I open my mouth to respond, but Amelia’s mom cuts me off, eyes bulging.
“Oh!” she cries. “Your braces. I’m so sorry, sweetie, I forgot.”
I feel small as I shrug. “It’s okay.”
Amelia glances at me, but she doesn’t apologize for starting our day with an activity I can’t participate in. She doesn’t apologize for inviting someone else along—a girl who hates me.
When we squeeze together for a picture, Amelia throws one arm around my shoulders and the other around Libby’s. As her mom takes the photograph, it might look like she’s standing perfectly in the middle. But the truth is, I can feel my best friend pulling away.
19.
The Butt of a Bad Joke
July 10
Pike Place Market is wild. There are glowing neon signs, fresh-cut wildflowers, fruits and vegetables stacked in bright, shiny rows. Dried chili peppers hang along the eaves, lavender sachets are laced with ribbons, jars filled with homemade jams line the shelves. Various forms of seafood are packed into ice: mussels, their shells as smooth and dark as river rocks; whole crabs, their pincers lifted to the sky; silver salmon, their brilliant scales gleaming under the lights.
One of the seafood workers—a huge man, dressed in an orange apron—throws an entire salmon across the counter, where it lands in another man’s arms with a wet smack. Onlookers clap and cheer. But the whole scene reminds me of my conversation with Uncle Phil, about the salmon that didn’t return, the empty nets that last year he worked as a fisherman.
Libby and Amelia walk close, their heads bent together so they can hear each other speak through the noise, the chaos. Amelia’s mom walks with her cell phone held out, determined to document everything in pictures. Adam darts around, eager for closer looks at everything he can touch.
Bars of soap are brightly fragranced, and colored in soft pastels. Vials are filled with ash from the Mount St. Helen’s eruption, and they look like granulated potions, dark glittering magic. Prints of watercolor tulip fields are sheathed in plastic. Glass bear-shaped jars are filled with thick, gold honey.
It’s lunchtime, so Amelia’s mom guides us toward the row of restaurants and food counters along the opposite side of the street. Adam gets a hot dog, Libby gets a panini from a French bakery, and Amelia insists on going to the cheese place. The line is long, and the air is humid. Huge windows line one wall, revealing the cheesemaking process, massive machines stirring and churning the creamy cheddar. Amelia and I get the macaroni and cheese. Despite how soft and delicious it is, my teeth still hurt as I eat.
We’re gathered around an outdoor picnic table. The wood is covered in bird poop and graffiti scribbles. We hold our food in our laps, not willing to trust the cleanliness of the table. I slurp some macaroni off my spoon and move it gently around inside my mouth. Libby whispers something in Amelia’s ear, and Amelia bursts out with this fake laugh.
I tell myself they aren’t laughing at me. But I don’t fully believe it.
I remember this one day, when I was really little and getting frustrated with Uncle Phil’s “I’ve got your nose!” trick. He sat there laughing, slapping his knee as he cracked himself up.
“Come on, kiddo. You know it’s a good joke.”
I stood my ground. Shook my head. “I don’t like it when you laugh at me.”
He immediately sobered. I have no clue how old I was, but I think it was the first time I ever spoke back to Uncle Phil. The first time he realized he was bothering me, when he thought he was just being funny.
“Edie, I’m not laughing at you. I would never do that.”
“You do it every time I come over.”
“I’m trying to make you laugh with me. There’s a huge difference.”
I’d never thought of it like that before. But I still wasn’t convinced.
“I make a lot of jokes, but you are never the butt of any of them. I wouldn’t make you the butt of a bad joke.”
A small snort escaped me. I erupted in giggles.
“What?” he asked. “What’s funny now?”
“You said the B-word.”
His eyes bulged. “What? Butt?”
“Uncle Phil! You said it again.” I laughed so hard, it felt like my sides were splitting.
Uncle Phil chuckled, too. “Oh, is that so? You think the B-word is pretty funny, huh? How about the F-word?”
I gasped, wide-eyed.
He pressed the heels of his hands against his mouth and made the loudest farting noise I’d ever heard.
That day, we both laughed together so hard, we cried.
“Edie. Hello? Earth to Edie.”
I flinch at the sound of Amelia’s voice and realize I’ve been zoning out. Everyone else is finished with their lunch, and they’re waiting on me. Meanwhile, my cup of macaroni and cheese is still nearly full.
I gulp. “Sorry. It’s hard for me to eat with my braces.”
“Seriously?” Amelia snaps. “It’s mac and cheese, Edie. It’s like the softest food you can get.”
“It’s not my fault.”
Amelia’s mom says, “Take your time, Edie. We’re not in any hurry. And, Amelia, you better quit that tone and apologize, young lady. Have some empathy for your friend.”
Amelia’s face turns a bright, angry red from her mother’s scolding. She narrows her eyes at me.
“I don’t hear an apology. You’ve already lost five minutes from your screen time today. The longer it takes, the more you’ll lose.”
Adam cackles at his sister. Libby looks at me and smirks.
Amelia grinds the words out painfully, like they’re scratching the inside of her throat. “I’m sorry for being mean to you, Edie. I’m sure you must be hurting. Take as long as you want.”
I finally understand what Uncle Phil meant. He never made me the butt of a bad joke. This is what that feels like.
20.
Say a Prayer for Them
July 10
That was the worst trip downtown in history. I don’t think anyone has ever been so miserable at Pike Place Market.
“Thanks so much for joining us, Edie,” Amelia’s mom says as we arrive at my house. “Hope to see you again soon.”
“Thanks.”
Amelia and I don’t have anything to say to each other. I unbuckle my seat belt, Libby climbs out of the car, and I squeeze past her through the open door.
Libby smirks at me. “See you around.”
I don’t have anything to say to her, either. I just shove my hands into my pockets and cross my front yard with dread pooling in my stomach.
Mom opens the front door for me and waves goodbye as their car pulls away from the curb.
“Hey,” she says. Her voice is bright and cheerful. “Did you girls have fun?”
I head straight for the kitchen, avoiding eye contact and her arms, which are opening for a hug.
Mom flinches, surprised. “Edie?”
I shrug and head straight for the kitchen. She follows me, a little cautiously.
“Is everything okay?”
“Everything is fine.” I open the fridge and am met with a rush of cool air against my skin. There are packages of grapes and tomatoes, blocks of cheese, cartons of milk and juice.
“Are you hungry, sweetheart? Should I make you a sandwich?”
I sigh and close the fridge door. “I can’t eat stuff like that right now, Mom. I had a hard enough time eating mac and cheese.” My voice breaks awkwardly on the word cheese, and I duck my head, shielding my face behind a curtain of hair.
“Really?” Mom asks, sudden and concerned. “That painful?”
“What do you think?” I mutter. “I hate having braces.”
She steps aside for me as I leave the kitchen and start typing a message to Serenity.
Serenity? Hello? Do you have service yet?
I hit send and immediately write another.
I really need to talk to you. Are you friends with Libby now, too? Did you know she and Amelia have been hanging out?
You can tell me.
I push through my bedroom door and flop down on the bed. My back is to her, but I can sense my mother standing in the doorway, watching me.
“I’m sorry they’re bothering you, sweetie.” She pauses. Waits. “Is there anything I can do to help you? Anything else you want to tell me?”
I press my face against the pillow. Shake my head.
“Okay,” she murmurs. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
She waits for a moment. Then her footsteps retreat down the hall.
Serenity still hasn’t responded to my texts. But Amelia sent a few of her own.
Amelia: You didn’t have to be so rude to her, you know. She’s actually really nice.
Amelia: And she wants to help us with the film! She can draw the people, while you draw the background stuff.
Amelia: It would be cool if you texted me back.
Amelia: Are you giving me the silent treatment?
I plug the phone into my charger and walk over to the closet. Remove the art chest. Pull the folded letter free from my pocket. Tuck it back inside the box.
Her smiling face peeks at me. There are so many copies of her head shots. I wonder how many she had, how many she gave away. I start to pick through her letters again, looking for the next one she wrote. It takes me a little while, but I find it:
March 16, 1974
Dear Theo,
Hello! I hope you are well. How’s work? How’s Mom? Please give her the biggest hug from me.
You will not believe what has recently happened. I’ve landed two more roles, both in upcoming films with Paramount Pictures. They’re minor, uncredited parts, which felt like a setback after having spoken lines in my first film. But my agent keeps insisting that many actors go through moments like these before they land supporting and lead roles. The important thing is to be around, to let people see your face in multiple settings. To let them recognize you and wonder, “Gosh, where have I seen her before?”
Ultimately, I feel okay with being in the background for now. After all, I’m still so new here. I’m working hard in my acting classes, and I also spend a lot of time reading scripts and monologues alone in my apartment. I think I might buy myself a video recorder, so I can watch footage of myself as I practice. I’d also like to spend more time in front of a camera, so that I get used to the sensation of being taped. In the first film, I found it quite difficult to ignore the camera as it was pointed at me. I need to reach a point where being recorded feels like nothing.
Anyways, that’s enough about the acting thing. I must admit, I’m homesick. It’s lonely being the only Indian woman around. Every single day, someone walks up to me in the restaurant, or they stop me on the street and ask, “Where are you from?” At least, those are the polite ones. Just the other day, someone threw a bag of trash at me from their car, and drove off laughing.
I’m sorry if these anecdotes make you angry. I promise, I really am okay. I just wanted to get that stuff off my chest, because it’s starting to grate on me. It’s a difficult life, trying to live on your own, away from your family and community, in a city known for being cutthroat.
Please don’t worry, big brother. Some people might refuse to show me kindness now, but I will find a way into their hearts. And if their hearts still won’t open in the future, I won’t be discouraged. I won’t let them keep me down.
I will simply say a prayer for them, and move on.
Love,
Edith
I release a hard, shuddering breath.
The lawn mower starts up somewhere outside, but it sounds distant, faraway. Like I’m hearing it through the opposite end of a long, dark tunnel.
21.
And Move On
July 11
Amelia was my first best friend. We met during recess in kindergarten. She was perched on top of the monkey bars, and I was walking along the woodchips.
“Hey!” Amelia called out. “You! Do you know how to get up here?”
I stopped and shrugged. Which was my own shy version of saying, No.
“It’s super easy. Come here, I’ll show you.”
She jumped down, her skirt ballooning as she soared through the air. She was wearing a red-and-white-checked dress, with frilly white socks and black ballet flats. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, blonde strands springing free in every direction.
When she hit the ground, she ran toward me with a goofy grin. She grabbed my hand and led me to the ladder. She went first, demonstrating how to swing out to the middle, before she brought her knees to her chest, hooked her legs over the bar’s edge, and pulled herself up to a seated position.
“See? Piece of cake.”
I followed her, since she made it look so easy. I had a hard time pulling myself up, so she reached down to help me. Her palm was warm and clammy, but I didn’t mind at all. Especially once I was up there beside her.
“Best view of the playground,” Amelia said coolly. She threw her arm around my shoulders, cementing our friendship. “And now we can hang out whenever and wherever we want to.”
I’m walking to Amelia’s house. I left my bike there yesterday, in her front yard. I come around the corner and there it is, sprawled in the short grass.
She must sense my approach, because the front door opens right away. She peeks at me through the gap. Her brows are pulled together.
“Well,” she says. “Did you see what I said about having Libby in the film with us? I think she’d be great.”
I had an entire speech planned out in my head. But suddenly, I can’t remember how to start it. The words I chose.
Amelia steps forward, into the middle of the doorway. Her pupils narrow into slits. “Are you going to talk to me today? Or were you planning on just grabbing your bike and leaving without a word?”
Heat floods through my veins. “How long have you been friends with her?” My voice cracks as I speak. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“So, we’ve known her forever, and I thought it would be cool to hang out with her. She used to hang out with us, a long time ago.”
My hands wobble into fists at my sides. I feel my chin tremble. “She’s not a good person, Amelia. Remember when she cheated off of my work? When she became friends with Madison, and they followed me around at recess, making all kinds of mean jokes?” Even as I say these words, I know it’s pointless. Because I’ve told her about Libby. She knows what she’s like.
And she wants to be friends with her anyways.
“You didn’t even talk to her yesterday,” Amelia says. “People grow up. They change.”
“Libby is a bully,” I whisper. “She always has been.”
“Not to me. She seems so nice. I can’t imagine her being mean to anyone for no reason.”
For no reason. What’s that supposed to mean?
I scuff my shoe against the grass. “I don’t want her involved in the film,” I admit quietly. “I’m not comfortable with that. And I also don’t think we should draw inspiration from the other Edith. It doesn’t seem right.”
Amelia looks shocked. She crosses her arms over her chest. “Excuse me?” she says. “What do you mean it ‘doesn’t seem right’?”
“We don’t know her full story. Not really. And even if we did, all that stuff was her real life. We can’t just create a film based on her life, without her permission. That would be wrong.”
I lift my chin. This was the main part of the speech I’d planned. I’ve been wanting to tell Amelia how I feel about this. I’m glad it’s finally off my chest.
“It won’t be the exact same,” Amelia argues. “We’re not going to plagiarize her. Filmmakers create stories based on true events all the time. It’s a common thing.”
“Just because other people do it, that doesn’t mean we should.”
Amelia throws her hands up. “You’re making this a much bigger deal than it should be,” she says. “But whatever. I’m the director, but I guess I don’t get to have an opinion. What should
our story be about, then?”
Her anger makes me flinch. Still, I steel myself and tell her, “The dog.”
“The dog. Seriously?”
“Yes. It’s what Serenity and I have wanted from the beginning.”
“Even though it would be boring? And predictable?”
“It wouldn’t be either of those things.”
She rolls her eyes. “Sure.”
I’m trying to stay calm, but it’s hard. “What has gotten into you?” I ask. “Why are you being like this?”
“I don’t know, Edie. I’m just sick of this.”
“Of what?”
“Literally everything. I really don’t like the dog idea. I don’t think it’s very creative, and I don’t think it will be good enough to win any prizes.”
“So that’s what you care about? The grand prize at the festival?”
“It’s what we should all be thinking about! What’s the point of entering, if we don’t want to win?”
There’s a huge lump lodged in my throat. This isn’t going to work. I can’t make her choose the dog. I can’t make her choose me.
A part of me wishes Libby was here. I would have no problem telling her to get lost.
But it’s just the two of us—Amelia and me. Former best friends, who now seem to be going down different paths.
“If that’s how you feel—” I pause. Swallow. “Y-you can leave our group. You and Libby can work on something else.”
There’s a brief, stunned silence. Then her voice is cold as ice as she says, “Well. That sounds perfectly fine by me.”
And that’s all I can stand to hear.
I lift and mount my bike.
As I push the pedals and the chain whirs back to life, she shouts: “It’s better this way! Now we won’t be limited to animation. We can film ourselves and act it out, the way I’ve wanted to from the beginning.”
Her words spear through me. They cut me down.
I surge through the streets to my house, racing the tears before they have a chance to fall.
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