Wish Upon a Sleepover, Page 2

  “A party?” Autumn’s eyes get even bigger. One of her curls falls across her forehead.

  “My sleepover will be great. You’ll see.” I pause. “No, wait, forget that. It won’t be great. It’ll be the best sleepover in the history of the world! And you’ll be there, too.”

  “Me?” Autumn drops her half-eaten sandwich onto her napkin. “I gotta go to the bathroom.” And off she scurries.

  I glance over at the Haileys. They’re looking at photos on Heeyley Kerrigan’s phone and laughing. One day I’ll be laughing with them. But right now, I have a party to plan.

  Prepare to be amazed.

  3

  Tutu On Board

  “Mom, can I have a sleepover?”

  “Autumn is always welcome here. You know that.” Mom is in her bedroom, putting on her blue scrubs. I’m sitting on the edge of her bed.

  “I want to invite six kids from my school and Autumn.”

  “Oh.” She reaches into the closet and grabs a cardigan. “Seven kids? When would you have this sleepover?”

  “Not this weekend, because the Haileys are already having a party, and Autumn will be at her dad’s. So mine would be the next weekend. Saturday night.”

  “Well, I’m glad you want to have friends over, but I won’t be off my shift until four AM. And”—she lowers her voice—“that’s a lot of kids. You know how tired Tutu gets. I don’t think she can handle it.” She walks into the hallway.

  I slide off the bed and hurry after her. “Tutu doesn’t have to do anything.”

  “I don’t know.…” She steps into the kitchen. “Where would your guests sleep?”

  “In the living room, in sleeping bags,” I say. Mom frowns as she puts on her cardigan. We both look over the kitchen counter, into the living room, where Tutu is watching TV in her pink bathrobe, like she always does after dinner. “I’ll ask her,” I say.

  Tutu is eighty-three years old. She used to work at a travel agency, but her customer-service attitude got bad, and she started getting things mixed up, like sending a honeymoon couple to Tijuana instead of Tahiti. And then she had a heart attack and she couldn’t live alone anymore, so that’s when she came to Seattle to live with us. She spends so much time on our couch that the cushion on one end has a permanent dent in it, shaped just like her butt.

  “Tutu?” I say as I sit next to her. She smells like coconut lotion, which she always rubs on her elbows and knees.

  “Clicker.” She holds out her hand. “I don’t like the news. Too much hatred in the world.” I hand the clicker to her, and she changes the channel to a talk show. “Why can’t people get along? When I was a little girl in the camp, no one robbed anyone. We all went fishing and shared our catch.”

  Tutu always calls the place where she grew up a camp. It was owned by the Lihue Plantation. Her dad worked for the sugar company, cutting sugarcane, and her mom raised eight children in a tiny two-bedroom cottage that didn’t have a bathroom. All the families in the camp had to share an outhouse and a washroom. Tutu loves telling stories about her childhood, like how her grandfather used to hunt wild pigs with a bow and arrow, and how she and her brothers would use nets to trap black river crabs. And how she once saw a menehune, which is a tiny little person who lives in the forest. Mom says that some of the stories are true, and some are products of Tutu’s very active imagination.

  Usually I like listening to Tutu’s stories, but right now I want to talk about my party.

  “Fishing sounds nice, Tutu.” I pause. “Um, can I have six friends over for a sleepover, plus Autumn, on the weekend after this weekend? Mom won’t be here because she’s got the night shift.”

  “I’m not cooking,” she says, changing to a weather report. The reporter says it might get cold enough to snow. Snow would definitely put Tutu in a grumpier-than-usual mood.

  “You don’t have to cook. We can feed ourselves.”

  “I’m not cleaning.”

  “You don’t have to clean. I’ll do it.” I smile. This is looking promising.

  “Tutu, don’t let Leilani pressure you,” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Seven is a lot of kids. You’ll get tired.”

  “I’m always tired,” Tutu complains. “When I was young, I never got tired, even after working at the factory all day. I could label pineapple cans faster than anyone. And when I got home, I still had enough strength to do my chores and homework.” She changes to a game show called Hollywood Squares.

  I don’t want Tutu to get distracted by the show, so I lean real close. “What do you think about the sleepover?” I ask.

  “I’m not reading bedtime stories, or wiping noses, or driving kids home if they get scared.”

  “You don’t have to do any of that stuff.” Does she think we’re five years old? Besides, she doesn’t have a driver’s license anymore. “So it’s okay? I can have the sleepover?”

  She grunts.

  I throw my arms around her and kiss her wrinkled cheek. “You’re the best tutu ever.”

  “This is true,” she says.

  “Aloha au iā ‘oe,” I tell her. That means “I love you” in Hawaiian.

  “Aloha au iā ‘oe,” she says back.

  4

  The Planning Committee

  I need a theme for my sleepover. It has to be something the Haileys haven’t done. It has to be amazing, so that my sleepover will go down in history, and I’ll get a reputation as an extraordinary party planner. Then the Haileys will ask me to organize all future parties. And that will seal our friendship. And I will no longer have to spend every other weekend with just Tutu and Mom, doing errands like getting Tutu’s prescriptions filled or shopping for seaweed crackers and prune juice.

  I decide to call a special meeting with my planning committee.

  “So what do you think? Maybe a circus theme? Or is that too babyish?”

  “Why are we exposing ourselves to potential frostbite?” Autumn asks.

  “Because I don’t want anyone eavesdropping and copying my ideas,” I tell her. Even though it’s a really cold day for Seattle and we are still expecting snow, I’ve chosen a bench outside the school’s office building for our meeting. “Oh, I know. How about a supermodel theme?”

  Autumn wraps her scarf around her neck. Her teeth chatter as she clutches her Tupperware box. “I have no opinion regarding the theme.”

  “But I need your help.” I nudge her with my elbow. “Come on. It’s gonna be fun!” She stares at me with her big eyes. If I have to say one negative thing about Autumn, it’s this—she can be a real drag when it comes to parties. She never wants to go, and if she does go, she always sits in the corner with a book. “Everyone can dress up and we can do a runway show. What else says ‘supermodel’?”

  “An eating disorder,” Autumn mumbles.

  “Huh?” I frown. “How come you’re so grumpy?”

  “Because my fingers are too frozen to open my lunch, and I’m famished. You know I get low blood sugar.” The tip of her nose has turned red. My fingers are okay, so I open the container for her.

  Last month, the Haileys got matching lunch bags. They’re earth-friendly bags that can be washed and reused. Not only are the Haileys best friends who coordinate their lunches, but they also care about the environment. I thought it would be cool if Autumn and I got matching bags, so I mentioned it. “I’m not going to put my food in a bag,” Autumn said. “Cross-contamination might occur.” She’s very serious about the not-touching thing.

  “Hey, cuz!” a voice calls.

  I groan and try to hide under my hood, but it’s too late. Todd Burl walks up to us.

  “Hey, why are you sitting outside?” he asks. “It’s, like, thirty degrees out here.”

  I fold my arms and glare at him. “We’re busy, Todd. Go away.”

  Maybe it sounds like I’m being mean, but Todd Burl drives me crazy. He’s loud and obnoxious, and always interrupts. He likes to tell everyone that we’re cousins. Actually, my dad and his mom were cousins, which makes Todd
and me second cousins, and that means we’re barely related. He’s the tallest kid in sixth grade. Compared to everyone else, he looks like he’s on stilts. And he’s super skinny because he grew so fast last summer. Everybody knows Todd because he’s a star basketball player. And also because he can fart on command. Mom told me he’s lactose intolerant and that’s why he’s so gassy. His basketball friends think his farting is hilarious, but I think it’s a form of domestic terrorism. ’Cause what can you do? You have to breathe, right?

  Todd’s name comes from the Old English word todde, which means “fox.” A long time ago, it was a nickname given to people who were clever or had red hair, like a fox. Todd doesn’t have red hair, and he doesn’t seem any smarter than anyone else. Especially not Autumn.

  “That sandwich looks good,” he tells Autumn. The florescent orange glows between the slices of bread. “Is it cheese?”

  “Uh-huh,” she says, her cheeks turning as red as her nose. She doesn’t like Todd, either.

  “Are you gonna eat it? ’Cause I’ll eat it if you’re not hungry.”

  “You’re not supposed to eat cheese, Todd,” I remind him. “Now, go away. We have stuff to talk about.” If he hears us talking about my sleepover, he’ll tell everyone. I want to keep it a secret until I figure out the theme.

  “Say it,” he says with a wicked smile. “Say I’m your cousin.”

  “No way.”

  “Say it or I’ll let one fly. I just had a milk shake, and it’s churning up real good.”

  Autumn starts squirming. She pulls her scarf up around her nose.

  “I won’t and you can’t make me.” I don’t care if he ate an entire cow, I will never say it. Never!

  He squeezes his eyes shut. The fart makes a squeaking sound and takes a real long time coming out. “You’re disgusting,” I tell him.

  He snickers. “One of these days, Leilani, you’ll admit we’re cousins.” Then he walks into the school.

  “Never!” I yell. Even with the wind blowing, it takes a few minutes for the stench to go away. “Gross. How are we supposed to eat after that?”

  Autumn and I stare at our food. I imagine Todd’s fart germs clinging to my sandwich. Is that possible? I’m about to ask Autumn if a fart makes germs when something catches my attention. The building across from us has a long bay of windows. The Haileys are walking past the windows, carrying their matching lunch bags to their lockers. Whenever they walk, they huddle real close, like one creature with many legs. They’re laughing about something. I make a mental note to learn some jokes so I can make them laugh when they come to my sleepover.

  Autumn is still hiding behind her scarf. “Can we go in now? My legs are going numb.”

  “But we haven’t come up with my sleepover theme. It has to be great. It has to be something the Haileys will remember. It has to make me seem … special.”

  “Then do something Hawaiian,” she says.

  I jump to my feet. Of course. I’m the only Hawaiian kid at my school. “A luau! That’s what I’ll do. I can get plastic leis and grass skirts at the dollar store. And we can eat roast pork and sweet rice and put straws into pineapples. You’re a genius, Autumn!”

  Our principal pokes her head out the office door. “Hey, you girls come in before you freeze to death!”

  “Finally, a voice of reason,” Autumn says, then hurries inside.

  As the planning committee adjourns, a snowflake lands on my nose. I have a theme.

  What could be better than Hawaiian sunshine in the middle of a Seattle winter?

  This is going to be perfect.

  5

  The Boy Who Is Still So Very Rude

  When I get home from school, I step into the elevator like I always do and push button number six. And right behind me comes the boy from the third floor. William. I narrow my eyes at him, just to let him know that I haven’t forgotten how he ignored me the last three times. But he doesn’t look at me. He sets his cat carrier on the floor, pushes button number three, then sticks his hands into his pockets and stares at the wall. His red plaid coat is way too big and hangs past his knees. And his hat is made of fur. It looks real shabby.

  I decide to give him another chance. Because I really don’t want to feel like this every time I see him. Maybe he didn’t mean to be rude. Shy people take time to warm up. “Are you stalking me?” I joke.

  He doesn’t answer.

  “I’m just saying, it’s weird that you always need to take the elevator at the exact same time I need to take it.” I smile at him, but he doesn’t look at me. The elevator doors close. “Is your cat a boy or a girl?”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “What’s its name?”

  Nothing.

  I try to look into the carrier. I see a pair of yellow eyes and some black fur, but then William steps in front of it, blocking my view.

  “Did you just take your cat for a walk or something?”

  He pulls his hat down so it covers his eyes. Okay, now, that was definitely rude. What’s he going to do next? Put his fingers in his ears so he doesn’t have to hear me?

  “Whatever.” I open a pack of gum, but I know better than to offer him a piece. “I’m just trying to make conversation. ’Cause it’s a polite thing to do.”

  The elevator stops, and the doors open. William picks up his carrier and steps off. I’m so glad we didn’t get stuck. Our elevator has gotten stuck seven times already this year. I’ve never been in it when it happens, but the way things are going, I figure the odds are in my favor and I’ll get stuck one of these days. And I’ll have to wait for the fire department. But the last person in the world I want to be stuck with is the boy from the third floor.

  I’d rather be stuck with farty old Todd, and that’s the truth.

  William walks off down the hall. “I hope your cat gives you fleas,” I mutter under my breath. But then I lean out the door, just in case he whispers again. Which he does!

  “She’s a girl and her name is Belle.”

  The elevator doors close.

  6

  Helmet Head

  I look up the name William, and then I read that it comes from the Germanic name Willahelm, which basically means “helmet protector of the head.” Weird. Maybe that’s why the boy from the third floor is so rude, because he never protected his head with a helmet and he has brain damage or something. “It’s definite,” I tell Mom. “I don’t like him and I never will.”

  Mom is making dinner before she leaves for work. Tutu’s recipe box is open, and one of the cards is out. Each card has a handwritten recipe surrounded by a red-checkered border. My favorites are baked mahimahi with potato chip crumbs and upside-down pineapple cake. But Tutu’s favorites are manapua, which is a steamed white bun filled with barbecued pork, and haupia, which is coconut pudding cut into squares. “Why don’t you like him?” Mom asks.

  “He never talks to me when we’re in the elevator.”

  “Maybe he’s shy. He’s just moved to a new neighborhood. That can be scary.”

  “He ignores me on purpose. I hate him.”

  “Hatred is like a volcano,” Tutu says. She’s sitting at the kitchen table in her pink bathrobe, slicing a cucumber.

  I close my math book. “I thought hatred was like a pimple.”

  “Hatred is like many bad things. If you let hatred into your heart, it will fill you, like molten lava. Like Kilauea.” Tutu lays the perfect slices on a plate, then drizzles salad dressing over them. “Then boom.”

  Mom pours three glasses of apple juice. “I’m sure Leilani doesn’t actually hate this boy. Maybe he doesn’t speak English.”

  “He speaks it,” I say. “But only after he’s disappeared down the hall.” I tap my pencil on the table. “He’s the rudest person I’ve ever met.”

  Mom puts the apple juice jug back in the refrigerator, then pulls a chicken casserole from the oven. “Methinks she doth protest too much.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “I
t’s William Shakespeare. It means that when you keep saying you don’t like someone, you probably actually like that person.”

  “What?” I practically fall off my chair. “That’s so not true. If I say I don’t like him, I don’t like him. Besides, Shakespeare never met the boy on the third floor, ’cause if he had, he wouldn’t like him, either.” I nearly snap my pencil in two. Methinks she doth protest too much? Maybe William Shakespeare hadn’t worn a helmet, either.

  “Okay, let’s change the subject,” Mom says. She sets the casserole on the table and we help ourselves. It’s one of my favorites. The chicken thighs are cooked with broccoli and cream of mushroom soup and topped with a mess of cheese. “How was school today?”

  I spoon sticky rice onto my plate. “Great. I have a theme for my sleepover. Hawaiian luau.” I smile at Tutu, pretty sure she’ll be proud of my choice.

  “I’m not cooking,” she reminds me.

  “No problem. I can do it. I’ve already learned most of your recipes.”

  Mom pats my knee. “Make me a grocery list and I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  “Okay, but first I need to send out the invitations.”

  “Are you going to invite just girls? Or girls and boys?”

  Tutu scowls. “Boys? Why would she invite boys? That’s trouble if you ask me.”

  “Oh, Tutu, it’s no big deal,” Mom says. “Leilani’s friends aren’t in the dating stage yet, so I was just thinking it might be nice if she invited her cousin Todd.”

  “No way! Not Todd!” As I push back my chair, the table jiggles, nearly toppling everyone’s juice.

  “Leilani, calm down.” Mom butters a slice of bread. “I just thought … well … I guess he’s been having a hard time lately, and it would be nice to include him. That’s all.”

  Hard time? What does that mean? He doesn’t seem like he’s having a hard time. For a nanosecond, I think about inviting Todd, but then I picture all the Haileys running from the apartment, chased by a big green fart cloud. “Please don’t make me invite him. He’s loud and pushy, and he farts on purpose. He’s constantly trying to embarrass me.”