How to Outrun a Crocodile When Your Shoes Are Untied (5 page)

Has there ever been a grosser dinner?

Just as the tension was starting to rise again and my mom had lifted her finger to point at Grandpa and say something, Dad spoke up.

“So,” he said. “To what do we owe the big surprise?
Really
, if you'd have called, we could have made something nicer.” He eyed Sugar, while handing her a basket of garlic bread.

I twirled my pasta, trying to ignore the clenching feeling inside my stomach, while Daz gawped over Sugar cutting her noodles into tiny pieces. There was a napkin tucked into her tank top as a makeshift bib, and I'm pretty sure that if it hadn't been there, Daz would have been covered in drool.

Grandpa beamed. “Well, if you'd read the latest issue of
Entertainment
Network
, you might have seen a little interview with yours truly! Maybe my beautiful granddaughter should announce the news.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out ripped page from a glossy magazine and handed it to me. I blinked at the headline and read it aloud with a wavering voice.

Reality Star and Naturalist Plans Documentary

In entertainment news, fans will be delighted to hear that Shep Foster is planning a documentary of his life, with friends and family slotted to make guest appearances. The sixty-three-year-old reality star and naturalist, known for his rugged charm, outgoing personality, and trademark Hawaiian shirts, has been touring the world recently, promoting his new book,
Wild Thing
. With both his daughter and son-in-law working at a zoo, Shep said he was eager to take some well-deserved time off to visit them, begin the documentary, and provide some funding for his daughter's project that will focus on large carnivores. “I can't wait to visit,” Shep told us. “I haven't seen my grandkids in ages! It's been great to travel, but I'm looking forward to seeing them most of all.”

I set the paper down. “What does that mean? Guest appearances—what does that
mean
?” The spaghetti was twisting up in knots inside my stomach. “Mom?” I asked.

But she was too busy staring in awe at her dad.

“You're…you're funding my carnivore project?” Her eyes were misty. Grandpa reached over to touch her hand. “Of course I am, Janie,” he said. “It's about time those bozos at the zoo knew what they have in you!”

Mom stammered, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Dad, that's amazing. Thank you!” She looked at Dad, all googly-eyed.

“Wait, is this that lion project thing you wanted to do?” I asked. I gripped my fork hard. Daz peered at her curiously and slurped a noodle.

“Yes! The one with the place inside!” She gripped her hands into fists and shook them in the air.

The
place
inside.

Three little words. But they latched on to my chest and pressed down until I could barely breathe.

I knew what she meant. The zoo had a few houses on the grounds, mostly for staff that had to be there around the clock for feeding or veterinary help. The houses were tucked in the back, in between the exhibits. Normally you walk right by them without noticing, mainly because they look like huts or fake base camps and are plastered with “Save Our Tigers” posters.

“But that means,” I started. I couldn't finish that sentence without throwing up.

“We're gonna be living in the
zoo
!” Daz shrieked. He slammed down his fork and high-fived Sugar, who was giggling with delight.

All of my energy drained down through my toes and out my chair when I saw how happy they were. This couldn't be happening. First Liv moves away and now I'm expected to live in a
zoo
? Like a real zoo, with monkeys and lions and crocodiles as my neighbors? Without Liv, I wanted to stay anonymous. How the heck can I do that if I live in a zoo? Why did I have to be in the weirdest family on the planet?

“It will only be for a few months,” Mom added. “A summer thing, really. You'll have so much fun!”

Gag me with a spoon. Not everyone is cool enough to be in the spotlight like Grandpa and Mom.
Some
people get called “Scales” every second of the day, no matter how much they try to pull off the whole “cool and confident” shtick.

“And this documentary you're filming—is it true that you would like us to be featured in it?” Dad asked. “How big are we talking here? Both of the kids are finishing up school, and I know that their exams are soon…”

I glanced at the newspaper article beside me. It practically glared back at me.

Grandpa put down his fork so he didn't poke himself in the eye; he was such a hand talker. “Well, the producers said they'd like to feature my family if they could. They already got a lot of footage of ol' Sugar here.” He patted her on the shoulder.

“Oh, I'll bet they have,” Mom said quietly, as she twirled her fork.

Grandpa ignored her. “And I've got a few public appearances now that I'm here. The bookstore in the Downsview Mall wants to have a signing for
Wild
Thing
, and a few of the TV news stations around here have already talked to Herb for an interview with you all. I'd like to focus the footage on you guys, of course.”

Honestly, at that point I stopped being able to feel my face. The half smile that I had plastered to my face sort of froze, and I was left with what I can only imagine was a zombielike sneer. I looked at my parents in horror.

I
have
to
be
on
TV.

My stomach lurched. I felt the distinct tremor of sickness in my throat. Everything from the past week was all balled together, making my hands sweat and tremble.

I
am
going
to
puke.

Instead of arguing for my chance at freedom from insanity, my last chance to cling to anonymity, I, Ana Wright, shoved my chair out from the table and dashed upstairs to the bathroom, where I got a front row seat to the second viewing of my dinner.

Take that, Hollywood.

“Elephants can communicate with sounds well below the human hearing range.”

—Animal Wisdom

When I sat down at my bench in art class the next day, the smell of paint and clay felt like a warm hug from a friend. All I wanted to do was lay low and make it to summer, so Daz had promised not to tell anyone at school about Grandpa. Okay, he had bartered dish duty for a month, but it was worth it to avoid the Sneerers finding out. The only thing worse than them knowing I'm a scaredy-cat zoo freak would be them knowing I'm related to people who are
so
much cooler and braver than me.

Hello, I don't need that comparison.

All of this might not be nearly so bad if Liv was here. Before she moved, she used to glue tiny googly eyes on my binder whenever I was upset about something. But now? She's got better things to do, and it feels like I'll never have my best friend back again. How do I know this? Because last night, my life got so much worse.

Embarrassing grandfather shoving me into a TV interview? Check.

Parents forcing us to move into a zoo? Check.

Best friend ditching me for the rest of our lives? CHECK, CHECK, AND CHECK.

That's right.

You'd think that Liv would have had to have been in some awful accident to miss our cupcake wish, right? You'd think she would want to come back home so we could be best friends together again and do all the things that best friends should, like marry brothers and buy nice purses in matching colors.

But you'd be wrong.

When I clicked open my e-mail late last night,
this
is what I saw.

Dear Ana,

Sorry I missed our cupcake wish. I know it was important to you, and I feel super bad about bailing. The thing is, I sorta like it here, you know? I mean, it's not HOME yet, but it's crazy beautiful, and the people are really nice, and I just don't know if that's the right wish to make. I've never gotten to explore someplace cool and new before, and this whole adventure is kind of fun! I even met a girl with purple hair! Her name is Leilani, and she plays the flute. I know, I can see your face now all scrunched up and mad at me. I really am sorry. I know we can still be best friends from where we are too!

Love and milkshakes (the strawberry kind),

Liviola XOXO

Can you believe it?

I must have stared at all those exclamation marks for an hour, wondering how they had the nerve to look so happy and upbeat in such an awful e-mail.

It didn't matter what I did. Liv was
gone
. Officially, one hundred percent, not coming back
gone
, and I knew it. No wishing would fix that now. How could something be so true yet still feel so wrong? All day long, I kept picturing her millions of miles away, acting completely happy to be without
her
best friend. Why couldn't I do the same?

I yanked myself back to reality and forced myself to sit taller. I just had to make it through the rest of the school year. Ms. Fenton's familiar writing was scrawled out on the chalkboard, spelling out
My
Seventh-Grade True Self
in loopy cursive. She had surrounded it with blue and green stars. A small ray of hope blossomed in my chest to see her cheerful writing.

Apart from sleep-in Saturdays and ice-cream sundaes, art class was one of my favorite things in the world. On our first day at the beginning of the year, Ms. Fenton had given us all a fabric-covered notebook, saying it could be for words or doodles, or even recipes or a stamp collection.
Anything
, she'd said,
that
gets
your
creative
self
buzzing.
I'd always liked doodling, especially animals from the zoo, but it wasn't until meeting Ms. Fenton that I realized some people made art for a
living
. I couldn't picture myself doing that, but I loved the feel of having a pencil in my hand and the scritchy-scratch sound as I doodled on the paper. I filled up that first notebook in just three weeks, and she'd kept on giving me fresh ones every time I needed one.

My bench was closest to the window, so I was staring out at the waving trees when Ms. Fenton finally appeared in the room. I know some art teachers are pretty loopy, but Ms. Fenton was pretty put together. She has a short crop of auburn hair that curls under her ears like a model, and long fingers that always look so elegant when she draws something for us on the board. She even has a glittery ring on her thumb that she got from France. France! I can
so
picture her in that big art gallery with a baguette in her backpack.

“Listen up, my little rutabagas!” She shuffled to the front of the room with an armful of paints. Plunking them down on the bench in front of her, she hopped up onto her desk and crossed her legs. That was how cool Ms. Fenton was—she didn't sit
at
her desk; she sat on it.

“The school year is almost up, and your hormones are probably turning you all into little monsters,” she said, giving the class a wink and everyone laughed. “To help ease your transition into summer, I've decided to go easy on you…”

The class erupted into a cheer, which she encouraged with a little desk-dance of her own.

“By giving you one last project.”

Cue the moaning.

“Don't worry. You'll love it,” she reassured us.

“How about we do a project on naps?” Mark shouted, fake snoring loudly. Some teachers would get upset at outbursts like that, but in Ms. Fenton's class, everyone seemed to be a little nicer, a little happier. She shook her head.

“Maybe next year, Mark,” she said, tossing a piece of her chalk at his bench. He caught it and began doodling on the corner.

“As you can see from the board, your last project is going to be called ‘My Seventh-Grade True Self.'” The class quieted as she spoke. “All I want you to do, using whatever medium you choose, is to show me who you are
today
, to commemorate your time here in seventh grade.”

A hand shot up.

“Dan?”

“Can we use clay?” Dan asked, shoving his glasses farther up on his nose.

She nodded. “Any medium at all. Paints, clay, pastels, collage, colored pencils, anything! So long as you're using your hands to make it, and we have a teeny chat, explaining your choices. I'm hoping to have some of them displayed during the summer, so new seventh-grade students
next
year can see your work, as inspiration.”

A few buzzes of excitement sped through the room, but I couldn't help but hunch down a little lower when I heard that. Next year's students getting to see my work? That would be like someone seeing inside my doodle notebook. That's practically like seeing someone in their underwear.

“Any other questions?”

Bella lifted her hand from across the room. It was easy to forget she was there, buried behind her notebook. “Do we have to?” she asked. Her voice was stronger than I thought it would be. “I mean, do we have to display them when they're done?”

Ms. Fenton puckered her mouth and tapped her lips with her finger. “Well, no. You don't
have
to. But I think it would be great for new students to see. Think of how intimidated you were when you started seventh grade!”

Bella nodded, and I shot her an appreciative glance. At least I wasn't the only chicken around here.

“I thought it might be nice if you paired up to work,” Ms. Fenton continued. “Maybe with someone you've never worked with before. If not now, then when, right? Summer is almost here!” She sang happily and hopped from her desk and began spreading out the materials at the front of the room. “Before you start, make sure you pick up this list I've prepared with questions to prompt you along the way. If you're not sure where to start, this is for you.” She waved a stack of pink papers in her hand. “Chop, chop, little onions!” She clapped twice and pointed to the colorful spectrum in front of her.

Chairs skidded as everyone leaped up and ran to the front. I took my time, wondering how in heck I was going to show who I was in this project. Who
was
I, anyway? Was I colored pencil? Was I a collage? Was I stinky clay? I didn't feel like much of anything without Liv here.

“Hey,” a small voice interrupted my thoughts. “You want to work on our projects together?” Bella was standing by my bench with a timid smile. Normally I would have worked with Liv, but without her, I assumed I'd be on my own.

“Sure,” I said, shoving over to make room for her. If the Sneerers didn't like her, she couldn't be that bad. Funny I never noticed how cute her short hair is, with tiny metal clips over her ears. She looked almost like an elf, with darting eyes that seemed to have a lot of secrets. She passed me one of the question sheets Ms. Fenton had prepared for us.

“Maybe we should brainstorm some ideas first?” She peered up at the front of the room, where everyone was clamoring for all the good paintbrushes. “We can figure out who we are.” She rolled her eyes, but in the “oh boy” way, not the mean way. A smile tugged at the side of her mouth, making her even more elf-like.

“Good idea. I have no idea who I am.” I giggled.

I'm not sure when I fell asleep after I got home from school—all I knew was that I woke up to the sound of Mom's vacuuming downstairs. Now that she knew Grandpa and Sugar would be around more, it was like Oprah was on her way.

For the first time in my life, I didn't even want to draw, which probably meant I was dying from some awful disease that I'd picked up from crummy math class. I always figured integers were contagious.

Things I Would Do If It Meant I Could Sleep until College

1.
Play video games with Daz. Complete with all the squirming and girly screaming. And that's just Daz.

2.
Juggle every one of Daz's snakes at once.

3.
Take over dish duty for the rest of my life.

4.
Go help my mom's friend Gail at the zoo while she helps birth reindeer babies. That means you have to stick your hand up…well, you know. Ain't pretty.

5.
Never look at Zack again. Okay, this one is pushing it…

Of course, it didn't take too long for Mom to start bustling around my room, opening curtains and stuff. Why is it they always go for the curtains? It's like teenage kryptonite, all that bright light when you're tired.

“What are you doing sleeping? It's a beautiful summer day out there!” Her voice was determined. I could tell she was trying to force as much upbeat happiness into the room as possible. I mumbled a reply into my pillow, but she yanked the blanket from my shoulders.

“Not a chance,” she said, ruffling my hair playfully. “If you nap now, you'll never get to sleep tonight.” Darwin whistled at her, trying to charm his way into a treat. She tickled his wing through the cage bars and clapped her hands at me.

“Come on! I don't want you moping around. Why don't you come help me at the zoo if you're bored? Daz is out with Kevin, so you can help me clean the new house up before our move.” Her eyes flitted to the watch on her wrist.

It's funny how parents can technically be asking a question but do it in a way where you know the answer already. And that answer is nonnegotiable.

“Okay, okay!” I huffed, yanking myself out of bed. “But I need to e-mail Liv, all right? It's important.”

Important that I tell her how much she hurt me by not showing up for our wish, just so she could hang out and go on “adventures” with some girl who has purple hair.

She gave me her best “make it quick” look and bustled back downstairs. Before starting my e-mail, I knew I needed to find the guts. To psyche myself up, like athletes do before important games. I wanted to
see
where she was.

I flipped open my laptop, hammering Liv's new address into Google Maps, like I'd done a million times since she'd left. I always hoped that I would somehow feel closer to her, being able to see the green grass near her new house.

But it never happened.

I jerked the mouse around, dragging the map back to Denver.

Liv was a whole
earth
turn
away. With a girl named Leilani. I tapped the space bar angrily with my finger, gearing myself up.

I would tell her the truth.

Chewing my lip, I opened my e-mail.

Dear Liv,

I don't get it. I thought you wanted to come back home? Why didn't you just tell me you liked it there from the start?

My teeth clenched together as I typed. I sent the message and was about to close my computer when a little blip alerted me.

A new message.

My heart hammered as I saw Liv's name in my inbox. She was there!