Ella Unleashed Read online

  “Sure,” Krishnan says. “That’s a great idea. We’ll do it sometime next week.”

  “Can’t we do it tonight? I could come back to your place for a little bit before I go to Dad’s. Maybe Elvis and I could squeeze in some more practice so that—”

  “Elvis is tired, sweetheart,” my mom says. “He’s had a long weekend. And your dad hasn’t seen you since Friday morning.”

  I sigh. “Okay. But when’s the next show with a junior division? I want to test the pouch out in the ring as soon as possible.”

  “There’s a show in Hartford in two weeks,” Krishnan says. “You’re welcome to come with us, as always.”

  Mom pulls me closer and rubs my back. It’s nice, and part of me wants to melt into her side and cling to her like a little kid. But I know the only thing that’ll actually make me feel better is redeeming myself. I lead the way back to the grooming area, find some jeans, a T-shirt, and a hoodie in my dance bag, and head to the bathroom to change.

  Mom and Krishnan have the grooming table and Elvis’s beauty supplies all packed by the time I’m done, and an hour later, we’re pulling up in front of my dad’s house. I sleep here on Sundays, Mondays, and Wednesdays, and I’m with Mom and Krishnan a mile away on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Fridays are up for grabs, depending on everyone’s schedule. It can get annoying sometimes, but mostly I’ve gotten good at remembering which stuff to leave where. Dad’s house is where we all lived before the divorce, and even though Mom seems way happier with Krishnan than she ever did with Dad, I always think how weird it must be for her to drop me off here when it’s not her home anymore.

  I grab my dog hair–covered backpack and dance bag out of the trunk and kiss Mom goodbye. “I love you so much, Ellabella,” she says. “Call if you forgot anything, and have fun with your dad.”

  It’s been two years since she moved out, but hearing her say “your dad” still sets off a little pang of discomfort deep in my center. My first clue that things weren’t going to be okay between my parents was when Mom started saying that instead of “Dad,” like she was trying to distance herself from us. But I just say, “Love you too. You guys will check and make sure there are no junior competitions next weekend, right?”

  “I promise,” Krishnan says. “I’m proud of you for getting right back on the horse.”

  “Of course,” I say. As if a horse could possibly kill my spirit by throwing me off once.

  I dig my keys out of my backpack and head inside, and when I call hello, Dad answers from the kitchen. “Come in here, kiddo! My hands are covered in garlic.”

  I’m not sure if that’s true or if it’s an excuse not to come to the door until Krishnan’s car is gone. But when I get to the kitchen, there’s a pot of spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove, and Dad really is sliding a tray of garlic bread into the oven. He’s gotten super into traditions since Mom moved out, and Italian Food Sundays is one of them. It’s a little weird—when our family was in one piece, he was super laid-back and didn’t care what food we ate when. Dr. Obasanjo, the therapist my parents sent me to after the divorce, apparently told him that sticking to routines was really important for my mental health, but he seems to care about it way more than I ever did.

  Dad rinses his hands and pulls me into a tight hug. “Hey, I missed you. I hate going two whole days without seeing my girl.”

  “I missed you too,” I say. “How was your weekend? What’d you do?” I really hope he went out with a friend or something. When he and Mom were married, they were always hosting dinner parties and going to shows and art galleries and restaurants and stuff. Mom and Krishnan still do things like that, but now Dad basically just goes to work and hangs out at home the rest of the time, sitting around in his grungy ripped jeans and reading biographies of dead white guys.

  Dad shrugs. “Eh, nothing interesting. Errands and chores mostly. Watched some TV. Found some new recipes to try this week.”

  My heart sinks. I hate that he’s become this faded version of the dad he was before, like he’s been washed too many times. I know I can’t be here every second to keep his spirits up, but it sucks knowing how lonely and sad he must be on the days I’m with Mom.

  “New recipes sound fun,” I say, trying to keep my voice cheerful.

  Dad opens the oregano and sprinkles an amount that seems completely random into the spaghetti sauce. I don’t understand how it’s possible to cook without measuring anything. How can you be sure the food will turn out the way you expect when you don’t follow a standardized procedure? “Yeah, some of them sound really tasty. By the way, I’m sorry I didn’t respond to your text earlier. I was working in the yard. Those dog thrones were horrifying.”

  “I know, right?”

  “Do people actually buy stuff like that?”

  “I guess so,” I say. “When I showed them to Krishnan, he said—”

  Dad cuts me off before I can finish, even though he’s the one who asked the question; I guess he doesn’t actually want the answer if it involves my stepdad. “Tell me about the competition. How’d things go with Elvis?”

  I wish I could let out all my frustration about today, but this is definitely the wrong place to do it. I try really hard to stay upbeat when I talk to Dad about my life; he already has enough on his mind, and I don’t want to burden him with my problems on top of his own. Every time I mention that I’m unhappy about something, he seems so sad that he can’t fix it for me that I feel guilty for bringing it up in the first place, and it’s kind of a lose-lose situation. So instead of being honest, I decide to make the whole thing sound like a wacky comedy.

  “Oh man, it was a disaster,” I say, and then I give him a play-by-play in excruciating, slow-motion detail, complete with a demonstration that includes flailing my arms and rolling around on the kitchen floor. It’s a total exaggeration, but I accomplish my mission of making Dad laugh. As long as he’s still amused by my stupid antics, I’ll know he’s not feeling so down that I have to worry.

  “Well, that doesn’t sound like fun,” he says when I’m back on my feet. “I’m sorry. No more dog shows for you, huh?”

  I know he hates that I have a hobby in common with Krishnan, but it also sounds like he thinks I can’t handle the challenge, and that stings. “No, I’m definitely trying again,” I say, working hard to keep my voice level so it doesn’t sound like I’m offended. “I have an idea for this pouch I’m going to make with Kr—um, that I’m going to make to carry Elvis’s treats. By the time I get to the show in Philly, everything’s going to be perfect.”

  “Well, okay. But if it would stress you out, it’s perfectly fine to change your mind. I just want you to be happy.”

  “I’m not stressed,” I say. “Maybe you could come to my next show and watch, though? It’s in Hartford.”

  “Maybe,” Dad says. But he can’t meet my eyes, and I know that means no.

  “But you’ll come to Philly for the National Dog Show for sure, right?”

  The timer goes off, and Dad grabs a pot holder and turns to pull the garlic bread out of the oven. “I don’t know, Ellabee,” he says. “Philly’s kind of far, and I’m not sure what my schedule will be with work and stuff. We’ll see.”

  Dad never works on the weekends, and Philadelphia’s not that far from Boston. But I know this isn’t about the distance or his schedule, and it makes an ache bloom in the center of my chest. Usually I’m able to keep the things I do with Dad and the things I do with Mom and Krishnan separate. But what’s going to happen at my bat mitzvah in the spring? What’s going to happen at my middle school graduation, or my high school graduation, or my college one? What if I get married someday? How can I have everyone I love there to support me at my big life events when Dad won’t even stand near Krishnan for as long as it takes to run a dog around a ring?

  Part of me wants to say all that out loud, but I know I shouldn’t push Dad to do things that make him uncomfortable. So I swallow down the hurt, force my face into a neutral expression
, and say, “Okay.” I’ve got two whole months before the Philly show. Maybe I can work out a way to get him there by then.

  The food is ready, and Dad serves us spaghetti and meatballs and garlic bread on the mismatched plates he got at a garage sale after Mom took half the dishes. He makes sure I get my favorite one with the blue octopus in the middle, which is especially perfect for eating spaghetti because of the way the tentacles and the noodles curl in the same way.

  “Think up any good taglines this week?” I ask as we settle in at the kitchen table. Brainstorming with Dad always cheers me up. He’s actually used variations on my ideas for real ads a few times.

  He rolls his eyes. “We’re still working on the Breezy detergent account. The client didn’t like anything we came up with, so we have to start from scratch. I am so sick of this detergent.”

  “What about ‘Easy, Breezy, lemon-squeezy’?”

  “Not bad, but it’s pretty similar to a tagline for a makeup company. Plus the product doesn’t smell like lemons.”

  “What does it smell like?”

  Dad thinks as he chews a meatball. “Like . . . a Christmas tree dunked in chemicals.”

  “Like those air fresheners in cars?”

  “Almost exactly like that, yeah.”

  “Gross,” I say. “Are people actually going to wash their clothes in that?”

  Dad smiles. “They will if the advertising is good enough.”

  “Breezy: For when you need to cover up the smell of moldy fast-food wrappers in your glove compartment,” I say. It’s not even that funny, but I’m tired and slaphappy enough that it sends me into a fit of hysterical giggles. A noodle falls out of my mouth, which just makes everything even more hilarious.

  “Breezy,” Dad says, handing me a bunch of napkins. “Your kid may be disgusting, but your clothes don’t have to be.”

  When we’re done, we curl up on the couch with bowls of Chunky Monkey ice cream and watch one of those nature shows where a super-calm British guy narrates as fish lay eggs and plants grow in fast motion. It comforts me to hear about how everything in nature happens according to predictable patterns. As soon as the show ends, I tell Dad I’m sleepy and head straight up to bed. It really has been a long day, but mostly I’m tired of hiding how annoyed and humiliated I am by my disaster in the ring. I want to wash this fake smile off my face and have a good long sulk under the covers.

  Dad comes in to kiss me good night, and I paint the smile back on long enough for him to say, “Sweet dreams, Ellabee. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Me too,” I say.

  He goes to my door and turns off the light, but then he pauses. “You seemed a little off while we were watching the polar bears. Do you want to talk about anything that happened today at the show?”

  I shake my head. “No, I’m fine. I’m just tired.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yup,” I lie.

  “All right. Well, see you in the morning.”

  “Good night,” I say.

  He finally closes the door, and I finally, finally lie back on the pillows and let my face relax. I know I’m doing the right thing by protecting Dad’s feelings, but it’s exhausting, constantly trying to cheer him up and worrying about whether I’m going to say the wrong thing. I’d be a lot more okay if only I could be certain that he is.

  3

  I can’t wait to get to school the next morning so I can talk to my friends about the dog show. Luckily we all have fourth-period science with my favorite teacher, Ms. McKinnon. Miriam, Keiko, Jordan, and I plunk our stuff down on our favorite lab table, and I talk as fast as possible so I can cram in everything I want to say before the bell rings. They already know the basics of what happened, of course—I texted with them for most of the drive home last night. But the thing about best friends is that nothing feels real until you’ve hashed it out in person. This time I don’t leave anything out, and my friends gasp and groan in all the right places. Nobody tries to convince me it wasn’t as bad as I think, which makes me feel better, weirdly enough.

  “Man,” Jordan says. “Elvis seems like such a sweetie. I can’t believe he did that to you.”

  “It was my fault,” I say. “I should’ve thought things through better.” A prickle of shame crawls over my skin, making me all hot and itchy.

  “I’m sure it wasn’t totally your fault,” Keiko says. “Dogs are nuts. Once my aunt turned her back on her dog for one minute, and the dog swallowed two entire ears of corn, including the cobs. She had to have surgery to get them out.”

  “Oh god,” Miriam says. “You guys are making me really happy I have fish.”

  “At least no one posted any photos or videos of me in my underwear,” I say. “I’ve checked, like, fifty times.”

  The bell rings, and Ms. McKinnon comes out of the supply closet in the back of the lab carrying a big metal cylinder. She has on her Converse sneakers with the sparkly rainbow stars, and when she sets down the container, I see that the T-shirt under her lab coat is printed with sharks flying through space. I wish I could steal all her clothes.

  “Take your seats, scientists!” she calls. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  Everyone sits down and shuts up right away. In most classes, a “surprise” means something like watching a boring video about the American Revolution instead of listening to a boring lecture about the American Revolution. But Ms. McKinnon’s surprises are super weird and interesting—I did a two-week intensive science camp with her this past summer, and she was always lying on beds of nails and making stuff explode and bringing in weird animals.

  “Madigan, on Friday you asked what would happen if you froze a Gummi bear with liquid nitrogen and hit it with a hammer. You still interested in finding out?” Madigan nods eagerly, and Ms. McKinnon says, “Good, because I thought we’d start off today by giving it a try.” She reaches into her desk drawer and pulls out a big bag of Gummi bears, and everyone squeals and murmurs with excitement.

  “Split into groups of four. Each group needs a beaker, a pair of forceps, and a hammer, and everyone needs safety goggles and gloves—liquid nitrogen can give you frostbite if it touches your bare skin. When you’re finished gathering your materials, write a hypothesis for what you think will happen to a frozen Gummi bear and a room-temperature Gummi bear when they’re hit with a hammer, and then we’ll get to it.”

  My friends and I collect our supplies, write our hypothesis, and then return to the more important topic at hand. “So did your dad freak out when Elvis attacked you?” asks Miriam. “You said he didn’t seem super happy that you were doing dog shows.”

  “He actually wasn’t there,” I say.

  Mir’s eyebrows scrunch together. “Because of your stepdad?” I nod. “But it was your first show ever! I can’t believe he didn’t go.”

  “He’s going to the big show in November, though, right?” Keiko asks. “We’re all going.”

  I shrug. “He said ‘We’ll see,’ but I know that means he won’t.”

  “Even if you tell him how important it is?” Mir asks.

  “I don’t know if I should. Every time I talk about something related to Krishnan, he shuts the conversation down. It doesn’t seem right to push him too hard.”

  “He needs to get over himself,” Jordan says. “He’s supposed to be the grown-up.”

  Ms. McKinnon comes over to our table to drop off our test Gummis . . . and a whole handful more for us to eat. “Save two of the same color for the experiment,” she says. “We don’t want any variables besides how frozen they are.” I love how exact she’s being about this just-for-fun experiment. Science is so great that way—when you keep all the variables under control, you can almost always make an experiment turn out the way you want. And if something doesn’t work, you figure out the step where you went wrong, change it, and try again until it does. Nothing is ever random.

  My friends and I all like the orange Gummis least, so we set a couple of them aside and dig in to the rest of
our pile. Ms. McKinnon grabs the container of liquid nitrogen and moves toward Madigan’s table—her group gets to go first since the experiment was her idea.

  “What if you got your dad to bring a date to the Philly show?” asks Keiko. “Then maybe he wouldn’t care as much if Krishnan were there with your mom.”

  The idea is so ridiculous that I actually snort. “My dad doesn’t go on dates.”

  “Maybe he should,” Keiko says.

  “We could set him up with someone,” suggests Jordan.

  I try to imagine my dad choosing to put on nice clothes and sit in a restaurant with some random woman instead of watching baseball at home in his comfy chair, and I totally can’t see it. Then again, if movies are anything to go by, falling in love makes sane adults run around in the rain and climb on kids’ playground equipment and smear cupcake frosting on each other’s noses. If it can do that, surely it can help turn someone back into his old self . . . the kind of person who might come watch his kid compete in a dog show.

  Actually, the more I think about it, the more I realize that finding Dad a girlfriend is just good science. When he was with Mom, he was so much more easygoing and spontaneous and motivated. He came to all my recitals and performances and competitions, and I never had to protect his feelings or watch what I said around him. If I can bring the love variable back up to its original level, he won’t be lonely or upset anymore, and everything else will go back to normal too. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself.

  “Huh,” I say. “Maybe we should set him up with someone.”

  There’s a loud whacking sound from Madigan’s table, and everyone cheers. I know her lab group is just excited about the experiment, but it feels like a vote of confidence.

  Mir pops a Gummi into her mouth and chews carefully to avoid getting it stuck in her braces. “So, who do we know who’s not married?”

  “There must be a bunch of people in our class with divorced parents.” Jordan looks around the room. “I think Ethan Fenton’s parents got divorced last year. And his mom is the one who made those amazing brownies for the band bake sale.”