That's What Friends Do

  Dedication

  MY MOM, SUZANNE WARNER, WAS MY FIRST STORYTELLER,

  AND THE STORIES SHE TOLD HELPED ME TO KNOW

  THE WORLD AND FIND MY PLACE IN IT.

  MOM, THIS IS FOR YOU.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Friday, December 19

  Saturday, December 27

  New Year’s Eve

  New Year’s Day

  Monday, January 5

  Friday, January 16

  Saturday, January 17

  Sunday, January 18

  Tuesday, January 27

  Thursday, February 5

  Friday, February 6

  Monday, February 9

  Tuesday, February 10

  Wednesday, February 11

  Thursday, February 12

  Friday, February 13

  Monday, February 16

  Tuesday, February 17

  Thursday, February 19

  Monday, February 23

  Tuesday, February 24

  Wednesday, February 25

  Saturday, February 28

  Sunday, March 1

  Monday, March 2

  Tuesday, March 3

  Wednesday, March 4

  Saturday, March 7

  Friday, April 17

  Saturday, April 18

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Friday, December 19

  DAVID

  I slide into my seat on the bus—fourth row from the back—and a beat later Sammie slides into hers, on the other side of the aisle from me.

  Her cheeks are pink, like she’s been running. A couple of locks of her springy, dark hair have escaped from her ponytail, and they boing around her face. She pushes them back, but they immediately spring forward again.

  She shrugs out of her backpack, which is so full that the zipper won’t close at the top.

  “What’s with the backpack on steroids?” I ask. “Did you empty out your locker?”

  “No,” Sammie says, with that tone she uses when I’m supposed to already know something. “Books, silly. We have to read The Giver over break, you know.”

  “The Giver is book,” I say. “Not books. And it’s a pretty thin one, as books go. Your backpack is not begging for mercy because of The Giver.”

  “You know me. I like to have a plan,” Sammie says, and she’s right on both counts. “My plan for winter break is to read The Giver and the other three books in the series. And after that, I’m reading the Dark Is Rising series.”

  “Sammie,” I say, “as your friend—”

  “Your best friend,” Sammie interrupts.

  “As your best friend, I’m begging you to take a chill pill. It’s vacation.”

  “I know,” Sammie says, holding up one hand to stop me. “But I like to read.”

  “How many books total?” I ask.

  Sammie looks off into space, counting them up. She squints, and her lips move a little as she does the math. “Nine, total,” she says. “That’s my goal.” She grins at me, her dark brown eyes shining.

  “You’re such a nerd,” I say. “That’s more than half a book a day. I’m just hoping to get through The Giver, which I got as an audiobook so I can listen while I’m restocking shelves.”

  Sammie leans back in her seat and stretches her legs out in front of her. “Would you rather listen to one book while working, all day long, at your dad’s store, or read nine books while lounging in front of a fire, drinking hot chocolate—with marshmallows—and eating homemade chocolate chip—”

  “Not fair,” I groan.

  “I know,” she says, smiling. “But that’s my plan: fire, hot chocolate, yummy baked goods, and books.”

  She pushes a curl of hair off her face, again, and looks right at me, waiting. I have a winter break plan too, but I don’t say anything.

  Because my plan is to tell Sammie Goldstein my real, true feelings for her.

  SAMMIE

  David Fischer is my best friend for a lot of reasons. First, of course, he’s not a girl. Okay, maybe that’s not the best first reason because it makes me sound like I like him just because he’s not a girl. So scratch that.

  First, because I’ve known him since kindergarten, when we were on the same Little League team. But I’ve known lots of other kids since even before then, like Carli Martin and Sarah Canavan. They’re not my best friends. Anymore.

  So, first because he’s funny. But also because he’s nice. Funny and nice.

  Okay, scratch all of that. David Fischer is my best friend because five minutes after I walk into my dark, silent house on the first day of a very long winter vacation, he texts me and asks, Want to come over? You can tell me more about your goals for vacation and I can make fun of you.

  I look at the clock on the microwave. Dad’s still at the office and won’t be home for hours. My mother’s probably showing houses, so who knows when she’ll appear. And Rachel and Becca, aka the Peas, are guaranteed to be MIA until after dinner because they’re in high school, and presidents of half the student clubs.

  Sure, I text back.

  When? David asks.

  Leaving in 15. Then I have a great idea: Meet me at the fort! I’ll bring snacks.

  I wait, watching my phone. After a minute, David texts back, OK. I’ll bring flashlights & hand warmers

  & feet warmers

  & butt warmers

  I fill the kettle and turn it on, then carry my backpack upstairs and dump out all my school stuff onto my bed. I take the bag back down to the kitchen and fill it with snacks: Chex Mix, pretzels, and some brownies the Peas made last night. When the water boils, I make a thermos of hot chocolate. Then I grab a deck of cards and a stadium blanket from the back of the family room couch and head out through the sliding glass doors, across the backyard and up onto the Greenway.

  It’s deserted. No surprise, with the sun setting in less than an hour and the temperature only slightly north of freezing.

  David’s house and mine are in different neighborhoods, but they both back up to the Greenway. A long time ago, before my whole neighborhood was even built, the Greenway used to be railroad tracks. Dad told me that there were a bunch of railroads that ran between New York City and the Westchester suburbs, and each one had its own tracks and terminal. This railroad went broke, and the tracks were abandoned. They got covered over with dirt and grass, and then someone had the idea to turn the whole thing into a walking trail. Which I walk on all the time to go to David’s house. Then, last summer, we found the fort.

  DAVID

  Meet me at the fort! Sammie says. With an exclamation point.

  “Ugh,” I say out loud. The Fort is our special place, our secret, so I get why Sammie wants to meet there. But it’s not a real fort, just a giant cement drainage tunnel underneath the Greenway. In the summer, it’s always cooler than outside, which is nice. In the summer. Today, when the weather app says forty degrees, the Fort will be freezing, and probably dark, but we’ll be alone there. And maybe we’ll have to huddle together for warmth, and maybe—

  I text back and say okay to Sammie’s crazy Fort idea.

  Then I head to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and spritz some of Pop’s Binaca breath spray in my mouth just in case.

  I stare at myself in the mirror, focusing on my eyes, which are at least green and are the least embarrassing part of my face. “Sammie,” I say, pretending the green eyes in the mirror are her brown ones. “There’s something I want to tell you, about my feelings for—blech!” I shake my head no and try again, pretending I’m holding a cup of hot chocolate. “Mmm, this hot chocolate is sw
eet and creamy, just like you.” No way. I try again, putting one hand on a hip to look cool and relaxed. “Hey, Sammie, there’s something I want to tell you—”

  “Who’re you talking to?”

  I jump, startled, and bite my tongue.

  Inez, my babysitter, is standing at the bathroom door, holding a bunch of folded towels. “Who’s in here with you?” she asks.

  “Inezzz,” I whine. “You made me bite my tongue.”

  Inez makes a pfft sound. “I didn’t make you do anything. The door was open. I was heading to put away these clean towels, which I just washed and dried and folded, thank you very much, and I hear you in here, talking. Who’re you talking to?”

  “Not you,” I say, my tongue throbbing.

  Inez steps further into the bathroom and looks around. “Who, then?”

  “No one,” I say. “I was just . . . practicing.”

  “Uh-huh,” Inez says, nodding like she knows exactly what I mean, which she probably does.

  In my pocket, my phone buzzes. “Gotta run.”

  “All righty,” Inez says. “Practice makes perfect. Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” I shout back at her from the hallway.

  SAMMIE

  As soon as I see David walking toward me on the Greenway, I cup my hands around my mouth and shout, “Race you!” Then I start running. My backpack is so full that it bumps hard against my back with every step. It hurts, but David’s running too, so I can’t stop because whoever gets into the Fort first wins.

  We run from opposite directions, jumping over the low wooden rails that edge the side of the Greenway, almost at the same time, then tumble and slide down the embankment. There’s no snow yet, but luckily the ground is frozen, so I don’t end up smeared with mud. I pick myself up and get one foot into the fort.

  “I win!” I shout, pumping my fists.

  David staggers into the tunnel and collapses, groaning and panting.

  “Oh, stop being so dramatic,” I say. “You ran fifty yards, max.”

  “But I had to go all out,” he protests, “to beat you.”

  “You didn’t,” I say, holding out a hand to help him up. “I beat you.”

  He grabs my hand and pulls himself up to sitting. “What’d you bring to eat?”

  “Where are the hand warmers?”

  He grimaces. “I kind of forgot them. Inez distracted me.”

  “Don’t blame Inez. You’re the one who forgot. But that’s okay because I made hot chocolate.”

  “Hot chocolate,” David says, sounding disappointed. “That’s it?”

  “Of course not.” I toss him the folded-up stadium blanket. He shakes it out and spreads it on the cold cement.

  “Chips?” he asks hopefully.

  I shake my head no, and reach into the backpack. “Pretzels,” I say, pulling them out and tossing the bag to David.

  “Anything else?” he asks.

  “Remind me again, what did you bring?” I put one hand on my hip and tip my head a little to one side, trying to look serious. But David knows me.

  “Nothing,” he says, grinning. “But I’m me and you’re you.”

  “True. Which is why I also brought Chex Mix,” I say, pulling it out.

  “My favorite,” he says.

  “I know. And brownies.” I toss that bag down onto the blanket. “The Peas made them, but you know they’ll never actually eat them.” I sit down and pour the hot chocolate into two cups. “This would be so perfect if we had flashlights and hand warmers.”

  “Sorry,” David says through a mouthful of Chex Mix and brownie. He picks up a cup, blows on it, and takes a drink. “Mmm. You can use the flashlight on your phone.”

  “It runs down the battery too quickly.” I hold out my hot chocolate, and we clink our cups together, then drink.

  David pulls out his cell phone and puts the flashlight on, illuminating our picnic feast scattered around the blanket.

  “Too bad there’s not a hand warmer app,” I say, pulling my mittens on.

  “Would you rather have hand warmers or hot chocolate?”

  “I’d rather have both,” I say.

  David finishes his hot chocolate, picks up the thermos, and pours another cup. “Would you rather drink hot chocolate while sitting on a giant ice cube or drink a fruit smoothie while sitting on a heating pad?”

  “What flavor is the fruit smoothie?”

  “Orange mango.”

  “No contest, because I hate mango, so I’d definitely go for the hot chocolate–ice cube combo.”

  “What if it was a strawberry-banana smoothie?”

  I grab a handful of Chex Mix, and inspect it to make sure there are at least two nuts. “That’s harder,” I say. I pop the Chex Mix in my mouth and chew. “I guess it would depend on the time of year. Smoothies taste like summer to me.”

  “Smoothies taste delicious to me,” David says. “But hot chocolate is definitely the right choice for now.” He holds up his cup. I take mine and touch it to his, then drink down a delicious mouthful of warm, chocolaty goodness.

  We sit and talk and eat until we’ve finished the hot chocolate and most of the snacks and it’s so dark in the Fort that I can’t even make out David’s face, three feet from mine.

  I pull out my phone and check the time. Four fifteen.

  “Sunset is at four thirty,” David says. “Want to come hang at my place for a while?”

  “I should go home. We’re leaving to go skiing tomorrow morning.” I sigh.

  “You make it sound like it’s a pair of itchy wool socks that your grandma gave you for Chanukah,” David says. “It’s a week of vacation. You’ll survive. Cheer up.”

  “The Peas will be there,” I say gloomily.

  “They are your sisters,” David says.

  “But they’re annoying,” I say. “They’ll want to go get facials or something instead of skiing. With my mother, of course, and she’ll try to talk me into going too. Who could possibly think it’s fun to have to lie still in a chair with smelly gunk smeared all over your face? Then she’ll buy me makeup and other stuff I don’t want. I don’t even wear makeup, which my mother doesn’t seem to notice.”

  David rubs his thumb and index finger together. “Poor, poor Sammie. Getting stuff bought for you. The world’s smallest violin is playing sad songs for your suffering.”

  “Plus, skiing cuts into my reading time.”

  “Let me remind you what I’ll be doing all week.”

  I grin. “Unpaid labor at L. H. Fischer Sporting Goods?”

  David nods. “From tomorrow morning until like nine p.m. on December twenty-fourth, I will be working at good old L. H. Fischer because it’s the Christmas season! And ‘a third of our profits for the year are made during the Christmas season,’ according to Pop.” He groans. “I won’t even have you to complain to. When will you be back?”

  “On the twenty-sixth.” I stand up and start to put the leftover snacks in my backpack. David grabs one last brownie.

  “While you’re schussing down the mountain, think of me slaving away at the store.”

  “I definitely will,” I say. “Now get off my blanket so I can fold it up.”

  David stands and steps off the blanket, then helps me fold it up. I tuck it under my arm, then head out of the Fort and up the embankment. Back on the Greenway, we stand for a minute, not sure how to say good-bye. David stamps his feet, then crosses his arms and tucks his hands into his armpits.

  “See you in a week,” I say.

  “Not if I see you first,” David says, pulling one hand out of an armpit and giving me a good-bye wave.

  DAVID

  I was five years old when I met Sammie Goldstein. It was the first day of Little League, which Pop had been waiting to sign me up for since the day I was born. He bought me my first glove practically before I could walk, and gave me a batting tee for my fourth birthday, which, PS, I used all the time, as a microphone.

  I never minded having a catch with Pop, or even wat
ching part of a game on TV, but I was just as happy to draw or play with Legos or pretend to be a really cool rock star with my batting-tee-microphone.

  It was a super-cold Saturday morning in March, but of course Pop wouldn’t let me wear my winter coat to practice. He said I’d be fine in a long-sleeved shirt and sweatshirt. I was not fine. I was already freezing in the car, and I kept trying to convince him that I really didn’t want to play Little League, but he wasn’t even listening to me because he’d decided we were doing this. That’s my pop.

  We got there, and Pop was dragging me across the outfield, and there was a baseball rolling toward me across the grass, and I looked up to see this girl—wild, curly black hair—running like mad toward the ball, which was headed right for my feet. Pop was deep into his crap lecture about being part of a team and trying new things blah blah blah, so he didn’t see the ball or the girl running after it.

  The ball knocked against my toes, and I tried to bend down to pick it up, but Pop had a death grip on my arm. I guess he thought I’d make a break for it if he even loosened his hold.

  “Pop,” I said, trying to interrupt his pep talk. “Pop. The ball.” He looked down and let go of my arm, and I bent and picked the ball up.

  The girl reached us at that moment. Her cheeks were pink, and she was panting a little.

  “That’s mine,” she said. “My dad threw it right to me, but I missed the catch.”

  I held the ball out for her and she took it.

  “Thanks,” she said, and then she was running again, but this time away from me.

  During that first practice, I learned Sammie’s name, and how to catch a ball rolling toward you on the ground (you have to stand in the path of the ball, so that if you don’t catch it in your glove, supposedly you’ll stop it with your body). I learned that I was decent at catching balls, thanks to Pop’s “Hey, sport, let’s go have a game of catch!” but that I stunk at hitting, even off a tee, which was what we did. I learned that even though she was the only girl on the team, Sammie was a better hitter than anyone else, and that she was Jewish like me, and that she lived in the neighborhood next to ours but went to a different elementary school, which was why I had never seen her before.

  By the end of the day, I also knew this: Pop wasn’t going to have to drag me to any more practices. I was going to be at every single practice and game, because Sammie Goldstein would be there too.