Everything I Know About You Read online

  I sighed. “Fine. I pick three. But it still sucks.”

  “Yes, it does.” Mom kissed my cheek. “But you know what, Talia Martin? You got this.”

  The Spy Game

  THE BUS TRIP WAS ENDLESS—a million hours of phone YouTube, staring out the window at the boring highway, eating cookies, staring at the back of Jamal Melton’s head, listening to Sonnet’s iPod, dozing, ignoring the bus video (Moana, which I’d already seen like ten times), trying desperately to ignore Haley and her friends singing Hamilton in the front of the bus. And of course trying to ignore Mrs. Seeley, who kept walking down the aisle “to stretch her legs,” she told everybody, but I had the feeling she was snooping.

  For almost the entire trip, Spider kept reading. It would’ve been understandable if he read normal books about kids who discovered a parallel universe of brain-eating slime monsters (for example), but all he ever read was boring nonfiction about his top five subjects: dinosaurs, ancient weaponry, World War II, early aircraft, and space. And even though I wished he’d take a break sometimes to chat, or to play cards with me or something, I was glad to see him ignoring Marco and Trey—not acting jumpy in the slightest, even though they were sitting right behind me. This was new, and to be honest, I didn’t know what to think about it. Of course, Marco and Trey were ignoring him, the way they’d been doing lately. But would this back-and-forth ignoring continue when Spider was alone in the hotel room with Marco? I wasn’t going to bet on it.

  At ten forty-five we stopped for snacks, but by then I was so full of Baked Goodies that I just walked around the outside of the bus a few times, texting Fiona.

  Me: Hey, how’s Spike?

  Fiona: You’re not going to ask how *I* am?

  Me: Yeah, yeah. First tell me about Spike. Did you take her out for bathroom before school? Feed her? Give her water?

  Fiona: Affirmative X3. What’s going on with Ava??

  Me: Nothing. We’re stiiiiiiill on the road.

  Fiona: Well, if she tries anything evil, say your big sistah is coming after her. ;) And report back to me! I wanna hear *all* the juicy details!!

  Those two words—“juicy details”—gave me an idea. A brilliant way to get through the next four days and three nights.

  I found Spider and Sonnet by the rest-stop water fountains and motioned them over to this wall where you could get maps.

  “Hey, you know what’d make this trip super fun?” I said in my Enthusiastic Voice. “What if we all spied on our roommates, and then reported back to each other?”

  “Spied?” Spider frowned. “What do you mean by that, exactly?”

  “Just noticing little secrets they have, stuff you’d know only by living with a person. Like if they pick their nose, or they sleepwalk. Or if they use some kind of weird deodorant. Juicy details,” I added.

  “I’m not sure,” Sonnet said slowly. “Honestly, I don’t think Haley has ‘little secrets.’ And anyway, this sounds like the kind of thing you do, Tally. Not me.”

  “Yeah,” Spider said, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening. Which, obviously, they weren’t. “And even if Marco does have some kind of secret, what’s the point of finding it out? He’s been okay with me lately; I don’t want to start a fight.”

  “Of course not,” I agreed. “But this isn’t about fighting; it’s about knowing things. And knowledge is power, right?”

  Spider sighed. “Listen, Tally. If I have to share a room with Marco, I don’t want to be dealing with him any more than I have to. I mean, it’s bad enough we’ll be breathing the same oxygen.”

  “Oh, but you’re missing the point,” I argued. “Spying doesn’t mean you have to talk to him or anything! Come on, it’ll be fun! And when else will we get a chance like this?”

  They both sort of shrugged, so I figured I’d won the argument. Maybe. And if I hadn’t convinced them, I told myself, I’d just do the spying on my own.

  Finally, two hours later, we arrived at the Hotel Independence. While Mr. G, Mia’s mom, and Jamal’s dad took care of removing everyone’s luggage from the bus, Ms. Jordan, Mrs. Seeley, and Mrs. Packer led us into the hotel lobby—a red, white, and blue food court–shaped space that looked like American Revolution World, with little blacksmith shops and silversmith shops and a candle-making stand. There was a restaurant called the Thomas Jefferson, a tavern called the Ben Franklin, and a coffee bar called the Patrick Henry. A skinny guy in a blue vest and knickers was standing in the corner by a big potted fern, playing a piccolo.

  “Omigod, Tally!” Sonnet pointed to a woman behind the registration desk, who was wearing a bonnet. A bonnet. Also black hipster glasses, which clashed with the rest of the outfit in a way I appreciated.

  “Whoa,” I said. “I’ve never seen anyone wearing an actual bonnet!”

  “Maybe she’s just having a bad hair day,” Sonnet said, giggling.

  The woman stepped away from the desk. Now you could see she had on a long blue dress with a full white apron.

  I clutched Sonnet’s arm, ecstatic. “Sonnet, she’s wearing an entire costume!”

  “I know! Promise you won’t dress like that too, okay?” Sonnet said.

  I checked; Sonnet was smiling. But it was still a weird thing to say. Did she think I was nuts or something? Who would dress that way in real life?

  “Good afternoon, I’m Roy. You’re the doctors?” A man in a long red coat and white knee socks was taking off a three-cornered hat as he bowed at Ms. Jordan. When he stood I could see that he had a silver stud in one ear and a snake tattoo on his left hand.

  Everyone started giggling and buzzing.

  Ms. Jordan smiled. “Oh no, we’re not doctors. These are seventh graders—”

  “We’re all booked out,” Roy interrupted. “To a group of doctors. Sorry, ma’am.”

  “No, wait!” Ms. Jordan paled. “We have a reservation!”

  “Are you sure it’s for this hotel? There are tons of others—” He waved his snake hand at the revolving door.

  “I’m positive. At least I think so.” Ms. Jordan frantically scrolled through her phone. “I swear, I couldn’t possibly have deleted—okay, found it: Hotel Independence reservation confirmation, dated a month ago. See?”

  Roy squinted at her phone. “Yeah, well, there’s been a mistake, clearly. Because we’re expecting doctors.”

  “Well, what are we supposed to do?” Ms. Jordan’s voice squeaked.

  “Uh-oh,” Spider murmured.

  “Best field trip ever,” Marco announced. “Totally worth the bus ride!”

  “Not funny, Marco,” I said.

  “No, I’m serious! This place is awesome! Check out those old-timey elevators!”

  I looked. Above the elevators were arrows pointing at half moons of numbers. Cool. But not American Revolution-y.

  Mrs. Seeley marched over to Ms. Jordan’s side. “Excuse me, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Just Roy. We don’t give out last names.”

  “Well, I do. I’m Ellen Seeley,” she said, extending her hand the way she’d done with Mom. “All right, Roy, it’s obvious that you’ve made the mistake. Or someone on your staff has. But it certainly wasn’t us, since we have a confirmation.”

  “Yeah, well.” He sighed. “Just because a confirmation is in the system doesn’t mean—hey, um, would you excuse me a moment?” He hurried off to whisper to the bonnet-and-hipster-glasses woman behind the registration desk.

  Mrs. Seeley followed him.

  “Is there a problem, Roy?” she asked in a loud voice. “Because if there is, I’d like to speak directly to the manager.”

  “Please be patient, ma’am,” Roy said, as we all crowded around the registration desk.

  “I’m afraid patience is out of the question,” Mrs. Seeley boomed. “We have forty-six exhausted and hungry middle schoolers—”

  “Middle school?” Hipster Bonnet looked up from her monitor.

  “Yes. And we’ve just driven all the way from Eastview—”

&
nbsp; She stared at her monitor. Then she stared at us. “Are you . . . Eastview Middle School?”

  “Ooh, yeah,” Nadia called out, waving invisible pom-poms. “We got the spirit! Woo!”

  Roy’s face relaxed. “Well, that explains it. The system had you down as Eastview Medical School. Which is why we were expecting doctors. Or doctor-students, whatever you call them. If we’d known you were a bunch of kids—”

  “Yes?” Mrs. Seeley asked threateningly. “You’d have what?”

  “We don’t normally accept reservations from middle schools, but never mind.” Roy forced a smile. “You’re all on the second and third floors. Which we call Lexington and Concord.”

  “Aren’t Lexington and Concord in Massachusetts, not Washington, DC?” Spider asked.

  Sonnet giggled. I saw Haley Spriggs flash her a smile. What was that about?

  Roy shrugged. “Hey, man, I just work here, okay?”

  “The floors are all named after Revolutionary War battles,” Hipster Bonnet explained, typing. “Fourth floor is Saratoga, fifth is Yorktown, sixth is Princeton. The main floor, where all the shops and restaurants are, is called Bunker Hill. The gym and the pool are on the lower level, which is called Trenton, and are open twenty-four/seven.”

  “Hey, pool party!” Trey shouted.

  “Not a chance, Trey,” Ms. Jordan said, her face a human color again. “All right, listen up. We’ll be handing out key cards to your rooms. Girls are on the second—I mean, Lexington—floor, boys are all on Concord, and there’s no visiting between floors.”

  Kids groaned.

  “Why can’t we va-sat?” Sydney Brunner asked, pouting. She had that snotty way of talking; she called herself Sad-nay. “Ms. Jor-dann, that isn’t fair.”

  Ms. Jordan just shook her head. “Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to socialize. For now, just relax, wash up, communicate with home. At two thirty we’ll meet here in the lobby—with your Eastview spirit tees on, please—take a stroll on the National Mall, and then have dinner. Okay?”

  “Sounds great,” said Mr. G, who was just then showing up at the desk with carts heaped with luggage. “But first, claim your belongings, people.”

  As everyone grabbed their stuff, I heard Mrs. Seeley say to Ms. Jordan, “Dear, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but as a young woman, you need to speak a little more forcefully to the hotel staff, or they’ll never take you seriously. It’s a life skill I’d be happy to teach you sometime.”

  Ms. Jordan pressed her lips together as if she wanted to stop words from flying out.

  I glanced at Ava, who was rubbing her shoe on the carpeting in little circles.

  Treasures

  AVA AND I WERE IN room 206, which meant on the second floor. But you had to call it Lexington, apparently, so our room was Lexington 06. Sonnet and Haley were down the hall, in Lexington 14, and Spider was up on the third floor—Concord 22.

  The weird thing was how Mrs. Seeley followed Ava and me into Lexington 06. Right away she unzipped Ava’s luggage and started hanging up her stuff in the closet, smoothing the fabric with her hand, while Ava leaned back against the pillows, reading her fashion magazines. “Tally, dear, let me know if we’re taking up too much closet space,” Mrs. Seeley called over her shoulder.

  “No, it’s fine,” I said. “I’m really not a hanger person. I mostly just dump my stuff wherever.”

  “Well, you really should learn the art of hanging up. I can teach you if you like.”

  “That’s okay, Mrs. Seeley. I prefer the art of dumping.”

  Ava narrowed her eyes at me. “Aren’t you going to unpack?”

  Sure. As soon as your mom leaves the room. “In a minute,” I said. “I just want to rest a bit first.” I did a snow angel on my bed over the comforter, which had a pattern of pale green Revolutionary War battle scenes. Guys with muskets. The British are coming! Not very sleep-inducing, I thought.

  “So, Tally,” Mrs. Seeley said, as she continued hanging. “I’m guessing your dad is a large man?”

  “My dad?” I sat up.

  “Yes, your mom is so petite, so I thought—”

  “No, Dad is petite too. Although ‘petite’ is probably not the right word. Is there a word for a short male person?”

  Mrs. Seeley smiled as she zipped Ava’s hoodie onto a hanger. “Good question. I never thought of that before. So who do you take after?”

  “You mean physically? No clue. I’m adopted.”

  She froze. “Oh! I’m so sorry! It’s really none of my—”

  “No, I don’t mind. Actually, I’m happy I’m adopted.”

  “Yes, and you should be! Your adoptive mom seems lovely!”

  “She’s not my ‘adoptive mom.’ She’s just my mom.”

  “Of course! I just meant as opposed to the other woman—”

  “You mean my bio-mom? Her name is Marisa. I haven’t met her yet, but I bet she’s a lovely person too.”

  “Oh, I’m sure!” Mrs. Seeley pretended to focus on hanging up one of Ava’s jackets, but I could see how this conversation had her flustered.

  The truth was, I didn’t know very much about Marisa—I had a photo of her from before I was born, taken on a beach with a bunch of people who looked like they were having a party. Marisa’s hair was dark and long; she was sitting behind someone, so I couldn’t see her size too well, but she seemed pretty tall. (I mean, probably; it’s hard to tell when a person is sitting.) She’d written me a few cards and letters when I was a baby, but she stopped after my second birthday. Which had nothing to do with me, my parents said. And for all I knew, Marisa was, in fact, a lovely person, and maybe there was a perfectly logical reason why she’d stopped communicating, but I couldn’t imagine what it was. So even though I loved my family more than anything, sometimes I wondered about Marisa.

  And now, to change the subject, Mrs. Seeley asked what my mom did.

  “You mean what’s her job?” I said. “She and dad have a bakery.”

  “Oh, yes, I forgot! How nice. I bet they bring home yummy treats all the time. It must be so difficult for you to resist—”

  “Mom,” Ava said, yawning. “I’m really tired.”

  Mrs. Seeley smiled brightly. “All right, you girls rest now. See you in the lobby at two thirty. I’m down the hall in room 18 if you need anything, Ava.” She blew Ava a kiss, grabbed her own bulging red leather suitcase, and left the room.

  “Sorry Mom was being nosy,” Ava said as she picked a small yellow notebook off her night table, opened it in her lap, and wrote something quickly.

  “That’s okay,” I replied.

  “It’s just the way she does her job. She talks to people everywhere we go. And she asks a lot of questions.”

  “Well, I bet she’s very successful.”

  “Oh, she is,” Ava said proudly. “She has a million clients, and a waiting list. But she’s always looking for more. She says that’s how you build a business.”

  Did Mom and Dad know this? I wondered as I unzipped my duffel bag. They never talked about “building” their bakery business—they just did it every day. And if people liked what Dad baked, they came back for more. Maybe business was different when it came to food. Especially bakery food, which was just about making people happy.

  I took out my treasure box and put it on the table next to my bed. Mostly what was in it used to be Grandma Wendy’s: the bicycle-chain bracelet, a pair of green cat’s-eye glasses with rhinestones forming the Big Dipper, this possibly antique pocket watch with the hands missing. Some of the other things were from the flea markets she’d taken me to, like the ringtail-lemur necklace, the mustache-shaped earrings, and the purple newsboy cap. And maybe I’d wear this stuff on the trip, or maybe I wouldn’t, but it made me feel good to have it by the bed. Whatever Sonnet thought about it, anyway.

  Then I inspected the Baked Goodies in my duffel: The muffins were a bit smashed, but the brownies and blondies had survived intact.

  Ava watched as I lined them up
on my night table. “What’s all that food?” she asked.

  “From my parents’ bakery. You want something?” After the way she’d reacted to the bakery boxes at the bus, I’d vowed not to share anything with her. But the question just blurted itself out, I guess.

  She shook her head. “No thank you. I don’t eat that stuff.”

  “Seriously? How come?”

  “I just don’t.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Fine,” Ava said, sighing. “Too many carbs, all right?”

  I burst out laughing.

  “You think that’s funny?” she said.

  “Well, yeah. What do you care about carbs, Ava? You’re such a stick.”

  Her mouth twisted. “If I’m thin it’s because I pay attention to what I eat. If I ate all that stuff like you do, I’d be fat.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Whoa. Are you saying I’m fat?”

  “No. I’m saying I’d be fat. Tally, why do you always have to turn everything into a fight?” She tossed her yellow notebook onto her pillow and stomped into the bathroom, slamming the door.

  Okay, so this was going super well.

  I nibbled a bit of muffin, then texted Mom: Hey, I’m here. No answer, so I stood up and stretched. I watched myself in the full-length mirror opposite my bed: one, two, three, streeeetch. Then I watched myself do seven jumping jacks, how my boobs and belly had their own separate timing. It would be nice to have a mirror this size in my bedroom, I thought, so I could see how it looks when I’m dancing. Not that it would matter—I’d still dance, whatever I looked like. Even if my body jiggled at different speeds. Which it did, apparently. Huh.

  And then, before I’d completely caught my breath, I did something I can’t explain: I went over to Ava’s pillow to peek at her yellow notebook. On a page with today’s date, she’d written in her perfect, squarish handwriting, but tinier than normal:

  65

  200?

  12

  approx 150

  25

  The toilet was flushing, so I shut the notebook, returned it to her pillow, and started dumping things from my duffel bag into the chest of drawers Ava wasn’t using.