Draanen Wendelin Van - Flipped

I whispered, “You’re sworn to secrecy on this whole egg thing, right? I mean, Juli told Granddad, so he knows, but I don’t want this to spread to, you know, Dad.”

She studied me a minute, then said, “Tell me you’ve learned your lesson, honey.”

“I have, Mom.”

“Okay, then.”

I let out a big sigh of relief. “Thanks.”

“Oh, and Bryce?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m very glad you told me about it.” She kissed me on the cheek, then smiled and said, “Now, didn’t I hear you promise you’d mow the lawn today?”

“Right,” I said, and headed outside to trim the turf.

That evening my mother announced that the Bakers would be over Friday night at six o’clock; that the menu included poached salmon, crab risotto, and fresh steamed vegetables; and that none of us had better weasel out of being there. My dad muttered that if we were really going to do this, it would be a whole lot better to barbecue because at least that way he’d have something to do, but my mom positively smoked him with her eyes and he dropped it.

So. They were coming. And it made seeing Juli at school even more uncomfortable than usual. Not because she gushed about it or even waved and winked or something. No, she was back to avoiding me. She’d say hi if we happened to run into each other, but instead of being, like, right over my shoulder anytime I looked, she was nowhere. She must have ducked out back doors and taken roundabout ways through campus. She was, I don’t know, scarce.

I found myself looking at her in class. The teacher’d be talking and all eyes would be up front… except mine. They kept wandering over to Juli. It was weird. One minute I’d be listening to the teacher, and the next I’d be completely tuned out, looking at Juli.

It wasn’t until Wednesday in math that I figured it out. With the way her hair fell back over her shoulders and her head was tilted, she looked like the picture in the paper. Not just like it — the angle was different, and the wind wasn’t blowing through her hair — but she did look like the picture. A lot like the picture.

Making that connection sent a chill down my spine. And I wondered — what was she thinking? Could she really be that interested in root derivations?

Darla Tressler caught me watching, and man, she gave me the world’s wickedest smile. If I didn’t do something fast, this was going to spread like wildfire, so I squinted at her and whispered, “There’s a bee in her hair, stupid,” then pointed around in the air like, There it goes, see?

Darla’s neck whipped around searching for the bee, and I straightened out my focus for the rest of the day. The last thing I needed was to be scorched by the likes of Darla Tressler.

That night I was doing my homework, and just to prove to myself that I’d been wrong, I pulled that newspaper article out of my trash can. And as I’m flipping it over, I’m telling myself, It’s a distortion of reality; it’s my imagination; she doesn’t really look like that….

But there she was. The girl in my math class, two rows over and one seat up, glowing through newsprint.

Lynetta barged in. “I need your sharpener,” she said.

I slammed my binder closed over the paper and said, “You’re supposed to knock!” And then, since she was zooming in and the paper was still sticking out, I crammed the binder into my backpack as fast as I could.

“What are you trying to hide there, baby brother?”

“Nothing, and stop calling me that! And don’t barge into my room anymore!”

“Give me your sharpener and I’m history,” she said with her hand out.

I dug it out of my drawer and tossed it at her, and sure enough, she disappeared.

But two seconds later my mom was calling for me, and after that, well, I forgot that the paper was in my binder.

Until first period the next morning, that is. Man! What was I supposed to do with it? I couldn’t get up and throw it out; Garrett was right there. Besides that, Darla Tressler’s in that class, and I could tell — she was keeping an eye out for wayward bees. If she caught wind of this, I’d be the one stung.

Then Garrett reaches over to snag a piece of paper like he does about fourteen times a day, only I have a complete mental spaz and slam down on his hand with mine.

“Dude!” he says. “What’s your problem?”

“Sorry,” I say, tuning in to the fact that he was only going for lined paper, not newspaper.

“Dude,” he says again. “You know you’ve been really spaced lately? Anyone else tell you that?” He rips a piece of paper out of my binder, then notices the edges of the newspaper. He eyes me, and before I can stop him, he whips it out.

I pounce on him and tear it out of his hands, but it’s too late. He’s seen her picture.

Before he can say a word, I get in his face and say, “You shut up, you hear me? This is not what you think.”

“Whoa, kick back, will ya? I wasn’t thinking anything….” But I could see the little gears go click-click-click in his brain. Then he smirks at me and says, “I’m sure you’ve got a perfectly reasonable explanation for why you’re carrying a picture of Juli Baker around with you.”

The way he said it scared me. Like he was playing with the idea of roasting me in front of the whole class. I leaned over and said, “Zip it, would you?”

The teacher hammered on us to be quiet, but it didn’t stop Garrett from smirking at me or doing the double-eyebrow wiggle in the direction of my binder. After class Darla tried to act all cool and preoccupied, but she had her radar up and pointed our way. She shadowed me practically all day, so there was no real window of opportunity to explain things to Garrett.

What was I going to tell him, anyway? That the paper was in my binder because I was trying to hide it from my sister? That would help.

Besides, I didn’t want to make up some lame lie about it. I actually wanted to talk to Garrett. I mean, he was my friend, and a lot had happened in the last couple of months that was weighing on me. I thought that if I talked to him, maybe he’d help get me back on track. Help me to stop thinking about everything. Garrett was real reliable in that arena.

Luckily, in social studies our class got library time to do research for our famous historical figure report. Darla and Juli were both in that class, but I managed to drag Garrett into a back corner of the library without either of them noticing. And the minute we were by ourselves, I found myself laying into Garrett about chickens.

He shakes his head at me and says, “Dude! What are you talking about?”

“Remember when we went and looked over her fence?”

“Back in the sixth grade?”

“Yeah. Remember how you were down on me for wondering what a hen was?”

He rolled his eyes. “Not this again….”

“Man, you didn’t know jack-diddly-squat about chickens. I put my life in your hands and you dumped me in a bucket of bull.”

So I told him about my dad and the eggs and salmonella and how I’d been intercepting eggs for nearly two years.

He just shrugged and said, “Makes sense to me.”

“Man, she caught me!”

“Who?”

“Juli!”

“Whoa, dude!”

I told him about what I’d said, and how almost right after that she was out playing weed warrior in her front yard.

“Well, so? It’s not your fault her yard’s a mess.”

“But then I found out that they don’t even own that house. They’re all poor because her dad’s got a retarded brother that they’re, you know, paying for.”

Garrett gives me a real chumpy grin and says, “A retard? Well, that explains a lot, doesn’t it?”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “What?”

“You know,” he says, still grinning, “about Juli.”

My heart started pounding and my hands clenched up. And for the first time since I’d learned to dive away from trouble, I wanted to deck somebody.

But we were in the library. And besides, it flashed through my mind that if I decked him for what he’d said, he’d turn around and tell everyone that I was hot for Juli Baker, and I was not hot for Juli Baker!

So I made myself laugh and say, “Oh, right,” and then came up with an excuse to put some distance between him and me.

After school Garrett asked me to come to his house and hang for a while, but I had zero interest in that. I still wanted to slug him.

I tried to talk myself down from feeling that way, but in my gut I was flaming mad at the guy. He’d crossed the line, man. He’d crossed it big-time.

And what made the whole thing so stinking hard to ignore was the fact that standing right next to him, on the other side of the line, was my father.

Sunday mornings are peaceful in our house. My father lets himself sleep in. My mother lets herself not fix breakfast. And if my brothers have been out late playing with their band, you won’t even know they’re around until noon.

Usually I tiptoe out to collect eggs while everyone else is asleep, then spirit a bowl of Cheerios back to my room to have breakfast in bed and read.

But that Sunday—after spending most of the night feeling upset or uneasy—I woke up wanting to do something physical. To shake off the confused way I was still feeling.

What I really needed was a good climb in my sycamore tree, but I settled for watering the lawn while I tried to think of other things. I cranked open the spigot and admired how rich and black the dirt looked as I sprinkled back and forth across the soil. And I was busy talking to my buried seedlings, coaxing them to spring up and greet the rising sun, when my father came outside. His hair was damp from a shower, and he had a grocery sack rolled closed in his hand. “Dad! I’m sorry if I woke you.”