Friendship List #2

by Lisa Greenwald

  The whole table laughs. Sydney is the only one who calls her Cameron, and for some reason it always sounds funny.

  “Ari, you’re super quiet,” Kira remarks. “What’s your deal?”

  I shrug. “I don’t have a deal. Just eating lunch. La-di-da.”

  They all laugh again. Kaylan side-eyes me like she knows something is up because she always knows when something is up and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  We all finish eating and discussing clubs and as I’m leaving the cafeteria after lunch, I bump into Marie as she’s leaving her Japanese class in the library. “I never see you anymore. I have a bunch of free guest passes for my yoga place,” she says. “Wanna come one day? You could try it again.”

  I consider giving yoga another chance. “Maybe. I’ll let you know.”

  “You’re so quiet, Arianna,” Marie says. “Are you off in dreamland again, thinking about your camp or whatever?”

  I roll my eyes. “Nooo.” I elbow her, again reminded about how much I need to work on this mindfulness thing. “You’re so critical, Marie Mundlay Burns.”

  “I hate my middle name! And you know that!” She elbows me now.

  “Why? It’s your mom’s maiden name, and it’s cute,” I tell her. “You should be more proud of it.”

  “Who’s proud of their middle name?” she gawks. “You’re so weird, Arianna Nodberg.”

  I laugh. “My middle name is Simone, FYI. And I’m proud of it!”

  “Noted.”

  Marie and I walk for a little while, arms linked, laughing about middle names and who knows what else.

  When we pass the gym, I tell her that I need to go to the bathroom. But it’s a lie. I really go to the main office and fill out a club idea sheet.

  Name: Arianna Nodberg

  Grade: 7th

  Idea: Mindfulness Club

  Purpose: To help the students at Brookside Middle focus on all the magic that’s right in front of all of us. To encourage the students to stay present and in the moment in our ever-changing world.

  After that, I feel lighter somehow. More in control.

  It’s really true—taking steps to do something, to make a change, to improve yourself or a situation does feel so much better than not really doing anything and just kind of letting it sit there.

  I guess Kaylan and I knew that when we came up with the idea for the lists and stuff, but it’s always good to have a reminder.

  THIRTY-ONE

  ON FRIDAY, KAYLAN AND I get to math a little early and look over the list before class starts. Somehow the week has flown by and we’ve barely discussed it at all. Plus we only have a little over a month to go. Full-on crunch time.

  Keep our friendship strong.

  Drink enough water (for a glowing complexion). ✓

  Make our mark.

  Master the art of mac and cheese (from scratch!). ✓

  Perfect our handstand. ✓

  Help someone else shine.

  Stay up long enough to watch the sun set and rise. ✓

  Find the perfect man for Kaylan’s mom. ✓

  A doodle a day. ✓

  Tell a boy how we really feel.

  Pursue a passion (first find one).

  Break a bad habit. ✓

  “We should make a plan to go over our doodles,” I tell her. “We haven’t compared in a while, and some of mine are really good.”

  “Definitely. Are you still doodling at 9:04 p.m.? I am.”

  “Even when you’re sleeping at Cami’s?” I make a face at her.

  “Well, no. On those days, I do it earlier.” She glares at me. “But I don’t sleep at Cami’s that much, you know.”

  “I know. I’m just kidding.” I draw a tiny little heart in the corner of my paper. “OMG.” I look at Kaylan and hope she can read my mind.

  “What?” she asks.

  “Big P. It just happened.”

  “Right now?” She clenches her teeth. “Really? How do you know?”

  I nod. “I just do.” I hoist my backpack up off the floor and stand up to head to the bathroom. “Come with me. Please.”

  She shakes her head a little. “But Mr. Gavinder will be here any minute! And I’m already doing so badly in this class.”

  “Kay. Please. I’ve never gotten the big P in school before.” I grab her hand. “Come on.”

  Thankfully she follows me, and we head to the single-stall bathroom by the main entrance.

  “Wait outside the door,” I instruct, in case anyone tries to come in.

  “On it.”

  I have a little Ziploc bag of big P supplies in the inside pocket of my backpack, so I take out a pad and thankfully I caught it early enough that I don’t need to change my undies.

  Girls have it so hard, dealing with this on top of everything else. Bleeding at random times and random places?

  If you explained all of it to aliens from outer space, they’d be seriously freaked out.

  I wash my hands and leave the bathroom. I’m so grateful to see Kaylan there waiting for me that I hug her tight. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I whisper.

  “Welcome, but we gotta go.” She pulls back from the hug. “Come on, we can make it if we run.”

  “What are you doing this weekend?” I ask her as we’re running to class. “Want to sleep over?”

  Kaylan hesitates a second before answering. “Um, what’s this weekend? Oh yeah, I can’t. My mom is insisting on family time.”

  “She is?” I ask.

  “Yeah. I don’t know.”

  We get to class just in time and take our seats. I don’t have much time to dwell on the big P or Kaylan’s family time since Mr. Gavinder starts class right away.

  “Who would like to come up to the board to show us how they arrived at the solution from last night’s homework?” Mr. Gavinder asks.

  Keisha Brown raises her hand, and so do Isabela Gomez-Wright and Owen Tefli and Kenny Youn.

  He calls on Owen.

  After that, he asks if anyone wants to come up to the board to complete the geometry proof?

  Isabela raises her hand, and Kenny and Owen and this boy who just moved here—Rafa Agedob.

  He calls on Rafa.

  Isabela’s sitting right next to me, and it seems like every time she raises her hand for a question, Mr. Gavinder doesn’t even notice her.

  She looks crestfallen, like math is her main passion in life and she’s not getting to live up to her potential. She does love math. And she’s so good at it. She was the one who started a Mathletes club last year.

  As we leave class, I whisper to Kaylan, “Isabela Gomez-Wright is basically a math genius. Sometimes I watch her working to see her skills. Is that weird?”

  “Um, I don’t know. I spend the whole class in a cold sweat, furiously trying to copy down whatever Mr. Gavinder writes on the board.”

  “Well, whatever. Maybe we can get Isabela Gomez-Wright to tutor us.”

  She thinks for a second, and then laughs. “Why do you call Isabela by her full name?”

  I laugh for a second. “It’s just that kind of name.”

  “I guess.”

  When we’re all seated at the lunch table, digging into our sandwiches, I ask the table if anyone else has Mr. Gavinder for math. I know he teaches a few sections of honors and a few sections of regular, so it’s possible. I need to get to the bottom of this weird only-calling-on-boys thing.

  “I had him last year,” Amirah says.

  “Did he ever call on girls?”

  “Um.” Amirah bites into her apple. “No clue, actually. I don’t remember.”

  “I was in that class, too,” Kira says. “He really never did. Once in a while, but he usually called on boys.”

  “So I’m not crazy!” I sit back, feeling a little bit better about this. I still don’t know what to do about it. But at least Kaylan and I aren’t the only ones who’ve noticed.

  “
When are they announcing clubs?” Sydney asks. “Did I tell you guys I decided to add a club? Cheerleading! We can totally cheer for the soccer games.”

  The whole table goes silent then.

  “OMG. Genius,” Cami says. “I want to do that!”

  “You do?” I recoil.

  “Yeah. Why?” She peels her clementine.

  “Just seems, so, like, antifeminist,” I say.

  “Why?” Cami asks again.

  I sip my water and say, “Well, do the boys put on matching outfits and cheer for the girls’ volleyball games?”

  “Um, no,” Cami says, and everyone starts laughing. “But for real, since when are you such a feminist?” Cami asks.

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure I even realized I was.” I laugh then, but everyone else has gone silent, even Kaylan, who’s spreading cream cheese on a bagel with a plastic knife.

  It feels like all the cafeteria noises are getting louder and louder in my head, and I can’t take it anymore. Like it’s all crashing down on me, and I’m going to end up covered in tuna salad.

  I stay quiet after that, finish my lunch, and think about swimming and sunshine and the way the air at Camp Silver smelled right after it rained. I think about mud sliding and making Cup-a-Soups with the bathroom sink water and the way that Alice was able to climb through the tiny space above the rafters that connected bunk nineteen to bunk twenty.

  “Earth to Ari!” Kaylan says. “Lunch is over.”

  “Oh, okay, duh.” I laugh, recalling my bad habit. But then I wonder—is it really such a bad habit? I like to daydream. I like to think about happy times when I’m not feeling 100 percent happy where I am.

  I wonder if it’s possible for a bad habit to be the tiniest bit good, too.

  THIRTY-TWO

  “YOU GUYS ARE GOING OUT?” I ask my parents on Saturday night. I’m in the den with Gemma, and we’re watching some old show on Nick at Nite when I see my parents all dressed up, coming down the stairs and putting jackets on.

  “We are,” my mom says. “A potential job opportunity for Dad. And they invited us to Vintage 25 for dinner.”

  Vintage 25 is this super-nice restaurant downtown near the library. It’s known for its steaks, but they have fish too, and lobster, and fancy pastas. But they’re most known for their twice-baked potatoes. Seriously, some people go there just for that.

  Who even came up with the concept of the twice-baked potato? Did it just occur to someone one day that one baking wasn’t enough?

  I watch my parents put their coats on, and I perk up in a way I haven’t perked up in months. My whole body feels lighter—the troubles are just floating off into the atmosphere somewhere.

  “That’s so great,” I say. “And you guys look so nice. Don’t they, Gem?”

  “Yeah, you look great.” She doesn’t even turn around from the TV. Doesn’t she understand what a big deal this is? They haven’t gone out in months.

  In the past I might’ve been annoyed that they just assumed I would babysit, not even asking me. Not that I’ve been babysitting Gemma for that long—just since last year. But I don’t even care that they didn’t ask me because they’re going out! Together! To a nice restaurant!

  And a possible job, too?

  I feel like I’ve won the lottery.

  Too bad Kaylan isn’t free to sleep over—this would have been the perfect night for it. A 100 percent guarantee that there would be no parental arguing.

  “Be good, girls,” my mom says.

  “Call if you need anything,” my dad reminds us.

  After I hear the door close, I turn to Gemma and say, “This is such a good night. Isn’t it?”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “Gemma! Mom and Dad seemed happy, didn’t they? And they’re going out together on a Saturday night.” I clap. “To Vintage 25!”

  I wiggle my feet excitedly on the coffee table.

  “You’re so weird getting this excited about Mom and Dad’s plans. What is wrong with you?” Gemma asks.

  “You don’t get it,” I mumble. “Never mind. I’m going to order pizza.”

  I guess nine-year-olds don’t really understand the whole job-loss thing. But she has ears—I’m sure she’s heard them arguing.

  Oh well. She’s in her little fourth-grade bubble, and I guess I’ll let her stay in happy land for a little bit longer, before the realities of middle school come crashing down on her.

  I walk into the kitchen to get the number for Mario’s Pizza off the magnet Mom keeps on the refrigerator. They have a new texting system where all you have to do is text your order. It’s outstanding.

  Ari: 1 large pizza with extra cheese

  1 order of mozzarella sticks

  2 bottles of pink lemonade

  I know we should probably be saving money, but Mom and Dad are out for the night and everything feels sparkly and twinkly all of a sudden, so I splurge for the mozzarella sticks and the lemonade. It’s good to splurge every now and again.

  After I text the order in, I sit down at the kitchen table scrolling through my email and then checking out Instagram.

  And then I see it.

  And my sparkly feeling evaporates into a thick cloud of dusty smoke.

  My whole body feels like it’s been plunged into the giant pizza oven at Mario’s. My ears are singeing and the echo of whatever Gemma’s watching on TV pounds in my head.

  Right there, on my phone, is a picture of Cami. And June. And Lizzie. And Amirah. And M.W. And Sydney. And Kira. And Marie.

  And Kaylan.

  Arm in arm at Lizzie’s bat mitzvah.

  All of them.

  Everyone.

  Together.

  Lizzie is wearing a turquoise spaghetti strap dress with sequins on the top. Kaylan is holding some inflatable microphone and June and Cami are wearing matching hot-pink top hats.

  They’re having the best time together.

  Without me.

  Five minutes later, Kaylan posts another picture with the group—this time with Jason in the back spreading his arms out over their heads.

  I look up at the top of the screen and see all of their Instagram stories.

  So many of Kaylan’s—everyone dancing, drinking Shirley Temples, Lizzie held high in the chair.

  How could she do this to me?

  They were all invited. Kaylan didn’t even tell me about it.

  And then she posts about it? Posts on Instagram where she knows I’ll see it.

  I mean, the least she could’ve done was not post, not rub it in my face that they’re all having a great time and I’m not there.

  This stings like someone poured rubbing alcohol on my head.

  It’s worse than over the summer when this happened with the ice cream, because now Kaylan is there, too. And she lied to me about what she was doing over the weekend.

  I scroll through the stories, and I can see everything that’s happening at the party. It’s like I’m peering into someone’s window, shivering cold outside in a blizzard, but I can see the warm fire blazing in their fireplace.

  I can see what I’m missing. I can see that a good time is going on.

  I know I’m not part of it.

  When the doorbell rings fifteen minutes later with the pizza, mozzarella sticks, and lemonade, I plop it all down on the coffee table in the den, in front of Gemma.

  So much for the splurge dinner. And the sparkly feeling.

  I can’t eat a thing.

  THIRTY-THREE

  IT’S THE NEXT MORNING, AND I’m still seething from the Lizzie bat mitzvah Instagram incident. And I have to babysit Gemma. Again.

  My parents need to go meet with a lawyer to rearrange my grandma’s finances. Whatever that means. I don’t know.

  My grandma lives close to us, so we see her all the time, and she always needs help with everything. And Bubbie and Zeyda live kinda far away, so we don’t see them as often, but when we do, it’s su
per special. And they never really need any help, or at least I don’t think they do.

  “Ari, please make sure you do all of the homework. When Ms. Fineman called to say you forgot the last page of the history packet last week, it was very concerning.” My mom holds her head at the kitchen table. “And to be honest, the scores on your last few science quizzes haven’t been ideal, either. I know it’s harder this year, so it’s going to take a little more effort. Up until now you’ve been able to sort of scoot by. But this is seventh grade. The real deal here, and I . . .”

  I tune out the end. There are only so many times I can hear this.

  “I know, Mom. Got it.”

  When my parents leave, I do my homework, little by little, taking breaks to watch TV with Gemma.

  I keep my phone visible and on ring so I’ll be ready when Kaylan calls or texts. I don’t know what I’ll say to her, but it’ll come to me.

  “Ari, can you please make us some popcorn? I’m starving,” Gemma says, tucking her legs under herself. “Please.”

  “Fine.” I grumble. I get up and scan the pantry for the popcorn. Usually it’s right in front, but I don’t see it today.

  I’m moving stuff around to find it. I look behind the cereal, near the boxes of pasta. I get on my tiptoes to see the top shelf where my mom keeps the sugar and the flour and other baking stuff. I kneel down to look on the bottom shelves—near the paper towels and boxes of tissues.

  No sign of popcorn.

  I scan the middle shelves. I take out the peanut butter and the jars of jam my mom and dad got as a wedding favor last summer to see if it’s hiding behind there.

  Nope.

  I’m pushing aside the pesto and the vodka sauce when two entire glass jars of marinara sauce fall to the floor. They crack on the Italian tile my mom was obsessed with when we redid the kitchen a few years ago.

  The sauce splatters all over the kitchen floor, onto my gray leggings. Some even gets on the walls.

  At first I’m so shocked that it even happened, I just stare at the mess, not even quite sure how to pick it up. I don’t yell or anything—I’m literally speechless.

  “Are you okay?” Gemma yells from the den. “What happened? And where’s my popcorn?”

  “Hold on a minute!” I yell back.