Not If I Can Help It

by Carolyn Mackler

  She’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, holding up the phone in front of her face, which is frowning and serious. “I’m going to tell the parents that you have to get your dog and I’ll just take allergy medicine every day. Or I’ll do those terrible shots.”

  “But you’re really allergic,” I say. “That wouldn’t be fair to you.”

  “But it’s not fair to you that you can’t get a dog,” Ruby says.

  “I want a dog,” I say, “but your friendship is more important.”

  “It’s not an either-or,” Ruby says.

  “But if it has to be,” I say, “I pick you.”

  Ruby smiles hard into the screen and I smile back at her.

  It’s sunny and hot on graduation day, almost ninety degrees. Ms. Lacey’s class lines up on the left side of the auditorium for fifth-grade graduation. There’s no air conditioning in here, so we’re all fanning ourselves with whatever paper we can get our hands on. I’m wearing my red-and-purple dress and my purple KEENs, and my mom came over to the apartment before school to braid my hair.

  We’re in alphabetical order waiting to go up onstage, where the entire fifth grade is going to sing “That’s What Friends Are For.” Also the principal is going to make a speech and we’re going to get our diplomas. I’m currently in the G-H-I part of the line, sandwiched on either side by boys. I can see Ruby up front with the A-B-C kids. She’s wearing her red shirt and shimmery purple pants, and her hair is held back with a red-and-purple headband. As our parents took pictures of us outside school this morning, a lot of people told us that our color coordination looked awesome. I smiled and Ruby smiled and Mom and Bill and Dad and Sandhya held up their phones and took picture after picture after picture.

  And I wasn’t faking a smile either. I still love Ruby. And I meant what I said on the phone. If I had to pick between a dog and our friendship, I go with our friendship. That doesn’t mean I don’t feel sad about the rescue dog I’ll never have, but losing my friendship with Ruby would be much, much worse.

  “Welcome to the Children’s School’s fifth-grade graduation!” the principal says, leaning into the microphone and filling the auditorium with her voice. “I want to say a few brief words and then we’ll get everyone up here and singing.”

  I crane my head to look at Ruby. She’s frowning and hugging her hands to her stomach. I wish I could shout to her that it’ll be okay, that she’ll get through graduation just fine, but I don’t want to get in trouble on my last day at The Children’s School.

  I glance into the audience. There, in the fifth row, I see Bill and Mom, then Benji, then Dad and Sandhya. Recently Benji has been calling us a blended family, and I kind of get it, all those parents and stepparents with the kids in the middle uniting everyone.

  As I scan my eyes over the rest of the audience, I feel energy in my arms and legs but nothing wild. Nothing that’s going to make me take off my KEENs and chuck them at the parents. Maybe Maureen is right. Maybe as I get older, Sensory Processing Disorder will feel easier, like I control it instead of it controlling me. When I saw Maureen on Monday, we did the dachshund-dog swing and some core strengthening on the yoga ball, and then she gave me a wrapped box with all my favorite things—Hubba Bubba gum and bracelets and even a pen where you can fidget while you’re writing. She called it a good-bye-for-a-month present. She’s on vacation now, and then Benji and I are going to Mom and Bill’s for most of July. My mom has enrolled me in that LEGO camp that she was telling me about, and she’s set up some sessions for me at the horse stable that does occupational therapy. We decided that even though I’m not moving there, it might be nice to try other kinds of OT.

  I listen as the principal talks about The Children’s School. I can’t believe I’m leaving after spending more than half my life here. It’s sad. Well, at least Benji will still be here so I can visit whenever I want.

  “Fifth graders,” the principal says, gesturing to the wings of the stage where we’re all lined up, “come on up and let’s commence graduation!”

  I follow my line onto the stage. In graduation rehearsal, Ruby was put in the first row with the short kids just like she said, and I got placed in the third row with the tall kids. But as I pass Ruby, she looks so miserable that I’m concerned she might start crying. Even though Ms. Lacey is probably going to lecture me later about not going to my assigned row, I scurry over to Ruby and hold her hand and don’t let go. So what that I’m the lone tall kid towering like a skyscraper over the front row? I’m there for Ruby and that’s what’s most important.

  “Thanks,” Ruby whispers, squeezing my hand.

  I squeeze her hand back. Yet more squished butterflies.

  “I really have to pee,” Ruby says in my ear.

  “Just ten more minutes,” I say. “Can you hold it? Because if you can’t I’ll go to the bathroom with you. We’ll get in trouble together.”

  “I think I can,” Ruby says.

  As soon as the ceremony is over, Ruby and I hustle to the bathroom. While she’s in a stall, I wash my hands and then rub them on a paper towel. Back in kindergarten, these paper towels felt so scratchy I could barely touch them to my hands, but they’re not so bad now.

  In the classroom, the parents have set up a huge potluck breakfast. There’s a long table covered with various foods—donuts, strawberries, bagels, cookies, even some random slimy cheesecake that I would never eat in a million years.

  Dad and Sandhya are talking to the dad of a sporty boy. Ruby and a bunch of other kids are raiding the donuts. I’m standing with Mom and Bill, looking at the artwork on the walls, when a woman wearing glasses and an orange shirt appears in the door and starts talking to Ms. Lacey. I see them looking at me and pointing. I imagine it’s someone coming to bust me for moving spots during the graduation ceremony, but then I notice Sophie standing behind the woman, clutching a homemade card in her hand.

  “Are you Willa’s mom?” the woman says, smiling and extending her hand to my mom. “I’m Jana. My daughter is Sophie. Willa has been wonderful with Sophie these past couple of months, building LEGOs together in Mr. Torres’s office. We can’t thank you enough for loaning us your daughter.”

  Mom looks questioningly at me. I hadn’t even told her about my time with Sophie. It didn’t seem like a big deal.

  “Sophie talks about Willa a lot,” Jana says. “Kindergarten has been a tough year for us. We’re switching schools in the fall. We need a fresh start.”

  “Believe me,” Mom says, “we’ve been there.”

  I glance down at Sophie. She’s staring at her light-up sneakers, her hands clenched in fists. I totally remember when I was her age, listening to adults talk about my problems like I wasn’t even there.

  “Hey.” I lean down so I’m level with her dark brown eyes. “It looks like you made me a card.”

  Sophie thrusts the card into my hands. Then she clutches her mom’s elbow and tugs hard until her mom apologizes to us and leaves the classroom.

  A few minutes later, Avery walks over to me. I assume she’s going to say something nasty about my therapy sessions with Sophie. I brace myself by repeating I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care in my head.

  “Listen,” Avery says quickly. “I’m sorry.”

  I’m so shocked it takes me a second to respond.

  “For what?” I finally ask.

  “For showing people that movie of you from preschool,” Avery says. “I told my mom about it and she was mad at me. She said that some things should remain in the past.”

  I consider saying It’s okay, but the truth is that it wasn’t okay. Instead I just say, “Thanks.”

  Avery nods and stares down at her feet. I suddenly realize that she hasn’t been as mean these past few weeks. In fact, there have been a few times when she’s actually been nice, like once she handed me my pencil after I dropped it, and she was actually the one who nominated me for leader during follow-the-leader at recess.

  I push my braids over my shoulders. “I want t
o thank you for something else,” I say.

  Avery looks up curiously at me.

  “Thanks for not telling everyone about my dad and Ruby’s mom.”

  “But at Field Day …” Avery stumbles. “I said—”

  “You kept the secret when it was important … so thanks.”

  Avery touches her charm bracelet to her lips, and I realize she seems nervous, and not quite as intimidating as usual.

  “I like your charm bracelet,” I say. “Especially the dogs.”

  “Aren’t you getting your rescue dog soon?”

  Ever since my birthday in February I’ve been talking about my rescue dog to anyone who will listen.

  “It’s not happening right now,” I say, shaking my head sadly.

  Avery sucks in her breath. “What do you mean? You’re not getting a dog?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “It’s sort of up in the air.”

  “That’s terrible!” Avery says.

  The thing is, she looks genuinely sad. Avery is probably the only person I know who loves dogs as much as I do. My mom has always said that if we weren’t enemies, Avery and I would probably be friends. I’m not so sure about that, but we definitely share the dog connection.

  That’s why I decide to be honest with her.

  “You know how Ruby’s mom and my dad are getting married?” I say. “Well … it turns out that Ruby is allergic to dogs so—”

  “Willa,” Avery says.

  “And since they’re moving into our apartment it means that—”

  “Willa,” Avery says, interrupting me again.

  “It means that we can’t—”

  “WILLA!” Avery is practically shouting by this point.

  “What?” I ask.

  “My mom is an allergy doctor.”

  I’m about to roll my eyes like this is typical Avery bragging when I realize what she’s saying. I ask, “Does your mom know about hypoallergenic dogs?”

  “That’s only her specialty,” Avery says. “People come from all over the Tri-State area to work with her so they can get a pet even if they’re allergic. She knows all about F1s and F2Bs and—”

  Now it’s my turn to cut her off. “I have no idea what you’re saying, but can she talk to my dad and Ruby’s mom, like, right now?”

  “Of course!” Avery says.

  Avery runs across the classroom and grabs her mom by both hands. She drags her mom over to Dad and Sandhya. “You guys need to talk allergies and dogs.”

  “Now!” I say, jumping up and down.

  The grown-ups laugh like we’re being cute, but Avery and I wait until they start talking, and then she reaches over to high-five me. I high-five her back. We’re not going to be best friends anytime soon, but it’s not a bad way to end our eight years together.

  A week later, Dad and Sandhya take the day off work and we drive down to City Hall. I’ve been to a few weddings before and I’m not a big fan. When I hear the word wedding, I think of itchy dresses and too-tight shoes, those long ceremonies that are impossible to sit still through, and dinners that are inedible except for the bread and butter.

  That’s why Dad and Sandhya’s wedding is awesome. For a City Hall wedding, you go into an office, the justice of the peace says a few words, the people getting married say a few words, everyone signs paperwork, and it’s done. It’s faster than a parent-teacher conference! And you don’t even have to dress up. Dad and Sandhya had this cool idea that we’d all pick on our own what we wanted to wear. The only rule was that we had to keep it secret from everyone else until that morning.

  I decided to wear my graduation dress. It’s comfortable and I like that Sandhya bought it with me. Benji showed up in his English Tudor Halloween costume from last fall, with a blue velvet jacket and a ruffled collar. Dad was in a flowered Hawaiian shirt and shorts. When we picked up Sandhya and Ruby at their building, Sandhya came out in a cream-colored sundress and Ruby was in her soccer uniform, without the shin guards.

  It’s kind of awesome, the looks we get as we leave City Hall and walk to a nearby Italian restaurant for lunch. We’re all dressed differently and yet we fit together. Maybe that’s what it means to be a blended family. Not blended like the guacamole from Noche Mexicana that’s evenly mashed without the slightest lump, but blended in that we are all together but also uniquely ourselves. Dad must be thinking the same thing, because as soon as we sit down he raises his water glass and says, “A toast to our blended family!”

  Ruby, Benji, and I grab our glasses and hit them into Dad’s and Sandhya’s. I find it impossible to clink glasses without spilling, and this time it’s no different. The water sloshes out of my glass and pours down my arm.

  “I have something I want to do,” I say, rubbing my hand with a napkin. “You know how Mom and I do best part worst part every evening and that’s our thing? I was thinking the five of us could have a tradition where we do rose, thorn, and rosebud every night instead.”

  “I did that at camp one summer!” Benji shouts.

  “I know,” I say, groaning. “I was at the same camp.”

  “What’s rose, thorn, and rosebud?” Dad asks.

  “Rose,” I explain, “is your best part of the day. Thorn is your worst part. And rosebud is something you’re looking forward to. It can be tomorrow or even in the future.”

  “Can I go first?” Sandhya and Ruby say at the same time.

  “Jinx!” Sandhya says to Ruby.

  “Double-triple-pickle jinx!” Ruby says to her mom.

  Dad and Benji and I laugh. It’s funny to see how they have their own inside jokes. I hope they keep doing theirs and we keep doing ours and we also create new ones together.

  “Rose,” Ruby says, smiling at me, “is getting bonus siblings. Thorn is that I have to start packing for the move. Rosebud? Summer vacation!”

  “I have the same rosebud!” Benji says.

  “I have the same thorn,” Sandhya says, groaning. “Not moving into your apartment. Just all the boxes and packing and sorting through stuff. We literally just did that last summer.”

  As the waiter comes to take our order, Dad and Ruby and Benji grumble in agreement that packing and sorting is definitely a thorn. I don’t say anything because I’m not moving even one little bit. It has been decided for sure that I’m keeping my Girl Cave, and Benji and Ruby will be sharing the big room. They’re actually really excited about it, and they’ve been talking all about how they’re going to organize their things, and they’re even planning a trip to The Container Store. I cracked up when I heard that and said that maybe while they’re looking at containers I’d browse at the LEGO store a few blocks away.

  We’re just finishing our meal when Dad clears his throat. “I have one more rosebud,” he says.

  I glance quickly at Sandhya, who is grinning and nodding.

  “Please tell me you’re not having a baby,” I blurt out.

  “Definitely not,” Dad says, laughing. “Remember I’m too much of a geezer to have a baby?”

  “A geezer!” Ruby laughs so hard that she gags on her bread.

  “So what’s the rosebud?” Benji asks as Sandhya holds out a glass of water for Ruby to chug.

  “Well …” Dad says.

  Sandhya clears her throat. “The thing is …”

  “Tell us!” Benji and Ruby and I all shout at the same time.

  Before we can jinx and double jinx and triple-pickle jinx each other, Dad says, “We’re going on a little road trip after lunch.”

  “Where?” I ask.

  “We’re going today?” Ruby asks.

  Benji and I turn to her. “You know about this?”

  Ruby shrugs. “Is it … ?”

  Dad and Sandhya nod.

  “Want to tell them?” Dad asks.

  “Last weekend,” Ruby says, “when you guys were at your mom’s, we visited a family in New Jersey that Avery’s mom knows. I did a trial session to make sure my allergies didn’t flare up.”

  I rock backward in
my chair. “A trial session with what?”

  “Their goldendoodle!” Ruby grins at me. “And I was totally fine.”

  “That’s half golden retriever and half poodle,” Benji explains.

  “I know what a goldendoodle is!” I tell him. Then I turn to Dad. “But why are …” I stumble, my brain moving too fast for my mouth. “I mean … why did Ruby … what’s going on?”

  “It turns out that Dr. Tanaka knows a family—some of her allergy patients. She helped them find a dog last year. It’s a gorgeous, russet-colored, hypoallergenic goldendoodle. But the mom just got a new job in Hong Kong and they can’t move the dog with them to Asia.”

  “Russet,” says Benji. “That’s reddish brown.”

  “I know what russet is!” I say. “Now can you please shut up already?”

  “We don’t say shut up in our family,” Dad warns.

  “What if Willa says please before shut up?” Ruby asks, giggling. “Does that cancel it out?”

  “Ruby,” Sandhya says in a warning tone. “That’s enough.”

  I have to laugh. I think I might like having Ruby as my sister.

  “They love their dog,” Dad says. “She’s easygoing and she’s great with kids. But this is a permanent move to Hong Kong, so they’ve offered to give the dog to us. We can meet her today and then pick her up in two weeks, right before they leave.”

  I’ve heard of people being so surprised that they fall out of their chair, but it’s never happened to me until now. One second I’m tipping backward and the next second I’m sprawled on the ground and my chair is sideways and waiters are scrambling over and everyone in the restaurant is staring at me. But I honestly couldn’t care less if I look weird … because I’m getting a dog! A beautiful russet-colored goldendoodle! And thinking about that is much better than worrying about looking weird. One hundred thousand percent.

  On the drive to New Jersey, Ruby and Benji fall asleep in the back seat—my brother at one window and Ruby in the middle—but there’s no way I’m even a tiny bit tired. Dad and Sandhya have been filling me in on this family that has the dog. It turns out they also have two girls and a boy, just like us.