Over the Top Read online

  My hazel eyes met my mom’s sparkling brown ones in the mirror.

  “Yeah, all those supermodels better look out, Mom,” I said, wriggling away from her hands. “Can we just look at this stupid house now, please?” I saw her smile fade as I stalked away down the hall.

  “Diva!” Hero’s voice called from somewhere at the far end of the hallway. “Deev, down here!”

  I went down the hall and opened a door on the right. Closet. Huge closet, shelves running side to side. Bedroom-sized closet. The door farther down on the left was a dark bedroom (he wouldn’t be in there. ’Ro hated the dark).

  “Keep calling, ’Ro!” I yelled. “I’m trying to find you.”

  “Here!”

  Another door. Nope: bathroom. Big bathroom. Bigger than my old bedroom. Bigger, I think, than our old living room. Two sinks. Massive, centaur-sized bathtub.

  “Keep calling!” I stifled a giggle. This was so stupid. If we bought this house, were we going to go through this hide-and-seek routine every time we wanted to talk to each other?

  “Here!”

  “Where the heck—?” Another dark room.

  “Here!”

  I finally reached the last door at the end of the hall, and there he was.

  “There you are. Finally,” he said. He spread his short arms wide. “What do you think of my amazing room?”

  “Oh, your room, huh?” I said. “You sound just like Mom.” Not only did ’Ro sound like Mom, he looked like her, as well. He was like her. Jet-black, thick wavy hair, liquid brown eyes, a face that crumpled easily into a big smile, a sunny, happy personality.

  I walked into the room and looked around. And around. And around. It was a circular room, one of the turret rooms. Hero was right: it was amazing.

  Light streamed in from four high windows, and from the two tall, regular windows overlooking the backyard and the river. Hero looked very small sitting and dangling his legs from a wide bench built underneath the window.

  “Wow,” I said, “this is actually a pretty cool room. Very… round.” I turned in another circle, trying to imagine where on earth you would put a bed. Right in the center? That seemed weird. Beds should have a side, maybe two sides, touching a wall, shouldn’t they? Some completely immature part of me thought that otherwise you would be surrounded by potential monsters and various creepy-crawlies on all four sides, instead of only two sides. But I wasn’t going to mention that to ’Ro.

  “Yeah,” Hero said excitedly, his face flushed, “imagine this seat thing piled with pillows and a quilt! You could read forever in here! Plus”—he pointed up—“those windows don’t have any curtains, so it would almost always be light in here. Plus, you could leave a light on. What are you doing?”

  I’d dropped to the floor and was lying on my back in the middle of the room.

  “I’m trying to imagine what it would be like to have a bed right in the middle like this. Weird.”

  “There’s another room like this for you,” Hero said slowly. “But it’s way on the other side of the house. Really far away, actually, even if you ran fast. It’s all the way down this long hall, past the staircase, then down the next hall. At the end.” He looked anxious. In our old house, our tiny bedrooms had been right beside each other, within calling-when-it-was-scary-dark distance, within knocking-on-the-wall reach. “It would take a while for me to get over there if you were scared at night or something,” he said, swallowing.

  Riiight. If I were scared, tough guy.

  “Hey, you’re right, ’Ro. Thanks for thinking of that,” I said. He tried to hide the relief in his face by nodding matter-of-factly. “But actually, I’m not crazy about having one of these turret rooms,” I assured him. “I mean, I like it, it’s very ‘you.’ But I’m more of a square-room person. Rectangular. Corners-girl. If we even get this house. Which we might not.”

  “Mom loves it.” Hero said. We looked at each other. We both knew the force of Mom’s enthusiasm.

  I sighed. ’Ro was right. Mom had a “great feeling” about this house. A “super-great” feeling. We would all get swept along in Mom’s huge plans, like we always did. We were almost certainly going to live in this ridiculous, enormous pink house.

  “I think there’s a bedroom next door to this one,” Hero said. “Looked nice. C’mon, let’s check it out.”

  When we pulled open the curtains, the dark bedroom next door sprang to life. It was probably four times the size of my old room, but in this house, it seemed cozy.

  “Square, just like you like ’em,” Hero said, trying to sell it to me. “And look! Another window seat where you could write and a whole wall of shelves already built in there for all your books!” He knocked his knuckles against them. “Solid wood.”

  “A definite maybe,” I said. I’d always loved the idea of having lots of shelves. In my old room, my books had been stacked in teetering piles everywhere, leaving only a little aisle for walking from the door to the bed. I hadn’t really minded. I still knew where everything was.

  The feeling of preferring somewhere cramped and inconvenient to a place that is, according to most people, clearly way better. I made a mental note of that one. But was it only me who felt like that?

  Out in the hall, the realtor was leading Mom and Dad down to the master bedroom, several miles down the hallway.

  “… and with the ensuite bathroom, this is the third full bath. Double sink. Jetted tub. Italian tile. Heated floors. Heated towel racks.”

  “Gorgeous. Just gorgeous,” marveled Mom.

  “Hey, you two,” Dad perked up when he saw us. “I’ll catch up with you in a sec, Rosie. Okay, Erica?”

  “Sure thing, Mike.” Erica smiled briefly and automatically at us.

  When they were gone, Dad turned to us.

  “Big place, huh? So, completely honestly, what do you think, guys? What’s your gut say?”

  “I like it,” said ’Ro. “I mean, it’s the best house we’ve seen by far. It’s huge, and the trees are great…” He trailed off uncertainly, then perked up. “I’ve picked out my room! So has Deev!”

  “Not really. Not for keeps,” I said quickly.

  “Hey, great! The turret rooms?”

  “Yeah, about that, Dad,” I said. “Turrets? A castle? I’m not even mentioning the pink. I’ve moved on from the pink. Blocked it out. But there are only four of us. Four people. Why are we looking at this house that could sleep a small city?”

  Dad sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair. He looked at me with tired hazel eyes.

  “You know, Deev, Mom and I always said that when the time was right, we’d move to some place really wonderful. A dream house! You know that neither of us had much growing up. We’ve saved and saved our whole lives, and now the construction company’s business is booming. Absolutely booming! And Mom’s going to expand her party-planning business as well. We need some space for everything. Remember the basement in our old house?”

  Our basement had been a sea of stacked boxes and totes. But it hadn’t been just the basement that had been totally taken over by Mom’s business. Decorations had been stuffed in every cupboard and closet, bins of plastic flowers stacked behind the television, ribbons and party favors had spilled out from under beds, bunches of balloons had bobbed above the kitchen table.

  “We can finally afford something big, something with a lot of space, where I can have a home office, Mom can have workspace and storage, where you kids can have lots of friends over, where we’ll have room to grow. Something great, something over the top! Why not? Look how much fun your mom’s having with this house!”

  I glanced over the bannister, and a rueful smile tugged at my mouth. Mom was singing and forcibly waltzing an awkward Erica around the living room. That’s how I must look when Mom does that to me, I thought, watching Erica’s stiff, staggering, off-balance steps as she clutched her clipboard. Better save the poor lady.

  “Mom!” I called, “maybe you should come up here for a family conference?”


  “Sure thing, Princess!” Mom released Erica, who looked up with relief. Mom puffed up the stairs. “Whoo, lots of stairs! Okay, Rosie has finally arrived! Serious stuff: family conference,” she said, looking at our faces, sliding an arm around ’Ro.

  “We need to know how everyone’s feeling about the house,” Dad said, looking at me. “We’ll want to see the rest—”

  “I’ve seen it all. It’s gorgeous,” said Mom.

  “And the yard.”

  “Beautiful.”

  “And we’ll have to get it inspected, of course, but I guess we need to know whether it’s a yes or a no for everyone.”

  “YES,” said Mom, crossing the fingers on both hands and looking at us pleadingly. “It’s my dream house! But it depends on you and the kids, too, of course.”

  “Yep,” said Hero. “Of all the ones we’ve seen, this one’s the best.”

  “Diva?” asked Dad.

  “No, you first. What do you say, Dad?”

  “Compared with the others we’ve looked at, this one wins hands down for location, size, and price. If everything checks out with the inspection, I’d have to say yes, too.” They all looked at me.

  “Majority rules,” I said, but I softened it with a resigned little smile.

  “That’s a very Diva-esque sort-of yes,” said Dad.

  Mom whooped and tried to lift me in a big bear hug. My feet stayed on the ground, so it was more of an enthusiastic upward tug, but I gave her an awkward hug in return.

  “Okay, Mom—down, girl. ’Ro over there needs a hug, too.”

  “C’mere you!” Mom whirled around and throttled ’Ro. “I can’t tell you what a great feeling I have about this place, guys! So great! What do you think of ‘Pink Palace Party Planners’ as my company name? With a pink flower logo where the petals are the four Ps in a circle?”

  So much for getting the place painted, I thought.

  “Subject to inspection, Rosie, right?” said Dad quickly. “Hold your horses until we get it inspected. For all we know, the foundation’s rotting.”

  “It’s not. It won’t be.”

  “Well, we need to get it checked out, right?”

  “You’re right, Mike. Checked out,” said Mom bravely, nodding.

  “And we should probably keep our enthusiasm for the place quiet until we’ve made the final decision on it.”

  Riiight, I thought, looking at Mom.

  “Mmm-hmm. Good plan. Keep it quiet.” Mom nodded briskly.

  The real estate agent came to the foot of the stairs. “So, any thoughts on the place?” she called up. Mom whirled around, her face radiant.

  “Mom,” I warned, “remember, we—”

  “Oh, Erica,” cried Mom, “we all LOVE it! We’ll TAKE it!”

  CHAPTER 3

  Conquer, Achieve, Succeed?

  Of course, uh… Diva—” the principal of St. George Elementary, Mr. Harris, looked down at the forms on his desk and gave a quick glance in my general direction “—will only have a few months of sixth grade before she transfers to the junior high school next door.”

  “Plenty of time to make some friends,” laughed Mom. “This gal here will be having some BFFs over for a sleepover by the end of the week!”

  This gal stared down at her feet, felt her face flush, and willed her mother to stop talking.

  Mr. Harris gave a small, tight grimace, which I think was his way of smiling.

  “Ah, haha. Yes. True. And this young man…” He gestured vaguely at Hero.

  “Hero,” prompted Mom, shooting a proud glance at Hero.

  Mr. Harris’s eyebrows shot up.

  “I just go by ’Ro,” said ’Ro quickly.

  Good plan, ’Ro, I thought.

  Mr. Harris looked relieved. “Ah, ’Ro will attend fourth grade for, well, let’s see—April, May, and June.” He glanced briefly at the top of our heads and cleared his throat. “Welcome to you both. It’s only a few months until summer break, but I trust you’ll be happy at St. George.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they will be,” gushed Mom. She was sitting on the edge of her seat, and I had a horrified mental image of her dodging around the desk and giving Mr. Harris one of her smothering big hugs. “We moved because of my husband’s business expansion, and what do you know? We buy a house right down the street from this wonderful school! Like it was meant to be!”

  “Ah. Well…”

  “And I know there are only three months of school left, but don’t you think it’s important that the kids start making friends, get used to their new school, feel at home, you know?” Mom pressed her hand to her heart.

  “Of course, of course,” Mr. Harris’s eyes had wandered to the clock.

  ’Ro was completely silent and still, which was strange for him. Maybe he was feeling weird. I sure was.

  I kept thinking how different this place was from our old school. Elmwood Elementary had been a chaotic, crowded, loud, messy place—children’s artwork peeled off the walls in the dusty hallways, a dingy curtain hung lopsided on the stage in the gym, and kids swarmed all over the old playground equipment in the scrubby field. Mrs. Krantz, our massive, red-faced, redheaded principal, walked the halls in her sagging skirts and thick sandals, cracking lame jokes, breaking up scuffles, bear-hugging, nagging. Alexander and Maddie and I once made a list of “Krantzisms,” words and phrases that Mrs. Krantz made up. Words like “boo-hinky” (any cut or bruise), “vroomish” (fast), or “blah-blahs” (a sad mood). My very favorite Krantzism was a phrase: “Stop that or I’ll rip off your arm and slap you with the wet end!” She was so funny. Hilarious. She fit the school.

  This school was not like that. At all. It was nothing like our old school. This school was as unlike my old school as Mr. Harris was unlike Mrs. Krantz. This school’s cleanliness and orderliness was unfamiliar, its silence intimidating. The school office looked like a doctor’s waiting room. It had vases of fresh flowers and a row of unscuffed leather chairs.

  “Beautiful,” breathed my mom when we first walked into the school. “Look at that! Will you look at that?” It was hard to see anything else but the tile mosaic that took up the whole wall. It was a mural of a guy (St. George, I guess) battling a fire-breathing dragon. On a banner waving off in the distance were the words CONQUER, ACHIEVE, SUCCEED.

  No pressure.

  Mom paused annoyingly every few feet to read out loud some quotations stenciled onto the school walls as we walked to the office.

  “‘Stories stretch the soul.’ That’s beautiful. And so true, so true. ‘Books are the wings of the mind.’ Lovely. Diva, you’re a writer. Isn’t that beautiful and true? Do you want me to mention to Mr. Harris what an amazing writer you are?”

  “Absolutely not, Mom. Negative. Seriously: do not.”

  “Okay, okay,” Mom laughed, throwing her hands up in the air. “You’re right. Better they discover it for themselves.” She winked at me and squeezed my arm.

  I glanced now at quiet, serious Mr. Harris, trying to imagine him goofing around with the kids in the halls, kicking a ball at recess, joking about ripping somebody’s arm off or hugging anybody in his whole life, ever. I couldn’t do it.

  He was listing the school’s many extracurricular activities in his dry, bland voice.

  “… jazz band, running club, improv comedy club, culinary arts club, and of course our famous dramatic society for fifth and sixth graders. A fall production and one in the spring. Very well regarded, I believe. Very professional. Our director is Professor Ducharme, from the University’s Fine Arts department. This year is The Wizard of Oz.”

  Mom gave a little shriek. “One of my very favorites! I could sing every song!”

  Mr. Harris looked alarmed.

  “Mom,” I muttered. Dear lord.

  “Mom,” ’Ro said at the same time. Nine years old, and even he knows that the principal’s office isn’t exactly the ideal place for belting out show tunes.

  “Look at how these two boss me around!” Mom said happily, leani
ng in confidingly to Mr. Harris.

  Mr. Harris squeezed out that smile that looked like it hurt. Then he escaped to find someone to show us around. As soon as he left the room, Mom swiveled to face us. She could barely contain her excitement.

  “An actual professor directing the play! A French professor! Oooh la la! Did you hear that, Diva? A professional, quality production, not one of those slapped-together little ‘skits’”—she air-quoted dismissively—“they threw together at the last minute at your old school.”

  “Remember the one where the play had barely started and Warren Pitts threw up all over the stage?” laughed Hero. “Buckets of pu—”

  “Okay, okay, we remember,” I laughed. “Where Mrs. Krantz took over as the Lorax?”

  That play had been legendary. Four parents had rushed the stage with paper towels, cleaning up and hustling Warren off. Everyone thought the play would be cancelled. The Truffula Trees and Swomee-Swans in their construction paper headgear stood there, frozen, until Mrs. Krantz puffed over, threw out her arms, and cried dramatically, “I am the Lorax and I speak for the trees!”

  “I could barely stop laughing to say my lines, let alone feed Mrs. Krantz her lines,” I said. “She actually did great. Really threw herself into it.”

  “You were wonderful as the narrator!” Mom said. “Improvising, pulling a triumph out of a disaster. The show must go on. You acted like a professional there.… Oh, Diva, I have a great idea.” She grabbed me by the shoulders. “You have to audition for Dorothy! The lead role in your new school’s play! You’d make friends with all the cast, who’ll be so impressed that you—”

  “Whoa, whoa, wait a minute, Mom! I haven’t even gone to this school for one minute, for one second! We haven’t even seen the place, and I’m supposed to walk into the lead role in the play?”

  “Well, probably not the lead,” said Hero, swinging his legs. “But maybe you could get a little part. Might be fun, Deev.”