I’m usually better at regulating my tone. I mean, I have to be. Because one note too loud, too aggressive, and I’m labeled as an angry Black girl forever. I can tell that’s already what Mrs. Hutchinson thinks of me. But my apology seems to appease her enough for her stricken look to transform into her signature scowl.
“If you haven’t memorized your address yet, you need to write it down.” Her voice sounds like it’s scraping the roof of her mouth, and she clenches her cheeks when she talks, as if she’s passing something back from one side to the other. “I really shouldn’t have to walk this over to you.”
She holds out a pizza box and tries to push it into my arms, but I step back.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hutchinson, but that’s not ours.”
“Yes, it is.” She says it like she’s having to explain that the sky is blue.
“We didn’t order anything,” I insist, shaking my head.
“Yes, you did.” She steps closer to me, so I can smell her stale, minty breath. Her slipper-clad feet are right on the doorjamb. “I called Domino’s because the young man who delivered it was no help . . . basically threw it at me! They said it was ordered by someone named Johnson.”
Her watery blue eyes drift to a sign hanging above the front door. My dad got it made by this lady who works in his office and operates an Etsy shop on the side. THE JOHNSON’S. He was so proud that I didn’t have the heart to tell him the apostrophe was wrong.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Mrs. Hutchinson. It’s just me and my brother home, and neither of us—”
I’m interrupted by an explosion of laughter rising above the piano and synthesizer of Dream Zone’s most popular ballad.
Miles’s laugh is difficult to pin down. It’s kind of like a sharp chord on the far right side of the piano, played by a little kid with no training but a lot of enthusiasm. It’s also reminiscent of that squeal a car makes when someone slams hard on their brakes to narrowly avoid a collision. His laugh is equal parts joyful and jarring.
And right now, it’s making Mrs. Hutchinson stretch her neck and step even closer, trying to figure out what’s going on.
I know exactly what’s going on.
We only have one landline in the house, tucked away in my parents’ room, but I unplugged that this morning, like I usually do when I’m home alone watching Miles. The only other options are my phone or my computer, which can make calls when it’s connected to WiFi. He could have gotten to either when I went to the bathroom a little while ago.
Mrs. Hutchinson’s frown lines, which were already cavernous before, deepen further. “Now what exactly are you two trying to play here, young lady? What is this?”
“Uh, I—” Miles’s gleeful laughs cut me off again, which makes her whole face turn red.
“Is this supposed to be funny?!” Her voice was already loud, but it’s ear-piercing now. I try to scan the block to see if anyone is outside watching us, but she shifts her body into my view. “Is this the kind of reputation you want to get? Playing tricks on the neighbors? I can tell you right now, this . . . this . . . foolishness isn’t taken too kindly around here!”
A reputation is actually the last thing that I want. But I can already see it now: her spreading around the neighborhood that we’re trouble—if they can’t already hear her hollering it now. Two weeks in, and already our chance to be normal is shot. I can feel my chest get tight and my breath start to speed up at the thought. My parents are going to be upset, and of course it’ll be my fault. I’m supposed to be watching Miles, like I have been for most of the summer, while my parents settle in at their new jobs. I was watching him. But not close enough, apparently.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Hutchinson.” A kind voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “Did my pizza accidentally get sent to your house?”
A guy steps up onto the porch, seemingly from nowhere. He looks around my age, with floppy golden hair that’s overdue for a haircut, fair skin noticeably lacking the default SoCal tan, and big green eyes. His faded red Hawaiian shirt could be an ironic choice on someone else—one