When You Reach Me

Things That Are Sweet

Julia’s mother had a whole shelf full of books about cooking: No-Fat Cooking, Cooking Extra-Extra-Light, Skinny Cooking.

“My mom is always on a diet,” Julia said, pulling a book from the shelf. “I think she bought this one by mistake. It actually has the word ‘butter’ in it.” She laughed and held out the giant bag of Fritos she had bought on the way home.

I shook my head. I’d eaten too many already. “Should we start making the cake?”

I had to call Mom at work three times to ask her questions like how many tablespoons are there in a stick of butter, and is it okay to use a potato peeler to skin an apple. The third time I called, she said, “Hold on, Mira. Are you planning to use the oven? Is there an adult in the house?”

When I said I thought Julia’s mother was home, though technically I had not actually seen her, Mom said, “But is she watching you? Where is she?”

“Where’s your mother?” I whispered to Julia.

“She’s meditating,” Julia said.

“Here?”

“Yes—in the … closet. And she absolutely cannot be disturbed.”

“Um—did you just say your mom’s in the closet?”

Julia looked down at the French pot holder in her hand. “It’s a walk-in closet,” she said quietly.

Mom said we couldn’t light the oven until Julia’s mother came out to supervise us, so we put our clumped-together cake batter in the fridge and went to Julia’s room to watch television.

Julia’s room was like a ruffled version of Annemarie’s—ruffled curtains, ruffled bedspread, lots of ruffled pillows. And books all over the floor, some stacked in piles, some worn-looking, some brand-new, some splayed upside down, some sliding off the pink bedside table next to the lamp with the orange fabric shade.

I tried to think of something to say about all the ruffles. “Nice lamp,” I said.

She put her hands on her hips and looked at the lamp. “Really? Because I think it’s kind of ugly. My mom picked it.” She waved one arm across the room. “She picked out all this stuff. And she won’t let me put up my outer-space posters. I had to hang them in my bathroom!” She jerked a thumb toward a door. Her own bathroom.

Something very familiar caught my eye. It was on the bedside table, under the ugly lamp. It was my book—or maybe it was my book’s twin sister, just as old and beat-up-looking as mine, but with different creases and one corner ripped off the cover. I went over and picked it up.

“Yeah,” she said. “I notice you carry yours around. I leave mine at home.”

“I got a first edition for Christmas. That means it’s one of the original—”

“You did? You are so lucky,” she said. “All I ever get is clothes. And jewelry.”

I stared at her. “I thought you liked all that stuff,” I said.

“Yeah, actually, I do.” She smiled. “But I like other stuff too.” That was when I noticed her Mysteries of Science poster leaning up against a wall. Hers was called “Is There Intelligent Life in Outer Space?” Her bubble letters were a lot better than mine.

She flopped down on her shaggy pink wall-to-wall carpeting, glanced at her digital clock, and reached out automatically to turn on the TV. And I realized that we probably spent our afternoons the same exact way. Except I can at least get my mother on the phone. Julia’s apartment is a lot nicer than ours, but I’m pretty sure there’s no phone in the closet.

I stretched out on the rug and rested my head on my arm. Julia looked me up and down. “Hey, you know what color your hair is?” she asked.

“My hair?” I touched it and made a face. “It’s brown.”

She looked at it thoughtfully. “No. When you see it in the light, it’s really more of a caramel.”

Caramel.