kitchen.

            “Hi,” I say, spinning to a stop. My eyes take a minute to refocus on Adam. He’s wearing all white, like the other cooks (which is dumb, by the way. Who decided cooks should where white? Where is the sense in that?), and he has on an apron, and there’s a little hat perched on his hair, which is slicked back. It’s incredible how much he looks like Dad.

            He frowns at me. “Why do you sit so weird?”

            “How do you know I don’t sit normal and everyone else sits weird?”

            He just stares at me.

            “Maybe natural selection will weed out all of the people who sit, as you say, ‘normal,’ and only the people who sit like me will remain, and then you’ll be the weird-sitter.”

            Adam shakes his head and walks away. “We are not related,” he says over his shoulder.

            “Yes we are!” I call, spinning my stool again. “So you’d better get used to it!”

            Mom pokes her head out of the kitchen. “Adam! Unlock the front doors. Rose! Stop spinning, you’ll make yourself sick. Go put on an apron and start waiting tables.”

            I grab onto the counter and stop spinning abruptly. Adam laughs and tosses me an apron, which I try to catch but fail miserably, as my body still feels as though it’s spinning on the barstool.

            “Yeah, her work voice sounds just like voice she uses when we’re in trouble,” he says.

            Still trying to accept the fact that I’ve done nothing wrong, I wobble dizzily over to a couple who has just sat down before I even know what I’m doing. It takes a couple of seconds for my brain to come to a standstill, and it takes a couple more for me to realize I have no idea what I’m supposed to say to these people.

            “Hi,” I manage at last.

            They’re looking at me in quite a concerned fashion. They’ve probably attributed my unsteady gait to the fact that I was sitting at the bar when they came in.

            “I was spinning on the barstool,” I tell them.

            “Ah,” says the man as if I’ve said something really profound.

            “I used to do that here when I was little. I would sit at the bar and my dad would bring me ice cream.” I’m not sure why I’m telling them this. “My parents own this place. They make really good food.” I stop, suddenly realizing that I’m talking to potentially paying customers, so I hastily add, “which is, of course, why you’re here. Let me get you some menus.”

            I return with some menus, and, resolving to be as natural as possible, I smile and walk away. How long am I supposed to wait before going back? Five minutes? Ten? I’m just thinking I should ask Adam, when he nearly runs into me with two glasses of water.

            “Jesus, Rosie, let somebody know you’re coming around the corner.”

            “I’m coming around the corner,” I snap.

            “Here, I got their waters for you already.”

            Evidently, that’s what he thought I was coming back here for. It’s good that one of us knows what he’s doing around here. I’m also a little touched by Adam’s confidence in my waitressing abilities. Thanking him, I take the waters and head back to the table.

            “Some waters for you.” Just in case they thought it was poison. “So do you guys have any questions about the menu? Or are you ready to order?” I think I remember that string of lines from my sojourn on the couch in front of the TV.

            The woman puts down her menu. “We were just wondering if you could recommend anything? Any specials?”

            “Recommend anything? Me?”

            They both look at me expectantly.

            It’s my first day here! I want to tell them. How would I know the specials? Why don’t you read the fucking menu, they’re probably on the front under “SPECIALS”! I don’t even know what they serve here! I’ve never even eaten here! What do these people—

            “Isn’t your dad the head chef?” the man asks hesitantly.

            And for the second time today, I get a well-deserved double dose of the “Are you stupid?” look. It must be some kind of record.

            “Yes,” I say defiantly, prompted by their unnecessary concern. I’m thinking furiously about my parents’ cooking. Why can’t I remember what they cook? I think Mom made a salad that was kind of good the other day.

            “Well, there’s this salad—” I start.

            This is stupid. I eat my parents’ cooking twice a day, and all I can come up with is a salad?

            “Isn’t there a risotto that’s pretty good?” the girl asks kindly. She probably feels terrible for putting me under this considerable stress.

            I wrinkle my nose instinctively. “Not that, it has mushrooms.” Oops, I meant to say that in my head. “No, there was this new recipe Dad tested on us the other night.” Shit, that too.

            “Tested?” The man looks at me with narrowed eyes.

            I ignore him, willing my brain to work properly, when suddenly—

            “Tuna!” I say brightly. “It was seared ahi tuna with a toasted macadamia nut crust. Yes, that’s it. I was telling Dad that he should introduce it with a Hawaiian theme—you know, have everyone wear Hawaiian shirts and leis and stuff.” I pick up the menu. “Obviously he didn’t listen to me because he’s already featured it on the menu, and he didn’t once leave the house in anything floral; I would’ve seen—”

            They order two of the tuna, mostly to shut me up and make me go away, I think. By then, the restaurant is really busy, and I only get a chance to come back to them after they’ve practically finished.

            “It was quite good,” the woman tells me.

            “Yes, actually a wonderful recommendation,” agrees the man.

            Really, their surprise is a little insulting. But they leave a generous tip (which is probably out of pity for making my incompetent mind work so hard).

            I don’t have nearly as much trouble with the other customers (because I got my shit together), and it turns out waiting tables isn’t nearly as hard as I imagined it to be. I got a little overwhelmed at first, when I started serving multiple tables at the same time, but I started remembering people by their clothes, and that’s how I sorted everything out! It’s actually a neat little trick. All I do is visualize the clothes without the people, and I can remember who ordered what. (I remember best with shoes). Suddenly, I stopped looking at faces altogether and began to focus entirely on shoes—I know that sounds kind of inhumane, but, honestly, how many humane people work dinner rushes by themselves on their first night as a waitress?

            Adam’s also been amazing. He whispers little reminders to me whenever I pop through the kitchen, like “Remember to check in after they’ve received their food,” or “Ask them if they’d like dessert!” or “Did you check that guy’s ID before you served him wine?”

            And who knew he could cook? I mean, obviously he’s not doing the main courses or anything, but Dad put him in charge of side dishes. I pinched one of the extras, and wouldn’t you know, it was delicious! He obviously got all of the culinary genes that missed me. Why does anyone in this house even eat my cooking? Mom and Dad should’ve kicked me off breakfast duty long ago.

            I’m in the zone. Prime rib goes to Rockport. Nike ordered the burger. That pair of Coaches needs a refill of coke. Uggs ordered cobb salad dressing on side. Jessica Simpsons, Guess, Chinese Laundry, bright red, five-inch Steve Maddens need to be seated—

            Bright red, five-inch Steve Maddens.

            “Hi, Rosie!” squeals Burgundy Lucas, giving a little wave.

            Don’t say hi to me, you shoe-stealing goblin. “Hi, Burgundy. Table for four?”

            She looks around her group and nods. Stupid bitch. Doesn’t even know how many are in her party.

            I slap four menus on their table without saying anything and stalk off to the kitchen to get them waters. Adam already has them prepared on a tray, which I whisk away from him with a hard “thanks” over my shoulder.

            “Here,” I say, unceremoniously dumping the waters on the table. I see Mom’s head whip over in my direction from the other side of the restaurant, so I’m forced to add sweetly, “I’ll be back in a moment to take your orders.”

            “What was that all about?” Adam demands when I get back to the kitchen.

            “Her,” I say miserably, pointing over my shoulder.

            Adam peeks around me. “Was she rude to you? Do you want me to go talk to them?”

            Oh, Adam. Always thinking the best of me. “No,” I mumble quietly. “Just some stupid reason.”

            He looks over my shoulder again and frowns. Then he turns back to me. “You were on fire tonight.”

            “I know it,” I say proudly, relieved at the change of subject. “Mom and Dad should’ve asked me to work here ages ago.”

            He looks kind of pissed off, so I add, “Joke! I’m only joking.” But he doesn’t look like he quite believes me, so I quickly change the subject again. “You are an awesome cook. I stole one of your side dishes earlier.”

            “You’re not supposed to do that,” he says, but he smiles.

            “I was on lunch, and it was extra! You think I’m going to cook for myself? When I have all this culinary talent around me? No way.”

            He shakes his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

            “Excuse me,” I say, grinning, “but I have a job to get back to.” Grabbing my notepad, I head back out to the dining room, where Bright red, five-inch Steve Maddens are waiting for me to take their order.

*          *          *

            “So I was kind of an asshole.”

            The thing about best friends is you’re not really used to apologizing to them, because you don’t normally scream at them in the middle of the mall.

            “So that’s kind of an understatement,” Gigi replies.

            I had a speech written out with everything I wanted to say, but I scratched that because 1.) It would encourage their idea that I’m “overdramatic” and 2.) I got stuck when it came to explaining my behavior. I still don’t know why I did it.

            “You’re understating things now?” Pamela asks. “That’s a change.”

            I shrug. “A lot can change in a couple weeks.”

            Gigi frowns. “A couple weeks? Is that all it’s been?”

            “I know! It feels like forever,” I say.

            “Ah, that’s more like you,” Pamela says, grinning in that disproportionate way where her mouth seems to take up three-fourths of her face.

            I guess the other thing about apologizing to your friends is they don’t really know how to accept your apology. So they awkwardly rub it in your face for like a second that you were a jerk, then it’s like it never happened.

            Which brings us to the mall. Normally, I come here, ready to find cute shoes or a great bargain. I usually feel all tingly because I know I’ll have something new in my hand when I leave—there will be something else I can call mine.

            But today, I’m on a different mission. The same adrenaline is pumping through my system, but it’s for a different purpose. Today, I am going to get Jeremy DeSoto’s autograph.

            I told Pamela and Gigi I wanted to apologize in person today, but that I was going to the mall first. I didn’t even finish my reasoning before they agreed to come with me, which is why we’re standing out here at 4 a.m.

            The mall opens at eight this morning, but we’re standing in line halfway into the parking lot—and there are more people behind us, weaving into the street. At first, Pamela and Gigi were really bitter because they’ve never gotten up earlier than eleven o’clock on a weekend.

            “You don’t like football,” Gigi kept grumbling under her breath while Pamela gave exaggerated yawns. This stopped when they saw all the boys who were coming to get autographs as well.

            “Who knew this many people participated in that promotion?” Gigi says, standing on her tip-toes to try to see how many people there are in front of us.

            “Who are you guys lined up to see?” asks a voice from behind us.

            We all swivel around to find a group of boys our age in matching red and white jerseys. The one closest to us (who I think asked the question) is looking at us out of politely curious blue eyes.

            Pamela quickly smiles her flirtatious smile, shakes her blonde hair away from her face, and starts to answer, when she realizes she has no idea whom we’re here to see.

            Gigi is quicker. “Who are you here to see?”

            “Devon Carter,” he replies, turning around to show us the name on the back of his jersey.

            “Hm,” Gigi says intelligently.

            Another boy leaning against a light pole sees through her ambiguous answer, smiles patronizingly, and says, “You know which one he is, right?”

            “Yes,” Pamela says indignantly.

            He raises his eyebrows, waiting for her to go on.

            “Tell him who Devon Carter is, Rosie,” she says, still glaring at him.

            I roll my eyes and reply “He’s on D-line.”

            The boys have the courtesy to look impressed. Pamela, however, looks at me blankly and says, “He’s on what?”

            “D-line,” Gigi repeats.

            “Oh, thank you for clarifying,” Pamela snaps.

            “Defensive line,” I say over Gigi’s retort. “It means they try to break through the other team’s offense to get to the quarterback.”

            “So who are you here to see?” Blue Eyes asks, speaking directly to me.

            “Jeremy DeSoto,” I tell him.

            “Of course,” snorts Patronize-y.

            “What’s that supposed to mean?” Pamela snarls.

            He pushes himself off from the pole so he can stand in front of us and says, “Of course you guys are here to see DeSoto. The quarterback is the only player girls like you would know about. You wouldn’t pay any attention to him if he weren’t so good-looking.”

            “I’m getting his autograph for my little brother,” I explain heatedly.

            “Rosie knew about Devon Cater,” Gigi adds, but he ignores her.

            “Girls always go crazy over good-looking guys,” he accuses.

            “Well, you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you,” Pamela snaps, grabbing my arm and turning me so that our backs now faced him. “Is he really that handsome?” she mutters to me.

            “Definitely.”

            “So we’re doing all this for Adam?” Gigi asks.

            “Yeah, he couldn’t come to the event because he didn’t have an entry pass, and mine’s in my name. So I thought I’d get him an autograph for his birthday.”

            They both look at me suspiciously. “That doesn’t sound like you,” Pamela says. “That doesn’t sound like you at all.”

            “I thought you were against Adam because you thought your parents favored him?”

            “She didn’t think, she knew,” Pamela corrects.

            “Well, if he is the favorite, then he deserves to be. Not only has he been keeping up with school and sports, but he’s been working in the restaurant and watching football with me in his spare time. That’s how I know so much,” I add.

            “You’ve just hung out with your brother for the past two months?” Pamela looks at me like I’ve just committed the worst blasphemy.

            I smile and shrug, because it’s so much easier than explaining how much I looked forward to having Adam teach me about football every Sunday and Monday, how much I depended on it, and how much I missed spending time with him. I wouldn’t expect them to understand the way he thinks the best of me and how it’s led me to start to expect the best from myself. And I don’t dare tell them that for those few weeks, he became my best friend. They would just get jealous.

*          *          *

            “Hey, how are you ladies doing this morning?”

            Oh. My. God. If it’s possible, Jeremy DeSoto is even more beautiful in person. He’s got these wonderfully built arms that probably make anyone they hug feel safe from all danger. And his broad chest is just the right height for me to rest my head on. And his hair—his hair! It’s like angels wove it. It’s this lovely chestnut brown, and it’s so silky, and I just want to run my fingers through it.

            Luckily, waitressing as taught me to multitask quite well; I don’t have to actually be listening to people to know what they said. Usually I’m thinking, Huh, I think I saw those boots 75% off at Cathy Jean. They look much cuter on. I’ll have to see if they have any in my size, but I’m actually saying, “Right, two clam chowders and a green salad. Got it.” So at this point, I’m thinking about Jeremy DeSoto’s chiseled physique while replying, “We’re doing just fine, thanks. How about you?”

            He smiles, melting my heart, and says, “Pretty good. Have you been waiting long?”

            Only my entire life. “About four hours,” I say nonchalantly.

            He gives a low whistle. Look at how perfectly his lips pucker! I snatch quick glances at Pamela and Gigi to see if they’ve noticed too.

            They have.

            Pamela’s head is cocked to the side, her mouth slightly open, and her eyes half closed with a sad sort of longing. Gigi’s chin is tucked in, both her eyes and mouth wide open—sort of how they looked when they were admiring my shoes.

            This doesn’t seem to bother Jeremy, however. He must be used to being looked at like he’s a pair of bright red, platform toe, five-inch Steve Madden heels.

            “So what’s your name?” He looks at me (which makes sense, since I’m the only one who’s been speaking so far).

            “I’m actually here to get an autograph for my brother for his birthday,” I tell him. “You’re his favorite player.”

            He nods as if it all makes sense. “Yeah, you guys didn’t really strike me as football fans.”

            “Excuse me?” For a second I’m terribly tempted to snap that I am a football fan, thank you very much, because I spent a solid two months primarily with my butt on the couch, because I alienated my friends, disgraced my parents, and disappointed myself, and I have nothing to show for that time except that I learned about football from my little brother, so don’t you dare suggest that I don’t strike you as a fan.

            But that sounds really pathetic and overdramatic (and I stopped being both of those), so I just say, “I like football.”

            He shrugs, oblivious to my internal struggle. “So your brother must be pretty awesome if you got here at four just to get an autograph for him.”

            “Oh, yes, Adam’s the best. He’s helped me—” I break off before I can blurt out how Adam helped me out of my downward spiral. Just because my friends, family, and practically the entire clientele at the restaurant know how far I’ve fallen doesn’t mean Jeremy DeSoto needs to. “—A lot. It’s almost his birthday,” I repeat, trying to change the subject.

            I really need to make my sentences more cohesive—it’s the one thing I’ve got going for me here.

            “Sometimes big brothers really come through for you.”

            I frown. “Adam’s my little brother.”

            He shrugs again. “Oh, I just thought he was older because you said he helped you.”

            I sigh impatiently. “That’s because I do need help.” Jeremy raises his eyebrows. “I mean, I did. I did need help.”

            He scratches his nose and says, “Right.”

            I turn around to get Pamela and Gigi’s support, only to realize they’re not behind me anymore. Confused, I look around the crowded atrium and finally spot them over in Devon Carter’s line, talking to the boys who were behind us outside. Pamela’s wedged herself right next to Blue Eyes’ side, shunting Patronize-y out of the circle. Gigi is looking at another wavy-haired boy with a sort of feigned interest that probably means he’s explaining football to her.

            “You don’t believe me,” I accuse, wheeling back to face him, confidence slightly shattered from my lack of support. The thing they forget to tell you about professional athletes is that sometimes they really make you feel inadequate. “I’m totally—perfectly—there’s nothing wrong—” I take a deep breath and compose myself. “I’m fine.” My voice sounds way too calm. “I’m normal, I swear!” It’s almost creepy.

            Jeremy just stares at me out of wide, green eyes. His face looks totally blank, which is perhaps more frustrating than anything else, so I give up trying to convince a professional athlete of my sanity.

            “Aren’t you supposed to be signing a poster?” I demand.

            He shakes his head, eyes still wide, and grabs a pen. “Would you look at that, only two left!” he says casually. “I’ll sign one for you too. What’s your name?”

            I don’t buy this nonchalant shit. “‘To Adam,’” I recite over him. He rolls his eyes and starts writing. “‘Happy birthday.’”

            Jeremy waits for me to go on, and when I don’t, he looks up cautiously. “Is that it? ‘To Adam. Happy Birthday’?”

            Truthfully, I have no idea what Adam expects to hear from his favorite athlete, but I don’t want Jeremy to think I don’t know my stuff, so I say, “Do you expect me to write the whole thing for you?”

            He shakes his head for what seems like the 50^th time, and says, “Fine, then, if you want to be lazy about it.”

            “Well, I guess everyone thinks that.” I say to myself.

            “Thinks what?” Jeremy asks promptly, because that remark was totally intended for him—the thing they forget to tell you about professional athletes is that they have ears and can hear you when you talk to yourself.

            “That I’m lazy.” Why not admit it to him? He already thinks I’m a freak.

            “Well, I was joking,” he explains. “You know, because I’m supposed to be signing autographs, but you were dictating the whole thing for me, and then you stopped, so I called you lazy—”

            “It wasn’t a very funny joke.”

            He rolls his eyes. “Well, not now. Jokes normally aren’t very funny if you have to explain them—”

            “They’re also not very good if you have to explain them.”

            “The point is,” he says impatiently, “I don’t think you’re lazy.”

            “Oh,” I say, taken aback. “Well, thanks, but I am.”

            “You came to the mall two months ago, spent $50 to get an entry pass to this event, got up insanely early, and stood in line for four hours just to get your brother an autograph. For his birthday,” he adds before I can say it first. He looks seriously up at me, capping his pen.

            “Don’t forget the part where I had to put up with you,” I say.

            The corners of his mouth twitch slightly. “That doesn’t sound lazy to me.”

            I smile, taking the posters from him. “Thanks, but you don’t know me.”

            “Sometimes, that’s what makes the best judge.”

            The thing they forget to tell you about professional athletes is that they’re pretty smart.

*          *          *

            I find Pamela and Gigi sitting on the bench facing the main entrance, sharing a huge cup of fro-yo.

            “Really?” I say. “At 10 o’clock? You’re not even going to wait ‘til we’ve had lunch?”

            “Fro-yo knows no time constraints,” Pamela replies, offering me a spoon. “So how’d it go with your future husband?”

            “Quite well,” I say, digging my spoon into the cup. “I got the last two posters, and I expect a proposal within a week. How did it go in Devon Carter’s line?”

            Gigi shrugs. “Learned a little about football, talked to cute boys, no big deal.”

            “Tell me one of you socked that patronizing jerk.”

            “No,” Gigi responds, “but Pamela called him a pretentious ass-clown, and Devon Carter thought that was funny.”

            I look over at Pamela, expecting her to gloat, but her eyes are fixed on something just outside the door of the mall—two feet wearing bright red, five-inch heels.

            Outside, Burgundy Lucas is sitting on the sidewalk, sobbing unashamedly with her head in her hands. Her whole face is contorted, blotchy, and wet, and the corners of her mouth are sagging violently downward. Both her eyes and nose are waterfall-ing. The fact that she looks so terrible sort of makes me feel all glow-y inside, which I know is wrong, so  I look at Pamela and Gigi for some clue on what to do, but it doesn’t look like they know either—Gigi looks uncomfortable; Pamela looks revolted.

            I guess it’s up to me, then.

            “Hey, Burgundy,” I say cheerfully. “What’s up?”

            She lifts her head from her lap, blinks slowly a few times, and sniffs, “Oh, h—hi Rosie.”

            “What’s—uh—going on?”

            A wave of fresh grief washes over her face, and for a moment, all she can do is cry. Then she manages to pull herself together.

            “I c—came to g—get an autog—graphed poster today.”

            I nod. “That makes sense,” I tell her unnecessarily.

            “I w—wanted to g—get one for my d—dad because he’s sick, and J—Jeremy DeSoto is his idol, b—but when I got to the f—front, there weren’t any m—more p—posters left!”

            Pamela and Gigi’s heads both snap up and slowly turn to look at me. I ignore them as well as the heat creeping up my neck. I can’t distinguish if it’s guilt or mortification at the fact that Burgundy and I shared a similar train of thought in the recent past.

            “Ah, well, that is unfortunate—”

            “I bought this whole outfit just for today!” she wails. “This shirt and these stupid shoes—”

            “They’re not stupid!” I say a little more harshly than intended. The three of them look up in startled confusion. “I mean—uh—I actually have an extra—um—autographed poster that you can have.”

            I hand her mine, and she looks up at me uncomprehendingly. “But isn’t it yours?”

            “I have two,” I explain. “I really came here to get one for my brother, and I got another one for myself. But you can have it.”

            “But it’s got your name on it, right? It’s yours.”

            “No, I never told him my name, so it only has an autograph. Maybe you can take it back to him and have him address it to your dad.” I push the poster at her more firmly. “I got the one I came here for. I don’t need two. You have it.”

            “I can’t accept that from you,” she says, still confused.

            “You could give her your shoes in exchange,” Pamela offers.

            Burgundy turns back to me with watery eyes. “You—want my shoes?”

            “No, I don’t want your shoes,” I say impatiently.

            “You don’t?” they all ask together.

            “Just take the poster!” I snap.

            “But—”

            “Burgundy, if you don’t take this poster, I swear to God—”

            She accepts it quickly before I can finish the threat. “Thank you,” she says weakly. “This will mean the world to my dad.” And she walks back into the mall with it clutched to her chest.

            “I still don’t see why you didn’t take the shoes while you had the chance,” Gigi says as we head back through the parking lot. “You lost your mind over them just a couple of weeks ago.”

            “Yeah,” I agree. “But I think that’s exactly why I don’t need them.”

*          *          *

            “So, I got you something.”

            “Really? I got you something too.”

            “Me first. It’s for your birthday.”

            Adam looks at me suspiciously.

            “It’s a card,” I say, handing him the rectangular envelope.

            “Thank you for telling me. I don’t think I ever would have figured that out.”

            “Shut up and open it,” I tell him. “And stop using sarcasm. It doesn’t suit you.”

            “It was a joke, Rosie.”

            “Yeah, well, you suck at jokes. Open. Now.”

            He rips open the teal envelope and pulls out the contents. “Yup,” he says. “That’s a card, all right”

            “You have to open it,” I say impatiently.

            He nods. “That’s how cards generally work,” he agrees, opening it at a painfully glacial pace. A photo slips out and drifts to the floor.

            “What’s this?” Adam squints, leaning over to pick it up. “A picture of a Jeremy DeSoto poster?”

            “Sort of like the one I framed and hung up in your room.” I grin at him.

            He furrows his brow, narrows his eyes, and purses his lips. “And you couldn’t just wrap that because—?”

            “It’s more dramatic this way!” I pull him off the couch by his arm and haul him upstairs to his room, where his autographed poster is beautifully framed over his mini home gym. It took forever to get it straight—turns out I’m not very handy with a level. It looks like a shitty connect-the-dots behind the poster where I had to pull the nails out and reposition them over and over. I had initially positioned it over his bed, but it sort of looked like Jeremy DeSoto was watching him sleep, so I moved it. (I wouldn’t have minded, but I had a feeling Adam would.)

            “That’s really nice,” he says, “but why did you go through the trouble of getting it framed? You could’ve just pinned it to the wall.”

            “Oh, for no reason in particular,” I say casually. “Except that it’s autographed.”

            “What?! Why didn’t you say?!”

            “Drama!” I sing.

            There in the space next to Jeremy’s perfect face, written in bold, black letters, says, To Adam. Keep sharing your knowledge with those around you. Best wishes, Jeremy DeSoto. Also, I think your sister said something about wishing you ‘Happy Birthday’?

            After Adam stops freaking out, he goes over and reads what Jeremy wrote. Then, he snorts. “What exactly did you and DeSoto talk about?”

            “Well, he asked how long I had been waiting and who the autograph was for. I told him a little about you, and then he proposed, and we talked about wedding plans.”

            Adam looks politely curious. “Oh, he proposed? Did he give you a ring?”

            “Well, not yet,” I say defensively. “I expect he’ll ask his grandmother for her ring, and then he’ll come and talk to Dad, and—didn’t you say you had something for me?” I say hastily.

            He rolls his eyes and leads me down the hall to my room.     “You know how you say you never have enough space in your room?”

            “Yes,” I say thoughtfully. “I do say that, don’t I?”

            “Well, take a look at this!”

            He sweeps open the door majestically to reveal a completely different room. I mean, the fixtures are the same—my bed, my dresser, etc. But there’s some new stuff too! Like a beanbag chair I was pretty sure I lost. And breathing room. Turns out there was a floor under all that stuff, too.

            “Did you get a new carpet too? It looks lighter.” I ask. I thought mine was a beige-ish color, but I haven’t seen it in a really long time, so I could be wrong.

            “No, I just vacuumed.”

            “Ah,” I say, frowning. “How did you manage to make all this space? Where’s all the stuff that was on the floor?”

            Adam walks over to my closet and slides it open. “I got you a shoe rack,” he answers triumphantly. “A giant shoe rack.”

            He’s not exaggerating. Running along the floor of my closet, all of my shoes are perched, categorized by season (sort of), color (somewhat), and occasion (in a way). I count them twice to ensure they’re all there—77.

            For a minute, my brain is working furiously to figure out which pair I’m missing, until—

            “Adam, where are my trash slippers?”

            He grins slowly, as if waiting for this question. “Right next to my trash sandals by the front door.”

            I fight to suppress a smirk. “And you couldn’t have told me this sooner because—”

            “Drama.”

            I roll my eyes at him, but his grin only widens. I’m fighting my natural instinct to say something sassy, but I don’t think I have the right after Adam just destroyed and conquered eight years of laziness. So instead I rake my eyes around my room and take in all the space Adam has created.

            “Thank you,” I say after a while.

            “‘S okay.” He shrugs and starts to walk out of the room. “I’ll just let you get used to the vast emptiness.”

            It is a lot of space. It almost feels a little barren. I try to visualize my room pre-extreme-makeover, just to see if getting my under-the-bed shoes out of the way really did make all the difference. Why didn’t I just do that myself? Surely I wasn’t that lazy. No. I know myself. I would’ve just piled them on top of my closet shoes if I thought it would change anything. My eyes stray across the lone box of tampons perched upon my dresser like some weird shrine—and that’s when I discover what’s missing.

            “Adam?” I call. “Where’d the rest of my floor-stuff go?”

            “You mean that giant mountain of crap in the middle of your floor?”

            “Geologically referred to as a barrier reef, yes.”

            “I threw it all away for you,” he replies. “I know how much you hate taking out the trash.”