Let's Pretend We Never Met Page 2

  “Wow. This is . . . ,” I start.

  “Don’t you love it?” she says, her smile taking up almost her whole face. “I’m into colors and shapes and numbers, and I think everything should have its own space and place so that the world can be an ordered collection of magic and wonder. That’s my design philosophy. What’s yours?”

  “Um . . .” Agnes P. Davis makes me not able to talk. Design philosophy?

  “What’s your room like?” she asks.

  “Well, it’s not really set up yet, so . . .”

  Zooooom. Agnes P. Davis is out of here, heading for our apartment’s open door.

  I follow her, passing a bewildered Mama, who apparently can’t find the parents of our kooky neighbor.

  “Agnes, honey, where’s your mama?” she asks, after we get back to our own apartment, where Agnes is standing in the smack-dab middle of my bedroom.

  “She’s grocery shopping,” says Agnes.

  “And your daddy?”

  “In Boston.” Agnes puts one hand under her chin and tilts her head sideways as she stares at my white walls.

  “Blue swirls here,” she says, turning to me. “You look like a swirly girl.”

  I look to Mama to explain this hurricane that just blew into our apartment.

  “Do you want to stay awhile, Agnes?” she asks.

  I freeze. That’s my line. If someone is my age, I’m the one who gets to invite them over. Mama should know that. But then I remember that Agnes is already here, so maybe it doesn’t matter.

  “I have to!” replies Agnes. “You closed my door, right?”

  Mama nods slowly.

  “It auto-locks, and I don’t have the keys with me.”

  “Oh,” says Mama. “I’ll leave a note on the door for your mother, then.”

  “Thanks!” Agnes smiles that big smile again. “She’ll be home by seven-oh-four p.m.”

  Then she lies across my double bed, staring at the ceiling with her arms behind her head. “I think glow-in-the-dark stars will look great up there,” she says. She flops over onto her stomach. “So swirls on that wall, stars above . . . what other ideas do you have?”

  Mama gives me a grin as she leaves the room, and I am alone with the craziest girl I’ve ever met.

  I circle the bed slowly, unsure whether to sit down with Agnes or not. Suddenly my white-walled room feels like it’s pulsing with color.

  “The kid before me had the walls painted orange,” I say, leaning down to show her the spot where I scratched away the white. “Did you know him? Or her?”

  She hangs her body half off the bed, legs in the air as she twists to peek behind the comforter.

  “No,” she says. “This apartment’s been empty since we got here, but I can tell that whoever it was is a big thinker. Orange is the color of misunderstood genius.”

  Then she pops up. “Sorry about the banging, by the way,” she says. “From now on we’ll have a quieter signal—I’ll shine a light outside my room onto that wall.” She points to the brick in front of my window.

  And before I can ask her what she means, I see her eyes lock on the windowsill. It makes me nervous, the way she stops talking when she sees what’s sitting up there.

  She stands and walks over to my objects, and it’s the slowest her muscles have moved since I met her. She bends over and holds her face very close to each one—the folded paper, the fool’s gold, and the twine ring—without touching anything.

  Then she straightens. She looks back at me with knowing eyes.

  “Your treasures.”

  I nod, and she mirrors me.

  “I have some too,” she says.

  Chapter 5

  Christmas Day at Maeve’s is one of my favorite things—we usually come up to Philadelphia from North Carolina, but now that we live here, it’s a ten-minute ride. On the drive over, Mama talks about how pretty the old stone houses are, and Daddy points out where some of his friends from growing up used to live. “Do you still know any of your friends from back then?” I ask, but Daddy shakes his head and says he’s lost touch with them.

  My parents met in college down south, and they stayed in the same town Mama grew up in. Daddy always says he got the hometown beauty queen because one time Mama was chosen to wave from the top of a float during a town parade. My first-grade teacher, Ms. Gray, was her first-grade teacher too! But now all that sameness is gone because Mama’s never lived up here. She’s also never not had a job, at least as far back as I can remember. It already seems weird that she’s been home during the day, even though she goes online every afternoon looking for openings at restaurants and bakeries nearby. But it’s given us a chance to unpack—and for her to bake at home. She’s bringing enough cookies to feed fifty people over to Maeve’s today.

  My cousin Elodie and her parents, Uncle Jay and Aunt Cindy, drove down from Vermont. After we all greet one another, my dad and her dad—the brothers—tell stories while Elodie and I sit on the red Persian rug in the living room.

  We don’t watch television at Maeve’s. She has a big, boxy TV upstairs, but it just doesn’t seem like the thing to do here, so we stay downstairs and listen to the sound of our fathers’ voices while our mothers help Maeve in the kitchen. I always think it seems like something people in olden times would do—gather in a room and tell stories without TV on or anything. Daddy brought his iPad over, but we don’t swipe it on even once.

  “Tell me again why you’re not staying in the extra bedrooms here? There’s plenty of room, and you could save money. Plus, you might get the sale done a lot quicker.” Aunt Cindy says this to Mama as they deliver drinks to us (something clear with ice for my dad and Uncle Jay; Shirley Temples with bright-red cherries for me and Elodie).

  “The sale?” asks Elodie.

  “Because I don’t want everyone in my business,” says Maeve from behind them, cutting off the conversation as she carries in a tray of cheese and nuts. She sets it down on the marble-top coffee table near me, and Elodie and I each reach for a slice of cheddar.

  “I’m perfectly capable of caring for myself.” Maeve smiles at my dad. “It’s just nice to have some kin nearby.”

  The three of them go back into the kitchen, and I see Aunt Cindy shoot Uncle Jay a smile as she walks out of the room. He winks back. I wonder if they thought about moving closer to Maeve, or if it was always going to be us.

  After a story that I love even though I’ve heard it a hundred times—about a bullying neighbor who swung her roller skates at Uncle Jay and then got hers when Daddy set up a trip wire near her front door—Mama comes in and gives Daddy a look, no smile.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Your mother would like some help in the kitchen,” she says.

  “Isn’t that what you’re doing?” Daddy laughs, looking at Uncle Jay instead of at Mama, who folds her arms across her chest and lets out a deep breath. She spins and walks out, but Daddy follows her, saying, “Liz, I’m just kidding. Don’t be so uptight.”

  Uncle Jay ruffles Elodie’s curly blond hair and says, “I’m gonna run to the loo.”

  That means the bathroom. Uncle Jay is always saying things in a foreign way. Daddy says it’s because he lived in England. Mama says it’s because he’s snobby.

  I wonder if Uncle Jay and Aunt Cindy ever get snippy with each other like Mama and Daddy have been doing lately. I’ve never seen it, but Mama says you don’t know what happens behind closed doors and all families have their issues.

  “I’m getting an e-reader for Christmas,” Elodie tells me when we’re alone in the living room.

  “You already know your presents?”

  She shrugs. “Some of them.”

  I don’t think it’s very fun to know what you’re going to unwrap on Christmas Day, but Elodie has always been practical. She has a way of saying things that makes them seem simple and also true.

  Elodie points to her e-reader. She even knows which box it’s in. All of my gifts, wrapped in the same blue-and-gold drummer-boy paper
, are going to be a surprise.

  There are felt ornaments on the tree that Maeve’s neighbor sewed over lots of years—a light-blue Volkswagen Bug car that looks like one Maeve drove in with my grandfather across the country in the 1960s; a camel with silver sequin eyes as a reminder of a trip to Morocco; a unicorn with white fringe for a mane and tail because there’s a unicorn tapestry in New York City that Maeve loves and always talks about taking me to see. Everything in this house has a story. I let my vision go fuzzy at the glow of the multicolored lights among the green branches.

  “I have one more week before school,” I tell Elodie. She’s a year older than I am, so maybe she has some advice.

  “Me too,” she says.

  “Yeah, but I’m gonna be at a new school with all new kids.”

  “Oh, right,” she says. “That’ll be awkward.”

  So much for the wisdom of older cousins.

  The crystal dinner bell tinkles.

  Elodie and I jump up quickly. The dining room is warm and full of goodness; there’s a turkey just out of the oven, and the air is thick with the smell of delicious gravy. The table is set with the nice china—white with gold edges and a tiny pink rose pattern—and the sight of the food makes my stomach growl: homemade stuffing with croutons and raisins; a heaping bowl of mashed potatoes dotted with melting butter; long, stringy green beans with bacon fat; and a bowl of cranberry sauce still shaped like the can because Maeve thinks that’s better than homemade, and I do too.

  Daddy’s bringing out glasses of water for everyone, and I watch him bump Mama’s hip when he passes her. She tries not to smile, but I see a hidden grin when he whispers, “See, I’m helping.”

  What we’re all really focused on, though, is the silverware. A long time ago, one of the knives went into the oven accidentally. Part of the metal melted and dropped into the hollow handle, so now if you shake the knife, it rattles. When Maeve sets the table she decides who gets the musical knife—it’s a big honor.

  I told Agnes P. Davis about the knife and she understood instantly. Before we left for Maeve’s, we saw her and her mom in the hallway and instead of “Merry Christmas” she said, “Have a rattle-ful day!” I noticed her apartment door was completely covered in wrapping paper with a big bow crossed over it, like it was a present.

  When everyone is in their usual seats, we bow our heads in thanks. We’re not religious, but we’re grateful on holidays.

  “We thank you for the food we are about to eat, and for the company we keep,” says Uncle Jay. “We’re thankful for many years of Christmases in this house, and for this final holiday here.”

  My eyes fly open and so do Elodie’s.

  “What?!” we say in unison.

  Maeve’s hand squeezes mine. “We’ll talk about it later, Honeypie,” she says. Then I see her throw Uncle Jay a mad look.

  I glance at my mother, who nods. “Don’t worry, Mattie. Maeve may not want to keep hosting holidays and—”

  Maeve’s voice is loud as she interrupts Mama and says, “Well, now, no one’s even reached for their knife yet!” And Daddy says, “Amen!”

  An uneasy feeling settles into my chest, but everyone else starts picking up their silverware, so I grab my own knife and shake.

  It rattles!

  “Mattie got the musical knife!” says Uncle Jay.

  “You know that means you’re going to have good luck all next year,” says Daddy.

  I smile and I feel my face flush with pleasure as I relax into my seat. Everything will be okay. When I look over at Maeve gratefully, she wiggles her eyebrows at me. I’m going to need all the lucky knife moments I can get.

  Chapter 6

  The best gifts I got for Christmas were in my stocking. Weird, I know. One was a package of glow-in-the-dark stars, and the other was a gift certificate to Home Depot.

  “I guess Santa thinks you might want to set up your room,” said Mama. I knew she was thinking of the day we met Agnes P. Davis and I started considering my design philosophy.

  Mama talked to Mrs. Davis that night, and she found out that Agnes’s mom is a really important person at a new start-up—she works long hours. Mr. Davis is still back in Boston, where they moved from in the fall. When my mom offered to keep an eye on both of us during this winter break, Mrs. Davis said she thought Agnes was old enough to stay home alone, and my mom said that was probably true but that she’d be happy to have Agnes come over whenever she liked. I saw Mrs. Davis smile at that, and I can tell she’s glad we live next door.

  “Mattie, I think Agnes has been alone a lot,” Mama told me one night when she was tucking me into bed.

  “Then it’s good we moved in, right?” I said, and Mama smiled and told me I was a kind soul.

  It’s only been a week of us living here, but Agnes is at my apartment every day now. She knocks in the morning, and she goes home for dinner when her mom gets back from work. Mrs. Davis has dark curly hair and friendly brown eyes under round red-rimmed glasses—she looks like one of the nurses at my old school. She seems a lot calmer than Agnes, so I bet Agnes’s father is the one with all the crazy parts.

  I’m starting to like the crazy parts, though.

  Agnes is never bored, which means I am never bored when I’m with her. Here is what we like to do:

  1. Ride up and down in the elevators. When people get in, we call each other by fake names and pretend to be who we’re not. Once she pretended to be a boy named Steven, which made me snort-laugh into the back of my sleeve.

  2. Talk to the doormen. I think Agnes’s mom has a deal with them or something, because Will knocks on her door every morning to deliver an egg sandwich, and someone who’s on duty comes up to check on her a few times a day. Agnes says the doormen have a lot of thoughts to share—she made friends with them way back when she moved in at the end of the summer, and they liked me immediately too. They told me that any friend of Agnes’s is a friend of theirs, which I’ve heard people say on TV but never in real life. When I’m talking to the doormen, it feels like I’m an important person. Our favorites are Will and Jessica, who say they should be called doorpeople, and I know that’s true, but I just don’t think that word has the same ring to it.

  3. Cook. Agnes’s mom has these chef cards from TV that are all three-ingredient recipes. That means they’re easy enough for kids to make. Agnes has me prep the ingredients, and then she mixes and does all the cooking work. That’s fine with me, because I don’t really like the open-flame situation we have now—in North Carolina we had an electric stove top, which was much less scary. Nothing we’ve made has tasted good yet, but Agnes says it doesn’t matter, that it’s about our “process.” And I’m into chopping things.

  Mama likes having Agnes around too—I can tell. She left us alone for two hours once when she went out to pick up job applications at cafés and bakeries in the city, but mostly she’s been hanging out at home with us. Daddy is busy with his new job, and I guess Maeve really did need us here, because he’s stopped by her house almost every night after work this week. He hasn’t been getting home until after I go to bed.

  Tonight is New Year’s Eve, though, and Daddy has the day off. He and Mama are going to a fancy party at his boss’s house, and he’s gone to pick up Maeve and bring her over to stay with me. Maeve hasn’t had a license since 1981, when she was just learning to drive and she was in an accident where Uncle Jay’s arm got broken. “I’m a city girl and I’ll stick to the train, thank you,” she says, if anyone asks her about it.

  I’m setting up two decks of cards for a game of Double Solitaire, Maeve’s favorite, when I hear a rapid knock that could only be Agnes P. Davis at the door.

  “Hi!” She walks right in and sits at the table in front of one of the decks. “What are we playing?”

  “My grandmother Maeve is coming over,” I tell her. “We play Double Solitaire.”

  Agnes scrunches up her face and looks at me funny. “Is that possible?” she asks.

  “Of course.”


  “Doesn’t solitaire mean alone? As in you’re playing a game by yourself?”

  I never thought about that. Agnes makes me think about lots of things I never thought about before.

  “Where’s my Honeypie?” Maeve’s sweet voice sends me running to the door, and I give her a big hug. I love the feel of her soft cashmere sweater on my face. She kisses the top of my head and asks, “Who’s this now?”

  I turn to see Agnes staring at Maeve.

  “Maeve, this is Agnes P. Davis,” I say. “She lives next door.”

  “Hello, Lightning Bug,” says Maeve.

  Agnes tilts her head really far sideways. “Why did you call me that?”

  “It just came to me,” says Maeve. “I see who you are, and I appreciate you as the little lightning bug glowing in front of me.”

  I look at Agnes anxiously, wondering if Maeve’s habit of giving people nicknames the moment she meets them is going to make her upset.

  But Agnes smiles and says, “I like fireflies.” Then she bolts into the dining room and yells, “Double Solitaire is all set up, Grandmother Maeve!”

  “You can leave out the grandmother part!” Maeve laughs as I take her hand and pull her into the apartment. She looks at the table. “Let’s get another deck of cards, Honeypie,” she says to me. “What we have here is a game of Triple Solitaire!”

  The three of us play a few rounds, but Maeve keeps putting the clubs on the spades and the hearts on the diamonds. I tell her to stop cheating, and she tells me to stop sassing her. And even though Agnes claims she’s never heard of this game before, she’s very good at it. She wins twice, and Maeve says it’s all in the speed of her lightning bug hands. That makes Agnes beam.