That's What Friends Do

  David turns his head so Allie can’t see and rolls his eyes.

  “Wasn’t your last book about a kitten?” I ask.

  “Yes, but that was a city kitten who got lost in Central Park. This is a country kitten who’s born in a barn and gets lost when she wanders into the cow pasture.”

  “Good thing you’re a natural at drawing kittens,” I say to David.

  “And aliens,” David says. “But Allie never wants to write stories about them.”

  “They’re scary,” Allie protests. “And ugly.”

  “What about a kitten who gets abducted by aliens?” I ask Allie.

  “Too scary,” she says.

  “What if the aliens think the kitten is a god?” David says.

  “And they start to worship it,” I add.

  Allie taps her cheek, thinking. “I guess that wouldn’t be so scary,” she says. “If the aliens were kind of cute. Like R2-D2.”

  “He’s a robot, not an alien,” David says.

  “It could be funny,” I say. “Maybe the aliens don’t understand the kitten.”

  “Right,” David says. “Like they think ‘Meow’ means ‘Me out,’ and they keep taking the kitten to different places, but the kitten says ‘Meow.’”

  “What if they build a giant gold throne for the kitten, but it thinks it’s a litter box?”

  “And poops on it!” David says, grinning.

  “You guys are gross,” Allie says.

  “I could draw great poop,” David says.

  I grin at David. “C’mon. Can’t you take a break from your illustration duties and challenge me to a game of Nerf hoops?”

  He grins back. “I guess I can tear myself away from the kittens.”

  Four hours later, we’re sitting at the dining room table—with Luke—playing Blokus when Mr. Fischer calls out from the kitchen, “Who wants a frozen mudslide?”

  “What’s a frozen mudslide?” Luke asks.

  Allie and her two friends, who are sitting at the other end of the table, start to giggle.

  David, who’s been studying the Blokus board for two full minutes, sets down his piece.

  “What’s a frozen mudslide?” Luke asks again, setting his piece on the board to block David. The girls giggle again.

  Every time he says anything, they do that. It’s really annoying.

  “It’s a drink with ice cream and Kahlua and vodka,” David says.

  “Me,” Luke calls out. “I want one.”

  David laughs. “Pop’s not asking the kids. After he makes the adults’ frozen mudslide, he’ll make us some with ice cream and coffee syrup.”

  “My parents are okay with me having a little alcohol,” Luke says.

  “Yeah, but mine aren’t,” David says, sounding embarrassed.

  “Next year,” Luke says with a grin. “I’ll get my dad to work on yours.”

  Next year? I think to myself. I was hoping the Sullivans were a one-time thing. I sigh, apparently loudly, because David asks, “You okay?”

  “Fine,” I say.

  When I was little, the Peas even came to New Year’s Eve at the Fischers’. We’d all play Guesstures—adults and kids, with everyone divided into boys against girls. I would be teamed up with one of the Peas because I couldn’t read well enough yet. The whole rest of the year, I never did anything with the Peas. But on New Year’s Eve, I was included, and I felt so grown up.

  Back then, I wasn’t allowed to stay up until midnight. I would go to bed on an air mattress on the floor in David’s room. The two of us would whisper together and try to stay awake to hear the adults cheer when the ball dropped, but we never made it. I’d fall asleep at David’s and wake up in my own bed in a brand-new year. It was magic.

  Then the Peas and all the older kids stopped coming. They got too cool for New Year’s Eve at the Fischers’.

  That will never be me. I will never stop coming here on New Year’s Eve, no matter how grown-up I get. It’s our tradition.

  After I win Blokus and David wins Trouble twice and we drink virgin frozen mudslides until we can’t drink any more, David says, “How about a game of Ping-Pong?”

  “Sure,” Luke says. “I’m kind of sick of board games.”

  Luke’s really good at Ping-Pong, so he beats David in three games. Then it’s my turn.

  He serves and I hit it back, and then we volley, with me keeping my eye on the ball and Luke acting like he’s not even trying. I win the first point. As Luke starts his second serve, he says, “How come you don’t play softball?”

  “Why should I?” I say, sending the serve back to him.

  “It’s a girls’ sport.”

  “So?”

  “You’re a girl.”

  I nod. “I’m a girl who plays baseball.”

  “What position?”

  “Catcher,” I say, sending the ball over to his side as hard as I can.

  He hits it back to me. “I play catcher too. I was the starter on my fall team. During playoffs, I stayed in almost the whole game.”

  “Me too,” I say. “I was the starting catcher spring, summer, and fall.”

  “I was on the Diamondbacks.”

  “I know,” I say. “You told me already.”

  “So if I’m going out for the school team this year, I guess I’ll be your competition.”

  The ball hits the very left corner of my side of the table. I try to get it with a backhand but miss, and it goes flying off somewhere in the room. Point for Luke. I glance at David, who’s watching from the side, not saying anything. He lobs me another ball so I can serve.

  I bounce it and send it over to Luke’s side. “David’s trying out too.” I glance at David, wanting him to be part of this conversation. “Right?”

  He shrugs. “I guess so.”

  “We should practice together, dude,” Luke says, looking at David as he hits the ball back toward me. All of a sudden, I’m not even here.

  “The first meeting’s in March,” I say. “You’ve got eight weeks to try to get better than me.”

  “What if I’m already better than you?” Luke says, smiling as he sends the ball back to my side. “Maybe you’re the one who needs the practice.”

  I want David to say something, to tell Luke how good I am, but he doesn’t.

  I manage to win the first game, but then Luke wins three in a row. He sets his paddle down and says, “Losers play each other, right?” Just then, Mrs. Fischer calls, “Five minutes until the ball drops.”

  I set my paddle on the table and we head upstairs.

  Mrs. Fischer hands out glasses of champagne to the adults and sparkling cider to us. We hold our glasses and wait, and then it’s the last minute of the old year. We all count down together.

  “Happy New Year!” everyone shouts when the big silver ball touches down. I clink my glass against David’s. Dad is kissing Mom in that super-embarrassing way, and the Fischers are kissing, and the other parents too. I take a sip of my cider so I don’t have to look at the adults, or at David and Luke, standing right in front of me. But as I’m drinking, Luke leans in, grabs my arm, and pulls me toward him.

  “Happy New Year,” he says right into my ear. His mouth is so close that I can feel his breath, hot and wet, on my face. Then his lips touch my cheek. They’re squishy and warm, and they meet my skin for just a second. He backs away and smiles at me, but I can feel the spot where his lips touched. The spot where he kissed me.

  I look at David. His eyes are wide, like he’s surprised. Or confused.

  “C’mon,” I say, grabbing his arm and heading toward the basement, away from this weird, embarrassing situation. “We have a game to play.”

  “Right,” David says.

  We head back down to the basement. I can still feel the spot on my cheek where Luke’s lips were. I want to rub at it, to erase it, but I don’t.

  New Year’s Day

  DAVID

  He was so slick, the way he moved right in and kissed her, like it was nothing, like he’d
done it a million times before.

  Of course, that’s what you’re supposed to do when the ball drops: kiss the girl. Except I never have. I never even thought of it.

  But last night, lying in bed after everyone left, it was all I could think of. I kept watching it happen over and over in my mind, wondering what Sammie thought, and what she felt, and whether I could possibly ever be as smooth as Luke.

  I woke up this morning still thinking about it, and even texted Sammie, Want to hang out? but she texted back, Can’t. Homework

  The only cheeks I’ve ever kissed are Mom’s, Grandma Gert’s, and Bubbie’s. Does kissing a girl’s cheek feel the same as kissing Bubbie’s wrinkly, powdery cheek? I hope not. Pop kisses me all the time, on my cheek and my forehead and sometimes right on my eye, but I don’t kiss him back. Besides, he’s a dad and smells like Old Spice aftershave and has prickly man-beard hairs. I wonder how Luke learned to kiss a girl, and, more importantly, how I can learn. They don’t teach that in health, or even in science class.

  That’s what I’m thinking about as I head down to breakfast, so when I glance through Allie’s open bedroom door and see her giant SpongeBob SquarePants pillow sitting propped up against her regular pillows, it’s like a light bulb switches on right inside my brain. I can hear the TV in the family room, tuned to Dora the Explorer, which means Allie’s downstairs, watching it. Typical Allie. She’s in fourth grade but she acts like she’s four.

  SpongeBob will be perfect practice, I think as I tiptoe into Allie’s room and sit down quietly on her bed. I inspect him. His face is flat, not like a real face, but he has the right parts, including a mouth. He’s smiling right at me, almost saying, Go ahead, kiss me, you fool.

  I gaze into SpongeBob’s eyes. “Hey,” I say, “would it be all right if I . . . ?” Then I lick my lips, close my eyes, and lean in. But when I open my eyes, I’m kissing SpongeBob’s nose. Note to self: keep the eyes open.

  I sit back, take a breath, lean in—eyes open—and kiss him right on the mouth. Sort of where his two buck teeth are, because his mouth is open in a huge smile. I’m not sure what kissing real lips—or teeth—feels like, but I can say kissing SpongeBob’s flat lips is nothing like kissing Bubbie Edith’s cheek.

  I sit back, take a breath, and try SpongeBob again, this time parting my lips a little and pushing my tongue out until it hits the fabric where SpongeBob’s tongue is. I try moving my tongue around, but SpongeBob’s tongue feels the same as his teeth: a little like I’m licking someone’s silk shirt.

  I sit up, take a breath, and go in again.

  “What are you doing?” Allie says from behind me.

  I jump, startled, and quickly wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “I . . . must have fallen asleep.”

  Allie puts her hands on her hips. “You were not asleep. You were licking my pillow.” She walks over and bends down to inspect SpongeBob, and even I have to admit there’s a wet spot right where his tongue is.

  “It’s wet!” Allie says.

  “Okay, okay,” I say, holding my hands up. “I was eating a marshmallow, and it got on my fingers, and I accidentally smeared it on your pillow, and I didn’t want you to be all mad about it, so I . . . I licked it off.”

  Allie leans in and eyeballs SpongeBob’s mouth. If she had a magnifying glass handy, I’m positive she’d whip it out.

  “Where did you get a marshmallow from? And besides, it doesn’t look like there’s any marshmallow. It looks just wet.”

  “I licked the marshmallow off very thoroughly.”

  Allie sighs and steps back, putting her hands on her hips again. “Really?”

  I open my eyes super wide in my best imitation of innocence and pull a finger across my chest, making an X. “Cross my heart, that’s the truth,” I say, thinking that I need to find something better than SpongeBob to use for practice, because I need a lot of it.

  Monday, January 5

  DAVID

  I get on the bus the first day after winter break, and Luke waves at me like he wants me to sit next to him, so I do, even though he’s two rows closer to the front than I usually sit. Two stops later, Sammie gets on and sits across from us. She’s carrying a rolled-up poster, which she sets down on the seat beside her. I don’t say anything about it because I know better.

  Luke leans forward and flashes his white teeth and dimple at her. “How’s it going?”

  “Oh, hi, Luke,” Sammie says. Then she turns to me. “Where’s your extra credit science project?”

  “We had extra credit for science?” Which, of course, I knew.

  “Yes,” she says impatiently. “It was super easy. All you had to do was calculate what you should be eating using MyPlate and keep a food diary for two days, and then match what you actually ate to the MyPlate recommendations.”

  “Bummer,” I say, trying to sound super regretful. “I wish I’d remembered.”

  Sammie always does the extra credit, even if she has an A-plus in the class, and she always thinks everyone else does it too, even when they’re me, a kid who’s allergic to schoolwork generally and to extra credit specifically.

  Behind her back, the guys call her “Snergir,” which stands for “Super Nerd Girl,” which she kind of is, but they mostly say it because they’re jealous that she’s a better athlete.

  “That sounds boring,” Luke says. Big mistake.

  Sammie blinks, then blinks again, like she has something irritating in her eye. Then says to me, “It was totally cool.” She shakes her head so her hair bounces all over the place. And then she’s off and running. “I did it the first two days of vacation—”

  “Wait,” I interrupt. “While you were away skiing?”

  “Yes,” she says impatiently. “So I wouldn’t forget. I learned so much. Did you know that nuts have a lot of fat in them? In fact, a handful of peanuts—”

  “Hey, Sammie,” I say, interrupting her, because in another thirty seconds she’ll be pulling the rubber band off her rolled-up poster and showing us her “totally cool” extra credit science project. “We should tell Luke about E. C. Adams. About teachers and stuff.” I turn to Luke. “Do you know what classes you’re in?”

  “Nah.”

  “You don’t have your schedule?” Sammie asks.

  “Nope,” Luke says. “I’m supposed to pick it up from the guidance counselors’ office.”

  “You couldn’t get it before winter break?” Sammie asks.

  “I probably could have, but what difference would it make? I wouldn’t know any of the teachers’ names or whether they’re good or not.”

  “I would have wanted my schedule ahead of time,” Sammie says. She looks at me, waiting for me to agree with her, which I normally would do, but I don’t because of Luke.

  He turns to Sammie and asks, “So who are the good teachers? And who do I have to watch out for? Tell me everything I need to know about E. C. Adams Middle School.”

  “The teachers are all nice,” Sammie says, which is completely not true.

  “Señora Alicea is not nice,” I correct her.

  “She’s not deliberately mean,” Sammie protests.

  I turn to Luke. “Señora Alicea has a voice that is so high only dogs can hear her. She’s always about three seconds away from completely losing it.”

  “Spanish teacher?” Luke asks.

  “Yep.” I pitch my voice as high as I can, stick my chest out, and clap my hands together. “Clase, clase, escúchenme, por favor!”

  Luke laughs.

  “She’s not that bad,” Sammie says.

  “Yes she is,” I say. But then I change the subject. “You’ll definitely have Mr. Phillips. He teaches all the seventh-grade science classes.”

  “He’s nice,” Sammie says.

  “He’s a space case,” I say. “A real hippie, from the nineteen sixties, with a ponytail and possibly the last VW bus on Earth. Always has a piece of chalk behind his ear—he’s allergic to the whiteboard markers. Also can’t remember anybody’s name. He c
alls everyone ‘you with the.’ I’m ‘you with the red hair.’ And my friend Jefferson’s ‘you with the president’s name.’ He knows Jefferson’s name, but he still doesn’t call him by it.”

  Sammie pipes in. “Amanda Archer’s in my class. He calls her ‘Queenie.’ Like he knows she runs the grade.”

  “What about English?” Luke asks, leaning over, toward Sammie’s side of the bus.

  “I have Mr. Pachelo for English,” she says, and then she stops, because even she can’t bring herself to say Mr. Pachelo is nice.

  “I had him last year,” I say. “This year I was spared. Mr. P has some . . . digestive problems. His classroom smells like farts all the time.” I do a cough-fart to imitate how he pretend coughs to cover up the fart sounds. “It doesn’t fool anyone because one second after the cough-fart, there’s a cloud of stink so bad your eyes start to water.”

  Sammie nods, pinching her nose shut like there’s a real Pachelo fart in the air. “Some of the girls spray perfume on their hands right before class. I sit in the back of the room, where the smell’s not as bad.”

  The bus pulls up in front of the school, and as we stand to get off, I feel kind of like when Mom and Pop take me to sleepaway camp in the summer, except this time I’m Pop and Luke’s me. I’ll watch him walk off the bus, spot the cool seventh graders, and wave good-bye to me, exactly the way Pop watches me as I walk through the gates of Camp Towanda and wave good-bye to him. Except my eyes won’t be all red, and I won’t be honking into a Kleenex.

  Part of me also feels just a little bit relieved, because of Sammie.

  But Luke waits for me to get off the bus and walks into school right next to me. We pass Corey Higgins and Markus Johnson and their crew, who always stand outside until the last possible minute, and I watch Luke size them up, and them size him up.

  “Dude,” Corey says, nodding at Luke.

  “Word,” Luke says, nodding back, but then he turns to me. “Can you go with me to the guidance office?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  Together, we walk upstairs, past the music and drama and art rooms, to the counseling wing, and Mr. Lang, who’s my guidance counselor, turns out to be Luke’s counselor too. He hands Luke his schedule, says, “Welcome to E. C. Adams Middle School, Mr. Sullivan,” and we’re on our way out when a short woman with curly gray hair and purple eyeglasses stops us.