My Best Friend, Maybe

by Caela Carter

  Sometimes I like hanging out at the snack bar better than hanging out with the youth group and Mark. Sometimes that makes me feel awful.

  Mark creams me in a game of Spit. He puts his hand on my shoulder to console me, his fingertips soft pads against my bare skin. I lean into him and he pulls away as a few of the non–youth group guys from Mark’s soccer team plop down on our blanket.

  I sit back and scan the crowds for my mystery ex-bestie.

  “You going to Sally’s party tonight?” I hear James, one of the soccer dudes, ask.

  Mark nudges me and I shrug at him, barely hearing, focused on searching for Sadie in the crowd below. There’s no point in going to parties with him anyway.

  “I don’t know, man,” Mark says. “I’m sick of watching our classmates get wasted, you know?”

  From this high on the hill, I can almost see the entire campus—the young mothers crowded around the baby pool, the elementary school kids dotting the big pool with splashes and neon-colored bathing suits, the high schoolers who lie on towels closest to the water, trading smiles and fashion magazines. I look for Sadie in the towel-lying crowd but I spot a flash of blond-and-red walking across the far sidewalk. There she is, in a black one-piece. She stands next to a guard chair as a redheaded guy climbs down; then she climbs up.

  Oh, my gosh. She’s working here this summer.

  In middle school both of us were on the swim team. The summer after eighth grade we took lifeguarding lessons together so that we could work with each other the next summer. We were so proud of ourselves when we managed to drag up, back-board, and save the instructor’s three-hundred-pound husband from a pretend drowning. But by the next summer we weren’t talking. I filled out a job application at the ice cream parlor instead.

  I watch her scanning the pool for accidents. I wonder if she knows I’m up on this hill. I wonder if it’s as easy for her to find me as it is for me to find her.

  I’m still watching Sadie when my phone buzzes with a text from Louisa: “Meet me at the snack bar.”

  I wave at Mark and make my way over there, my bare feet hopping over towels and purses laid out to mark the territory for a family or a group of friends. The grass wiggles between my toes, itchy and tickle-y and begging my feet to jump into the pool.

  Louisa is at a table leaning over her Japanese flash cards and her iPhone.

  “Welcome, earthling,” I say, giving her our standard dorky greeting.

  She smiles at me. “One more day,” she says. She presses a finger onto the screen of her phone.

  I sit across from her. She’s in cutoff shorts and a black bathing-suit top that’s definitely a two-piece but not quite revealing enough to be a bikini. The sunlight reflects off the caramel skin of her shoulders as they hunch over the cards.

  “One more day,” I repeat. “You’re totally going to get in.” I watch her pink sparkly fingernails as she jams her pointer finger into her phone again.

  I was hoping that I could tell Louisa what happened with Sadie today. She would be the one person in my life who wouldn’t get mad at me for what I said back. Who could possibly have some practical advice to get me out of this Grecian mess.

  She’s the only person in my life in any way . . . different . . . from everyone else. She doesn’t go to church and she curses occasionally and, unlike most of this white-bread town, she’s Japanese. But her polite attitude toward adults and her valedictorian status in our class keep her close enough to Perfect for Mom’s approval. There’s no way Mom knows how fun she is. How loud our laughter gets when we’re watching sci-fi movies or her old DVDs of The Twilight Zone, how we imitate our teachers’ voices behind their backs, and how she knows about my crush on the swimmer Ryan Lochte. For my birthday she gave me a poster of him smiling at me and wearing only board shorts and Olympic medals.

  But when I see her slumped over her Japanese study materials like this, I know I can’t say anything. It wouldn’t be right to start talking about myself on her day. She’s had a one-track mind all year: get into this exclusive boarding program in Japan for her senior year. Study abroad, in another country, in a foreign language, in her parents’ homeland, and still be the valedictorian of our class when she returns for graduation. Beat her sister—who will be giving the valedictory address tomorrow night at Mark’s graduation—once and for all.

  When she’s thinking in Japanese, I try to support her. I don’t want to distract her from her goals with any silly Sadie-drama.

  Instead, I remind her all the time that she’s already beaten Jasmine in so many ways. More friends. Prettier. More extracurriculars. Funnier. Way funnier. It’s never enough for Louisa. I’m not the one who needs to notice. I’m not her parents.

  “I’m not going to get in!” she declares, and she shoves her choppy black bangs away from her heart-shaped face in frustration. “You need to stop saying that I will, Colette. Thousands of kids applied. From every English-speaking country in the world. There’s no way I’m going to get in.”

  I reach across the table to pat her hand. “None of them could have worked as hard as you,” I say. “I know you’re going to get in. I’m so excited for you.” I say it like I mean it. And I should mean it, I know. It’s what my best friend wants. But whenever we have these conversations I feel like crossing my fingers behind my back because I can’t make myself want her to be in Japan for an entire year. Our senior year.

  She hits her phone again.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  She holds up her phone, and all I see is a mess of Japanese characters.

  “I thought they’re supposed to let you know tomorrow,” I say.

  “Tomorrow happens earlier in Japan,” she says. She punches refresh again.

  I drum my fingers on the table.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” she says. She glances at me, her brown eyes darting back and forth in her skull. “This is too boring even for me. Let’s go play cards with Mark. I need a distraction.”

  Ω

  When we leave in the early evening, Sadie is on break. She’s swimming laps in the pool, the blue water mixing with the colors in her hair.

  Of course Sadie would figure out the only way to swim in a one-piece at the town pool and not be a social enigma. Of course. Sadie figures out everything.

  We’re almost to the exit gate when I hear her voice echo across the water: “Coley!”

  I turn. No one else does.

  I walk over to where she’s bobbing at the edge of the pool. Mark vanishes through the gate without seeing me. Good.

  “What suit are you wearing?” She scissor-kicks to bounce herself out of the water and lunges for the bottom of my tank, yanking it to try to see underneath.

  I jump back, shaking the water that she splashed off my arms as if I don’t want it there.

  “I’m not wearing one.”

  She throws her head back and laughs, almost friendly. But then she says, “Looks like you’re going to need to do some shopping before our little trip.”

  I pause. She’s challenging me. Her face is hard as concrete. There’s no invitation there now.

  This is stupid.

  “Okay, Sadie,” I say, rolling my eyes. “See you.”

  “Coley!” she calls after me. But this time I leave.

  Ω

  The last time Sadie and I spoke was the first day of our sopho-more year. I mean, really spoke. Quick hi’s in the hallway and teacher-mandated conversations in French don’t count.

  I was in the first-floor bathroom scrubbing my hands before lunch, and she walked out of the stall behind me. For a moment we both froze and locked eyes in the mirror. Her skin was still ruddy from what ever she’d done all summer, and her hair was plain blond, for once, but so sunned it was almost white.

  My own skin was burnt enough to hide the way I blushed when I realized I’d been staring at her.

  It was weird to see her like that, in front of me and behind me like a Coley sandwich. It was strange to have the reality of her s
urrounding me when I’d been missing her so badly all summer. Now it was the day after the last day of summer and, after a year of barely acknowledging one another, we hadn’t seen each other once for almost three months. It was a gaping hole in my life. I didn’t know if I was missing Sadie or my entire childhood.

  I went back to washing my hands when I saw her start walking toward me.

  “Hey, Colette,” Sadie said, hoisting herself onto the sink next to mine without checking to see if there was any water on the counter that would wet her jeans.

  I wondered if she used my full name to hurt me.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “How’s your mom?”

  I blinked at her reflection. What a weird question.

  “She’s fine. How’s yours?”

  Then Sadie smiled the same way she used to when we were sharing some inside joke, but it felt unfair now because I was on the outside of the joke and I thought she should at least have a different facial expression for excluding me than the one she’d used to include me.

  “Same as always,” she said. “How was your summer?”

  Boring. Predictable. Lonely.

  “Great,” I said.

  “Me, too.” She left without washing her hands.

  At dinner that night I nod politely to Mom’s cheery questions about how I think I did on my finals and whether my report card will be a delight as usual. Adam talks about Little League and Peter talks about swim team and the summer musical. Mom talks about book club. Dad chews. I smile, nod, shrug.

  I can’t tell them about Sadie. I can’t say a word about her without my mom telling me how worried she is about “my old friend,” how I’m safer without Sadie and the rest of “those strange Peppers.”

  I can’t tell them that I might like the idea of trading perfection and service and college-resume bonus points for a simple vacation. A little adventure. A little drama. A summer with Sadie.

  “So, Mark graduates tomorrow. How are you feeling about that?” Mom asks.

  The question sends lightning bolts through my veins.

  I shrug again, shake my head slightly like it’s too hard to think about.

  “You’re really going to miss him, aren’t you?”

  Yes, but . . .

  More things I can’t tell my parents.

  Dad pats my hand, but he doesn’t say anything. He never does, anymore.

  Mom says, “At least you have an entire summer together. And a trip. We’re so proud of you for choosing such an upstanding and God-fearing young man.”

  And predictable. And chaste.

  I love Mark.

  It’s not like Sadie actually wants me to go. She wants to prove her point, that her way is better than mine. That she’s more fun and that she can swim in social situations and dye her hair any color and flirt with every boy in the class and laugh like she’s five years old. It’s better to go on the service trip to do something good than go to Greece just to prove Sadie wrong.

  I’ll find another adventure, outside of Sadie.

  My parents are looking at me. I’d like to be honest with them, so I say, “I’m starting to have some doubts about this trip.”

  Mom’s tan eyes go wide. “But you’ve been looking forward to it for so long. You’ve raised all the money and gone to all the meetings to prepare. And you worked so hard to convince us that it would be okay for you to go away with Mark and his church instead of going back to Appalachia with ours.”

  “What’s wrong?” Dad says, pouring Peter more milk.

  I shrug.

  “I told you, Colette. I warned you that you might be more comfortable sticking with your own youth group. Different isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be,” Mom says. “Remember that there’s only one right path and when you start looking for change you risk straying.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Colette!” Mom says.

  “I’m only going on a different service project. Not snorting cocaine.”

  “Colette!” Mom says louder.

  I sigh. “I’m only looking to do things a little bit differently. To make my own choices. Maybe have some fun.” Why am I still fighting this fight? It started last summer—me insisting that I wanted to do something different, go to Costa Rica with Mark to build houses. Now it doesn’t feel big enough, different enough. But somehow I’m still fighting for it.

  I’m always trying to be honest with my parents but I always end up lying.

  “Fun is overrated. You can’t make your decisions based on fun,” Mom says.

  Dad nods.

  But he used to crack jokes and play Nintendo and cheer at Mets games. He used to have fun sometimes. I remember.

  I sigh bigger this time, blowing out all of my boredom, frustration, angst. “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’m off today. It’s . . . it’s harder than I want to admit to think about life without Mark.”

  I settle for a lie because it’s easier, even if it is wrong. And somehow, even though she knows everything, Mom doesn’t notice.

  She nods. “That’s understandable. But watch your words. Especially in front of your brothers.”

  I look at them across the table. Peter wiggles in his chair and twirls his spaghetti dramatically. Adam smiles at me, wide enough that I can see the gap in his molars from where he got hit with a baseball last summer. They’re trying to be perfect.

  Just like me.

  It’s sad.

  Ω

  After dinner, I pull my bike out from the back of the garage, pump new air into the tires, fasten my helmet, and shove off into the evening. Twilight sparkles around me, stars’ pinpoints over my head and summer moisture buzzing on my face and arms.

  I could drive to her house, of course. I could climb into the hand-me-down Camry Mom lends me and be there in, like, five minutes. But that feels wrong. If I’m going to face her, I want it to be like it was three years ago.

  She won’t be home anyway. It’s the last day of school: she’s surely at some party drinking beer and laughing with all the girls she found to replace me. Some adorable boy is probably hanging on her every word, waiting to pull her into a closet and shove his tongue down her throat.

  I don’t want that.

  The road to her house hums under my tires, winding and hilly and familiar. It takes me to her.

  And then I’m there. It’s the same—mint-green siding, multicolored curtains in every window, and all of the lights on like the house itself is laughing.

  The yard smells like honeysuckle and dandelions, like childhood summer evenings after a long day in the sun and chlorine, like making up fairies to play with in the yard while we wait for Edie to grill some veggie burgers or order some sushi.

  What happened to make this familiar place feel like a distant fantasy?

  Then I’m ringing the doorbell. The part of my brain that forced out the “sure” during my French final today propels my hand forward until my index finger manages to slam on the button.

  The door swings open and classical music and cinnamon waft out. Edie stands on the porch, an older, plumper version of Sadie without the red in her so-blond hair. Her eyes are such a dark blue they’re almost purple. Her smile is so wide it glows. Everything about her got bigger since I last saw her.

  Her face falls when she sees me on the stoop. Her mouth twists into something close to a scowl. “Colette!” She sounds startled.

  I didn’t realize until now that I was expecting her to hug me, now that I’m standing on this stoop without her fleshy biceps around my upper arms. She always hugged me whenever she saw me, almost every day. She probably hugged me more in those years than my own mother did. Now she stares, angry. Of course she’s angry.

  “Hi, Mrs. Pepper,” I say, finally.

  She sighs like I’m exhausting her. “Oh, Colette. You know you call me Edie.”

  I nod. My mom always hated that.

  She looks me up and down. “We’ve missed you around here.” She says it like it’s a question.

 
; I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how she feels about me anymore. I don’t know what Sadie told her.

  “I guess you’ll want to scoot on upstairs. Sadie’s in her room.” She pauses. I’m still frozen on the stoop. “You know the way.”

  I nod. “Thank you.”

  It feels so awful to have her angry with me, even though I’m almost positive that I’ve done nothing wrong.

  The stairs are lined with even more photos than there used to be—Sadie and her two brothers who don’t look like they’re hers. Sam and Charlie were both adopted from Haiti and have pronounced cheekbones, soulful eyes, and skin so dark it reflects the lights in each photo. But I’ve known them since I was too young to notice that. Sadie’s head pops up in the middle of each set of frames—the three of them as naked toddlers, smiling kindergartners, awkward middle schoolers. Then come the pictures I haven’t seen yet. Sadie on her first day of high school, Charlie’s and then Sam’s graduation photos. My parents always say that Edie has odd ideas about parenting and creating a family, but except for the faces inside the frames, her stairwell looks a lot like ours.

  Top of the stairs, to the right, past the bathroom, end of the hallway. Knock on the door I always used to walk right through. I can’t believe she’s home.

  “I knew you’d do this,” she says as soon as she sees me in the hallway.

  Her room is behind her, red and gold and glittery, the same as it used to be. I feel like I took a time machine here. That’s what I wanted it to feel like. But the time machine failed: I’m not laughing.

  “I knew you’d punk out,” Sadie is saying.

  “You haven’t even let me say anything.” I hate the whiny vibrations on the top of my voice.

  She nods like, “Then speak.” She says these words so clearly through her eyes but she still hasn’t made them say “sorry.”

  “I’m not punking out.” Yet. “I wanted to ask a question.”

  “Right, knew you would,” Sadie says, turning and walking into her room. “Well, my mom has you covered so it’s not like your folks have to fork over for anything. And Mom’ll be there the whole time so we’re properly chaperoned. And we’ll have Wi-Fi, so you don’t have to be cut off from your precious boyfriend.” She turns around and stares at me from five feet away. I’m still in the doorway.