“Hey, Mom?” I pull back and look at her again. “I’m proud of you.”
Mom’s eyes sparkle with tears, and she doesn’t even attempt to stop them from falling. Dad’s crying, too, and wraps his arms around us both.
I can practically feel the gold hardening on the cracks around us.
Thirty-Seven
I thought that it’d be hard to leave Mom at the end of Family Day. I thought I’d cling to her like a little kid, begging her to come home with us and not leave me again.
And yeah, it is hard to say goodbye, to not know exactly when I’ll see Mom next. But I know I’ll see her soon, and that’s almost as good.
After we say goodbye, after Dad and I hug and kiss Mom and promise that we’ll always be here for her, after we drive home in a contented silence, the music playing softly in the background, after we pull in the driveway and troop inside, a bag of takeout food in each of our hands, the house doesn’t feel so empty anymore.
It may not have Mom inside, but that’s only temporary.
Like this softball decision.
I could decide that I don’t like singing that much after all. I could watch my friends play on the All-Star team and realize I made the wrong decision.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
All I know is that right now, this is the best decision. Like Mom not pursuing being a partner at her law firm. It’s what works for both of us now.
And in the end, isn’t “now” all that we have?
My phone buzzes as I’m settling on my bed to do some homework. Two texts, one from Claudia and one from Libby.
Claudia: How’d it go???
Libby: How’s your mom?
I look at both their names. My best friend since forever and my new friend. The person who will always be there for me—if I let her—and the one who stepped up when I needed her. I know they’ll like each other. I just have to make it happen.
I write back to Claudia:
Can you meet me before the talent show tomorrow?
Then to Libby:
Let’s meet up early to rehearse one more time.
They both agree, and I lie back on my bed and smile. Then I turn on the radio and sing.
* * *
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
Libby and Claudia stare at each other, their eyes darting around like a bee trapped inside a mason jar. I know Claudia’s not mad at me anymore, but what if she’s mad at Libby? I imagine them yelling at each other like in one of those Disney Channel shows, where the girls screech and stomp around all dramatically. Will I have to step in to be the referee? Will I somehow get a bucket of paint thrown on me or we’ll all fall into a big mud puddle while canned laughter plays in the background?
I shake my head and force myself back to reality, just in time to see Claudia give Libby a warm smile. “Thanks for being there for Veronica.”
Tears prickle the corners of my eyes. Of course Claudia isn’t screeching at Libby. I almost feel embarrassed that I expected them to fight over me—like sisters arguing over a favorite doll or something.
Claudia and Libby are better than that. It’s why I’m friends with each of them. It’s why they’re friends with me. We’re all nice people.
I’m starting to realize, though, that when it comes to friendship, “nice” has a lot of different meanings. Nice isn’t just sharing your turkey sandwich with your friend when her mom packs her the dreaded egg salad. Nice isn’t just saving someone a seat on the bus.
Nice is telling best friends about the serious stuff your family is going through.
Nice is more than actions. It’s a state of mind, a willingness to let someone in. To know that they won’t abandon you, no matter what you—or your parents—do. To know that you’re okay just the way you are.
To know that you can make friends with your friends’ friends, too.
“Of course I helped Veronica.” Libby adjusts the shoulder of her top. We’re wearing matching outfits for the show, which starts in an hour—bright pink shirts, jean shorts, and black ballet flats. Libby’s mom added rhinestones to the shirts in this cool swirly pattern, which will hopefully catch the lights. We’ll dazzle the crowd—in more ways than one. “She needed me and I was there.”
“I would have been there, too—” Claudia starts to say, but I hold up a hand to stop her, then move out of the way of a few kids who’ve just arrived. We’re waiting in the back of the town hall, just outside the door with the big PERFORMERS ONLY sign on it.
“I know you would have been there.” The pit of guilt opens up in my stomach again. “And I should have told you.” I want to tell Claudia that she already forgave me. That she shouldn’t be—she can’t be—mad at me anymore. Then I remember the way I feel about Mom. How maybe I do forgive her, but I may also still be a little bit (sometimes a lot bit) mad for awhile.
I let Claudia’s comment go.
“I should have told you,” I say again. “And I’m sorry.”
“I know.” Claudia shrugs. “It’s okay.”
“She told me for a reason.” Libby’s voice is hesitant, but grows surer with each word.
I look at her with a question in my eyes. Are you sure you want to tell Claudia? Libby nods back, then continues.
“My mom’s an alcoholic, too,” she says simply.
“Oh.” Claudia’s hand flies to her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, it’s okay.” Libby shrugs. “It is what it is. And she’s doing okay now. I mean, I sometimes worry, but there’s no real evidence that I should worry.”
I put my hand on Libby’s shoulder. “I think we’re always going to worry.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Libby bites her lip. “But right now, I do. A lot. That’s why I understand what Veronica is going through.”
Claudia crosses her arms over her chest. “I would have tried to understand—” She takes a deep breath. “I am trying to understand. And it sounds hard.”
“It is.” Libby and I say the words at the same time, then smile at each other.
“Anyway,” I say. “I wanted you guys to meet. Because … well, because you’re both my friends. And I think it’d be cool if we all became friends.” I look at Claudia pleadingly. I know we used to think Libby was totally conceited, but now I know that she’s changed. I want Claudia to see that, too.
Claudia smiles. “I can do that.” She bites her lip. “I was really jealous of you two.”
“And I was jealous of you!” Libby exclaims.
I speak up to break the tension. “Guys, you don’t need to fight over me. I’m not that amazing a friend.”
“Ehh, I guess not.” Claudia’s eyes sparkle.
“Hey!”
She reaches over and gives me a hug. “I’m just kidding.” Then she turns to Libby. “Friends?” She sticks out her hand.
“Friends.” Libby shakes it, a smile as bright as the sun spreading across her face.
Which immediately fades as Mrs. Pfeiffer, the lady who runs the talent show, sticks her head out the back door of the town hall. “Girls, are you part of the show? We need to start getting organized backstage.”
Sparks of excitement burst to life in my chest. I jump up and down like we do during our softball warmups and start running through the lyrics of our song in my head. “Ready, Libby?”
Libby doesn’t move, her sunshine now overshadowed by the darkest storm cloud I’ve ever seen. “Um. Yeah. Maybe. No.”
Claudia peers at Libby’s face more closely. “You don’t look so good.”
She’s right. Libby’s face is pale, almost greenish. She looks more like Elphaba from Wicked than a future pop star. I take a step backward. “Are you going to barf?” Claudia hops back to join me at a safe distance.
“Maybe.” Libby sinks to the ground. “I can’t do this.”
“Do what?” Even as I say the words, though, I know what she means.
“This.” Libby waves her hand around, encompassing the town hall, then the other pe
rformers streaming past, all of them bubbling over with excitement. Like me.
Not like Libby.
“I thought I could and I wanted to support you and help you, but I feel like my chest is about to explode.” Libby looks at the ground. “I guess I’m not a good friend after all.”
“Of course you’re a good friend!” My mind is spinning. I know that I can’t make Libby do the talent show. That would be the meanest thing ever. Especially after how relieved I am that my parents aren’t making me do the All-Star team.
I take a deep breath. “I guess I’ll just have to do it alone.” I twist around to look at the parking lot, which is starting to fill up with cars. A lot of cars. Each one with a lot of people inside it. My stomach begins to churn. I didn’t think I’d be nervous, too. I try to make myself look all confident and turn back to Libby.
I may be a good singer, but I must not be much of an actor, because her eyes open wide. “Your face looks a little green,” Libby says faintly.
My hands fly to my cheeks. “No. I’m okay. Really.”
“You don’t look okay,” Claudia pipes up.
“I am! I promise.” My voice wobbles, and Libby’s eyes widen. I can almost see the struggle in her brain as she tries to get up, her legs shaking beneath her.
“I can do it with you.” Libby closes her eyes. Her face looks super green. “Really. I’ll be okay.”
I can see how fast Libby’s breathing, though, and if I put a hand over her heart, I bet it’d be beating double time. I shake my head and summon all my courage. After all, if I want to be a singer, I have to learn to perform by myself. “I won’t make you do that.” I nod firmly, more to convince myself than my friends. “I can perform on my own. The act won’t be as awesome solo, and we probably won’t win, but that’s okay. I don’t need the money after all.”
“You don’t?” Claudia and Libby ask at the same time.
“Oh. Right.” My cheeks redden. “I decided not to do the All-Star team this year—”
“What?”
“Your parents won’t let you?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s not them. It’s me. It’s my decision. I’ll explain more later, but I’m fine. Really. I promise.”
They look doubtful, and I smile to reassure them.
“That means that I don’t need the talent show prize money,” I add. “So we don’t need to wow the judges with our awesome moves for two.” I try to sound confident and sure, but my words flop out like a limp spaghetti noodle.
“You were so excited about our act, though.” Libby twists her hands together. “I ruined everything.”
“No way!” I shake my head. “It’s okay. Come on, let’s go!” I force a smile, then start walking around the building to the front of town hall.
I turn back when I don’t hear footsteps after me.
“No.” Claudia shakes her head.
“Huh?”
“I mean, no. Or, yes, actually. Yes, you can still wow the judges.” Claudia does jazz hands, then spins once, reaches for the sky, touches her toes and does a little shimmy. It’s the exact move that finishes off my and Libby’s dance routine.
My and Claudia’s dance routine?
“I’ll perform with you.”
Thirty-Eight
I peek out from behind the curtains. The act before us, a mother-and-daughter cooking demonstration, is almost done, and I smile at the adorable toddler with brownie batter on her nose. The mom shows the audience their bowl full of batter, then whips a towel off the top of an already-baked pan of chocolate deliciousness.
“And this is what they look like baked!”
“They’re super yummy!” The little girl grabs the microphone from her mom. Her mom looks at her expectantly, like she’s cueing her next line. “Oh!” The girl’s eyes widen. “And you can buy them after the show.”
The audience claps and cheers as I close the curtain and move backstage. The auditorium is almost completely filled, but instead of making me nervous, like I’d anticipated a few minutes ago, the sight of all of those smiling faces out there excites me. They’re not going to be rating how fast I run or how many balls I catch. (How many notes I hit, more likely.) Well, the judges may be, but the audience won’t.
Winning the talent show doesn’t matter to me anymore, anyway. What matters is having fun with my best friend and doing something I love. Enjoying life instead of competing for it.
“Are you ready?” I whisper to Claudia.
“Ready.” Her eyes shine as bright as the rhinestones on our shirts. Libby’s shirt is a little big on Claudia, so she tied it in this cool knot-thingie at her waist.
I squeeze her hand. “I’m glad we’re doing this together.”
“Me too.” Claudia squeezes back. “And it’s okay with me that you’re not doing softball, you know. In case you’re worried about that.”
I nod. “A little bit, I guess. But I know we’ll always find time to hang out, even if we’re not on the field together.”
“Absolutely. I’m going to do rec league again in the fall.”
“Cool.” So will I.
The mother-and-daughter act finally exit on the other side of the stage, and I peek into the audience again. I can just see Dad in the front row, next to Claudia’s brother and parents.
“Oh!” I peek back at Claudia. “Your mom and dad are sitting together!”
Claudia smiles. “Yeah.” She shrugs. “They don’t fight as much now that they’re living apart. We all even had dinner together last night. It was weird. I keep hoping that they’ll get back together.”
“Will they?” I try to see if her parents are holding hands or kissing or anything.
“Nah.” Claudia shakes her head. “I asked and they said no. That it was sweet of me to hope, but that this is the way our life is now.”
This is the way life is now.
Like Mom not being in the audience, no matter how many times I peek out to see if she’s shown up. Because I know she’s still in rehab. I know she won’t be coming home for a few more weeks. But just because Mom’s not here—just because Claudia’s parents are getting a divorce—doesn’t mean they love us any less.
“Up next is a song-and-dance act from Veronica Conway and … oh, it looks like we have a substitution.” On stage, Mrs. Pfeiffer shuffles her notecards, almost dropping one. “I sure hope they’re more coordinated than I am.”
I roll my eyes. Adult jokes are the weirdest.
“Veronica Conway and Claudia Munichiello!” Mrs. Pfeiffer slides into the wings on the other side of the stage as applause fills the auditorium.
I look at Claudia as the music begins.
She nods, and we dance onto the stage.
* * *
I check the time on my phone and try not to stare out the window again. Or tap my foot. Or stare around at the empty room. Dad had a meeting for his job (his one job—he quit working at the hardware store after Family Day), so he had to drop me off at the town hall early. Which is why I’m sitting alone on the stage, in a rickety old folding chair, right over the spot where Claudia and I did our talent show routine just a few days ago.
Tonight I’m not here to perform, though. I’m here for the support group that I finally agreed to go to. I’m still afraid to talk to everyone about my “problems,” but Libby assured me that they’d all understand, just like she does.
“Here I am!” Libby rushes through the doors, and they slam behind her, echoing through the large room. During the talent show, this room was filled with people—people who all stood and cheered as Claudia and I sang the last note of our song in unison. My heart pounded as I stared out at the audience, my heart beating not with anxiety but with exhilaration.
There were a few babies crying, but there was no coach comparing me to my teammates or tallying up how many balls I caught. There was just applause. Applause and a shiny third place ribbon. (Claudia and I are going to share it, moving it from my room to Claudia’s room every other week.)
It�
�s not first place, but it’s still something.
And I think I would have still been happy with no ribbon at all.
“It’s okay.” I get up from my seat and give Libby a hug. She’s explained how the support group will work about a billion times already, but I still want to hear it again. “Are there going to be a lot of people here?”
“It depends on the week.” Libby sits on the edge of the stage, her feet swinging back and forth, and I join her. She’s a lot more comfortable up here when all eyes aren’t on her. I feel the opposite, though. A big crowd is one thing—all the people kind of blur together underneath the spotlights—but a small group like this is something else entirely. Everyone will be able to see me, just like I can see them. I won’t be able to blend in.
I won’t be able to hide.
Then I remember what I’ve learned over the past month—that hiding has never solved anything. That honesty and openness are what got me here, to a place where I have awesome friends, a supportive dad, and a mom who will be coming home soon.
“Will they expect me to talk?” I swing my feet, too. Bump bump bump go my heels against the stage. “Do I have to tell everyone everything?” There are limits to honesty, after all. Especially with strangers.
“You can share whatever you want,” Libby reassures me. “You do have to introduce yourself, though. So we don’t end up calling you Mystery Woman Number One or something like that.”
“Jane Smith,” I suggest.
“Princess Marzipan of Sparkleville!”
I giggle as the door to the auditorium bangs open and two kids drift down the aisle. I look at them closely, weirdly afraid that I know them from school. They don’t look familiar, though. And what would be the big deal if I did know them, anyway? They’re here, just like I am.
“Everyone has problems,” Libby says softly, as if she knows what I’m worried about. “But talking can help.”
A few more kids straggle in. I think I recognize one girl from the lunchroom. She gives me a small smile, and I wiggle my fingers at her.
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