loved Candaceâs topsy-turvy, noisy house. Candace once said that my house reminded her of an old library. âNot just because of all the books,â sheâd said. âItâs the dusty old drapes and the whole dark silence.â Iâd been hurt, but she was right. Candace always spoke her mind, and she usually said what the rest of us thought but were too timid to say. I admired that about her.
My house was like an old library. Not a bustling busy one, though; mine was just quiet. My mom taught microbiology at the university. Dad taught astronomy. They didnât believe in TVâas if TV were a religion.
And when I was a baby, when other kids were reciting nursery rhymes, my parents trained me to rattle off the genus and species of all the plants in our yard. When other kids were wishing on stars, I was learning the constellations. And when I started losing baby teeth, there was no visit from the tooth fairy. Instead, my parents had our dentist demonstrate tooth growth on a model of the human jaw.
I knocked on my momâs office door and told her I was going to Candaceâs. She turned to squint at me over her reading glasses. I thought of the animal game weâd played at Darcyâs last night. Mom would be a moleâunderground, long-nosed, nearly blind. My dad would be a tall, skinny, silent animal, something even ganglier than a giraffe. An insect? A walkingstick or praying mantis, maybe.
I loved them, of course, and wouldnât really, really want them to be totally different. But I didnât want to be like them when I grew up.
My parentsâ idea of fun was to lug the telescope and microscope out to the godforsaken desertâpoke in the dirt all day, peer at the stars at night. It was as if they were at work twenty-four hours a day. My mom said that proved they were in the right careers, getting paid to do what theyâd do for free anyway.
But isnât it possible to be a scientist by day, then play slide trombone in a Dixie band or drums in a rock band at night? Watch TV? Be in plays? Have parties with noisy friends on the weekends?
âDid you do your homework, Bree?â Mom asked. I wished sheâd stop calling me that baby name, but it was pointless to say so. She hadnât heard me the last nine million times.
When Iâd told Candace that I hated being called Bree, sheâd wrinkled her perfect nose in sympathy and said, âI donât blame you a bit. Isnât Brie a smelly kind of sticky cheese?â
Candace didnât like being called Candy. But when she said, âCandy rots your teeth,â and flashed her perfect pearly whites, people listened. Iâd never, ever heard anyone call her Candy twice.
âOh, by the way,â Mom said, âMaya called yesterday after you left for Darcyâs.â
I said a quick prayer that she wouldnât ask me about Maya, and it worked. Mom turned back to her computer and said, âIf youâre absolutely positive that all your schoolwork is complete, you may go, but be home by dinner.â
I walked the long way to Candaceâs, so I wouldnât have to pass Mayaâs house. But when I got to the big stand of shaggy banana trees near the monastery, I remembered her begging me to play in there with her. Maya had wanted to pretend we were apes, or Tarzan or something. Iâd thought that was so dorky. And what if someone saw us? Iâd die.
It wasnât that I didnât like Maya; itâs just that she got so happy about stuff. Not that happy is bad. Itâs ... well, this sounds really snobby, but Maya was like a little kid. She wanted to climb trees, ride bikes around without going anywhereâjust play.
Sometimes it was okay, but other times, being with Maya was like wearing shoes Iâd outgrown. I looked away from the banana trees and shook thoughts of Maya out of my head. I wondered instead what I should wear to school Monday that might catch Eric, the
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