Goodbye, Rebel Blue Hardcover (27 page)

“You ate my seeds.”

He nuzzles my hand.

“You ate my seeds!” Mud covers every inch of skin to my knees. Speckles of brown dot my shirt, my face, my hair. “This is so wrong.” I settle my back against the recycling bin and slide to the ground. Tiberius lies next to me. “Or maybe it’s fate.” I scratch Tiberius’s head, and he closes his eyes. “Maybe you ate the seeds because I’m not meant to plant those seeds. Instead of daisies, maybe I’m supposed to plant petunias or snapdragons.”

Now my brain hurts.

“Or maybe this is a sign that I’m supposed to make another choice. Maybe it’s time to give up the whole thing.” But I’m not ready to give up Kennedy’s list. The list brought me Nate, and it brought me closer to Macey and Percy and Uncle Bob and Aunt Evelyn.

Of course I could always perform the acts on my own list. I laugh so loudly, Tiberius cracks an eyelid. I hadn’t taken the assignment seriously, not like Kennedy and Macey. I wrote about surfing naked and riding in a shopping cart yelling, “The British are coming! The British are coming!” The detention assignment was a joke. I wiggle my toes, clumps of mud falling to the ground.

Well, not all of it was a joke.

Like Kennedy, I’d written a page of bucket-list items. But it was only in those final minutes in the detention room when I’d been thinking about death and dying and heaven that I dug into my heart.

The last two items on my list were very much about connecting with others.

What now, Kennedy? You love to talk and haven’t been shy about sharing advice before
.

Silence.

I’m waiting.

More silence. I toe the mud on the top of my foot. It’s been days since I’ve heard her voice—not since that day at the mudflats when I welcomed the sea swallows and swore at her. If people and situations are truly put into our lives when we need them, is it possible I just don’t need Kennedy anymore? An uncomfortable shiver rocks my spine. I turn to the sky and hear only birds and the far-off crash of the ocean.

“What do you think, Tib? Is it time to give up the bone?”

Tiberius snores.

I picture those final two items, two lines faintly scratched, two lines that caused an unexpected ache in the center of my chest. I pretended they didn’t matter, and I quickly tossed those words into the trash. But as I think of those two lines now, I realize they do matter. With Kennedy’s list gone, mine is the only one I have left.

With the hose, I wash my feet and take the first steps toward completing my bucket list.

I AIM MY PENCIL STUB LIKE A PISTOL AT MY notebook.
Find My Father
sounds way too normal. I lick the tip of my pencil and write, That’s it. Five pathetic lines. All I know about my father. All my mother knew about him. They’d both been on assignment in Buenos Aires, the Paris of South America. My father was covering some art installation, and Mom was shooting the Iguazu Falls. She called my father the Gift Giver. “Because he gave me the best gift of my entire life. You.”

Growing up, I occasionally wondered about him. Was he an artist? Was he short? Did he hate shoes? After my mom’s death, when it became clear I didn’t belong in the bungalow, I imagined running away and finding my father. As with Mom, we’d travel the world, and I’d tag along on his assignments. I’d shake hands with world-famous artists, and we’d talk about color and composition.

On my imaginary dad’s days off, we’d explore the world’s finest museums and hunt for shark teeth.

I’m curious about my father and figure he must be quite extraordinary for my mom to have taken an interest in him. When Uncle Bob and Aunt Evelyn get home, I’ll ask them about him. I’ll also try to track down some of my mom’s journalist friends and see if they know anything. And if I’m really desperate, I can thumb through art magazines and newspapers to track down journalists writing about museums in Buenos Aires the year I was born.

The world feels so big.

When Penelope gets home, I join her at the kitchen table to start on the final item on my bucket list.

Taking a deep breath, I hand Cousin Pen a bag from Target, the plastic crinkling and crunching.

“What’s this?” Pen holds the bag far from her body, as if something alive lurks inside and might bite.

I lounge with one elbow resting on the kitchen counter, trying to appear relaxed, trying to pretend that what I’m about to ask isn’t gnawing at my gut. “Something for you. A present.”

She shakes it and sniffs.

“Come on, Pen. Open the stupid bag.”

My cousin pushes aside her calc book, sets the bag on the table, and reaches in, but her hand freezes.

I leap across the kitchen, pull out the box, and set the Polly Pocket doll directly in front of her.

“It’s supposed to be a bribe.”

“Supposed to be?”

I plunk onto the chair next to Pen. “I went to the store to buy you something that would bring you great joy and give you warm, fuzzy feelings for me so you’d do me a favor.”

“And this is what you came up with?”

“It made sense at the time.”

“Really?”

“Really.” I jam my hands through my hair. “So I’m walking down an aisle at Target and see this display of Polly Pockets. The display includes cars and bakeries and pet shops. Then I see you and your friends. I see you playing with the dolls and all the little things that go with them. You used to make up these elaborate games and stories.” I rake my fingers down the back of my skull to my neck.

“Then I see me. I’m sitting on my bed and watching you all, and I remember feeling hurt that no one invited me to play. And then I thought of pie.”

“Rebel, you are so screwed up.”

“I know, but at least I know why. When I broke the heads off your Polly Pocket dolls, everyone, including me, thought I was angry because you threw away all my sea glass. But I don’t have attachments to things, because
things
aren’t important to me. I wasn’t angered by the missing glass. I was hurt because you and your friends were ignoring me. I wanted to be part of your game.”

Pen studies the front of the box, the back of the box, and both sides of the box.

“Yeah, it’s getting deep,” I say. “So let’s both forget about my epiphany in the Target toy aisle and think of the doll as a bribe.”

Pen sets the doll on her math book and leans back in her chair. “Spill. What do you want?”

“I need a prom ticket.”

The front legs of Pen’s chair clatter to the floor, and she looks relieved. “Impossible. Prom is this Saturday. The committee isn’t selling tickets anymore.”

“I know, but I figured at least one of the Cupcakes is on the prom committee.”

Pen tilts her head. “So if you need a prom ticket, is it correct to assume that you’ll be going to prom?”

“Yes.”

“And if you’re going to prom, is it correct to assume you may act in a manner that is far from normal?”

“Yes.”

Pen presses her palms to the sides of her head, as if she’s trying to keep it from exploding. “Is this about Kennedy Green’s bucket list?”

“No.”

Pen’s stare sharpens.

I tilt my chair back, wobble, and settle all four legs back on the floor. “It’s about
my
bucket list.”

She laughs so hard, her ponytail swings. “One of the items on your bucket list is ‘Go to prom’?”

“Not exactly.”

She drums her fingers on the table. I sit patiently, thinking of peaches.

“And if I don’t get you a ticket?” Penelope asks.

“I’ll crash prom.”

“Why do I not doubt that?” Pen sighs and pulls her cell phone from her pocket. “Let me talk to Sandy. She’s on the committee.”

The next day after school Macey stands in her tiny kitchen in the FACS building while a member of the school newspaper takes her picture. She’s holding a green ribbon with gold lettering in one hand, a peach pie in the other.

The newspaper staffer settles her camera around her neck and takes out a long, skinny notepad from the back pocket of her shorts. “Are you disappointed you didn’t win the local round of the Great American Bake-Off?”

Macey tosses the ribbon onto the counter. “Of course not.”

“But you didn’t win any prize money and didn’t move on to the next round.”

“My goal wasn’t to win the bake-off, just enter it.”

Now the staffer looks confused. “So you’re happy with a ribbon of participation?”

“I’m happy with my pie.” Macey hands the newspaper photographer the pie and shoos her out of the FACS kitchen.

I sit on the counter, my flip-flops tapping the cupboard. Raising my hand, I make a giant check mark in the air. “Bucket list complete. Congratulations.”

Macey pulls me off the counter. “Now time for yours.”

Together Macey and I drive to the Bolivar house. When Gabby opens the door and sees me, her eyes grow wide but quickly narrow into a glare. She jams her arms over her chest, her new, sleek haircut swinging. The hair hangs to her chin at the sides and is cut short at the back. She wears vampy bangs slashed with a streak of hot pink.

“Good choice,” I say. “Pink’s a great color on you.”

Gabby wrinkles her nose. “It’s the clip-on kind.”

“Even so, it has panache.”

Her teeth dig into her bottom lip. “You think so?”

“I know so.” I squat and grab her hands. “So much that I’m here on my knees begging for your help.”

“My help?”

“I need a prom dress, something with massive amounts of panache, and I only have forty bucks and two days.”

Gabby’s jaw drops. “Two days is not a lot of time to find a prom dress.”

“I know.”

“This time of year, dresses have been picked over.”

“I know.”

Her expression grows grimmer. “And it’ll be hard to find a dress for forty dollars.”

“I know.” I grab her hand. “Which is why I need you.”

Gabby turns her face skyward as if seeking help from every god in the universe to deal with me.

Then she peeks at me out of the corner of her eye to make sure I’m watching this show of diva drama.