Meow or Never Read online

  To Grandma, with love,

  and to all the girls who are afraid

  but conquer the world

  anyway

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Find More Reads You Will Love …

  Copyright

  Today is an important day. Two reasons: One, it’s the first day back to school after winter break.

  And two, I’m about to make my first friend.

  Well, it won’t technically be my first friend. It’s just my first one since we moved here. Even though that was six months ago. The beginning of seventh grade was pretty rough.

  I’ve been planning all week. I’m wearing the new red sweater Dad got me for Christmas, and I scrubbed my tennis shoes so they look new, even though they aren’t. I pulled my curly black hair into a high bun (so I won’t tug on it while we talk). I murmur my practiced lines: “How was your break?” “What’d you get for Christmas?”

  I breathe in the cold air at the bus stop. I can’t believe it’s so cold in northern Alabama! I moved from southern Alabama, so I’m not used to this. I shift from foot to foot and adjust my sweater nervously. I can say something that simple, surely. My palms sweat inside my old gloves, so I take them off and stuff them into my pocket. I’m all set. I’m going to do it. The next person who walks up to me, I’ll talk to. And we’ll be friends, and I won’t have to sit in the back of the theater at lunch, and maybe we can even hang out after school sometimes when Dad has to work late—

  My excitement dries up in an instant. Because the next person who walks up to the bus stop is Nic Pearson. Nic, the girl who makes everyone laugh, who is pretty and kind, who makes my chest get this funny feeling when she meets my eyes.

  Nic, the girl I made a complete and utter fool of myself in front of last semester.

  I give up. No friends this year.

  “Avery, hey!” Nic runs the last few feet to meet me, smiling with her perfect teeth and cute light brown freckles under her eyes. She’s taller than me by a few inches, and her skin is a lighter shade of brown than mine. She stands next to me, uncomfortably close. “How was your break? What’d you get for Christmas?”

  No, these are my lines! My mouth is dry, but my hands, my back, under my arms are so sweaty. What do I do?

  Nic is waiting for me, still smiling. Okay, I can do this. I know what I got for Christmas. A new sweater. A case for my phone. A stuffed cat Dad thought was cute.

  Come on, I will myself. Say you got a new sweater. You can do this.

  But I can’t do this. All I can think about is our last conversation, and about how she hangs out with all the other drama kids, so she doesn’t need a weirdo like me, and I don’t say anything. I don’t say a word as Nic’s smile fades and she looks away and the bus arrives and I sit in the back and wish the world would swallow me whole.

  “Class, come here,” Mrs. Thompson calls us from the stage. I look up from my doodling. It’s seventh period, the last one of the day, and I somehow survived.

  Nic is in three of my classes, so I’ve been avoiding her. After my embarrassing display this morning, I would rather die than have her look at me like I’m a weirdo who can’t talk. She’s in this class too, so I wait for her to go to the stage before joining everyone at the back.

  Mrs. Thompson beams at us. She’s tall and thin, and her bright green dress clashes with her pale skin. Like a festive vampire. Except that she’s a nice teacher, always smiling, always wearing a new streak of color in her hair. Today the strip is bright pink.

  “I hope we all had a good break, but now we need to talk about this semester’s play.”

  “We just did one,” Thomas complains. He’s usually in the cast, based on the play we did last semester, but he acts like he doesn’t even like theater.

  “And we’ll do another!” Mrs. Thompson says, laughing. “This time will be a little different. Come up here, Harper.”

  A girl with blonde hair, light skin, and brown eyes climbs the steps to the stage and stands beside Mrs. Thompson. She’s tiny! And nervous. She’s picking at the hem of her shirt, something I do too.

  “I’m sure y’all know Harper. But in case you don’t, here she is!”

  Poor Harper looks like she’s going to die of embarrassment. Her neck and ears are bright red. Adults really need to learn to leave kids alone.

  “Harper has won an award for her script, and I think it would be nice to perform it, don’t you?”

  Mrs. Thompson phrases it as a question, but she’s looking at us like she dares us to disagree. But I think it’ll be cool. At my old school, we did classic plays like Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and The Wizard of Oz. And even here, last year we did A Christmas Carol (which I’d already done before). I like those plays okay, but everyone knows those stories. It’ll be nice to do something new. I wonder what she wrote.

  “What’s the play?” Nic asks, her hand raised high.

  Mrs. Thompson glances at Harper, but Harper looks close to fainting. My stomach twists in solidarity. Someone save her, please.

  “It’s a modern version of Romeo and Juliet,” Mrs. Thompson finally says. “It’s about two rival donut shop owners and their kids, who fall in love.”

  Thomas rolls his eyes, but I like it. Maybe they’ll bring us donuts to get in character.

  “We’ll start right away! It’ll involve quite a bit of singing, so we’ll hold auditions over the next few days. Come to my office if you’d like to try out for the cast. Anyone who doesn’t want to be in the cast can start brainstorming about sets. Any questions?”

  Several hands go up, but I don’t bother. I like singing (well, I really love singing), but I don’t like acting. That was fine at my old school because we could pick two electives. I could sing in choir and do the crew for plays. But here you can only pick one, and I chose theater. And I don’t mind! I like being behind the scenes, setting up lights and painting sets and making sure the actors are in the right place. But still, I get a tiny prick of longing as Mrs. Thompson answers questions. I wish I could sing without having to act.

  Mrs. Thompson passes out scripts and finally releases poor Harper from her torture. I watch as she hurries out of the auditorium. I know that was terrible, standing up there in front of everyone. I think about talking to her, because I get nervous too, but I don’t know what I’d say.

  “Okay, everyone!” Mrs. Thompson is beaming again. “We have six weeks. Let’s make this shine.”

  They’ll make it shine. I’ll be in the back, staying out of everyone’s way.

  I’m not at home yet, but soon! Sorry, angel! But when I get there, I promise we’ll do pizza.

  I stare at Dad’s text, then pull out the script from my backpack. I’m still in the auditorium, but everyone’s gone home already. I don’t feel
like going home. No one’s there anyway.

  This happens a lot. Since we moved here last summer, Dad’s been really busy. He says it’s good, because he makes more money now, and he wears suits instead of jeans, and we live in a house instead of an apartment. But I liked the apartment. I liked the jeans. I liked coming home knowing he was waiting for me.

  I put my earbuds in to drown everything out and pick a Beyoncé song. She’s my favorite artist, especially her new album, but I love almost all music. I love hearing each note, picking out harmonies and singing each part of a song until I’ve memorized every note, every gasp, every tick of a metronome. Even the super-low notes I can’t sing so well. Dad says I should have picked choir instead of theater, but he doesn’t get it. Being in the crew means I don’t have to be sweaty and nervous before a concert. I can sing by myself.

  I bob my head to the heavy beat as I read Harper’s script. It’s short, only three acts. Not bad. I pencil in what sets we’ll need for each scene, and sometimes I even laugh. Romeo is a goofball who likes to play guitar, and Juliet rides a skateboard and likes anime. I can’t believe someone my age wrote this. Harper’s a genius!

  One scene is in an alleyway behind Juliet’s donut shop—I think we have an alley set already from a previous production. I definitely don’t want to make another one if I don’t have to. I climb to my feet, pocketing my phone, and go to the back of the stage, where all the old sets are kept. I poke around for a while but don’t find it. Maybe in the closet? I open the door and stare down at my feet.

  There’s a cat in here.

  It’s a gray cat with big, round amber eyes. Its fur is short and a little dirty. The cat blinks up at me, then purrs and circles my legs. I’m too shocked to move. What’s a cat doing in a closet?

  I shine my phone flashlight at the back of the closet, and there’s a cat-sized hole at the back, a small tunnel, and the faint glow of the afternoon sunlight.

  “You came in from outside?” I ask the cat. It just purrs. I reach down to pet it, but hesitate. I’ve never had a cat before. Dad is afraid of them and my brother, Andrew, is allergic to cats and dogs. It bumps my hand with its head. Its fur is soft. And cold.

  “Are you all by yourself?” I crouch and pet the cat under its chin. It purrs louder and louder. All alone.

  Just like me.

  The cat flops onto its side, its paws batting at my knee, and I can’t help smiling at it. It’s so cute. And if it’s coming in here out of the cold, maybe it doesn’t belong to anyone?

  Maybe I can keep it?

  My phone buzzes, and I look down.

  Coming home early! Thin crust or pan?

  “Uh oh, gotta go.” I pack my script and pet the cat one more time. “I’ll be back tomorrow, okay? Promise. Will you still be here?” It blinks sleepily at me, then returns to the closet. It curls up on top of a cardboard tree. I’ll take that as a yes. I hop off the stage and head home, but all I can think about is that maybe I can make a friend after all.

  Dad pushes the Pizza Hut box across the dining room table. “I got you pepperoni, thin crust,” he says, grinning. I smile back. This is the only way to eat pizza.

  “What’d you get me?” Andrew asks, not looking up from his phone. Andrew is super tall, like Dad, but he’s slouched in his chair so much he’s almost my height. He looks a lot like Dad, except he’s really thin instead of muscular, and he has a bunch of pimples on his chin. Still, everyone can tell he’s Dad’s son. I apparently look like a mom I’ve never met, so a lot of my classmates are shocked when they see Dad come to school events.

  “You didn’t answer my text, so nothing!” Still, Dad opens a second pizza box and reveals supreme. Gross.

  “How was school?” Dad asks, glancing at both me and Andrew. Andrew eats a slice of pizza, still looking at his phone, so I answer Dad first.

  “Good.” I think of what happened after school and put down my pizza. “Dad, do you think we could get a cat?”

  Dad almost chokes on his food. “What? You know good and well I’m not letting no cat in my house.”

  Well, that’s out. I sigh and pick a pepperoni off my slice. I feel bad for the theater cat. It’s all alone, night and day. And it was cold.

  Dad frowns at me. “Why the sudden interest in cats?”

  “It’s ’cause she still has no friends,” Andrew grunts. I throw the pepperoni at him, and he finally looks up to glare at me.

  “Drew.” Dad’s voice is sharp. He looks back at me, his eyes soft and kind. “Avery, don’t mind him. It’s okay if you haven’t found the right friend group yet. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried,” I say, but I can’t look at Dad. I wish I knew what to do to make myself talk. I just can’t do it. I get nervous and sweaty and I feel like my heart will explode. Dad says it’s normal to be nervous. Andrew says I’m pathetic. I don’t like Andrew very much, but I’m starting to think he’s right.

  Dad has that look on his face, the one parents get. Like he knows more than I do. “Have you talked to anyone in your drama group? I bet they’d love to be your friend, if you asked.”

  Talking is the problem. “You can’t just ask people to be your friend, Dad. Plus, everyone has their own group already. It’s okay.”

  “You’ve gotta make opportunities for yourself. Oh, what about singing? Maybe you could try out for the play, like an acting part, not just the crew. You’re bound to meet new friends that way.”

  As if I hadn’t thought about that already. I wish he wouldn’t talk about this. I don’t even want my pizza anymore.

  After a long silence, Dad says, “Maybe you’re right. We need a pet. Something hypoallergenic so Andrew won’t be sneezing.”

  “She can get whatever she wants next year,” Andrew says. “I’ll be outta here soon.”

  “Oh, really?” Dad’s gone all big and puffy, and I know it’ll be a fight. “Have you applied for any scholarships? Looked into the grants like I told you? I know you think you got it made, getting into UAB, but a full ride still ain’t free.”

  Andrew is the opposite of Dad, all limp and surly in his chair. He doesn’t look up from his phone. “You got money now, right? Since you moved us all the way out here to the sticks and bought this house.”

  I push away from the table before the fighting starts. “I’m going to my room,” I announce, but Dad is already yelling at Andrew about disrespect and his bad attitude, so I just go upstairs.

  I get ready for bed, singing in the shower loud to drown out their fighting. We never used to fight when we lived in the apartment. Dad and Andrew got along, and I had friends (well, one friend who doesn’t talk to me anymore), and everything was just better. I wish Dad had never taken this dumb suit job. I wish we’d never moved.

  When I’m in my pajamas, my hair wrapped carefully in a silk hat, there’s a knock on my door. “Avery? Can I come in?”

  Dad. I bury my face in my pillow. “Okay, I guess.”

  I hear the door open and feel Dad’s weight on my bed. He pats my back, his hand warm and heavy.

  “I’m sorry for arguing at the table, Avery. Definitely not cool.”

  “It’s okay. Andrew’s a jerk.”

  “Don’t say that about your brother.” Dad hesitates, just for a second. “Andrew is just going through a hard time. We all are. And me losing my temper isn’t making it any easier.”

  I peek at him with one eye. He’s looking down at his feet. His face is so sad.

  “Do you really want me to try out for the play?”

  “I think it would help you make friends! You have a lovely voice, and you should share it with everyone. You’ve just gotta get out of this shy spell.”

  A spell that’s lasted my whole life. I can’t look Dad in the eye, but say, “Well, I don’t need to try out, and I don’t need friends. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m okay. Promise.”

  Dad looks at me and he’s still sad, but it’s a different kind of sad that makes his brown eyes soft like he’s going to cry. “W
e can get a pet if you want, Avery. How about a turtle?”

  I don’t want a turtle. I want a friend. But … the theater cat might be there tomorrow. Maybe I don’t need a pet at home.

  “I’m okay, Dad,” I say, covering myself with my comforter, my heart fluttering with excitement. “I think I’ve figured something out.”

  The next day, I think about the gray cat all through my classes. During theater, I watch the closet door, but no one even comes close to it. As soon as the bell rings and the theater’s empty, I go straight to the closet.

  The cat is still there, blinking against the sudden light. It purrs and rubs its body against my hands. I breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Okay, cat,” I say, petting its back. “I’ve decided. I’m gonna take care of you, and then Dad won’t worry and I won’t need a friend. Deal?”

  The cat flops onto its back, still purring. Sounds like a deal to me.

  I sit down and pull out the things I bought at the pet store on the way to school. A pink cat bed and two shiny bowls with little paw prints at the bottom. It cost me a whole year’s allowance, and I didn’t even get food this time! Cats are expensive. More expensive than turtles, that’s for sure.

  I put the bed on top of the cardboard where the cat sleeps, and the food bowls a little closer to the hole to the outside. I read online that you’re supposed to keep everything separate. I pour water from my water bottle into one of the bowls while the cat sniffs the edge of the bed, its ears pricked.

  “It’s okay! It’s for you.” Carefully, I pick up the cat and put it in the bed. The cat is heavier than it looks.

  The cat sniffs the bed a few more times, then flops onto its side, purring. I guess that’s a yes to the bed.

  “You’re pretty fat for a stray,” I tell the cat, sitting beside it. The cat climbs out of the bed and into my lap, its warm weight calming me. “If we’re gonna be friends, I should probably give you a name. Are you a boy or a girl?”

  I pick up the cat to look at its belly, but all I can see is a lot of dirty gray fur. “I guess you can be a girl, I don’t know. What do you think about Phantom? Because you live in the back of the theater and no one knows. Boys and girls can be Phantoms.”