“I totally disagree,” I say. “Besides, the old movies are super weird. Why don’t the women get better roles? And what about the aliens, like—why are the humans automatically superior to them?”

  “If the aliens want better roles, they should make movies themselves,” Dad says jokingly.

  I push my plate around my side of the table. If Dad didn’t like the movie, I wish he’d said something before—not waited to say it until after Kate was here.

  “Stop fidgeting,” Dad says.

  “I’m not,” I answer, even though I am. I can’t help it.

  The server comes by and brings me another Coke—filled to the very top and with a decent amount of ice, which I appreciate. Arcelia’s has good ice in tiny cubes—perfect for chomping.

  “Don’t bite ice,” Dad says. “That will ruin your tooth enamel.”

  He acts like he knows everything, but he doesn’t. I’m not a baby, but he treats me like one anyway. He’ll even stop me from going to camp, which I’ve been looking forward to all year.

  “No, it won’t,” I say. I keep crunching.

  Dad gives me a look.

  I slide more ice into my mouth and chew it while Dad watches. I’m being stubborn. But I’m mad about him suddenly trashing Clone of the Stars in front of Kate.

  Dad frowns. “It’s unpleasant. Let’s just enjoy our meal.”

  “Fine.” I set down my glass a little harder than I mean to. The ice inside jostles.

  “Careful,” Dad says.

  “I am careful,” I say.

  I grab a handful of chips and crunch those instead. Dad shrugs, glancing at Kate with a “Kids!” kind of look, which makes me even more mad.

  Kate squeezes his hand. “Did you want to . . . ?”

  Dad looks over at me. “We wanted to talk to you about the baby’s middle name.”

  Kate grins. “We’re thinking of a special name—a family name.”

  Faster than a glow whale jumping into hyperspeed, I know exactly what they’re going to say. A family name. They’re going to give the new baby Quigley for a middle name—the same middle name that Dad and I have.

  It’s not fair. I’m already sharing Dad with the new baby. I’m already sharing that house—where he’ll live all the time while I’m just a weekend visitor. I don’t want to have to share Quigley with him too.

  I try to take a deep breath, but I forget my mouth is full of food. A tortilla chip wedges in my throat, and I start coughing wildly. Shards of chips spray everywhere.26

  Kate’s eyes widen. “Do you need water?”

  I reach for my glass, but I’m coughing so hard my aim isn’t very good. My hand hits the side, and as I’m pulling back to try to fix it, I stick my hand in the guacamole with a squish. I pull it out as fast as I can but bump into my Coke. By the time I’m done, my hand is covered in avocado and both of my glasses have spilled their contents across the table, the paper placemats, the bowl of chips, and onto Kate and Dad.

  “Oh!” Kate says, patting at the brown stain spreading on her sweater.

  Dad’s face turns the same red as the salsa. “Elliott, what’s gotten into you? I told you to be careful!”

  Everyone in the restaurant is staring at me. I’m a mess. I’m also mortified.

  Tears spring into my eyes. I wipe at them, but it’s no use. The tears run down my cheeks.

  Oh no. The sports-announcer Tear Tank is back.

  Introducing Elliott! On the outside he may look like a regular, everyday kid—one with very messy hair, but still a regular kid—but he’s actually a modern marvel. Consisting of 99.9 percent water, this kid threatens to overflow at any time. Behold the Human Crying Machine!

  I keep crying, wiping at the table.

  “It’s okay,” Kate says. “Accidents happen to everyone.”

  Maybe it’s the kind of thing that could happen to anyone, but mostly it feels like the kind of thing that’s always happening to me.

  CHAPTER 20

  Somehow, I manage to make it through the rest of the meal without knocking over anything else.

  When we’re done, we all go outside.

  “What now?” Dad asks.

  “I think I’ll check out the tea shop over on Market,” Kate says. “Why don’t you and Elliott have some time together? I’ll meet you at home.”

  Kate kisses Dad goodbye and heads down the street, her yoga bag slung over her shoulder.

  Dad and I look at each other. “Ice cream?” he asks.

  “I’m not really hungry,” I say.

  “Okay,” Dad says. “Let’s walk around a bit.”

  We head south, walking through a knot of people clustered outside a bar. There are some statues of crickets outside—for the baseball team, I guess. Some kids are swinging on the antennae.

  Dad catches my eye. “Want to go see the City River?”

  City River is what my family calls this series of fountains that’s interconnected by a series of waterways, tucked away in a brick courtyard that’s almost completely surrounded by tall buildings. There are all kinds of places to explore. Paths, stairs, stepping stones, and bridges crisscross the streams. When I was little, I was sure that it was a real river, right in the city. Now I know better, of course, but I guess the name just stuck.

  We cross the street and walk between the brick buildings. I can hear the rushing water before I can see it. There’s a restaurant with tables in one area, a small grassy lawn with people tossing a Frisbee on the other. Everywhere there are lights strung overhead and the sound of rushing water.

  Dad grins. “I haven’t been over here for a while. I forgot how much I love this place.”

  Together, we wander over a bridge and onto the path that looks like stepping stones while we check out the fountains. We stop at one that is designed to look like a waterfall. When I was little, I was afraid of it—I thought maybe I’d get sucked in or something—but right now I feel calm looking at it. It’s nice to stand here like this, with Dad, the water roaring all around us. Maybe this is why Dr. Gilmore likes the ocean so much.

  I want to say lots of things to Dad. Like how much I miss doing this stuff with him. How I want to make sure there’s time for just us, even after the baby comes.

  Like he’s reading my mind, Dad pats me on the shoulder.

  But then he ruins it.

  “Let’s talk about what happened at dinner,” he says. “I think you could have handled that better.”

  My face flushes hot. Leave it to Dad to bring up an awkward moment instead of just letting us have a normal time together.

  “It’s always about what I do wrong! It’s never about what I do right.”

  Dad’s face turns red. I can tell he’s trying to keep his patience. “Elliott, calm down.”

  Has anyone in the entire history of the universe ever gotten calmer when someone tells them to calm down?27

  I squeeze my hands and then release them. Squeeze and release, squeeze and release.

  Dad is watching me. “Okay? Are you ready to talk?”

  I shrug. “Am I in trouble?”

  Dad’s cheeks puff as he lets out a long breath. “You’re not in trouble, Elliott.”

  There’s something I don’t understand in his voice—sadness? He rubs his hands in little circles on his temples like I’m giving him a headache.

  “I’m trying, okay?” he asks. “Can you try to meet me halfway?”

  I look at him sideways. This sounds like the kind of thing Mom would say.

  He takes a deep breath. “You got so upset at dinner. What was that about?”

  The easy answer is that I was upset because I knocked over my soda. But easy is not the same as honest.

  I clear my throat. “I was embarrassed. But then when I cried, I got even more embarrassed. I really hate crying.”

  Dad looks surprised. “What do you mean? You mean you hate that you cried at a restaurant?”

  “I mean crying anywhere,” I say glumly.

  He frowns. “Crying isn’t necessarily a bad thing, Elliott.”

  “It would be one thing if I did it only when I was sad,” I say. “But that’s not it—most of the time it just happens when I’m having lots of feelings. It’s like they’re fighting inside me, trying to get out and they can’t. So they make my Tear Tank overflow.”

  The words come out in a rush. I wince after I realize what I’ve said. I’ve never told anyone about the Tear Tank. It’s the kind of thing that Dad might make a joke about—a flip comment. Something to make it seem smaller than it is. I brace myself.

  Dad’s phone chimes—but he doesn’t reach for it. For once, he doesn’t seem to notice it.

  Instead, Dad scratches behind his ear, which is what he does when he’s thinking hard. “I wonder if the problem is that you’re feeling so many things at once. Maybe it would help to talk about just one of the feelings.”

  I look at him, open mouthed. This doesn’t sound like my dad. And it doesn’t sound like a TV-show dad. It’s like someone else entirely.

  “It’s an idea I got from—from someone I’ve been talking to.” There’s a note of hesitation that really doesn’t seem like Dad.

  I pause, tilting my head sideways, trying to figure it out.

  “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he adds quickly.

  “I’m just thinking,” I say.

  Dad looks at me steadily. I know he’s waiting, but it isn’t easy to start talking out of the blue. To be honest, I don’t know if I can trust Dad. He might ruin it at any moment. He might make a joke. He might begin to outline a plan for Elliott-improvement. I don’t want that.

  “But just one,” I say. “And you have to promise you won’t give me any advice. And no follow-up questions.”

  “I promise,” he says.

  There’s so much I want to talk to him about. I want to tell him why camp is so important to me. I want to explain how I feel about The Incident—how I worry that it made Dad so disappointed in me. I also want to tell him how I feel about the baby. When I think of that one, it hurts—like pushing on a bruise that isn’t quite healed. It feels like the hardest thing to talk about—but maybe it’s also the most important.

  “I’m scared,” I say. “About the baby.”

  I can tell Dad is taking it in. Even in the evening light, I can see his expressions change as he thinks about what I said. He doesn’t speak for a very long time. But eventually, he nods. “Okay. Thanks for telling me.”

  And that’s it—we keep walking. No advice. It’s a small thing. It’s not a perfect thing. But it’s a good moment for Dad and me. Honestly, it’s one of the best we’ve had in a very long time.

  CHAPTER 21

  Maribel Martinez is coming over this afternoon so we can make pie.

  I never knew this before, but people with celiac disease have to be really careful with what they eat. Even a tiny speck of gluten can make them feel sick for days. So before Maribel came over, our moms talked and made a plan to make sure everything was safe for her. This means squeaky-clean counters, bowls, and utensils. No using any butter that might have bread crumbs in it. Mom even bought a new colander, just to be on the safe side.

  The idea of Maribel coming over makes me feel a bit jumpy. I arrange the butter and salt next to the strawberries from the farmers’ market. Then I decide I should probably wipe down the counters a fourth time. I would feel terrible if she got sick because of me.

  Mom comes in the kitchen when I’m scrubbing the sink.

  “What’s up, El?” she asks. “Are you nervous about something?”

  I shrug. “It’s just that no one has really been over since Malcolm left. It feels kind of weird.” I don’t get into the fact that Maribel is both popular and a genius, which, let’s be honest, is a challenging combination.

  Mom pats my hand. “It will be fine. Just be yourself.”

  Easy for her to say.

  When the doorbell rings, I almost jump out of my chair. But when I open the door, I don’t see Popular Maribel or Genius Maribel. I see regular old Maribel, a three-ring binder in one hand and a grocery bag in the other.

  She grins. “Our secret ingredient—gluten-free flour.”

  I take the package from her and tell her thanks. I was glad when she offered to buy the flour—I wouldn’t have known which one to pick.

  Our first stop is Denver and Omelet’s cage. Her eyes light up when she sees them. “They’re so cute! Remind me which one is which.”

  I show her, and she pets them both. “You have the most fabulous hair,” she says, patting Denver. “And you have the sweetest face,” she says to Omelet. He cuddles against her hand like he’s ready to pack his suitcases and move to her house.

  Mom sticks her head in the room. “Hi, Maribel. I’m Elliott’s mom, Nina.”

  Maribel looks up from the guinea pigs. “I love all the things on your walls.”

  I can tell Mom is happy that Maribel likes our house, and I am too. Our house has a lot of personal things in it, so if someone likes them, then it feels as though they like us too.

  “Maribel, will you need a ride home afterward? I’m happy to drop you off so your parents don’t have to double back,” Mom says.

  Maribel shakes her head. “They’re shopping downtown and said they’ll pick me up after.”

  Mom smiles at both of us. “I’ll be in the office catching up on some paperwork. Holler if you need me.”

  Mom heads down the hall to her room. Maribel and I are quiet for a moment. She’s rubbing behind Omelet’s ears, and he has a look of total bliss on his face.

  “Ready to get started?” I ask her.

  Maribel nods and follows me to the kitchen.

  “Whoa,” she says. “Someone really likes plants.”

  “Yeah—my mom,” I answer. Maribel looks at all the plants, including the avocado pit in its jar. It’s just as unimpressive as ever.

  I show her where we can wash our hands. Maribel goes first.

  “I was thinking that I can make the crust while you make the filling,” I say. “Unless you want to do it the other way?”

  She dries her hands on a kitchen towel. “That’s fine. Did you print out a recipe?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t use recipes.” Does my voice sound snide? Maybe a little. I prefer to think of it as Griffin-Connoresque.

  “Okaaay,” she says slowly, stretching out the word. “Why not?”

  “Griffin Connor says that recipes aren’t real cooking. A real chef needs ingredients and techniques only.”

  I nod in the direction of the counter, where I’ve already set out ingredients. I’ve even remembered to put out equipment we might need, including mixing bowls, spoons, and a glass pie pan. It’s good that Maribel gets to see me in this environment, where I’m so detail oriented.

  Maribel looks at me skeptically. “What’s the plan, then—mixing stuff together? That doesn’t seem like much of a technique.”

  My ears feel warm. “It’s a pie, not rocket science. Only a Muffinhead would think pie making is difficult.” I try to make my voice sound confident, like Griffin Connor’s.

  Maribel rolls her eyes, which is annoying. Oh well. It’s not my fault she lacks confidence.

  I claim the big stainless steel bowl and add some flour and a pinch of salt. Then I stir in some water. Then I add some more.

  “How does it look?” I ask.

  Maribel peers at the bowl. “It looks . . . wet. Too wet.”

  I study the crust mixture. She has a point. “No problem. If it’s wet, it needs more dry stuff. I’ll add more flour.”

  “Are you sure we don’t need a recipe?” Maribel asks.

  Anger flashes inside me. I’m tired of people not taking me seriously.

  “I told you—recipes are for losers!” In the small kitchen, my voice echoes a bit. That came out a little stronger than I meant it to be.

  Maribel takes a step backward. “Yikes. Calm down.”

  I close my eyes and take a breath. “Sorry, I just meant to say that we can figure out the right proportions by eyeballing it.”

  She narrows her eyes. “So, you’re saying that only a Muffinhead would follow a recipe—”

  I smile, glad she finally understands. “Exactly.”

  “—But instead, we should follow whatever Griffin Connor says to do,” she continues. “Is that right?”

  It feels like a trick question.

  “Um,” I say. “Yes. No. Sort of.”

  Maribel rolls her eyes. “Whatever. You make the crust. I’ll do the filling. Using a recipe.”

  Before I can say a word, she pulls out her phone and starts searching.

  This isn’t how I imagined today going. We are partners—we should work together.

  “Wait a minute—” I start to say.

  But Maribel is shaking her head. “You do your thing, and I’ll do mine.”

  After a few moments, she seems to find what she’s looking for. She stares at the screen, reading carefully. Then she puts the berries in the colander and rinses them.

  I scowl, turning back to my bowl. Maybe she’s going to use a recipe, but it doesn’t mean I have to. And I bet mine will turn out better.

  Even though I’ve never made a crust, I’ve seen Griffin Connor make savory pies. It seems straightforward. The ingredients are flour, butter, and water. The butter makes little pockets of air form in the crust so it will be flaky and tender. The water helps the flour stick together.

  I glance over at Maribel. She’s already finished washing the strawberries and cutting off their green tops. “How’s your filling going?”

  “Spectacular,” she says evenly. Even without seeing her face, I can tell she’s still annoyed. Before today, I never knew shoulders could look angry.

  “Just so you know,” I say. “My piecrust over here is amazing.”

  She doesn’t answer, just scoops the small heap of green leaves into the bin.

  In the bowl, my dough is looking a little soupy. Probably the butter will help. Butter always makes things better. I add some more in and then start mixing.

  The good news is that it seems to be clumping together.

 

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