Abby, Tried and True

by Donna Gephart

  Dedicated to my amazing agent, Tina Dubois. I can barely believe my great good fortune that Tina has been my literary agent, my friend, my dispenser of wisdom, editorial feedback, and support, shepherding my eight novels and one picture book into the world since we began working together in 2005. Here’s to many more creative literary adventures together!

  Go, team!

  “You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.”

  —C. S. Lewis

  Abby Braverman thought the worst thing that could happen was her best (and only) friend, Catriella Wasserman, moving 6,584.2 miles away from her home next door to Abby in Port Paradise, Florida, to Jerusalem, Israel, the summer Abby turned twelve.

  She was wrong.

  The Almost-Worst Day

  Gnawing at her thumbnail while standing in the driveway and gushing sweat like an open fire hydrant, Abby watched her moms—Mom Rachel with her puffy ponytail and Mama Dee with her short, dark hair—hug Ms. Wasserman for all she was worth, while an airport shuttle van idled nearby in the street.

  The three women separated, wiping away tears, even though they were the strongest women Abby knew.

  Cat, with her silky, straight brown hair, rushed over and clutched Abby, her warm tears mingling with Abby’s and Abby’s with hers on both of their cheeks. Abby was memorizing how Cat felt—bony and warm; how she smelled—mango shampoo and lavender soap; and how she sounded—sniffly and sad.

  “Come on now, you two,” Mama Dee said.

  Ms. Wasserman sighed. “The van driver is waiting, Catriella.”

  “Give them another minute,” Mom Rachel murmured.

  Eventually, the moms needed to grab the girls’ shoulders to pry them apart, like separating tangled roots of garden plants, and guide them away from each other.

  “Don’t leave,” Abby whispered. It felt like a part of herself was going—the best part.

  Cat shook her head. “I wish—”

  The van driver honked.

  Suddenly, Cat wriggled from her mom’s grip and ran back to Abby. She handed her a rectangular package. “Got this for you.”

  “But I didn’t get you anything.”

  “I don’t need anything.” Cat put up a hand to wave or surrender.

  Abby wasn’t sure which.

  Then Cat and her mom boarded the van, which drove down the street and was gone.

  Mom Rachel held on to Abby. Mama Dee held on to Mom Rachel. The three of them clung to one another like crumbling pillars, barely able to support each other.

  Long after her moms clasped each other’s hands and went inside, Abby stood in the driveway, sweat stinging her eyes, and stared at the avocado-green house next door. The one with the red door she’d gone through hundreds of times to have dinners and sleepovers, listen to Cat practice violin, read books, bake cookies, and recently, gossip about the boys Cat liked.

  Cat and her mom didn’t live in that house anymore.

  It seemed impossible that Cat wouldn’t be bursting through the door to share a bit of news with Abby or join her when she walked Miss Lucy to the neighborhood park around the corner.

  Abby wondered if she or Cat ached more over the move and decided it was harder for the person being left behind because the other person at least had exciting new adventures ahead.

  “Don’t you dare forget about me, Catriella Robyn Wasserman,” she whispered fiercely to no one before going inside.

  In Abby’s bedroom with the blue-and-green afghan her Bubbe Marcia had crocheted for her on the bed; her bookshelf filled with books about turtles, fantasy novels, and poetry collections from the bookstore in town; and the tank of her red-eared slider turtle, Fudge, on her desk, Abby sat on her bed and unwrapped the gift Cat had given her. She ran her fingers over the image of a forest path on the hardback journal’s cover and read the quote.

  What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? —Mary Oliver

  “Good question, Mary Oliver,” Abby said to the dead poet.

  Of course Cat had found a journal with the last line from her favorite poem—“The Summer Day.” Abby would use the journal for important things, like writing poems and thoughts she wanted to share with Cat.

  Abby opened to the first page and poured her pain into a poem, her pen making satisfying black scars on the cream-colored surface.

  Going… (a poem for two voices, one of whom isn’t here)

  Away.

  Please stay.

  Toward Israel.

  Please…

  So far, far away…

  Stay.

  From here.

  A New Wild and Precious Day

  After sleeping for fourteen hours, Abby woke to the smell of French toast, which made zero sense. Mama Dee would be at her bakery shop in town—Dee’s Delights—creating specialty cupcakes and birthday cake masterpieces for her customers. Mom Rachel was probably still asleep because she stayed up late some nights editing videos for her YouTube channel, Lettuce Eat. Also, anything Mom Rachel created in the kitchen smelled savory, not sweet. Abby’s brother, Paul, who was sixteen, usually slept till noon—it was summer break, after all. Miss Lucy, their princess-y dachshund dog with the world’s stubbiest legs, couldn’t reach the griddle without a catapult. And Abby’s turtle, Fudge, was in his tank on a rock, sunning himself under the heat lamp.

  Abby wondered if it was worth getting her heavy heart out of bed to solve the French toast mystery. She ran a hand through her long, knotty hair, and her fingers got stuck. She knew she should brush it, but she didn’t have the energy.

  Against her better judgment, Abby found herself shuffling barefoot toward the kitchen.

  Bluegrass music played through the speakers in the sunny kitchen.

  Paul wore Mom Rachel’s COOKING IS MY SUPERPOWER apron. His thick, dark hair was wide awake, sticking up in forty-two divergent directions.

  “Paul?”

  Her brother, spatula in hand, turned. “Hey there, Six-Pack!”

  His nickname for Abby came from the shortened version—“Abs”—that Paul turned into “Six-Pack.”

  “Hey,” Abby replied with all the energy of a dying houseplant.

  Miss Lucy waddled over, her long ears flopping and the tags on her collar jangling. She didn’t care that Abby’s heart was shattered. She had needs. Miss Lucy, in her fake diamond–studded collar with her dachshund princess attitude, always had needs.

  When Abby bent to pet her, Miss Lucy sneezed twice on her hand, then returned to her spot near Paul.

  “Love you too,” Abby muttered.

  “These bad boys are almost done.” Paul flipped each of the slices. The French toast sizzled, smelling like warm butter. “How many slices?” Paul tossed one piece so high, it somersaulted before landing back on the griddle. “Booyah! Thought you might flip for my French toast, Six-Pack.”

  “Not funny,” Abby said.

  “Absolutely funny.” Paul did a dramatic turn and added a few shakes of Penzeys cinnamon to all the slices. “It’s going to be so good.”

  Abby scowled at Paul for being happy the day after Cat left. “Half a slice, please.”

  “Two thick slices with warm syrup coming up.”

  Abby rested her chin on her hands. “I love warm syrup.”

  “I know.”

  Abby remembered how Cat would drown her French toast in a river of syrup. Something squeezed her chest so tightly, she almost said ouch. “Paul?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It’ll get better, Six-Pack.”

  It took everything Abby had not to burst into tears because she knew Paul was wrong and she’d feel this way forever. “It won’t get better,” Abby mumbled.

  “It wil
l.” Paul put a plate in front of Abby. It had two slices of thick French toast with powdered sugar sprinkled on top, syrup drizzled over that, and a few raspberries and a couple mint leaves on the side. “I know it seems impossible right now without Cat, but time will make it better.”

  Abby tried to smile to show Paul she appreciated his efforts to make her feel better, but the muscles around her mouth were apparently on strike. She pushed words past the gravel in her throat. “This looks good, Paul. You take after Mom.”

  “Which one?”

  That was their perpetual joke. In their two-mom family, both were magicians in the kitchen—Mom Rachel with savory dishes and Mama Dee with baked goods. They’d met when they worked at the same fancy-pants restaurant in the city, Philomela’s, but that was a long time ago, before they embarked on their own business ventures.

  Paul placed his plate on the counter with four! slices of French toast.

  The moms’ bedroom door opened.

  Mom Rachel came out wearing her usual attire—overalls and a purple T-shirt; a scarf tying back her curly black hair, which was up in a ponytail; and rainbow high-top sneakers.

  “Morning.” She kissed Abby on the head, then walked over to the griddle and sniffed. “Mmm.”

  Paul reached for another plate. “Want some? I made plenty.”

  “I’ll have some later. Thanks, honey.” Mom Rachel bent and petted Miss Lucy. “How’s my best girl doing?”

  Miss Lucy whipped her thin tail side to side.

  If Abby had a tail, it would be droopy, and no amount of petting would perk it up.

  Mom Rachel grabbed some canvas bags. “I’m going to the food co-op to pick up things for a new Lettuce Eat video I’m making later today.”

  Paul took off the apron. “Maybe I can help.”

  “That would be great.” Mom popped a raspberry into her mouth. “Maybe you can help too, Abs.”

  Abby raised her eyebrows. She never helped her mom film videos for Lettuce Eat. There was no way Abby would get in front of a camera for the whole world to see. She knew she’d feel like a turtle with its shell ripped off. But that didn’t stop her mom from asking her.

  Paul climbed onto the stool next to Abby and dug into his breakfast. “What’re you doing today? Besides feeling miserable?”

  Abby stabbed a raspberry and shrugged. She didn’t like thinking about summer days without Cat here with her.

  Paul got up, went into the garage, and returned with their Monopoly game. “Was hoping you’d have time for me to kick your butt.”

  “Sorry. I’ll have to kick your butt another day.”

  “Hey!” Paul batted his long eyelashes at her. “I’ll let you have the dog token.”

  The dog token was Abby’s favorite, but she wished they had a turtle token she could move around the board extra slowly. “It’s just—”

  “You can be banker, too.”

  “You’ve made it impossible to refuse you.”

  “I know.” Paul bumped his shoulder into hers.

  Abby finished her French toast. Every delicious bite.

  Because even sad people needed to eat.

  * * *

  After Abby trounced Paul at Monopoly by buying all the railroads, as well as the orange, yellow, and green properties, and then building hotels on them, she retreated to her bedroom without even her signature Monopoly-winning victory dance, which included a few deep bows, fist pumps, and an assortment of whoops and hollers.

  “Hi, Fudge,” Abby said to her turtle, who was swimming in his tank, oblivious to Abby’s anguish.

  She settled onto her bed, sitting up against the headboard with the blue-and-green afghan—which looked like the pattern of a turtle’s shell—spread over her lap. Abby was determined to stay in bed until, oh, the start of seventh grade.

  Then she decided to do something that usually made her feel better. She reached under her bed and pulled out her endless afghan. Bubbe Marcia had taught Abby how to crochet, and Abby got the idea of creating an afghan with no end. When Abby ran out of yarn, she just started with a new skein in a different color. “I can’t wait to show Bubbe Marcia how big it’s grown since last time she was here,” Abby said to Fudge, who was clearly ignoring her.

  While crocheting, Abby heard the front door open and a voice call out, “Yo, Paul. Ready?”

  It was Paul’s buddy Jake, who Abby imagined wearing a tank top and flexing his biceps because he often wore a tank top and flexed his biceps.

  “Let’s go!” Paul’s friend Ethan yelled.

  “The three Musketeers together again,” Abby grumbled. She turned to Fudge. “It’s not fair that Paul has two good friends who live nearby and I have zero.” The thought made her stomach hurt.

  “Be right there,” Paul called from his room, which was directly across the hall from Abby’s.

  “Grabbing food,” Jake said.

  “Me too,” Ethan added.

  There was a knock on Abby’s door, which made her grip her endless afghan more tightly, the crochet hook biting into the crook of her hand. “Yeah?” she asked timidly.

  Her door flung open, and Paul marched in, followed by Jake and Ethan, who were stuffing their faces with French toast. No warm maple syrup. No berries and mint leaves on the side. No plates.

  At this point, only Abby’s eyes and forehead showed above her protective endless afghan shield.

  “Let’s go, Six-Pack.” Paul tugged on the afghan.

  “Huh?” Abby lowered it a few inches, like a turtle tentatively poking its head from its shell.

  Ethan leaped onto the bottom of Abby’s bed, making it creak. “Yeah, let’s go.”

  Abby was sure her bed would crash to the floor, but it held steady. “Where?”

  “We’re taking you to the movies,” Paul said.

  “Me?” Paul never let Abby join when he and his friends went out anywhere.

  “Who else, dingbat?” Ethan asked.

  Jake was busy flexing his muscles in front of Abby’s full-length mirror.

  Paul grabbed the pillow from behind Abby’s head and threw it at Jake.

  “Hey!” Jake yelled.

  “You’re going to break my sister’s mirror with your ugly face.”

  Jake threw the pillow back at Paul. “You’re going to break it with this, moron.”

  “It’s a pillow,” Paul said. “It couldn’t break wind.”

  Ethan cracked up and fell over on the bed.

  Paul gave a little bow.

  Abby touched her hair, which was a little greasy. “I need a shower.”

  Paul waved his hand in front of his nose. “You do!”

  Ethan stood and popped Paul in the chest with the back of his hand. “Don’t be mean to the Abster.”

  “Ouch.” Paul hunched forward. “Don’t do that again.”

  “I didn’t even hit you hard.”

  “It hurt.” Paul punched Ethan in the shoulder.

  “Stop!” Abby yelled. “I need to get ready.”

  The boys filed out of her room, shoving one another and laughing.

  Once they were in the hallway, Abby put her endless afghan back under her bed. “Going to the movies will be way more fun than crocheting,” she whispered to Fudge.

  “Hurry,” Paul called. “Don’t want to miss the previews.”

  Abby grabbed jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt because even though it was hot outside, it would be cold in the theater. “I know you love the previews. I’m hurrying!”

  * * *

  In the chilly theater between Ethan and Paul with Jake on the far end, Abby sat tall. She munched on the popcorn Paul had bought her and lost herself in the horror movie, startling every few minutes to the delight of the guys and completely forgetting to be miserable about missing Cat.

  When they got home, the house smelled like frying onions, garlic, and dill. It reminded Abby of their family Rosh Hashanah and Passover dinners, when Mom Rachel made mouthwateringly delicious matzo ball soup.

  “Hey, Mom,” Paul cal
led.

  “You’re home,” Mom Rachel said.

  Abby got to the kitchen first.

  “Butterbean! Just in time to help with my cooking video.” She handed Abby an apron.

  Abby scooted past. “Um, no thanks!”

  Paul grabbed the apron. “I’ve got this.”

  “Good. I always get more views when you’re in the videos, Paul.”

  “That’s because of my irresistible charm and good looks.”

  Mom Rachel flicked Paul’s earlobe. “I think it’s your sense of humor.”

  “That, too,” Paul said. “And my modesty. People love how incredibly funny, suave, and modest I am.”

  Mom shook her head at Paul, but Abby could tell she loved his goofing around.

  Abby wished she had the courage to stand in front of the camera like Paul. She’d be more comfortable if she could feel like she was speaking to one person, but being on camera felt like she’d be talking to thousands of people, which was overwhelming.

  But Paul loved it. Once, he jumped around the house like he’d won the lottery when Cooking4Five wrote in the comments of one of Mom’s videos, “Paul should be a stand-up comic. He’s hilarious!”

  Abby went into her bedroom and kept the door open so she could listen to them making the video. In their small one-story house, it was easy to hear everything going on if she left the door open.

  “You might want to add a splash of wine to the pan,” Mom Rachel said.

  Paul added, “Or you might want to add a splash of wine to your glass. Cheers!”

  Abby pictured Paul toasting with an imaginary glass. People watching would laugh at that part. Why couldn’t Abby be relaxed like him and help make Mom’s cooking videos? Abby told herself nobody wanted to watch a quiet turtle cook a meal. Nobody.

  Abby watched Fudge swim around his tank. “Mom will be on her own with videos in a couple days,” she told Fudge. “Paul’s leaving for Camp Shalom. He’s going to be a counselor-in-training this year.”

  Fudge ignored Abby and kept swimming, as turtles do.

  “It’s good for Paul because he loves that camp, but bad for me. What am I supposed to do with both Cat and Paul gone?”