That's What Friends Do

  “Gentlemen,” she says. “What luck.”

  She holds out one hand to Luke. “You must be Luke Sullivan. I’m Dr. Ginzburg, the school psychologist.”

  He nods, takes her hand, and shakes it.

  “Tough time to start at a new school,” she says, still smiling widely.

  Luke shrugs, and she pats him sympathetically on one shoulder, then turns to me.

  “David Fischer,” she says, like she knows me. She holds out her arms kind of the way Pop does when he’s about to hug me. I take a step back and she holds her hand out for me to shake, so I take it.

  “Thank you,” she says to me, “for helping Luke find his way around.”

  She starts to walk with us as we leave the guidance office, asking Luke about his favorite classes at his old school, his hobbies, the new baby. I half listen to them talk as we walk, but half of me is scanning the halls for familiar faces, because I don’t want any of my friends to see me with the school psychologist.

  We get as far as the art room and I’m beginning to get nervous because it seems like she’s going to walk Luke all the way to his first-period class, and me along with him, and we’ll definitely cross paths with some of my friends, which will mean an entire lunch period of the guys making jokes about my mental health, so I say, “I can take it from here. I know where I’m going.”

  Dr. Ginzburg smiles at me like she knows exactly what I’ve been thinking. “All righty,” she says, patting my shoulder. Then she puts her hand on Luke’s shoulder and says to him, “I’m here if you need me. Do me a favor: Stop by in a week or so and let me know how everything’s going, okay?”

  Luke nods.

  When we’re around the corner, I breathe a sigh of relief. “Whew. That could have been super embarrassing.”

  “What?” Luke asks.

  “Being walked to class by Dr. Ginzburg.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s a psychologist, duh. Like if you’re having a mental breakdown or something. My friends would have a field day with that.”

  “But she was walking with me,” Luke says. “Because I’m new.”

  Technically, he’s right. She was walking with him, and not because he’s crazy, just because he’s new. But my friends wouldn’t care about technically. And all of the other kids who could have seen me walking down the hall with the school psychologist really wouldn’t care about technically. It’s not worth explaining to Luke, though, because it’s moot.

  “What’s your first class?” I ask. “I’ll walk you there.”

  It turns out Luke’s in social studies with me, and Mrs. Russo puts him at the desk next to mine. And then he’s in Spanish second period with Señora Alicea and me, and in English, and every single one of my classes. In every class, he gets a seat next to mine. Except in math, which is the only class I have with Sammie. She sits next to me, in the back row. Mrs. Knell puts Luke on the other side of Sammie, so she’s between the two of us.

  At lunch, he even chooses to sit with my crew, the seventh-grade goofballs and second-string athletes. I figure it’s because he’s taking his time, seeing if the Corey-Markus table is really the top of the heap. But I kind of like having him at my table, even if it’s only for a day.

  As long as I can keep him away from Sammie.

  Friday, January 16

  DAVID

  On the second day of school, Luke sits with my crew again. And on the third day, and the fourth. He even asks the guys, and Sammie, for their cell numbers. It’s almost like he doesn’t know how to read the signs, like he’s from Pakistan or Uzbekistan instead of Villemont.

  By the middle of January, we’re E. C. Adams Middle School’s Calvin and Hobbes. Girls follow us in the halls. Of course, they’re following Luke, but I’m always with him, so it’s like they’re following me.

  We’re walking from English to music, and Carli Martin and Sarah Canavan, two of the most popular girls in seventh grade, start walking behind us, even though they don’t have music.

  “Did you catch the Knicks game last night?” Carli says loudly to Sarah.

  “I love the Knicks!” Sarah squeals. “When I get the rubber bands on my braces changed, I’m going to get Knicks colors.”

  Luke ignores them. “What are you doing this weekend?”

  “Not going to Hebrew school,” I say. “Three-day weekends are the best. Thank you, Dr. Martin Luther King.”

  Luke laughs. He thinks I’m funny all the time, even when I’m not trying to be, and he’s obsessed with my word-burping talent. “Can you burp that? Martin Luther King?”

  Instead, I burp, “Hey, hey, hey! MLK Day!”

  “That’s disgusting,” Sarah says from behind us.

  “And disrespectful,” Carli adds.

  I don’t care what they think. Luke thinks I’m hilarious. I pull open the music room door and motion for Luke to go in.

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I say to Carli and Sarah. “Like your own class?”

  Carli runs one hand through her hair like she’s trying to signal something. Looking past me, she flutters her eyelashes and calls, “Bye, Luke!”

  Luke doesn’t even hear her. He’s got his backpack on the chair next to him, and he waves me over.

  “I saved you a seat,” he says.

  “Thanks, Luke,” I burp.

  He cracks up laughing as Mrs. Baptiste claps her hands to start class.

  SAMMIE

  Carli Martin and Sarah Canavan come flying into English class just as the second bell rings. They slide into their seats, right in front of me, smirking and raising their eyebrows at each other like they’re sharing some big secret, and I know, even before Carli opens her stupid mouth, exactly who they’re giggling about.

  “He’s so cute,” Carli whispers loudly to Sarah.

  “He’s delicious,” Sarah says. She sighs and pulls her blond hair up into a giant messy bun on top of her head.

  Marissa, sitting on the other side of Sarah, leans forward. “Who’re you talking about?”

  “Duh,” Carli whispers. “Luke Sullivan. We were walking with him and David Fischer in the hall just now. That’s why we were almost late.”

  Luke and my best friend.

  The whispered conversation is interrupted by Mr. Pachelo. “Everyone, take out The Giver. Let’s talk about chapter five. What happens to Jonas?”

  Even though I read the book weeks ago, at the beginning of winter break, I remember chapter five. A couple of kids giggle. Sarah leans over toward Carli and whispers, “Stirrings.” She grins and shakes her head, making her messy bun bobble.

  Normally, I would raise my hand to answer. I always raise my hand. But the whole stirrings thing is embarrassing. I don’t want to be the one who says it. Amanda, Sarah, and two boys in the front all raise their hands.

  Mr. P calls on Amanda.

  “Jonas has a sexy dream about a girl,” she says. Everyone starts giggling. Except me.

  “That’s right,” Mr. Pachelo says. “But he doesn’t use that word. In fact, Jonas doesn’t seem to know how to think about his dream. What does his mother tell him is happening?”

  “She says he’s having stirrings,” Andrew answers.

  Carli leans over and whispers to Sarah, “I think I’m having some stirrings for you-know-who.”

  Mr. Pachelo puts his hand over his mouth and coughs. The kids in the front row all duck their heads and try to cover their noses with their hands. Sarah grabs a tissue from her backpack and holds it over her nose. “I sprayed it with Juicy Couture perfume,” she whispers to Carli.

  “What does Jonas’s society do for stirrings?” Mr. Pachelo asks, pretending like he hasn’t just stunk up the entire room.

  No one raises their hand because they’re all focused on not breathing in, so I do, and he calls on me. “They give him a pill to make the feelings stop. His parents take the pills too.”

  “Why do you think stirrings—or what we’d maybe call ‘crushes’—are something Jonas’s society is medicati
ng away? What’s dangerous about those kinds of feelings?”

  “They could make people uncomfortable,” I say. “Like, if someone has a crush on you, but you don’t have a crush back.”

  Other kids start raising their hands. Mr. Pachelo calls on Max, then Raven, then Sarah. Everyone has opinions about why stirrings could be bad, although the class agrees that we wouldn’t want anyone to give us a pill to make them go away.

  Right before the bell rings, as we’re putting our binders away, Carli says to Sarah, “Let’s catch up with LukeandDavid. Mrs. Baptiste always goes past the bell.”

  I take my time getting to the cafeteria. I don’t need to catch up with LukeandDavid.

  I’m the last one to sit down at our lunch table, and the only seat left is directly across from LukeandDavid. Andrew and Max are doing a blow-by-blow of how LukeandDavid got two burgers each from the lunch ladies.

  “Anyone want to split my second one with me?” Luke asks. I do, but there’s no way I’m going to say so.

  “Me,” Kai says.

  Luke tears the burger in two and gives Kai half.

  Then Jefferson tells a story about how LukeandDavid had to pretend to be animals in drama class, so they both pretended to be sloths and refused to move at all. I laugh when I’m supposed to and act like every story they tell is hilarious.

  When the bell rings, LukeandDavid get up together, dump their trays in the trash together, and head out of the cafeteria together, with Carli and Sarah following them all the way to math class. I trail behind even though I’m in math with them and Carli and Sarah aren’t.

  By the time I get on the bus after school, I’m ready to lob a grenade at LukeandDavid. Anything to break them apart. They’re sitting together, of course, in one seat, and David’s talking as usual and Luke’s laughing.

  I want to remind David about us, so I swing into the seat across from them. “Glad it’s Friday. You got any plans for MLK weekend, David?”

  David shrugs. “Sleeping in on Saturday and Sunday. Maybe catch up on a little TV. That’s it.”

  “No Hebrew school on Sunday?”

  “Nope. Not on a three-day weekend.”

  “Why is Hebrew school on Sunday anyway?” Luke asks. “Don’t you go to synagogue on Saturdays?”

  Before David can answer, I say, “Remember at the beginning of winter break, when we met . . . you-know-where, and it was freezing cold, but we didn’t care?”

  “Where?” Luke says, but I pretend like I don’t even hear him.

  “We could meet there this weekend,” I say.

  “Where?” Luke asks again.

  “It’s not really a winter hangout,” David says, sounding uncomfortable that we’re even talking about it. It’s our secret place. None of the other guys know the Fort exists.

  “Where?” Luke asks. “And why isn’t it a winter hangout?”

  “Never mind,” I say. “It’s just a secret hideaway David and I found. But you wouldn’t think it was fun. It’s kind of dorky actually.” I turn to David. “And you can go there in the winter. We did, remember? It was fun.”

  “My butt froze, even with the blanket,” David says, half smiling.

  “Sounds cool,” Luke says. “It needs a name.”

  “It has a name,” I say. “Fort Maccabee.”

  Luke laughs. “Seriously? Where is this secret Fort Maccabee?”

  But before David can tell him, I ask, “You working on anything new?”

  “What are you talking about? Working on what?” Luke asks, leaning forward. “Why are you being so mysterious?”

  “Never mind,” I say.

  “Nothing,” David says. Then he changes the subject as fast as he can. “You got any MLK weekend plans, Sammie?”

  “Nope,” I say, but I actually do: I’m going to get my best friend back. That’s my weekend plan.

  Saturday, January 17

  DAVID

  I’m sitting at the kitchen table eating my second delicious bowl of Lucky Charms when Sammie texts me. Want to hang out? Play Wii? I’ll meet you at the fort with hot chocolate & then we can come here.

  Sammie hates playing Wii. The only reason the Goldsteins even have a Wii is because Sammie’s sisters use it to exercise. And what’s with her obsession with meeting at the fort? It was bad enough in December, when the temperature was at least above freezing. I check the weather app. High today of seventeen. What is Sammie thinking?

  But I suddenly realize I haven’t hung out with her in weeks.

  I’ll wear my warmest ski mittens and we won’t stay at the Fort long, and Sammie makes great hot chocolate. I do want to show her the awesome drawing I did of Elwin the Moose. Plus, I’m always up for playing Wii.

  Sure, I text back.

  1 hour.

  I pop another spoonful of sugary deliciousness into my mouth, and my phone pings again. It’s a text from Luke: Want to come over?

  Before I can text back, Mom’s cell rings. She answers, “Hi,” which means it’s Pop on the other end.

  “Oh dear,” she says into her phone, shaking her head and making a tsking noise. “What a shame. And none of the others are available?” She tsks again and her eyes land on me, then look away, and I know exactly what that means: Staffing Crisis at L. H. Fischer Sporting Goods. Yet another loser sixteen-year-old has bailed on his Saturday morning shift because he’s suffering from an outbreak of flaming acne or explosive diarrhea. In one minute, Mom’s going to hang up her cell, turn to me, and say, “David, honey, your father really needs you at the store today.” I know how things go at L. H. Fischer Sporting Goods, and I know if I don’t act fast, my entire Saturday will be shot, and saying I already made plans with Sammie won’t count for squat. So I grab my phone and text Luke back, Sure. Now?

  Whenever.

  1 hour

  OK. Don’t ring the bell. Just knock.

  So when Mom hangs up the phone, turns to me, and says, “David, honey,” exactly as I predicted, I try to sound super sorry, like I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place.

  “Gosh. I just made plans with Luke. He doesn’t have any other real friends in New Roque yet, and I think he’s having a really hard time, with the move and new school and all.” I lay it on super thick, too thick probably, but Mom doesn’t even notice.

  She sighs and nods. “Wendy said the transition’s been rougher than they expected. It’s always hard to have to make new friends, and in the middle of the year in seventh grade—I wouldn’t want you to let him down.”

  Which is how she ends up dropping Allie at a friend’s and me at Luke’s, and going herself to bail out Pop and the understaffed L. H. Fischer Sporting Goods. I kind of feel guilty about it, but she’s the one who married Lewis Herschel and his store.

  It’s not until I’m standing on Luke’s front porch that I remember I didn’t tell Sammie about the change of plans. “Ugh,” I groan, bummed about missing out on Sammie’s hot chocolate, and on time with Sammie. I grab my phone and shoot her a text: Have to bail. Sorry. Have to hang with Luke today. I hit send just as Luke opens the door.

  SAMMIE

  I make a thermos of hot chocolate, pour the plate of homemade-by-the-Peas oatmeal raisin cookies into a bag, and head to the fort. Walking along the Greenway, in the sun, it feels almost warm. But when I get inside the fort, I remember how cold cement can be. I stand, not wanting to lean against the cold cement walls, and wait. I stamp my feet and wait. I drink a cup of hot chocolate. And wait. Drink another cup. Wish I’d thought to wear ski pants, and wait. When I’ve finished the entire thermos and my teeth are chattering, I figure I might as well walk to David’s.

  But as soon as I’m up on the Greenway, I discover something else about our tunnel fort: there’s no cell service. Because David texted me a half an hour ago to tell me he was ditching me. For Luke. Again.

  So I spend the morning alone in my room, doing homework and reading The Book of Three.

  In the afternoon, the Peas actually come into my room, to check on me. They
never come into my room. They never check on me. Most of the time, the Peas don’t even notice me. Which is fine, because I never know what to say to them. Becca’s a senior and Rachel’s a junior, and they’re all about school and clubs and varsity tennis and shopping. They have so much in common with each other that I’m not even a third wheel, I’m a wheel on a different car. But today, between their morning shopping outing and their afternoon trying-everything-on session, I catch their interest. I must look pretty pathetic because they come into my room together.

  “Are you sick?” Rachel asks.

  “Did you have a fight with David?” Becca asks.

  “No,” I assure them. “I just have a lot of homework.”

  “It’s a three-day weekend. You’ll have plenty of time to do homework,” Becca says. “Even you need a break from homework now and then. How about some fro-yo? Our treat.”

  “Okay,” I say, mostly so they won’t go blabbing to my mother that something’s wrong with me. “Sounds fun.”

  I change out of my pj’s, and we head to Milly’s Vanilli Yogurt Bar.

  Becca drives, Rachel rides shotgun, and I sit in the back, trying to follow their conversation. Which is hard.

  “That blue crop top only works with mom jeans,” Rachel says.

  “Why are you wearing Mom’s jeans?” I ask.

  “What about the Lululemon joggers?” Becca says to Rachel. “They’re perfect with a crop top.”

  “To a party?” Rachel says doubtfully. “No way.”

  “It’s a chill sesh,” Becca says.

  “It’s a party,” Rachel says. “Micah will be there.”

  “Hey,” I say. “Who’s Micah? And why are you wearing Mom’s jeans?”

  Becca laughs. “Not Mom’s jeans, silly. Mom jeans. You know: high-waisted jeans. They’re super in right now. And”—she wags her finger at Rachel—“they’re perfect with crop tops.” She glances in the mirror at me. “You would look adorable in mom jeans. Want us to take you shopping for some?”