That's What Friends Do

by Cathleen Barnhart

  When I get to the store, Pop greets me with a hug. “What luck you had early dismissal! Snow like this gets all the skiers thinking about a day on the slopes. And if they can’t find their gloves, or need a new pair of goggles . . . Fischer Sporting Goods! Ready to meet their needs!”

  I don’t know what to say back. There’s no way I can even pretend to be excited about spending my early dismissal afternoon selling a lousy pair of ski gloves instead of drinking hot chocolate and watching three uninterrupted hours of TV.

  Before I can say anything, Pop pulls out his wallet and hands me a ten-dollar bill. “Why don’t you run down to Dunkin’ and get us a couple of doughnuts. I’ll take a coffee too, with skim milk and two sugars. And you get yourself some hot chocolate, champ. Then we’ll get busy restocking the ski gloves and goggles.”

  “Okay,” I say, taking the money.

  Mr. Daniels, the owner, is the only person in Dunkin’ Donuts, and there are no more Boston creams, with or without sprinkles, but Mr. Daniels says, “You can have four doughnuts for the price of one. I’m getting ready to close up. No one’s coming out in this snow.”

  “Tell that to my pop,” I say, wishing he actually would. “He thinks the snow is going to increase business.”

  Mr. Daniels smiles. “Your father is the eternal optimist. I wish I had his sunny outlook.”

  I walk slowly enough to eat two of the doughnuts on the way back to the store.

  “Mr. Daniels gave me two for the price of one,” I tell Pop, “so I brought you back a cruller. And the coffee was free, because he’s closing early.”

  “That’s the difference between doughnuts and sporting goods,” Pop says, which doesn’t make any sense.

  A whopping three people come into the store in the time it takes me to price an entire box of hand warmers, put them out for display at the register, and dust off the entire front counter.

  Pop’s hunched over the computer, counting up his supply of ski goggles, when the phone rings. I’m closer to it, but I don’t make any move to answer it, because if it’s some customer wondering whether we’re open, I don’t want to be the one who has to say yes in a stupid “so happy to serve you” voice, but I can’t say no or “we’re just closing up” with Pop sitting right there.

  On the fourth ring, he picks up and says, “Fischer Sporting Goods.” He listens for a few seconds, says, “Oh no,” then “Oh dear,” then, looking at me, “He’s right here. Hang on, let me ask.”

  He covers the mouthpiece and whispers, “It’s Wendy Sullivan.”

  Right away, I know Luke’s said something bad about me, which I probably deserved, but before I can even open my mouth to explain, Pop says, “Luke’s not home. Wendy was in the city with Lily, at a get-together with other adoptive parents. Her phone died, so she didn’t get the call about early dismissal, and if Luke tried to call her . . . He apparently didn’t have a house key. Was he on the afternoon bus today?”

  I shake my head no.

  Pop tells Mrs. Sullivan that Luke wasn’t on the bus, listens for a moment, then turns back to me. “Do you have any idea where he might be? There’s no one answering the phones at school, but according to the online attendance, he was marked absent in math, and in the periods after that. You’re in those classes with him, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say, flashing on the image of Luke running through the empty field, the snow falling thick around him. “We didn’t have eighth or ninth period, but he wasn’t in math.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

  I shake my head no, because the truth is I don’t. I thought he’d go home.

  “Can you check with your friends? See if anyone knows anything?”

  I nod, my mouth dry and my stomach clenching into a hard knot.

  Pop says, “Anything we can do, Wendy, just let us know, okay?” He hangs up the phone, then calls Mom and tells her about Mrs. Sullivan’s phone call. I take the pricing gun and start slapping price stickers on each packet of hand warmers, but really what I’m doing is listening to Pop because I need to know how bad this is.

  “Wendy’s hysterical,” Pop says into the phone. “He’d been having such a rough transition, feeling lonely and left out, at home and at school. She thought things were getting a little better at school, and so did Dr. Ginzburg. They met again today, and Dr. Ginzburg felt he was more upbeat, finally finding his way, but then he disappeared right after that. He never made it to math.”

  My hands are shaking and I can feel myself sweating, but at the same time I’m cold. Because it wasn’t his visit with Dr. Ginzburg that sent him out into the snow without a coat. It was what happened after. It was what happened because of me, because I wanted to embarrass him, to get him back for being so smooth and cool with Sammie. For being everything I couldn’t be with her. I didn’t want it to turn out like this. I didn’t mean for it to happen like this, but does that really matter? I did it.

  Pop and Mom agree that she should go right over to the Sullivans’. Pop says he’ll close up early and come home.

  He hangs up the phone, then turns to me and says, “We’re closing up shop here, champ.”

  I don’t move. I don’t say anything. I’ve finished pricing the hand warmers, but I keep holding on to the pricing gun like I’m drowning and it’s the rope that will save me.

  Do the right thing, Pop always says, even if it’s the hard thing. Sometimes I really hate Pop’s advice, and he has a lot of it. But right now I know one thing for sure: I’ve been doing the wrong thing.

  Pop flips the “Open” sign on the front door to “Closed,” then walks to the back of the store and turns off the lights. I’m still standing at the front counter, in the dark, shaking and sweating and sick to my stomach.

  “C’mon,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Where’s your coat? We’re going home.”

  “Pop,” I say, “there’s something I need to tell you. About Luke. And Sammie and me. About what happened today at school. And it’s bad.”

  SAMMIE

  When my bus is called, I grab my backpack and head for the front door, but I slip into the girls’ bathroom. No way am I getting on a bus with David and Luke.

  I start to call Dad, but his first question will be “How was the baseball meeting?” And I don’t want to answer that one. So I text Rachel, but she texts back that she and Becca can’t pick me up because they have to take a bunch of their friends home. No room in the car.

  As a last-ditch effort, I call my mother, hoping maybe this once, just this once, she’ll care. I dial her office and get Nancy, her secretary.

  “Hi, it’s Sammie Goldstein,” I say. “Mrs. Goldstein’s daughter.”

  “Hi, sweetie,” Nancy says. “You don’t have to tell me who you are!”

  “Can I speak with my mother?”

  Nancy sighs, which I can hear even over the phone. “I’m so sorry,” she says, kind of whispering. “Mrs. Goldstein is with a client.” That’s what they call the people who are buying a house—clients. Not customers, because customer sounds too ordinary.

  “Tell her it’s important,” I say. “Tell her it’s me, her daughter, Sammie. And it’s important.” My eyes fill with tears. I clench my teeth, trying to make them stop, but it doesn’t work.

  Nancy sighs again. “One sec,” she says, and puts me on hold. I listen for about five minutes to some strange woman’s voice telling me about all of the great services that Holcrofte and Banner Realtors can offer me, until Nancy comes back on the line.

  “Mrs. Goldstein is very busy at the moment, but she’ll return your call as soon as possible. She has your number?”

  I picture my mother, deep in discussion with her clients, waving her perfectly manicured hand at Nancy, too busy to speak to her daughter.

  “Yes,” I say, and end the call.

  I stare down at the toilet, blurry through my tears. Then I take a deep breath and drop my phone in. It makes a plop when it hits the water, then sinks down to the bottom, but
the screen stays lit for a long time. Finally, it flickers, then goes black.

  “Go ahead,” I say out loud to my dead phone. “Call me back when it’s convenient.”

  Just then, someone walks into the bathroom. I grab my phone out of the toilet, dry it off with some toilet paper, blow my nose, and use some more toilet paper to wipe my eyes.

  “Sammie?” It’s Haley.

  “Yeah,” I say, still inside the stall because I don’t want Haley to see me with my eyes and nose all red.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m great,” I say, still inside the stall. “I missed my bus, and no one can come get me.”

  “You can always walk,” Haley says. “Can’t you? You have two legs.”

  Haley’s right, of course. I don’t have to feel helpless. But the truth is, I do. I feel helpless and scared.

  I step out of the stall and face Haley, and tell her the truth. “I’m scared. I don’t feel safe walking home alone. Can I go home with you?”

  Haley doesn’t say anything for a long minute. “Why would you want to go home with me? You totally dissed me, like . . . yesterday.”

  “I was being stupid,” I say. “I’m really good at baseball, and it’s what I’ve always played. Before I started going to the softball practices with you, I didn’t know anything about softball, honestly. I thought it was sissy baseball. Like for girls—”

  Haley holds up her hand. “Stop,” she says. “You’re making it worse.”

  “What I mean is I thought because it was for girls it wasn’t real. Wasn’t serious. I know that’s wrong—”

  “And stupid,” Haley adds, crossing her arms, but smiling just a little.

  “Yeah,” I say, “and stupid. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with playing baseball, even if you’re a girl. But I was doing it for the wrong reasons. I wasn’t seeing what was in front of my eyes. I mean, you and the other girls . . . you’re strong. There are some great athletes on the girls’ softball team. Girls who are just as talented as me—”

  “Maybe more talented,” Haley says, grabbing a wad of toilet paper and handing it to me because there’s still snot coming out of my nose.

  I blow my nose and smile at her. “We’ll see about that.” I toss the TP into the toilet and say, not looking at her, “I also didn’t want you to feel sorry for me. I didn’t want to be pitied.”

  “I never felt sorry for you.”

  “The way my dad was yelling and making a scene, it was embarrassing. He sounded like a jerk.”

  Haley makes an uh-huh sound, but quietly.

  “He’s not a jerk. He’s always been my biggest fan. And my coach, and my friend. My go-to. He just doesn’t know about girls’ softball.”

  “Sometimes even parents can be ignorant,” Haley says.

  “I think he’s stuck in, like, 1980.”

  Haley laughs. “Maybe even 1950.”

  I sigh. “I don’t want to go home. I know I can walk through a blizzard and make it home, but . . . I don’t want to. I made my decision about softball, but I’m not ready to explain it all to my dad. So can I go home with you? Please?”

  “What about your mom?”

  I sigh. “We’re not like you and your mom. I mean, we don’t fight or anything, but we just don’t get each other. She won’t care if I don’t come home, and she definitely doesn’t have a clue about the whole softball thing.”

  Haley reaches into her pocket and pulls out a ten-dollar bill. “My mom gave me money for a cab just in case. Her snow day app predicted we’d have early dismissal. She’s a teacher so she follows the weather like it’s her religion.”

  Haley calls a cab, and we take it to her apartment.

  We ride the elevator up to the third floor, and Haley opens the door with her key. “Follow me.”

  I follow her down a short front hall, past a galley kitchen, and into what seems to be the living room, but with a dining room table at the end near the kitchen.

  “We should put our stuff in my room,” Haley says. “My mom goes bonkers if I leave it out here.”

  So I follow Haley down a small hallway off the living room, into her bedroom. “My mom’s room is on the other side of the hall,” Haley explains.

  The walls of Haley’s room are covered with posters of women athletes, including one of the 2012 USA Softball National Team. I walk over and study it. “I didn’t know there was even such a thing as a national women’s team.”

  “Apparently there are a lot of things you don’t know,” Haley says. “Or think you know but are actually wrong about.”

  “Yeah,” I say quietly. “Apparently.”

  “Do you want to call your parents and let them know you’re here?”

  “They’re not worried about me,” I say. “I’ll text them later.”

  Haley looks at me for a long second without saying anything. Then she shrugs. “They’re your parents.”

  I follow her out to the kitchen.

  “How about we make some brownies,” she suggests.

  “I’ve never made brownies before,” I say. “The Peas—my sisters—are the bakers in my family. They make brownies about once a week. And chocolate chip cookies. But they eat like one brownie and then give away the rest to friends. Or to Dad and me.”

  “You should know how to make them yourself,” Haley says, opening a cabinet door and taking out a box of cocoa, a bag of flour, and a bag of sugar. “Since you’re the one eating them.”

  She pulls out a couple of bowls and sets them on the counter. Then she gets vanilla, a stick of butter, and a couple of eggs, and shows me how to make brownies. It isn’t even hard to do. While they’re baking in the oven, we rinse all the dishes we used and load them into the dishwasher. Then we make hot chocolate,

  “My mom’s a stickler about cleaning up,” Haley says. “She says the apartment is too small for messes. I can cook anything I want, as long as I clean up. If I don’t, I lose my cooking privileges.”

  “She sounds tough,” I say.

  “Not really. She’s kind of a softie, except about messes.”

  When the brownies are baked, and cooled enough to cut, we take them into the living-dining room and flop onto the couch. Haley turns on the TV.

  “How about That ’70s Show?” she asks.

  “Love it!” I sit, curling my feet up under me and snuggling down into Haley’s couch. She pulls an afghan off the back and drapes it over the two of us.

  An hour later, we’re still plopped in front of the TV, just starting our third episode and halfway through the pan of brownies when Haley’s mom comes through the door like a snowy tornado.

  “Oh my GOD,” she says, tossing her car keys onto the front hall table. “It’s a blizzard out there. I’ve never been so scared driving in my entire life. I cannot believe those jerks at the board of ed refused to close school early. Every single school up here in Westchester had early dismissal, but New York City? Nope.”

  Then she sees me, and stops. “Sammie!” She puts one hand on a hip and tips her head. “Sammie Goldstein.”

  “Mom,” Haley says, picking up the remote and pausing the TV. “Obviously you remember Sammie.”

  “Yes. Of course. Do your folks know you’re here?” Ms. Wilcox asks.

  I nod. “I texted them a while ago. They’re fine with it.”

  Haley looks at me with one raised eyebrow, then turns to her mom. “Is everything okay?”

  “A while ago,” Ms. Wilcox says meditatively, unzipping her coat and hanging it in the hall closet. She bends and slips off her snow boots. She points toward the hall. “I’m going to change into some cozy pj’s. I’ll be right back!”

  We’re halfway through an episode when Ms. Wilcox reappears, wearing plaid flannel pj pants, an oversized gray sweatshirt, and fuzzy slippers. She heads to the kitchen and begins making a pot of coffee.

  “You’ll have to spend the night,” Ms. Wilcox says to me, “because the roads are practically impassable. It’s all settled.”

  “Settled?�
�� Haley asks.

  “I mean—I think Sammie should spend the night, right?”

  A sleepover. Back in fifth grade, I slept over at friends’ houses almost every Saturday night. One weekend we’d be at Carli’s and another at Sarah’s. Sometimes they’d both come to my house, and we would all sleep in the family room, our sleeping bags laid out in a row. But I haven’t had a sleepover with a friend since fifth grade. Before the girl drama started. I can’t help it—I smile.

  “That sounds great,” I say.

  “Why don’t you call your parents?” Ms. Wilcox says. “Let them know the plan. I’m sure they’d like to hear from you.”

  “They’re both still at work,” I say, thinking they didn’t seem half as concerned about me as Ms. Wilcox is. “I’ve told them all about you and Haley, but I’ll check in with them a little later.” I’m amazed at how easily the lie comes out. I glance at Haley. She’s watching my face, but doesn’t say anything.

  “Right,” Ms. Wilcox says. She pours herself a cup of coffee, turns and opens the fridge.

  “I almost forgot,” she says, her voice muffled by the fridge door. “Some boy in your grade is missing. It was on the radio news.”

  “Did they say his name?” Haley asks.

  “Luke something,” Ms. Wilcox says.

  “Sullivan?” Haley asks.

  “That’s it! Yes—Luke Sullivan. He disappeared from school and no one’s heard from him since. They gave a number for people to call with any information. Do you girls know anything about this Luke? Where he might be?”

  Haley looks at me, worried. “Are you okay?” she whispers.

  I shake my head no.

  “What are you girls whispering about? Do you know something?”

  “He’s in our math class,” Haley says. “We were just trying to remember if he was there today.”

  “Well, if you know anything, I’ll call the hotline for you. Think hard, girls. I’m going to snuggle under the covers and read for an hour.”

  Ms. Wilcox heads back into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

  Haley picks up the remote and turns the TV volume up.

  “I heard some talk about you and Luke,” she says quietly. “That you guys were an item.”