Five Things About Ava Andrews

by Margaret Dilloway

  “If you want to be part of the community redevelopment hearing with these kids, their Facebook page is here.” The address flashes up on the screen. “There will be a protest tomorrow.”

  I let out a muffled little shriek.

  “This is amazing, Ava!” Dad high-fives me.

  “That’s going to get you so many views!” Mom declares.

  I grab my phone and group text.

  I never thought I’d say this, but I can’t wait to go to a boring grown-up meeting! I write, and wait as the responses come rolling in.

  Then it hits me—it didn’t even occur to me to text Zelia.

  Does this mean we’re not friends anymore at all?

  It’s as if my insides have been put into a blender. I sink low into the sofa and pull my T-shirt up to my eyeballs, over my mouth and nose, breathing in and out hard. Trying to control my emotions.

  “What’s wrong?” Luke surprises me by saying. Like he’s actually paying attention to my mood.

  I sigh. Mom mutes the news and all of them are looking at me. I might as well tell them what’s going on. “I’m having a problem.” I tell them the whole thing.

  “Well, do you want to go out there?” Dad says. “And did you tell her?”

  “Wait a minute.” Mom holds up her hand. “Ava, do you want us to offer suggestions, or do you just want to talk?”

  I think about it for a minute. “I guess suggestions would be good. And yes, Dad, I told her I wanted to.”

  “There must be more to the story than Zelia’s told you.” Mom taps her pencil. “That sounds very unlike her.”

  “Why wouldn’t she just tell me?” I ask.

  “Maybe Maine made her weird.” Luke blows eraser dust off his paper. “Maybe Maine turned her into you.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I say. But Luke might be onto something there. Like being new made Zelia shy, or something. That’s something to think about.

  “Call her and hash it out.” Dad unmutes the news as sports comes on. “That’s the only way to solve the problem. You two have been friends for too long to let this come between you.”

  I turn my phone over in my hands. I guess they’re right. Maybe.

  I go into my room and FaceTime Zelia. She answers. “Hey, Ava!” She speaks like we just talked to each other five minutes ago, not before Halloween. An entire month ago. “Is everything all right?” She chews on her lip. “I know you were mad the last time we talked.” Zelia puts a hand over her heart. “This okay?”

  “It’s fine.” I shoot her a quick smile. I need to get this out before I lose courage. “I wanted to talk to you about the visit.”

  She blinks. “What about it?”

  I purse my lips. “I want to go out there. I told you.”

  She blinks again, hard, in the dramatic way she has when she wants me to notice her blinking. That means she’s getting mad. I don’t usually protest when Zelia tells me stuff. She’s in charge.

  This isn’t always a good thing. To have one person always be the boss and the other person do what they say, even if that other person has her own opinions and thoughts.

  And then I decide it doesn’t matter if Zelia gets upset. I have to be honest. There’s no other way. I pull my shoulder blades together like I’m a brave kind of character. “Zelia, you’re not the only one who gets to decide stuff.”

  She blinks again, softer this time. “I know.”

  “You told me to tell you when I wanted something. And I did. And you acted like what I think doesn’t matter.” My voice rises. “I want to know why.”

  She opens her mouth to deny this, probably, but then seems to have a thought and closes it. She moves her shoulders and lets her hair hang in front of her face. “It’s just that . . .” Zelia sighs. “I really kind of hate it here.”

  What? “I thought you liked it. The leaves and the theater and your new friends.”

  “I know I should, I know I should be happy that my mom’s got a full-time job she likes and everything. But it’s hard to make friends when you’re new and they’ve all known each other since kindergarten.” Zelia starts sniffling. “And they all go on fancy vacations and they talk down about improv.”

  I go quiet. I can’t imagine having to deal with all that. Some of it, sure. But not all of it at the same time. “I’m sorry. That must be hard. But what does that have to do with me visiting? Doesn’t that make you want me to come out there?”

  “Well, finding out how you’re making friends, and doing improv like I used to . . .” Zelia closes her eyes as if she’s in pain. “I don’t want to say it.”

  “Say it.” I shake my head. “I won’t be mad.” I mean it. She could tell me she was plotting a nefarious crime against me right now and I would not be angry at her. I know what’s going on with me now, from the story. Now I just want to know what’s going on with her.

  “Promise?”

  “I promise,” I say.

  Her breath catches. “I’m jealous.”

  Jealous? Of me?

  That’s impossible.

  I actually get a little mad in spite of myself. She should be happy for me. I was the one left behind. What was I supposed to do? Eat lunch alone forever? Never make another friend? I was alone.

  Be vulnerable, I hear Miss Gwen say. Sit in the moment.

  “Ava?” Zelia says worriedly. “It’s just that you’re out there living your best life and I’m here and all depressed and it’s just too hard. I was thinking it’d be better if we didn’t even talk anymore, you know?” She rubs her eyes. “I miss you too much. Are you mad? I’m gross and terrible, I know. You should be mad. I was awful.”

  I shake my head. I breathe in, figuring out what I’m feeling. “I’m not mad. Well, a little.” Zelia is jealous of me. This is not something I thought would happen, ever. But I think about it from her point of view. Her having to wear itchy woolen sweaters and trying to make new friends with kids that maybe aren’t as friendly as the improv kids. That feeling of watching someone else live the life you wish you could have, while you watch, stuck in place.

  And all at once I know exactly what she’s talking about. I know because that’s how it used to be for me. All the time.

  I would never want that for her.

  The anger fades out as quickly as it showed up. Instead, a warmth spreads through me. I smile at her. She smiles back at me, waiting. One breath, then two.

  Finally I say the truest thing that’s in my heart. “I wish you were here so I could give you a big fat hug.”

  Her eyes flash upward, meet mine. “Really? I’ve hated myself for feeling that petty. It’s so gross.” Zelia sniffles. “The only way I could deal with it was by not talking to you so much. And not seeing you this summer.”

  This reminds me of something, sort of. Once, Hudson had a huge crush on one of his friends who didn’t like him back that way. When she stopped coming over, I asked him what happened. He said not seeing her at all was easier.

  “Were you . . .” I squint, figuring this out. “Trying to protect yourself?” So that’s why she’s been like that. It explains everything. I nod. “I get it. But I wish . . .” I shake my head. “I want us both to be happy.”

  “I am happy for you,” she says. “I’m just not happy for me.”

  I reach my hand into the air, toward the camera. She reaches out hers. We squeeze the air and, as we make eye contact, I pretend I’m sending my energy through the phone, into the satellite in space, and then bouncing it back down to the other side of the country.

  I swear, just for a second, there’s warmth and pressure. For the first time in a long time I feel connected to her.

  My best friend.

  Chapter 36

  On the day of the protest, Nana Linda drives me down to the Port of San Diego offices. I’m so queasy I almost barfed this morning, but Dad made me eat some toast, and then I practiced my deep breathing, so I’m feeling sort of okay. Almost.

  Mr. Sukow and Ms. Bookstein are already in front, with big cardb
oard boxes of bright green T-shirts that say Rescue Navegando Point Now! on them. Mrs. Ladigan suggested we get them to make us look unified. “Looks like it’s going well!” Nana Linda takes shirts for us.

  I look around. There are like a hundred people here, so many I can’t even count.

  “Hi.” Mrs. Ladigan’s touching my arm. She’s wearing a bright red blazer with matching lipstick. It looks like battle armor to me. “You ready?”

  I shrug, swallowing down the nerves. “No. I mean yes. I mean, I don’t know.”

  “I’ll get in there first. I’m the facts. You guys are the emotion.” She winks at me. “You got this.”

  “Ava!” Ty’s shouting at me. He walks over with his mom, and a woman with oversized glasses I don’t recognize.

  The woman in the glasses says, “You were so great in the video!”

  I feel myself flush. “Um, thanks?”

  “You’re welcome!” She cocks her head at me. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  I squint at her and shake my head. “I don’t.”

  “This is the cupcake shop owner, Laura Camacho,” Ty’s mother says.

  Ms. Camacho points to her curly hair. “Usually my cap flattens this out.”

  “Oh!” Now I remember her, kind of. “I’m sorry your shop got closed.”

  She nods, her mouth set in a firm line. “I’m hoping the Port of San Diego will restore the rents to what they used to be. Then we can reopen.” She sighs. “You did something to get people out here. No matter what happens, that is huge.” She offers me her hand, and I shake it. Nice and firm.

  “We’ll see you in there, Ava.” Ty’s mom waves.

  Ty gives me a thumbs-up. I return it. Never in a million years did I think that I would be friends with Ty. Really, it all came down to us listening to and understanding each other’s point of view. Without that, we’d still be enemies.

  I take in a deep breath and look around. I can’t spot Nana Linda and my teachers in the sea of green, but that’s okay. I’m not lost. Still, my body’s shaking a little, as if it can’t let go of all the anxiety.

  I hop up and down, moving the energy through me.

  Miss Gwen appears next to me. “Ava!” She gives me a hug. “So proud of you, girl.”

  “Thank you.” I squeeze her back. Miss Gwen’s opinion matters a lot. I’ve never had a coach before, so I never understood why Luke looked up to his soccer coaches or why Hudson always talks about his dance instructors.

  “Come on. The group’s over here.” She nods at me. “You ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.” Everything on my body is quivering.

  “You’ll do great.”

  I spot my improv group standing in a circle—Ryan’s reddish hair is always a dead giveaway. “Hey,” I say. They part to let me into the group.

  “What’s up, crazy pup?” Ryan high-fives me.

  My pulse starts to speed up, thinking of going into the meeting with all these people. “I’m just trying not to die from nerves.”

  They all look at me seriously. I shake my head. “I’m joking.”

  Cecily claps me on the back. “Too soon, Ava. Too soon.”

  We file into the small auditorium and walk down to the first row. Some tables are set up in front of the audience, and the Port of San Diego people sit there, with paper name plates propped up, and microphones on stands. There are about fifteen of them. I see Brett Rosselin standing at the podium, talking to a man in a suit. She turns as our footsteps echo through the hall.

  The color drains from her face. Good. Be afraid, I want to tell Brett. We are here and we will not be quiet!

  Uh-oh. I’m turning into Nana Linda. I giggle to myself.

  The man in the suit puts his hand over the mic, but we’re close enough for me to hear him ask, “What’s all this?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Brett stammers. She leans into the mic. “Excuse me, are you all here for the Navegando Point meeting?”

  “Can’t you read, lady?” A woman points to her shirt.

  Brett blinks. “Of course I can read. But I would behoove you to sit down.”

  “Is that even the right way to use behoove?” Cecily whispers.

  “I don’t think so,” I whisper back.

  Miss Gwen signs up on the speaker list. I look to see what it says. Each person gets two minutes.

  Nana Linda signs up. And Mr. Sukow. And Ms. Bookstein.

  That’s eight minutes for us.

  I blow out a breath.

  Cecily takes my hand. Hers is kind of sweaty. “You okay?”

  “I’m okay. You okay?” On my other side, I squeeze Ryan’s hand.

  “I’m okay. You okay?” Ryan responds.

  On his other side, Chad says, “I’m okay; you’re okay.”

  “I’m okay, and you are also very okay,” Babel says.

  “We’re all okay,” Jonathan ends.

  Brett is staring at us as if we’re in here planning to graffiti the place instead of talk. “If you try anything, you will be asked to leave.”

  “Excuse me?” Miss Gwen stands up. “Please do not try to discipline my well-behaved students.”

  Brett makes a weird little spitting noise, like a mad cat. She turns back to the podium. “Let us call this meeting to order.”

  The man in the suit does a slide show about the proposal. “As you know, Navegando Point is a derelict collection of overpriced shops whose business has been declining for decades. We at the Brancusi Group seek a new vision, one that will make San Diego a world-class destination.”

  What are they talking about? San Diego’s already a world-class destination. But we listen intently. The plan is to take our inspiration from whatever this speech is about.

  “As such, we will have a five-star hotel plus a boutique hotel where the park now is, with luxury stores along the bottom facing the water. A walkway along the water will remain. The hotels will bring much-needed rooms to San Diego.” He points. “Additionally, there will be an aquarium for scientific study and education.” He directs a smile toward us, like he thinks we’ll fall for it.

  I try not to think about what’s coming next—us. Or what’s at stake—just the theater. The cupcake shop. Real estate prices. Basically everything.

  No big deal.

  Brett puts her finger on the speech list. “We will now take comments from the public. You each have two minutes.” She looks down. “Sheila Ladigan.”

  Mrs. Ladigan pops up from a few rows back. She gives me a little wave and I wave back. Then she strides up there like she owns the whole place. I straighten up in my chair. I’ll be like her, I decide. Channel Mrs. Ladigan.

  She stands at the podium with a confident smile. “You have in front of you a packet containing a petition, alternate blueprints, and more.”

  The Port Authority people shuffle around. I crane my neck. Yup, each of them has a stapled report or something. Mrs. Ladigan sure is on top of things.

  She holds up a piece of paper and swivels so we can see it, too. It’s a printout of the final tally for our online signatures. “Twenty thousand people signed this petition. Twenty thousand devoted to saving Navegando Point.” She shakes her head. “What I’d like to know is why the Port of San Diego has not considered the alternate plan to leave the historical area alone and continue redeveloping the other part.”

  “We have considered it,” Brett says, her voice unwavering. “It’s not feasible.”

  “In what way is it not feasible?” Mrs. Ladigan holds up a report folder. “I ran the numbers. In terms of cost-benefit, it works out better. In terms of environmental impact, it works out much better.” She leans on the podium and stares intently at the committee. It’s like she’s sending her enthusiasm at them through her eyeballs. It’s pretty exciting to watch. I wonder how much of this confidence she learned from Cotillion. “And in terms of what the community wants, it is the only way.”

  Everyone claps. Brett stands. “That’s time.” She looks at the clipboard
, not commenting anymore on what Mrs. Ladigan says. Mrs. Ladigan takes a seat near us in the front. “Gwen Vercoe, you’re up.”

  “I give my two minutes to these students,” Miss Gwen says.

  Brett shakes her head and purses her lips. “I’m so sorry. That’s not how we do it.” She points to the next name. “Linda Kingston?”

  “I do the same,” Nana Linda calls.

  “As do I,” Ms. Bookstein says.

  “And I.” Mr. Sukow stands. “There’s nothing in your rules that state we can’t do this.”

  “But they’re children,” Brett says.

  Ms. Camacho steps forward. “We want to hear from them!”

  “Yeah,” the rest of the crowd choruses.

  One of the Port of San Diego people gestures Brett over. They have a whispered conference. Then Brett turns around. “Proceed,” she barks.

  We stand up. I get a weird sensation like I’m floating above my body, as if I’m not really here at all.

  Cecily grips my hand. And just like that, I’m anchored.

  She and I step out, still holding hands. I take a breath and catch Mrs. Ladigan’s eye. She nods and gives me a thumbs-up.

  I’m going to be like her. Act like her, at least. I’m going to take my energy and send it out. I shake out my sweaty hands.

  We take turns reading our new letters, as we planned.

  “Navegando Point is where I first saw jugglers and performers and thought, I want to do that.” Ryan reads first. He continues about having family picnics by the water.

  Cecily goes next. “I didn’t start going there until improv, and then we went every weekend. We stayed for lunch every Saturday.”

  I swallow. I wish I wasn’t going last. My mouth goes dry.

  Babel. “We always take our visiting family to Navegando Point. It’s a place that’s special to us.”

  I feel sick to my stomach again. I hop up and down a tiny bit to distract myself.

  Chad. “I’ve never had ice cream or gyros as good as the ones here. If nothing else, you should keep the improv place and these restaurants and maybe open more arts stuff.”

  I watch the audience reactions. During different parts, they look interested. Or bored.