In Case You Missed It Read online

  “Not yet. I was driving. With Helene. You know how that stresses me out.”

  “Gotcha. No problemo, mi hermana. I’ll do it.”

  She sends a group text to Margo and me, and instructs Margo to try to figure out the transport stuff.

  Knowing I’ve got the concert to look forward to gets me through the mind-numbing boringness of an hour and a half of SAT prep. I’m starting to feel like a trained test monkey. I half expect a treat to come out of the computer when I get the right answer and an electric shock when I get a wrong one. I get so fed up and bored with being on the hamster wheel of testing that sometimes I just want to pick any old answer so I can get it over with and move on to the things I really care about.

  But that would be committing suicide with my future—or so I’m told at every possible opportunity. I have to do well on all these tests or I won’t get into a good college. And if I don’t get into a good college, then I won’t get a good job, and if I don’t get a good job, then I’ll end up asking, “Do you want fries with that?” or “Can I supersize you?” or worse, living on the streets in a cardboard box with all of my worldly possessions in a shopping cart that I stole from Walmart.

  So I sit at the computer trying to focus, even though I hate every minute.

  The problem is that Margo keeps texting Rosa and me in the group chat about the Einstein’s Encounter concert.

  soooooooo excited. did you listen to the new single they released today? it’s awesome.

  I guess Rosa is trying to focus, too, because five minutes later, there’s another.

  hello? are you alive?

  are you guys mad at me? why aren’t you answering?

  HELLO?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  I get so tired of my phone buzzing that I finally text back.

  no, i’m not mad and yes, i’m dead.

  Rosa writes:

  me too, from boredom, at SAT prep. later.

  Of course, Margo has to text again to tell us she got the text and she’ll talk to us when we get out, instead of you know, just stopping.

  Back to stupid SAT math word problems: Of the 80 students in class, 25 are studying Chinese, 15 French, and 13 Spanish. 3 are studying Chinese and French; 4 are studying French and Spanish; 2 are studying Chinese and Spanish; and none is studying all 3 languages at the same time. How many students are not studying any of the 3 languages?

  First of all, can you imagine the PTA freaking out if we had classes of eighty students? They’d be camping out in front of the school board, just like the protesters are doing outside my dad’s job, except the PTA of our school would have designer tents with luxury King John’s Port-O-Potties and takeout deliveries from expensive restaurants for dinner. Second of all, how come no one is studying Italian, or German, or Japanese? Italian sounds so romantic. And all the Anime Club kids want to learn Japanese.

  Whatever. Stop thinking, Sammy, and solve the problem.

  I’m so glad when class is over. I’m tired and starving, and worst of all, I still have at least three hours’ worth of homework to tackle when I get home. But I’ve got Einstein’s Encounter on the horizon. It’s only because of that I don’t complain when Mom tells me she’s driving home because she’s on her last nerve and can’t cope with being a passenger while I drive. I just say, “Fine, whatever,” because I want to spend the drive home texting with Rosa and Margo about concert plans.

  “I’m picking up takeout on the way home,” Mom says.

  “Can we get sushi?”

  “No, I already ordered from Mama Lucia’s,” Mom says. “I just want to pick up and go.”

  “But we always get Italian,” I say, pouting. “Because that’s the only thing RJ eats.”

  “We don’t always get Italian, and please stop whining, Samantha,” Mom snaps. “I’m tired, and I have a headache.”

  Really? You’ve got a headache, I think as I stare out the window, sulking. The truth is we do always order from Mama Lucia’s because it’s RJ’s favorite. And RJ’s in eighth grade and a giant pain, so my mom’s just avoiding a fight with the picky eater. But she doesn’t have three hours of homework to do.

  RJ’s playing video games when we get home, with Scruffles, our rescue mutt, curled up on the sofa next to him, at least till I walk in the door. Scruffles leaps off the couch, runs to me, and starts barking and chasing his tail in a circle. Watching him, you’d think I’d been away for a month instead of a few hours.

  Just another reason why dogs are awesome, and Scruffles is the most awesome dog of all.

  “Yes, I know, pupper, you missed me,” I croon, scratching behind his ears. “But I’m back now!”

  “He didn’t realize he missed you till you walked in the door,” RJ says. “Before that, he was perfectly fine.”

  My brother doesn’t want me to have any joy in my life.

  “You’re not a dog mind reader,” I tell him. “You have no idea what goes on in Scruffles’ head.”

  “Neither do you,” RJ says. “And based on the evidence, he was happy.”

  Mom’s in the kitchen unloading the food. I head in and put down my backpack. Scruffles trots after me, wagging his tail hopefully.

  “Can you get the silverware?” Mom asks. “RJ, turn off the game and come eat.”

  I get the knives and forks. Mom’s already put plates on the table. The kitchen smells of garlic knots, which sort of makes up for not getting sushi. I grab one and bite into the buttery, doughy, garlicky goodness.

  “Sammy stole a garlic knot!” RJ tattles. Like I said, he’s a human killjoy.

  “Can you at least pretend to be civilized and wait till you sit down to eat?” Mom sighs. She pours herself a glass of wine and takes a big slug of it as soon as she slumps into her chair.

  “Not really,” I say. “I am undone by the smell of garlic knots.”

  RJ reaches across the table with two grabby hands and takes one knot in each.

  “Mom!” I exclaim, pointing at my brother. “You call that civilized?”

  “One at a time, RJ!” Mom says. “I don’t know where I went wrong …” she mutters.

  RJ throws one of the garlic knots back onto the plate.

  “Ewww! Don’t put it back after you’ve touched it with your germy hands!”

  “Make up your mind!” RJ complains. “Can I take it or not?”

  “Now that you’ve touched it, take it,” Mom says. “But from now on, only take one at a time.”

  RJ takes back his germ-infested garlic knot, and Mom serves out the lasagna and passes around the salad. She makes us each take some salad, even though neither of us are big lettuce fans. We get that from Dad, who always used to say, “Lettuce is for rabbits,” until RJ did a report on rabbits in third grade and learned that’s a suburban legend—lettuce can be really bad for a rabbit’s digestive system. After that, Dad had to change his tune, although this knowledge didn’t make any of us like lettuce any more, nor did it stop Mom from trying to force us to eat it.

  “How come Dad’s working late again?” RJ asks. “Is it because of the protesters?”

  “Yes.” Mom sighs.

  “Why are they protesting about company profits? It’s stupid. Making a profit is what companies are supposed to do, isn’t it?” I point out.

  “Duh!” RJ comments with his mouth full of half-chewed lasagna.

  “Can you not talk with your mouth full?” I tell him.

  “Making a profit is, indeed, what companies are supposed to do,” Mom says, knocking back the rest of her wine. “But it’s not just about profits. According to the great unwashed camp outside the bank, corporations in general, and banks in particular, are engaged in a sinister conspiracy to take over the world. They’re also responsible for the financial crisis, the decline of Western civilization, wars, poverty, the latest Star Wars movie not living up to their expectations, and so on. In short, Banks Are the Devil.”

  “Which they aren’t,” RJ says, thankfully without any food in his mouth this time. “Because that’s just cr
azy.”

  I have to agree with my brother on that. The thought of Dad being involved in a sinister plot of any kind is just laughable. Sure, he can be strict at times, but Dr. Evil? No way.

  “Doesn’t Dad have a PR department to deal with this stuff?” I ask. “Why does he have to stay late every night?”

  “Because he’s the CEO,” Mom says. “When you’re the head of the company, the buck stops with you. Your dad takes his responsibilities very seriously. He’s worried about the security and safety of the company and everyone who works there.”

  “What do you mean security and safety? Could things get violent?” RJ’s wide eyes reflect the overhead light fixture and fear for our dad.

  “Everything will be fine,” Mom says, realizing her mistake a minute too late. She reaches across the table to pat RJ’s hand comfortingly, but he pulls it away.

  My brother is one of those kids who wakes up in the middle of the night screaming because he’s had some crazy dream about an asteroid colliding with Earth and everything being destroyed, or a plane crashing into our house and killing everyone or a coyote eating Scruffles. You can tell him it was just a dream, but from the way his hair is stuck to his head in a cold dripping sweat, you know to him it was as good as real. When he had the coyote-eating-Scruffles dream, Dad had to let the dog sleep in RJ’s bed for the rest of the night, even though at the time he wasn’t allowed. That was the end of the No Dogs on the Bed rule.

  I’ll be falling asleep with my earbuds in tonight so RJ doesn’t wake me up if he starts freaking out at some ungodly hour. I can feel a huge zit erupting on my chin, and that means I need my beauty rest even more than usual.

  Mom runs her finger around the rim of the empty wineglass. “Your dad thinks the protesters will get tired of camping out in front of headquarters and leave soon,” she says. “And if they don’t leave on their own, the city will encourage them to vacate because they’re impacting so many other businesses nearby.”

  “Encourage them?” I ask. “Or force them?”

  “Will there be riots?” RJ is really starting to freak now.

  Mom gives me an irritated glance. Of course it’s my fault for asking a simple question, not RJ’s for being hypersensitive about everything.

  “I’m sure when and if the time comes, the city will handle things in such a way that the site is cleared without incident,” Mom says, sounding every inch like the consultant she’s paid to be.

  RJ looks only half-convinced. “As long as Dad’s okay,” he says.

  I try to imagine what would inspire me to camp out in front of Dad’s building—or, for that matter, anywhere in New York City. It’s not exactly my idea of a good time. I don’t even like camping when it’s in a beautiful forest. There are too many bugs and no bathrooms or cell service. But camping where the street is dirty and smells like pee is even less my thing. Going to concerts and the theater and shopping in cool vintage stores—that’s more my jam.

  “He’ll be fine,” Mom assures RJ. “It’s just a stressful time.”

  She fills her wineglass all the way to the top. Looks like it’s a stressful time for Mom, too.

  After dinner, when I’m up in my room, I take a cute picture of Scruffles, with his big brown puppy eyes.

  scruffles misses you, I text to Dad. so do i.

  Awww. Miss you both, Dad texts back. Hope I get back before you go to bed. Love, Dad.

  My dad definitely texts like an old person.

  you don’t have to write “Love, Dad.” i know it’s you! :P

  I take a screenshot and send him a picture of our convo.

  see, it says “dad” at the top of the screen! : D

  Parents are so quaint.

  Putting down my phone, I open my laptop to make a start on my homework. Scruffles jumps on the bed and rests his head on my foot.

  “Let’s hope this stupid protest ends soon,” I murmur to him, and the end of his tail flutters in agreement.

  There’s enough stress in my life right now.

  March 28

  I’m not sure how I can stand to live in the same house as my mom for another year and a half without either (a) committing matricide, or (b) my head exploding.

  Nothing I do is right. I can’t wait to go to college. Too bad I have to jump over so many insane hurdles in the next few months in order to get there. NO PRESSURE, RIGHT?!

  Speaking of pressure, it’s 58 days till prom (but who’s counting?) and I still don’t have a date. The good news is that as far as I can tell, Jamie Moss still doesn’t have a date, either, which means there’s a chance he’s going to ask me.

  If Dad wasn’t stuck at work 24/7, he would be logical and tell me to start making decision trees like I’ve been learning about in AP Statistics. Like where you consider the probability of each outcome and assign a weighted preference to each one so you can make a rational decision. (Geeky much?) That’s assuming this whole dating thing is rational in the first place, a point about which I am not entirely convinced.

  But working on the assumption that it is, let’s say there’s only a 15% probability that Jamie would ask me first, and an 85% probability that AN Other would, I’d then assign my preferences for the various outcomes to see what I should do.

  Okay, I actually just tried doing that. Apparently I’m still very much my father’s daughter, even when he isn’t here.

  The problem is trying to figure out the actual probability of Jamie asking me. How do you know when a guy really likes you? How do you figure out if your probability estimate is legit or wishful thinking?

  You’d have thought they’d have an app for that by now, but they don’t. What’s the matter with you, Apple? You should be all over this!

  Just imagine how much easier life would be if you could download an app and enter—or better yet, record, except I think that might be illegal (note to self: check)—your interactions with a guy, and then use a database of male speech info to estimate the probability he will actually ask you out. It’s pure genius—and it would eliminate so much heartbreak. Why hasn’t anyone done it yet?

  My talents are wasted at Brooklawne High.

  Given lack of said technology, I have to base my predictions on the scientific observations below:

  1. Subject talks to me before class in an animated way. +

  2. This often involves conversations about homework problems that Subject hasn’t done yet, but knows I have. –

  3. But not always. +

  4. Subject laughs at most of my jokes. +

  5. 8 out of 10 times, Subject acknowledges me in the hall and smiles and says hi. The other 20% of times, I’m pretty sure it’s because he didn’t see me. +

  6. Subject also seen talking to Geneva Grady in animated way. –

  7. Geneva Grady is an airhead who almost got laughed out of social studies in fifth grade because she thought the South won the Civil War, which according to her took place in 1965. I mean, seriously. +

  8. But GG is really pretty. –

  9. Like probably is going to be nominated for Prom Queen pretty. –

  10. But Subject asks me for my homework, not GG, so he clearly thinks I have superior brain power, which has to count for something, right? +

  Also, Jamie told GG to get lost today so he could talk to me—even if it was so he could ask me for my homework. And he told me I should come to the next home game. I still don’t get why my school spirit depends on attending an athletic event, but if it will improve my prom probability, then maybe it’s worth sacrificing a Lighthouse Book Club meeting.

  So based on the above data, the original decision tree looked like this:

  But here’s where I’m definitely NOT Dad’s daughter: Since the weight of my preferred options isn’t going to change, I kept changing the probability percentages till it gave me the answer I wanted, which is wait till Jamie asks me, even though I’m not totally sure if that has a 25% probability.

  I’m never going to Las Vegas or Atlantic City, because there is a very
high probability I’d be a lousy gambler.

  Mom and Dad went to Vegas last year. Dad had some business meeting there and Mom went with him as a “corporate spouse.” They took a picture in front of the fake Eiffel Tower, and Mom framed it next to a picture of them in front of the real Eiffel Tower. My parents thought this was the funniest thing EVER. It must be sad to be old and have so few amusements.

  Speaking of which, I wonder if Mom’s hitting the wine so hard at dinner because it’s finally occurred to her that she and Dad are on the downward slope of life and it won’t be long till they’re sitting around complaining about how all their friends are wearing Depends and dying. I mean, sure, my life is a bit of a grind at the moment with the SAT and APs and driving lessons. But all that work is leading to something. To a future. To getting out of this house and not always being told what I can and can’t do by the Dual Dictators. Otherwise, why be such a good little hamster girl, running endless circles on my academic wheel?

  Rosa, Margo, and I are sitting in the cafeteria the next day at lunch discussing what to wear to the Einstein’s Encounter concert, when we’re interrupted by a loud obnoxious clown horn.

  Gary Harvey, the resident class clown since he moved here in sixth grade, is riding around on a unicycle, carrying what looks like fifty balloons in one hand and the horn, which he is squeezing nonstop, in the other. I’m surprised the balloons haven’t carried him away like that old guy in UP.

  He laps the cafeteria, just to make sure he has everyone’s attention, which of course he does, because that horn is so annoying it’s impossible to ignore. Then he cycles over to BethAnn Jackson, who looks like she wants to crawl under the table from embarrassment, and hands her the balloons. She takes them reluctantly, like he’s just handed her a bouquet of frozen dog-poopsicles. Then Gary drops the horn, reaches into his backpack, and takes out four balls, which he starts juggling.

  “Yo, BethAnn,

  Girl, you so fine.

  Be my date for prom.

  Have a ballin’ time.

  So tell me, girl,