Ella Unleashed Read online

  “They hugged,” Keiko says. “It was awkward—it was like they couldn’t figure out whose arm should go on top. But it was kind of cute. She’s really pretty. I like her shirt.”

  “Me too. What have they talked about so far?”

  “I’m only catching, like, every other sentence,” Keiko says. “They’re talking about how their days were. It sounds like Beth taught a yoga class where some lady went into labor?”

  “Eww,” I say. “Does my dad look totally squicked out?”

  “A little,” says Keiko.

  “I hope she’s not giving him too many details. He gets woozy just thinking about blood.” What if my Dad faints on his very first date since the divorce? He’d probably never talk to a woman again.

  Fortunately, a server with tattoos all up his arm arrives at their table and interrupts them. “Did you hear what they ordered?” I ask Keiko when he collects their menus and walks away. It’s not like it matters, but it seems like some foods are more romantic than others.

  “They said a bunch of foreign words. Maybe that was wine? I don’t know. Then the fisherman asked the mermaid if she wanted to split some shrimp thing, and she said she’s a vegan.” Keiko pauses. “She said it kind of snootily, actually. Then she ordered salad. Something with arugula.”

  “Huh.” Arugula doesn’t seem romantic at all, but I guess maybe it is if you’re vegan. I revise my daydream about grilling steaks with Beth and Dad. I wonder if she’d be upset if we ate meat in front of her; he and I are pretty huge carnivores. I really hope that’s not going to be a problem.

  “Oh no,” Keiko says. “They turned the lights down, and now I can’t see anything with these sunglasses on. Do you think I can take them off?”

  Beth and Dad seem pretty absorbed in their conversation, and there’s another couple sitting between them and Keiko now. Plus she’s still got the wig and the hat and the weird eyebrows; my dad would have to be paying close attention to recognize her. “Yeah, it’s probably fine,” I say, even though I’d rather she play it safe. “Go for it.”

  My friend takes off the glasses and tucks them into the pocket of the coat. “Much better. Okay, the fisherman is asking the mermaid about her massage therapy classes. She’s saying she goes to school at night. That’s cool.”

  Beth is making big sweeping hand gestures as she talks; she wasn’t doing that the other day at the yoga studio, and I wonder if it means she’s nervous. If it does, is that a good sign or a bad sign? It could mean she cares what my dad thinks of her, which is definitely good, but it could also mean he’s not putting her at ease, which is less—

  Beth flings her arm to the right, and her hand smacks directly into the server, who’s about to put down their drinks. Keiko and I both gasp as two full glasses of red wine go flying, splashing all over the table and down the front of my dad’s shirt. Since he’s facing away from me, I can’t tell exactly how much went on him, but judging by the way he leaps out of his seat like it’s made of cockroaches, it must be kind of a lot. Beth claps her hand over her mouth.

  “Noooooo,” I moan. “Does he look mad?” I’ve worked so hard to get my dad out on this date; it can’t be ruined in the first twenty minutes by something as dumb as a spilled drink.

  “I don’t think so,” Keiko says. “He just looks really surprised. She keeps saying she’s sorry over and over, and he keeps saying it’s okay and that it’s not her fault, even though it is.”

  Beth reaches out with her napkin, trying to blot my dad off, and he steps out of her reach—it doesn’t bode well that he doesn’t want her to touch him. “But is he saying it’s okay like he really thinks it’s okay, or like he has to say it’s okay but actually he hates her?”

  “Like it’s really okay, I think?” Keiko says. “I don’t know, I haven’t spent that much time with your dad. Oh, okay, she offered him a stain stick, and he started laughing, so that’s good. Now he’s saying he’s going to clean up in the bathroom. Oh wait. Oh no.”

  “What?” I say. “What’s happening?”

  “The bathroom’s on the other side of me,” Keiko whispers.

  And then Dad’s heading straight toward her. Instead of staying still so she won’t attract his attention, Keiko lunges for the pocket of the trench coat to get her sunglasses. I know she’s scrambling to hide her eyes, but the way she’s flailing makes it impossible not to look at her, especially with the purple hair. “Keep going, keep going, keep going,” I beg, but it doesn’t do any good. My dad stops a few feet from her table, watching her with his head cocked to the left like a wine-soaked, confused bird.

  “Keiko? Is that you?” I hear distantly.

  My friend hesitates, and I can see her trying to figure out whether to lie. But there’s really no use pretending—he already knows it’s her. I guess she realizes that too, because she straightens up, brushes her lavender bangs out of her face, and smiles. “Hi, Mr. Cohen. What a coincidence running into you here.”

  My dad gestures to Keiko’s head. “What’s with the, umm . . .”

  “Oh, we had play rehearsal today.”

  “I thought your school was doing The Wizard of Oz this fall,” Dad says.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Keiko says. “This is my, um, munchkin costume. I didn’t feel like carrying it home, so I thought I’d wear it. It helps me, like, get in the mindset of my character, you know?”

  “Okay,” Dad says. He sounds a little confused, but my friends are always saying and doing things he thinks are weird, so hopefully this won’t seem too unusual. “Do you have a ride home?”

  “Yup, my mom is coming to pick me up,” Keiko says. “She should be here in a few minutes.”

  I wish she hadn’t said that—now I only get to listen to a little more of the date instead of spying on the whole thing. But it does seem kind of odd for a twelve-year-old to be sitting alone in a cafe filled with adults at seven thirty on a school night, and the last thing we want is for my dad to get suspicious. I guess I can always keep lurking out here after Keiko “leaves.” There wouldn’t be any audio, but dating specialist Daphne Longoria can definitely read how a date is going based solely on body language, and maybe I’ll be able to do it too. I’ve had some practice by now.

  “Okay,” Dad says. “Well. As you can see, my friend and I had an incident with the wine, so I’m going to go clean up.”

  “Perfect,” Keiko says, obviously relieved that this interaction is over. “Have a good—”

  “Wait a second,” Dad says, suddenly excited. “I picked up my dry cleaning this morning. I have more shirts in my car.” He turns back to Keiko and smiles. “You have a good night.”

  “Um, you too,” she says.

  And then my dad turns and heads toward the front door.

  To go to his car.

  Which is directly behind me.

  I see Dad’s words register on my friend’s face at the exact same moment that I realize what’s happening. “Oh no,” she says. “Ella.”

  I don’t even pause long enough to answer her. In one fluid motion, I hang up the call, shove my phone in my pocket, and run.

  Today, 7:21 a.m.

  Me: OMG you guys look at the text Beth sent my dad at 1:34 in the morning!!!!

  Me: “Hey, I had a great time tonight! Even if I never get you into a yoga studio, I’d love to see you again sometime soon. Or I’d be happy to give you a private session, if you’re too much of a wimp to wear Spandex in public. ;)”

  Keiko: WINKY FACE!

  Keiko: Aaaaaahhhhh I knew it, she likes him so much

  Mir: !!!!!!

  Keiko: I’m SO glad you got away before he went outside!

  Me: OMG ME TOO. SO CLOSE.

  Jordan: She wants to see him in Spandex, gross

  Mir: Did you pass the message on to him?

  Me: Yeah I e-mailed it

  Me: AAAAAAH he wrote back already!!!!

  Me: “I had a great time too. No yoga for me, I’m afraid, but I’m happy to scarf down more guac with you anyti
me. Maybe we should have our wine in sippy cups, though . . . ;)”

  Keiko: WINKY FACE BACK!

  Keiko: So he wasn’t upset about the wine!

  Me: So relieved

  Keiko: When did they get guac tho? Must’ve been after we left

  Jordan:

  Me: Should I give her his real phone number?

  Me: They don’t need me to pass messages back and forth anymore, right? I’m srsly just copying and pasting at this point

  Mir: DO IT

  Me: K. I’m gonna say he’s switching phone companies and this number is getting shut off later today

  Mir: Eeeeeeee so exciting!

  Jordan: Send us her profile!

  Mir: YES YES YES I WANNA SEE

  Me: K hold on, let me find it

  Me: Guys

  Me: It’s not here

  Keiko: It’s not where?

  Me: On the site!

  Me: How could it not be here???? It was up last night!

  Jordan: Maybe she made it private?

  Keiko: Can you do that?

  Jordan: Yeah, when my horrible aunt Libby does online dating she’s always taking her profile down

  Jordan: She’ll be like OMG I found The One, I’m going off the site

  Jordan: And then two weeks later it turns out The One has 17 ferrets or runs a cult out of his basement or something and she puts her profile back up

  Keiko: She dated a guy with 17 FERRETS?

  Jordan: I dunno I don’t really listen

  Me: You think Beth took her profile down bc she thinks my dad is The One?

  Mir: That’s totally it! Don’t people say you’re supposed to just KNOW when you meet the right person? Maybe that happened with them last night.

  Keiko: They stared into each other’s eyes over a bowl of guac and their souls connected . . .

  Me: MAN I can’t believe we didn’t get to see that!!!!!

  Me: But you guys.

  Me: WE DID IT

  Me: WE TOTALLY MADE TWO PEOPLE FALL IN LOVE

  Me: WE ARE SO AWESOME

  Jordan:

  Mir:

  Keiko:

  Jordan: No fair that Keiko got to see her and we didn’t, tho

  Me: If everything goes as planned you’ll see her in Philly!!!

  14

  The Providence dog show doesn’t have a juniors division, and after competing in two shows in a row—or trying to, anyway—it’s weird to show up at the convention center in normal clothes. I wish I were going into the ring today, honestly; it makes me really nervous that I won’t get another chance to practice in front of a judge before the National Dog Show. Nearly everyone else there will be used to winning, and I’ve never even completed a show successfully. It’s hard to trust that practicing in the backyard will be enough, even though I’ve been training with Elvis a ton. On Friday I had Krishnan time how fast I could get Elvis into a perfect stack over and over until we managed to reduce how long it took by a full eight seconds. It’s not like you get points for speed or anything, but the more seamlessly my dog and I work together, the more impressed the judge will be.

  I usually stick with Mom and Krishnan all day at shows, running errands and helping with Elvis. But today they’ve agreed to let me go off on my own so I can collect data for my science fair project. Mom makes me promise to text every half hour, and Krishnan tells me when and where Elvis’s ring time is so I can come cheer them on. It seems like it would be boring to watch twenty Welsh springer spaniels trot around in the same exact pattern, one after another, but now that I’m starting to see tiny differences in the ways people handle their dogs, it’s actually pretty interesting. Plus I know how I feel every time my dad is absent at one of my performances or competitions, and I don’t want anyone else to feel that kind of disappointment because of me.

  I give Elvis a big kiss on the nose for luck, and his tail does this swishy diagonal wag that I’m pretty sure is the “I love my people” wag. Then I check my duffel bag to make sure I have all my scientific materials and the spreadsheet where I’ll record each dog’s information. The more dogs I test, the more accurate my results will be, and if all goes well, I bet I can get fifteen trials in before lunchtime. I tuck two pencils into my bun and head toward the other side of the grooming area, feeling very official.

  The convention center is as chaotic as always; it’s not even eight in the morning and two Pomeranian owners are already fighting over a pair of scissors. Two people wearing giant plush dog heads like sports mascots are trying to distribute flyers for a new brand of dog food, but it doesn’t seem like they’ve practiced with the heads on, and they keep bumping into stuff and getting clotheslined by leashes. Stan’s there with his smoothie cart, but today I just wave at him from across the aisle—given what happened last time, I’m going to steer clear of smoothies for a while. I see a really cute purple collar and leash with a paw-print pattern, and I make a mental note to come back after I’ve done my trials and buy it for my future puppy, who’s supposed to be born in less than a week.

  I want to do my first test with the chillest owner and dog I can find, and when I spot a middle-aged guy reading a fishing magazine as his basset hound lounges at his feet, I know I’ve found the perfect candidates. I walk right up, head held high—nobody trusts a timid scientist—stick out my hand for a shake, and explain my experiment.

  When I’m done talking, he says, “You do whatever you need to do, darlin’.” I don’t love being called pet names by strangers, but I’m willing to put up with it this once, for science.

  The guy introduces himself as Irving and his dog as Hoover. Irving puts the basset in his crate, and together we wrap black fabric around the sides so he won’t get distracted. I set up Krishnan’s little digital camera on top, pointing down. Before I show Hoover his favorite things, I need a control, or a test that shows how he acts when he’s seeing something he doesn’t care about, so the first thing I do is stand in front of him for ten seconds with my hands at my sides. He stares at me with his big mournful eyes, his tail perfectly still. Then Irving hands me one of his dog’s favorite snacks, and Hoover’s tail goes crazy when I hold it up, wagging so fast I’m afraid it’ll be a blur on the video.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out—Mom gets really antsy when I don’t answer her messages right away. But it turns out it’s Keiko.

  Keiko: How’s the dog science?

  Keiko: On the way to my cousin’s house so I can test her cats. OMG it’s so early.

  I want to keep the times between my tests consistent, so I shove the phone back in my pocket. Keiko won’t be upset if I ignore her for a minute.

  Next I hold up Hoover’s favorite toy, which is a stuffed bear in a bumblebee costume. Again, his tail goes completely insane. For the last test, I ask Irving to stand in front of Hoover, face in a neutral expression. I wasn’t sure the dogs would react if I didn’t have the owners do anything, but Hoover cooperates, swishing his tail back and forth in a distinctly slower wag. I’m so excited that the test has been a success that I want to jump up and down and pump my fists, but I keep all my joy inside and act very professional as I fill out my spreadsheet, gather up my materials, and thank Irving.

  My phone buzzes again, and I pause near a booth selling dog hair bows. There are so many texts that they don’t even all fit on the screen. Keiko must be really bored in the car.

  Keiko: So mad my mom couldn’t take me later

  Keiko: How do you get up so early for dog shows all the time?

  Keiko: I wish I could drink coffee but coffee is gross

  Keiko: Maybe it would be okay if I put a ton of sugar in it? Then it would be like a hot Frappuccino

  Keiko: Now I want . . .

  A whole parade of Dalmatians goes by as I unlock my phone to answer, which is totally perfect—Keiko was obsessed with 101 Dalmatians when we were little and can still recite most of the lines. I snap a picture of them and send it to her in reply.

  Me: Trust me, I wouldn’t get up thi
s early either if my mom and Krishnan didn’t make me. Hope these cute faces cheer you up!

  I spot a Shih Tzu who looks like a pretty promising test subject—I want to get dogs of all different sizes—and my phone buzzes again as I’m heading across the aisle toward him.

  Beth (Yoga): ??????

  I stop walking.

  As I stare at the screen, this horrible chilled feeling sweeps through my body, like all my organs have been replaced with that blue gel that’s inside cold packs. Moving so slowly and deliberately that it’s almost like a dance, I take my duffel bag off my shoulder and set it on the floor. My hands shake as I open my texts and frantically scan the window where I pasted the Dalmatians, hoping and praying that I’m wrong about what I just saw, what I just did.

  I’m not wrong. The text box I have open isn’t Keiko’s.

  Another text comes through as I gape at my screen in horror, and then another.

  Beth (Yoga): What about your mom? Who’s Krishnan?

  Beth (Yoga): Is this David? I thought you switched numbers?

  And then the phone rings, and my screen shouts BETH (YOGA) in big, glowing letters.

  When I was six, I accidentally mentioned my mom’s surprise fortieth birthday party right in front of her. The expression that bloomed across my dad’s face right before I realized my mistake is burned into my memory forever, and that’s the image I see in my head right now.

  What have you done? says that look.

  I should never have trusted you to handle something so important.

  Now you’ve ruined everything.

  I turn off my phone, shove it into my pocket, and vow that I will put this out of my mind and concentrate on science, that magical place where you get to control every variable, then take all your messy data home and not show it to anyone until you’ve sorted it into neat, predictable patterns. Good scientists aren’t supposed to be distracted by their emotions. But even as I work my way through trial after trial for the science fair, my knotted-up stomach and sweaty hands and skipping heart won’t let me forget that I’ve messed up the experiment that matters most.