MEG
I’VE NEVER WALKED ALL THE WAY HOME FROM SCHOOL BEFORE, WHICH IS weird. I mean, I’ve been going there almost a year; you’d think I’d have walked home at least once, no matter how far away it is.
I count the buses that rumble past, losing count around five or seven or maybe fifteen, hating every single people-filled one. I’m never speaking to anyone but Legs ever again, which means I’m never speaking to anyone ever, because I’ll never get to meet Legs. Ever. I shiver, then realize I left my coat and my backpack and my wallet at school, so I couldn’t hop on one of those stupid buses even if I wanted to.
My phone rings from my back pocket, and I jab the volume button until it goes silent. Didn’t you hear me, world? I’m too germufflebuddoned to talk to anyone right now, too germufflebuddoned to even think of the right words for how I feel! I scream the words only in my head, not out loud, because talking feels like too much—
Wait.
Wait!
I have a brilliant idea.
If Sunny and his freckle-faced partner couldn’t talk, well then . . . I grab a handful of dripping snow off someone’s heaping lawn and press it to the back of my neck, then gasp. It may be melting in the warmer March weather, but it’s still darn cold. Which is good. I’ll get sick, then I’ll breathe all over their faces, then they’ll get sick and will get whatever that thing’s called where they can’t talk, then they won’t be able to go and the second-place winners will get to go, which means Kat and I will get to go, except I guess then I’d be sick, too, so . . . never mind.
I drop the snow back on the ground, rub the cold out of my neck.
Still, maybe there’s another way. I can’t let one stupid project stand in the way of meeting LumberLegs—the only person in the world worth talking to.
Maybe allergies? They’ve got to be allergic to something. Feeding them accidental peanuts would be a lot easier than breathing all over their pimply faces anyway. To get that close, I’d probably have to try to make out with them, and I mean, freckle-face is not bad looking for a white guy, but Sunny has that big nose that juts out of his face like a sword. Except swords don’t usually stick out of faces. Well, maybe if there’s just been a battle, but then he’d be lying dead on the dirty ground, in which case, I really don’t want to make out with him. And besides, I’m not making out with anyone but LumberLegs anyway.
I’m still thinking of allergies when I finally stomp up our front steps. “Mom,” I shout, as I open the front door, “do we have any—”
He’s in our front hallway. Dad. I mean, Stephen-the-Leaver. Stupid Stephen-the-Leaver in those stupid khaki shorts that he’s apparently still wearing even though I told him years ago that they look ridiculous.
Didn’t you hear me, world? I said I didn’t want to talk to anyone but LumberLegs. Stephen-the-Leaver is definitely not LumberLegs.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask as I kick off my soaking-wet Converses. It’s not a halfling day. He shouldn’t be here. “And what the hell were you doing at my school?”
He sighs and runs his hand over his fade. “Don’t swear, please.”
“You can’t tell me not to swear. You’re not my dad.” Not anymore. I ignore his disgruntled face and push past him toward the stairs. Disgruntled is a great word. I should use it more often. I wonder if you can be just gruntled. I should get a baby pig as a pet and call it Gruntle.
“Meg! Wait! I—your mom said you bought tickets to LotSCON already. On her credit card.” There’s a touch of amusement in his otherwise serious voice, like he thinks it’s hilarious that I bought tickets to something that of course I had no hope of actually getting to. Because plane tickets cost approximately one million dollars. And because of course I’d never win something school-related. And I’m obviously not actually going to poison anyone with peanuts. Which means I’m not going.
“Yeah, so what?” I start up the stairs and don’t look back. “I already did my time for that. Ask Mom.”
“So I want to take you.”
I pause, midstep, the water in my socks probably seeping into the carpet. “Take me where?” I don’t turn around.
“To LotSCON. In Toronto. I’ve got enough points to fly us both out. I thought we could make a weekend of it. You could even take the Friday off school. Nolan’s always talking about that YouTuber you like—LumberLegs, right? I think he’s going to be there.”
I spin around to face him. “Let me get this straight: you want to go to LotSCON with me. For an entire weekend.” When you haven’t spent any time with me for months and months. And months.
He runs his hand over his bristly head again. “Yes, like those trips we used to take. We don’t have to spend the whole time together. I could skip all the panels or events or whatever else you do at these things, and we could just have supper together each evening or something.”
I don’t know why he looks so hopeful. He doesn’t want me. He hasn’t even tried to call me for months.
Except I blocked him.
But whether he’s been calling or not doesn’t matter. If he wanted me in his life, he should have said that to the judge, should have said that to me. And he didn’t. He said I wasn’t his. I should just storm off upstairs and never speak to him again.
But it’s LotSCON.
And I don’t turn down gifts from Stephen-the-Leaver. Hating him doesn’t mean I should deprive myself. Like with the tablet he gave me for Christmas last year. Or my skateboard.
For some reason, though, this feels more like the stuffed polar bear. I clench my fists just thinking of that stupid bear.
But—LotSCON. I can’t turn down LotSCON. I just can’t. Not when Legs’ll be there.
“I want my own room,” I say.
“Of course,” he says immediately, like he’s already thought of that.
“And Kat gets to come.”
His dark eyebrows dip at that one.
“Kat gets to come or I don’t go,” I say, before he can protest.
Creases spread out across his forehead. “Kat your science partner?”
“Kat my best friend.”
He hesitates. “She’ll have to pay for her own flight.”
“Fine,” I say. Some tension flies away out of my shoulders. If Kat comes with me, that changes everything. “But if you even try to talk to me throughout the weekend, I’ll scream as loudly as I can for the police.”
“Meg!” Mom says, popping her head out of the kitchen. I don’t know what she’s been doing in there all this time. Probably Stephen-the-Leaver begged her for a few minutes alone with me, and she’s finally run out of ways to say no.
I turn and start up the stairs again, taking them two at a time. “Fine, no police yell,” I say over my shoulder. “But I want a LumberLegs T-shirt.” And then I’m at the top of the stairs and down the hall and in my room, where I slam the door behind me and sink onto the floor, leaning uncomfortably against my bed frame.
I run my fingers over the carpet, feeling its fuzzy softness and a tiny bit of stickiness where I must have spilled something and never cleaned it up.
LotSCON.
I am going to LotSCON.
I feel like I just ate bacon.
Except the bacon came from Gruntle the pig.
I’m sorry, Gruntle.
I lean forward and wiggle my phone out of my back pocket. Time to call Kat and tell her the good news.
KAT
“MEG! ARE YOU OKAY? I’VE BEEN CALLING YOU NONSTOP!” I CLAMP MY PHONE in place with my shoulder and disentangle myself from my computer keyboard, which had been balancing on my lap.
“Oh my gosh, guess what?” she says, ignoring my question. “We’re going to LotSCON!”
My stomach twists. “Did you poison Sunil or something?” That’s totally something she would think of.
“What? No. That’s bananas. Stephen is taking us.” Her voice is a few decibels too high-pitched, like she’s acting out the happy ending of a children’s TV show.
“Your stepdad?” She can’t be right about this. She doesn’t even talk to him.
“Ex-stepdad.”
“But you hate him.”
“Doesn’t mean he can’t fly us across the country. Would you refuse to accept a million dollars from Osama bin Laden just because he’s Osama bin Laden?”
“He died. Years ago. But yes, I would.”
“Shut up. The point is we’re going to LotSCON. To see Legs!”
I think she means it. I think Stephen-the-Leaver has actually offered to take us. My stomach doesn’t know whether to twist or untwist. Because here’s the thing: Meg hasn’t figured out some harebrained way to convince the school to send us to the fair, so I still don’t have to fly or even refuse to fly. Which is a relief. But here’s the other thing: now I have to tell Meg about the sold-out tickets.
One it’s over . . . two bad news . . .
“Meg . . .” I pause, preparing myself to rip off the Band-Aid. I’m sorry, Meg. “They’re sold out. LotSCON. The tickets are all gone.”
“Dude, I bought us tickets like a million years ago. Didn’t I tell you? I’m sure I told you!”
“I—what? No, you definitely didn’t tell me! You—” I break off as bile rises in my throat. I thought I was home free. How am I supposed to explain to Meg that I don’t fly—that I never planned on flying? There’s got to be another way out of this.
“Oh, well, I’m telling you now then. I have a ticket for you! Surprise! And you can stay in my hotel room, so all you have to pay for is the flight.”
Pay for the flight. That’s my answer. There’s no way I can afford a ticket myself, so I’ll have to ask Mom, and she’ll say no, and then it won’t be my fault.
Before I can say anything, Meg snaps, “Why aren’t you excited about this? You’re supposed to be excited about this!”
“Sorry, I just—I’ll have to ask my parents.” They’ll say no. They have to. But what if they don’t? Seven metal death trap . . . eight defying gravity . . .
There’s a long pause. Then, “Okay.” She sighs. “Just let me know as soon as you can. We have to book flights.”
After she hangs up, her words hang in the air. We have to book flights. My chest tightens like Hulk is holding it in a death grip.
Twelve green monster . . . thirteen aviation . . .
Would it be so bad to go?
Because here’s the thing: it’s not LotSCON that I’m scared of. I mean, I don’t love the idea of being surrounded by thousands of people. But it wouldn’t just be people, it’d be thousands of video-game nerds, which makes it mostly okay.
And Dan will be there. Hulk tightens his grip on my chest. But Meg would be there, too. With me. Hulk’s grip loosens a little.
But here’s the other thing: I don’t fly. I just don’t.
I pull up a map app on my phone and type in Toronto. Thirty-three hours by car. So that’s not happening. One hundred and ninety-two hours by bike. Definitely not happening.
Three hours and thirty-five minutes by plane.
Three hours and thirty-five minutes hovering thousands of feet above the earth.
Three hours and thirty-five minutes in a metal box I can’t escape.
I love LotS, but I don’t love it that much.
Mom will give me an out. She’s my only hope.
I close the map app, hop off the chair, and rush upstairs. Mom’s rolling out a pie crust in the kitchen. She swipes a loose hair back, leaving a streak of flour across her face. Then she sees me and smiles. “I’m making coconut cream pie. Your favorite. I thought we’d celebrate your win.”
“It was just second place,” I say.
“And you should be very proud of that.” She beams at me.
She’s not going to say no. She’s in too good of a mood. She’d probably give me anything I asked for.
Including an excuse. An excuse that would allow me to lie to Meg. Lie. To Meg. Is that what I’ve already been doing?
Mom stops rolling and glances at her pie dish, then at me. “Did you want something, love?”
If I ask Mom for an excuse, I’ll be asking her to lie to Meg, too. I can’t ask her that. I bite my lip. “Just . . . can I go over to Meg’s? Just for a little bit. I’ll be home for supper.”
“Of course, sweetheart,” Mom says cheerily, and I know that not asking her was the right choice.
Meg’s mom answers the door. “Kat! Congratulations on second place!”
“Thank you. Is Meg home?”
Her forehead crinkles. “She’s downstairs. Head on down.”
My heart thumps with every step down the stairs.
Meg’s lying on the concrete floor, skateboard across her stomach like a plank.
“Hi,” I say as I reach the bottom step.
She hops to her feet, skateboard thudding against the ground. “What’d they say? They said yes, right?”
She looks so hopeful. A frantic sort of hopeful.
I take a deep breath, letting the air fill my lungs and stretch them into my stomach. Ease it back out again. I could still lie to her. Tell her they said no. Make it their fault, not mine.
But of course, I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. I don’t lie to Meg. I should have told her a long time ago. “I . . . I didn’t ask.”
“Why not? Is it the money? I’m pretty sure I can get Stephen-the-Leaver to pay for it. He—”
“Meg, no. It’s not that.” I just have to tell her. One gravity . . . two fiery death . . . “It’s the planes, okay? Flying freaks me out. All that metal just hovering in the air. Just thinking about it gives me an ulcer. I don’t think I can do it. I know I can’t do it.”
She blinks at me for a long moment, and I wait for the deadness to enter her eyes. But they don’t die, just droop a little, like her shoulders. She tugs at one of her curls. “Is this like the party?” she asks.
I nod.
She gives her skateboard a little absentminded kick, and it rolls across the room, bouncing off the couch. “Okay,” she says. “You have to help me decide what to wear, though.”
That’s all it takes, apparently. But I shouldn’t be surprised. Meg gets me. And she’ll be fine on her own, won’t she? She’s always fine on her own. I wait for the tension in my shoulders to relax, but it doesn’t. “So you’re still going to go?” I ask. “With Stephen?”
“Look, it’s not like I’ve never spent time with him before. We’ve gone loads of places together. Of course, all of those times we were talking, and this time I’m not talking to him for even a second.” She follows the skateboard across the room and collapses onto the couch. “And yeah, there are like seven billion people on the earth I’d rather go with than him, but seven billion people aren’t offering, are they? So I’m going with him, and I’m going to meet LumberLegs, and it is going to be magical.”
“Well, good,” is all I can think to say. I walk across the room and settle onto the couch beside her.
She rolls the skateboard back and forth with her foot. “Because I’m going to date LumberLegs, you know.”
“I know,” I say.
She stops rolling the board. “Hey, what were you going to do if we won?”
I shrug. “I was just hoping we wouldn’t.” It’s surprisingly easy to admit, though I really shouldn’t be surprised. Meg’s my best friend. Of course I can tell her anything.
“You worked really hard, though,” she says.
Not as hard as you, I think, and guilt ripples through me like a shiver. Meg will be fine, though. Meg is always fine.
“Yeah, well, I still wanted an A,” I say.
Meg laughs. It’s not a dead laugh, but it’s not entirely alive, either.