Good Luck, Fatty

door (after I relocate the bleach, of course). “What?” I shout. “Are you guys okay?”
    Denise comes bouncing into the hall with the enthusiasm of a SuperBall. “Look! Look!” she screeches, flailing her hand at my face.
    I have about a zero chance of understanding her unless she calms down. “Hey, hey,” I say, reaching my hand out and grabbing her wrist. “Chill for a sec.”
    She’s now moved on to some crazy pogo-stick maneuver that makes her appear as if she’s about to wet herself. “Look!” she demands once again.
    I tighten my grip on her arm, freeze her hand in midair, inches off the tip of my nose. “Is this…?” I ask, finally noticing the speck of a diamond ring she’s so proudly flaunting.
    She smiles the happiest smile I’ve ever seen. “Uh-huh,” she says with an eager nod.
    Orv slips into the hallway but hangs back, looking sheepish and saying nothing.
    “Oh my God!” I blurt, nearly as stunned as Denise. “And…?”
    “Yes!” she squeaks. “I said yes, of course!”
    I risk a step into the hall, followed by a shoulder squeeze (me to Denise) that leads to a full-on bear hug (Denise to me). “Congrats,” I say into her ear. And then I start to cry.
     

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    At seven o’clock last night, a wrecker backed up to the Royale, winched it off the driveway and, with a bounce and a clunk, ferried it away. It was the first time I’d truly dissolved since we lost Gramp. Now we’ve lost his Sweet Baby Bluey too.
    Denise has cobbled together a series of lifts to and from Welcome Home that takes a three-page spreadsheet to keep track of. Today is a Tuesday, which means she walks two blocks home from Winchester Street, where Jessica Smart, the graveyard med tech, is willing to drop her off. When she slogs into the kitchen, I can’t help noticing that a bit of the newly-engaged sheen she’s been sporting these last few days has worn off.
    “There’s a load of laundry in the washer,” I inform her as I down the remainder of my orange juice and wiggle my backpack over my shoulders. “It wasn’t done in time for me to switch it over.” I’ve always tried to pitch in around here, but now that Denise is gone an extra two hours a day, I’ve had to up my game.
    She gives a little sigh as she brushes imaginary crumbs off the edge of the counter. “All right.”
    “I’ll do another load when I get home,” I tell her, since things are really starting to pile up around here. A stack of dishes even sat in the sink overnight, one of Denise’s Seven Deadly No-No s . “Harvey gave me today and tomorrow off, ‘in honor of my birthday.’ ”
    Denise works up a smile. “What kind of cake do you want?” she asks. “I can have Orv stop and pick up a mix this afternoon.”
    If I had to guess what’s eating at Denise, I’d say it’s something to do with her medical condition and the fact that she can’t carry a baby. With a wedding now on the horizon, she must be feeling even more hopeless about the prospect of her and Orv starting a family. “Anything chocolate,” I say. “Or strawberry. Lemon would be good too.”
    “Not vanilla?”
    If I don’t get out of here right now, I’m going to be late for school. “Nah,” I say with a quick shake of my head. I make a break for the door. “Too boring.” Vanilla is actually my favorite (for cake anyway), but Denise doesn’t like it. And the fruit flavors are for Orv.  

 
     
    chapter 13
     
    MY BIRTHDAY started with a low-key breakfast at Pablo’s with Marie, Duncan, and cranky little Roy (honestly, I’m shocked my parents had the wherewithal to haul themselves out of bed at such an ungodly hour, bundle the baby up, and trek all the way to Industry to fetch me, just to take an about-face back to Hollyhock—and Pablo’s—after which, they drove me to school). Who needs birthday presents (instead of a gift, Marie and Duncan paid to have a tree planted in my name in the rainforest) when your parents actually bother to act like you exist?
    When school lets out, Tom meets me by the bike rack, which I’ve wandered over to despite the fact that I’m without the Schwinn. His eyes light up when he sees me. “I thought you skipped today or something,” he says, a note of surprise in his voice. “Why weren’t you at lunch?”
    “Harvey,” I say with a gentle roll of my eyes. “He ambushed me.” In reality, what Harvey did was excuse me from school for three periods (as the former principal, he retains such power