Friend Me

by Sheila M. Averbuch

  For my father, John P. McDonald, who taught me that kindness is what matters most

  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

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  I’m beyond hangry by the time I make it upstairs to the weird apartment and its little kitchen. The high school lets out before we do, so my brother’s already there, wolfing down cereal, hairy legs stretched out so I can’t get by.

  I drop my phone on the table and pick up the box of Honey-Crunch Hoops. Empty.

  “Michael. MICHAEL.”

  He pulls away one ear of his headphones. “You talking to me?”

  “I just opened this!” My voice is a screech, which isn’t me, but I’m feeling less like me every second.

  Michael shrugs, like this is beyond his control, and keeps munching. He’s never not eating. I swear he’s grown taller since we got to America, and it’s only been a month. I hurl the box to the floor and stomp it for the recycling. The smiling Honey-Crunch frog crumples and the cardboard pops. I imagine it’s Zara Tucci’s face.

  “O-kay. I’m sensing some strong feelings about this.” Michael pulls off his headphones and calls over his shoulder. “Jeeves, put Honey-Crunch Hoops on my shopping list.”

  A disc glows blue on the windowsill. “Sure!” chimes a robotic voice. “I’ve added Honey-Crunch Hoops to your shopping list.”

  Michael picks up the battered box and drops it into the recycling. “Middle school problems, perchance?”

  He’s being nice. But I hate the world. I fling open the monster fridge, oversized like everything else in this country, and glare at the shelves of strange food. My eyes hunt for something I know from home: some batch bread or Irish cheddar. I would kill for a proper cheese toastie but have to settle for applesauce.

  “Chill, Roisin, seriously. Is this about the cereal? I could sick some up for you, like a penguin.” Michael gurgles retching noises, and I can’t help smiling. He flashes me a grin, and his freckles wrinkle. Michael can rock pale and freckled. His hair isn’t the frantic red I’ve been cursed with, either: more chestnut. People love him here. “I did text you to pick up more, in fairness. I guess you didn’t see your phone.”

  My phone hums and skitters across the table between us, a grating buzz. Four notifications. Five. Then so many all together, it’s an unbroken zuzzzzzz. My stomach falls away. Now that the anger has cooled some, I’m wondering, Did I do the right thing? Maybe not. Probably not.

  Michael leans in and glances at the alerts. “Who’s zara_xx_oo?” I yank it away before he can see what they’re saying. “A friend?”

  I snort into my applesauce. God Almighty, someone take me back in time to when I didn’t know who Zara was. I can still see myself on top of the world, saying goodbye to everyone in Dublin. Mum asked if I was sad about leaving my friends, but this was what I’d always wanted: to go to the States. Even when Dad hugged us goodbye at the airport, it was only a flash of sadness; the rest was pure excitement.

  Well. No amount of smiley American TV prepared me for the snake pit of Eastborough Middle. Zara wasn’t the only one to mock my accent and clothes, but she was first. It’s still bizarre to me that no one wears uniforms and that school clothes are a thing. Mum’s taking me shopping in Boston as soon as she can get a Saturday off from her new job. Until then, I’m surviving on a couple of emergency outfits from Target, which I wear a lot. Like, a lot.

  Zara loves this. Every lunchtime she sends me a DM on TokTalk: a picture she’s taken of me, circling my hoodie or leggings, question marks drawn all over it. Is this the SAME thing u wore Monday? maybe in ireland people don’t change their clothes, but here, it’s gross.

  Today, though, Zara changed things up. Instead of a DM, she mocked me in front of everyone, and I sort of snapped. Thirty-five days straight of her rubbish. Am I supposed to take that and say nothing?

  Michael’s waiting for me to tell him who Zara is; he keeps saying I can make friends if I try harder. But I’m not him. My brother is like a log fire everyone wants to be near. I’m more smoke and ash—at least, that’s how it seems here.

  “Zara Tucci.” I push away the rest of the applesauce. “An idiot.”

  Michael nods and grips the headphones at his neck, ready to disappear back to his tunes and homework. “Anything I can do?” He calls to the windowsill, putting on an epic movie-trailer voice. “Jeeves, destroy Zara Tucci.”

  Jeeves apologizes that he doesn’t know how to do that yet. I laugh, like Michael knew I would. He smiles and heads down the hall, nearly crashing into one of the sloped ceilings. Our flat is the top floor of a Victorian mansion: Some of the ceilings are slanted nearly to the floor, and there’s a mothball smell everywhere, though Mum thinks it could be mouse poison. Brilliant. If I had to brainstorm the least homey home, this would be it. But Michael loves the American weirdness; from day one, he was messing with the ice maker and throwing eggshells and banana skins into the garbage disposal, just to hear it scream. He calls back to me from down the hall. “Mum texted to say don’t forget Whole Foods!”

  “Why can’t you do it?” I yell. But I know why. Studying for SATs: his excuse for everything. He says it like essay-tees now. They were sats till we left Ireland, but he’s adapting.

  I change my clothes and grab Mum’s Whole Foods card. She keeps hassling me to bring creepy Jeeves along, too: Apparently, if I put him onto my phone, he’ll guide me right to the lasagna in the shop. He’s like an Alexa but turbo—Mum invented him. But no way is Jeeves going onto my phone. I can imagine him piping up with random comments at school, like he does here sometimes. That’s just what I need.

  Outside, the heat is like a wall, crazy-hot for May, though Mum says anything’s possible with Massachusetts weather. I traipse down our hill toward Eastborough’s one shopping street, and before I’m even halfway, sweat pricks under my arms. The soapy smell of lilacs makes me want to gag. I blow out a breath.

  The problem’s not the weather. The problem is me.

  My phone feels like an unexploded bomb in my pocket. What happened at school replays like a stuttery nightmare in my brain. Getting paired with Zara in Art. Sketching her pinched rat face for an hour. And that wasn’t even the worst. The teacher made us take a photo of each other to draw from. Thank you, Mr. Morrison, for loading a bullet into Zara’s gun. She shot it straight onto TokTalk for everyone to enjoy. She’d drawn wavy stink lines around my hoodie and added a poll: vote if u think @roisinkdoyle should change her clothes.

  There were thirty-nine votes, all YES, by the time I got onto the bus. And the comments. I sat there reading, wanting to vanish:

  Omg yes, she wears the same clothes all the time

  maybe its an irish thing. like potatoes

  She eats a tuna baked potato every day and it STINKS, like that outfit she never washes.

  That one from Zara. I wanted to kick something. I wash and dry my stuff EVERY DAY; the gallon of liquid Tide is almost gone.

  My hands were shaking so hard, I nearly dropped my phone as I climbed our hill home, typing a reply. YOU WON’T SMELL ANYTHING AFTER I RIP YOUR HEAD OFF.

  A few people shot back straightaway: omg fighting irish … What r
u, a SYCO? That one, with the idiot spelling, is hard to forget. There’ll be dozens more by now. Which is why I’m not going to look.

  A crowd stands outside the 7-Eleven, and I stop short. But when I’m closer, I see it’s not seventh graders; it’s nine-year-olds. My heart’s still running like a rabbit as I pass them and the Goodwill—which is like a charity shop, but without the fun. Mum and I love charity shops; we went straight into Goodwill when we arrived. Never again. The looks people give you. Two ladies stared at us as we left, like we were ready to beg for change. I glared right back—I wanted to tell them Mum works at MIT. Mum was relaxed about it; she’s like Michael.

  A sudden wave of missing Dad surges in my chest. My eyes fog with tears as I head into Whole Foods. Something bangs into me.

  “Ow!” a voice whines. “Watch it!”

  Oh, brilliant. It’s the girl who whispers with Zara: blonde hair, straight as a blade. My arm throbs where I crashed into her. “Sorry.” I bend to pick up my bag and swipe at my eyes.

  “What did she do, Mara?” someone asks behind her.

  That voice. The plague rat herself. Zara steps out from behind Mara, and my heart starts skipping again, I can’t help it. She’s a head shorter than me, with black eyes and an Italian tan I’d give anything for. It’s a marvel of nature, how so much mean was stuffed into that tiny package. Zara glares up at me. “Did you hit her?” She rests a hand on Mara. “Are you okay?”

  Mara rubs her shoulder, like I dislocated it. I guess it is possible I hurt her. Swimming’s given me strong arms, and she’s mostly bone. “I had something in my eye and didn’t see her. I said sorry.”

  Zara opens her mouth, like she’s going to make a thing of this, but just hooks her arm through Mara’s, like she’s tugging her close for protection. “I saw what you said on my post, you psycho,” she hisses. “Who knew you were so violent?”

  I walk off to find Mum’s lasagna, leaving them by the gallons of apple juice stacked to the ceiling. “The post was a joke,” Zara calls, loud enough for everyone in the place to hear. “That’s a thing we have in America!”

  My jaw clenches so hard, my teeth ache. I will the tower of juice to topple on her, but nothing happens. I grab a container of stew—not what Mum wanted, but I don’t care. My eyes sting and there’s a weight in my throat. I’m not going to cry. I just want to get out of here, but at the self-checkouts, the stupid till won’t read Mum’s card.

  “You all set?”

  A plump guy in a long apron and Whole Foods cap has appeared beside me. His name tag says DION, ASSISTANT MANAGER. He’s barely older than Michael, maybe eighteen, with a hopeful fluff of mustache. He boops his card and tries again—and now I look like I’ve stolen the stew, because I have to haul it out of the bag. My neck burns as a blush creeps up my chin. I become a huge, flaming freckle when I’m embarrassed.

  “Register’s not working so good today, sorry!” Dion looks at the error message. “Oh, card declined. You got another one?”

  “I don’t. Sorry.” I feel the pathetic urge to tell Dion everything. I think he clocks that I’m holding back tears. Heads turn from the other checkouts, looking at the girl who can’t pay. I will utterly die if the devil twins are watching all this. But they’ve vanished, thankfully.

  “Hey, are you Irish?” Dion’s round face breaks into a grin. “Man, I love Ireland! I wanna go! You know what? Beef stew’s on the house.”

  I try to thank him, but the tears are right there; all I can manage is a nod. I rush through the sliding doors, back out to the choking heat.

  I’m still blinking in the hot glare when something lands with a whump in front of me. A Goodwill bag.

  A tangle of giggles and hushed voices comes from off to my left. Zara, with some other eejits. My stomach tightens.

  They’ve bought me a bag of clothes from the Goodwill.

  “Now you can change your outfit!” Zara shrieks. She sits on a wall with Mara and some other randos. Whoever they are, she’s trying to impress them. I kick the bag away, and it splits. Looks like a green hoodie. “Wrong color? Sorry!” Zara lilts, trying to mimic my accent. Mara hoots, laughing.

  I stride by them, past the 7-Eleven, toward our hill. Pounding footsteps catch up to me. One of them’s following me. I wheel around to face them, fist raised.

  “Are you okay, Roisin?”

  My hand falls to my side. It’s not Zara or Mara.

  It’s Lily.

  Lily Tanaka. Imagine the maximum amount of beauty a human should be allowed, then double it, then give up because you’re not even close. Lily is basically perfect, with a smile that lights the world. It’s only when you see her and Zara together that you realize who’s the imitation and who’s the original. If Lily does a hair thing or wears some perfume her mum brings back from Tokyo, Zara and that whole crowd copy her. She definitely started that cat-flick eyeliner thing they all do. It should be so easy to hate her, but it’s impossible. Lily’s the kind of person who always says hi and asks how you’re getting on and remembers it’s RO-sheen, not Ro-SHEEN.

  The weirdest thing? Lily was almost my American bestie. Her mother is my mum’s boss, in her new job. We chatted loads online when I was still in Dublin, laughing about our mothers’ obsession with robots and creepy AI. But she dropped me as soon as I arrived. Made plans with me, then canceled. Maybe once Lily saw how weird people think I am here, being friends felt like a bad move. Can’t make a bad move when you’re queen of the school. Anyway, Lily already has a bestie: Zara.

  Lily glances behind her. “Were they being jerks?”

  I fold my arms, trying to hold myself in. The stew in the Whole Foods bag slung over my back presses cold against me. I try not to look at the other bag on the ground, torn and spilling its hoodie guts. I’m about to tell Lily what Zara did, when Nikesh comes out of the 7-Eleven and walks toward us, holding two Diet Cokes.

  My heart begins to slam.

  I can’t believe this.

  This morning in homeroom, Lily was near tears over her geometry. When I helped her, she smiled at me like I was an angel. She asked me to come over to her house after school today for more maths. For an hour I felt like the world had been fixed, like things with Lily might work out after all. But by lunch, it was all over. Nikesh—tall, gorgeous, top of the class—had offered to help Lily instead. She whispered this to me in Art, and did I mind? Of course not, I said. Because she’s the star, and I’m just another dumb rock in her orbit. And she’s obviously crushing on Nikesh, anyone could see that. I’d survived her canceling on me before; I could do it again.

  But they’re not doing geometry, they’re hanging out here, with Zara’s mob. All that talk about studying together was lies so Lily wouldn’t have to be seen with me. She’s as fake as the rest of them.

  “What do you care?” My voice shakes.

  “No, really.” Lily looks pained. “Are you—”

  “Everything cool?” Nikesh holds out the Diet Coke, and Lily beams. The can drips with cold, like an advert.

  Sweat reaches itchy fingers down my back. This should’ve been the day I finally walked through Lily’s gates, past the Lexus, to the door. Her house looks amazing, all wooden shutters and flowering trees. A wall plaque says it’s two hundred years old, which Americans think is ancient. I tell myself I don’t care. It was probably built by some slave owner, when he wasn’t robbing natives or killing whales. People here love history, but they ignore most of it.

  “Lil-eeee,” Zara calls out. She and Mara are still on the wall, laughing at something on Mara’s phone. Zara jumps off, still holding Mara’s phone, and begins typing on it. She beckons to Lily. Nikesh wanders over to them, but Lily hangs back.

  “About what Zara said on TokTalk.” Lily pauses, looking awkward. It can’t be easy to apologize that your best friend is a total wipe. “You probably shouldn’t threaten people. It was one joke.”

  I just gape. She’s not apologizing; she’s defending Zara. When I can breathe, my voice is a splutter. “One
joke? What are you on about? She’s at me constantly.” Then I realize: Lily hasn’t seen the little presents Zara leaves every day in my DMs, like a dog squatting on your lawn.

  No one knows what Zara’s been doing but me.

  “Lily!” Zara calls again.

  “I’ll catch you later, okay? Let me talk to her. This”—Lily scoops up the Goodwill bag—“isn’t cool.”

  My head pounds as I watch her walk back to Nikesh, the burst bag under her arm. Nikesh takes it from her and heads into the shop. Then he’s back, and he and Lily head up the street. Zara watches them go, the dog that’s left behind.

  Oh. My cheeks flame again, because I see it now. She and Nikesh weren’t hanging with Zara and the others at all. They just stopped for a drink.

  I head home in the same direction as Lily. She’s already a block away, walking close to Nikesh. I lag back, my head swimming with things I’ll never say. I’ve just mucked up another chance with her. She was trying to be nice. In her way.

  Some blossoming tree drops petals onto the path, and Lily raises a hand to touch the falling pink. I wonder if she even sees how it is: the way the world rearranges itself, just for her.

  “Oh MY GOD. Got a problem?” Zara’s voice, behind me. She and Mara have followed me up our hill. I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I pray the climb will turn them off in this heat: The pavement shimmers with it. “Your LEG, freak,” Zara says.

  I put a hand back. Oh no. Inside the cloth bag, the lid has popped off the stew and gravy has leaked everywhere. There’s a slippery trail of brown down my bare leg that looks like—

  “I’m gonna be SICK.” Mara’s voice.

  “Yeah, you’re making her sick—you should say sorry.” Zara barks a laugh. They’re so close, I can smell the sweet stink of perfume. “I don’t think Lily wants to be friends with disgusting people. Do you, Mar?”

  A blush roars up my neck. I’m about to spin around and scream at them, when Mara complains she’s too hot. They ooze back down the hill, taking their mean with them.

  I’m a mess all over when I make it into the flat, tears and gravy streaming off me. Michael finds me cleaning up in the bathroom. He’s eating a muffin now.