Friendship List #2

by Lisa Greenwald

  “Of course.”

  I play with the zipper on my hoodie. “I think I may have more than one passion. And I think that’s okay? How can I narrow it down to just one?”

  We start walking together. Kaylan says, “That’s true. I mean, we just said pursue a passion and find one . . . but we didn’t say only one.”

  “Exactly!”

  “Oh wait!” She stops in the middle of the hallway. “I wanted this to be for Make our mark, too!”

  I clench my teeth. “Um, well, you still can! Like you just said with the kids’ nights at local comedy clubs . . .”

  “But what if I run out of time?”

  “Well, we still have some time!”

  “I guess. Maybe I need to think of something else for Make our mark now.” She shakes her head. “Ugh! This isn’t going like I expected.”

  I put an arm around her. “Don’t stress. Honestly. You still have a really good idea.”

  We walk quietly the rest of the way to class with our arms linked.

  “We could JHH now for pursuing our passions because we totally are,” I suggest. “Would that make you feel better?”

  She nods. We go into the single-stall bathroom near the main office and make sure the door is locked. We put our backpacks on the hooks on the back of the door.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  “Yup!”

  Jump in the air. High-five. Hug.

  “I think we needed a good JHH,” I tell her.

  She hugs me again. “I totally agree.”

  During study hall, I decide to email Alice. How long can she possibly be without her phone? I don’t even know how she’s surviving.

  Dear Alice,

  Did you get your phone back yet? I miss you! I feel like we haven’t talked or texted in forever. So much to update you on! They picked my Mindfulness Club idea at school. I’m so excited.

  Kaylan and I were in a fight, but we made up. So much to explain.

  I miss you soooooo much! XOXO Ari

  Later that night, I’m out on my front porch in the wicker rocking chair, staring at the falling leaves and trying to ignore my parents fighting inside when my phone rings.

  I jump, immediately thinking it’s Alice.

  But it’s Golfy!

  “Guess who is going right near Brookside tomorrow for his great-uncle’s ninetieth birthday party?” he asks.

  “Um.”

  “Me. Can we hang?” he asks.

  “Did you just find out about this party?” I laugh. “It’s literally tomorrow.”

  “Kind of, yeah. No one ever tells me anything . . . sorry it’s last minute.” He pauses. “Are you free?”

  Every part of me wants to say yes, of course, let’s go for a long walk and then go sit somewhere near a pretty view and talk all about life and the meaning of everything. Golfy has a good perspective on things. Maybe he can help me sort out the drama with my parents. Now that I know how good it feels to open up to people, I kind of want to do it all the time.

  “Are you there?” he asks again.

  “I’m here,” I say. “I’d love to hang. But where? My house is kind of chaos right now.”

  “I can handle chaos,” he says.

  “Your family is perfect, Golfy.”

  “No family is perfect,” he replies. “Anyway, we don’t have to hang at your house. We can go bowling or something or mini-golf, or out for ice cream sundaes.”

  “All of that sounds amazing.”

  “Okay, then it’s set, and you can’t back out,” he instructs.

  “What makes you think I’ll back out?” I laugh a little, putting my feet up on the wicker ottoman. The air feels crisp and cool—the epitome of fall. I smell a fire blazing in a fireplace somewhere close to me. I just want to curl up under a cozy blanket and eat some cider donuts. It may not be summer anymore, which is sad, but when the air smells and feels like this, I think you just need to lean into fall and accept and embrace the coziness.

  “I just have a weird feeling you might.” He laughs too now. “Oh, did they pick your club? You never told me.”

  “They did! I just found out. I’m so excited.”

  “That’s awesome, Ari!” He stops talking for a second. “Did you hear me clapping?”

  “Um, kind of. I’m outside, and it’s a little loud out here. The man next door is playing catch with his grandsons, and they keep screaming.”

  “Well, I’m pumped for you.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  I think I could talk to Golfy for twenty-four hours straight and not get bored or tired or run out of things to say.

  I don’t know what it is about him. But to me, he is the greatest.

  I don’t really care that no one else sees it; I see it, and that’s what matters.

  “I’ll call you in the morning to firm up the plans. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Nighty-night, Nodberg.”

  “Nighty-night, Golfy.”

  “You can call me Jonah. You know that, right?”

  “I know.” I laugh for a second. “But is it okay if I call you Golfy?”

  “Sure. I was just saying.”

  “Cool. Good to know.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE NEXT DAY, I’M GETTING ready to meet Golfy at the Ice Cream Shop when I think I hear Kaylan’s voice coming from my kitchen. But she told me she was going shopping with her mom today, and I told her I was seeing Golfy. So I have no idea what she’s doing here.

  I open my door a tiny crack—just enough so I can hear what’s going on down there but not so much that it makes the loud creaking sound and everyone in the world will know I’m listening.

  “I have it all figured out,” Kaylan says in her quiet voice, which is actually still pretty loud. She can’t help it. She just talks in a loud way even when she tries not to. “It’s all set.”

  “Are you sure, Kaylan?” My mom sounds worn out. “Seems a little hard to organize and a lot for you to take on.”

  “I’m sure,” Kaylan replies. “I got this.”

  “I don’t know. I need to discuss it with Marc.”

  “You said your brother’s done stand-up in LA, right?” Kaylan asks. “I’ll definitely need his help. May I have his email, please?”

  I’m guessing this is about the kids’ nights at the comedy clubs. Since her club didn’t get picked, I feel like she’ll become even more hard-core about pursuing comedy. Like she literally won’t take no for an answer.

  She could’ve just asked me for Uncle David’s email.

  I try to eavesdrop a little more, but they leave the kitchen and go into my dad’s office and then I can’t hear them anymore.

  By the time I’m finished getting dressed, Kaylan is gone. My mom is still searching all over the house for that letter, and with each day that passes I feel a little more guilty that it’s a crumpled ball at the bottom of my desk drawer.

  “Was Kaylan here?” I ask Gemma. She’s sitting in the den with her feet up on the coffee table watching an old Full House episode.

  “No clue,” she replies. “When was this show on for real? It seems really old.”

  “No clue,” I mimic her. “Where’s Mom?”

  Gemma shrugs. “I dunno. Somewhere.”

  She’s a lot of help.

  “Mom,” I say to her back. She’s taking every book off the bookshelf in the living room, searching. “Mom,” I say again when she doesn’t answer me.

  “What, Ari?” She finally turns around. Her hair is in her face.

  “Was Kaylan here? I thought I heard her.”

  She ignores my question. “Are you sure you didn’t see a letter anywhere? Your father is about to kill me. I misplaced something very important.”

  “He’s about to kill you?” I recoil. “Come on, Mom.”

  “You know what I mean.” She turns around again, hands on her hips. “Let me know if you see a letter. It was in a pale-green
envelope.”

  “Why is this letter so important?” I ask. “I don’t get it.”

  “I can’t get into it now, Ari.” She pauses. “Have fun with Golfman or, that’s not it . . . whatever it is you call him.”

  “Golfy, Mom.”

  “Okay.”

  I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t. It’s sad my own mother doesn’t take more of an interest in me or my new boy-friend or boyfriend or who knows what he is, but at the very least, he’s someone very important to me.

  I feel like she’d be all excited about this, wanting to know every detail, so much so that I’d end up finding it annoying.

  But no—she’s just not herself lately.

  I walk to the Ice Cream Shop, and Golfy’s already there when I arrive. He’s at one of the tables outside, under the purple umbrellas, reading a library book.

  “Hi,” I say sheepishly. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen him, and I think he looks different—his hair is shaggier, he’s not wearing a baseball cap, and somehow he looks older in a way, or more mature.

  I don’t know any boys from my school who would sit alone in a public place reading a library book. But Golfy looks totally natural doing it.

  “Oh, hey!” He jumps up and gives me an awkward hug and the sides of our foreheads crash a little bit. “How are you, Noddie?”

  “I’m good.” I sit back down because it feels strange to just be standing there after a hug. “How are you? How was your great-uncle’s party?”

  “It was so fab,” he says. “He taught everyone how to do this really old-fashioned dance? The fox-trot. He literally led a dance class at his own birthday party. I mean, he’s ninety but he’s still got it. It was the funniest thing ever.”

  “He sounds so awesome.”

  “He really is. My parents are still at his house looking through old photos. He has boxes and boxes. They’re trying to make sense of them.”

  “Oh, that’s so nice.” I smile. “So? Ice cream.”

  “Well, duh.” He stands up and so do I, and we walk inside. “What’s good here?”

  “Well, the espresso cookie is my favorite. But the peaches and cream is also really good. And so is the cookie dough.” I shrug. “Basically every flavor is good.”

  He stares at the flavor list on the wall. “What about the shakes?”

  “Also good.” I laugh.

  “Hmm. This is so hard to pick.” He turns around and faces me. “What should I do?”

  I shrug. “Get a shake. And I’ll get a cone. And we can share?”

  “Perfect.”

  After we have our ice cream and our shake, we go back outside to the tables. He asks, “So what’s new? Talk to me.”

  I take a sip of the chocolate peanut butter shake. “Actually, I kind of have a dilemma,” I start.

  The whole walk over here, I was debating telling him about the letter situation. I think I need to. It’s weighing on me, and my shoulders feel so heavy—I need to discuss this with someone.

  “Spill it,” he says, taking a bite of the cone.

  “So, there was this letter,” I start, already feeling my body relax that I’m opening up and talking about this. “And it was so weird. Like, someone drove by our house and decided they needed to buy it and would make any offer.” I take another sip of shake. “And I got so mad when I saw it. Like, what the heck? This is our house. And yeah my dad lost his job, but we don’t need to sell our house! Not yet! Right?”

  “Right . . . I mean, I don’t really know, but I guess.” He looks at me, waiting for me to continue. “And?”

  “And I hid the letter. And my mom is looking all over for it. And she’s super stressed. But I just don’t think we need to sell our house,” I explain. “But now I feel so bad. Should I tell her I have the letter?”

  He bites his lip and looks up into the sky like maybe there will be some kind of divine intervention or answer or something. “Noddie . . .” He smiles a nervous kind of smile. “I think you should give back the letter. Just say you found it under a pile of laundry or something. Don’t say you stole it. Ya know? And just, like, let it unfold how it’s going to unfold.”

  “Well, there’s one other problem . . .” I look down at the table. “I crumpled it up, and it’s kind of a mess now.”

  He nods. “Hmm. Okay. Well, again, the laundry theory works. It got crumpled under some really heavy clothes!”

  “But I don’t want to move,” I whine.

  “Ooh! But what if these people are like billionaires and they’re willing to pay ten million dollars for your house and then you can buy a gigantic house with a pool and home movie theater and then your dad won’t be stressed, and it could be really great?” He does a pretend mic drop. “Huh? Right? Maybe it even has some kind of outdoor kitchen with one of those cool pizza ovens.”

  I roll my eyes. “Um. That sounds kind of doubtful. But maybe. I like your optimism, Jonah Malkin.”

  “Well, it could happen,” he reminds me. “That’s all I’m saying.”

  We stay at the ice cream place way longer than anyone really should. But no one else is waiting for our table, so I figure it’s okay.

  Finally at around five in the afternoon, my mom texts me.

  Mom: Where are you? We are eating at 6. Tacos.

  I write back:

  Ari: Be home for dinner.

  Thankfully, she doesn’t write anything else after that. “What time do you need to be back at your great-uncle’s?” I ask Golfy.

  “Probably now,” he replies. “But no one has called me, so . . .”

  “I need to be home by six for dinner,” I tell him.

  “Let’s start walking over to your house,” he says. “My parents can pick me up there. I won’t come in. Don’t worry.”

  “Okay. Thanks. And sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for,” he says.

  We walk quietly for a few minutes, and then Golfy takes my hand. We’re both a little sweaty, but I don’t really mind. Holding someone’s hand may be one of the simplest, nicest feelings in the world. It’s this sense that you’re going somewhere with someone else. You’re not in this alone. There’s someone there, someone right next to you, and that someone makes you feel safe and secure.

  The person is saying it’s going to be okay without saying anything at all.

  It’s the universal symbol for we got this.

  THIRTY-NINE

  “THAT’S IT. I CAN’T TAKE it anymore,” I tell Kaylan after math.

  Today’s a B schedule, so we have math first period, and it’s the worst way to start the day. “He didn’t even acknowledge that Isabela was the only one in the whole class to get a hundred on the test.” I shake my head. “The only one! His whole thing about highlighting success! It’s not true. He only highlights the boys’ success!”

  “I know.” She side-eyes me. “But you’re yelling!”

  I try to quiet my voice. “We’re writing an anonymous note. We’ll say we’re concerned students and Isabela Gomez-Wright is clearly the strongest one in our math class, and we want her to get recognition. Also, does he know she tutors elementary school kids in math every week?”

  “Shh, Ari, you’re still yelling,” Kaylan says as soon as we get to our lockers.

  “I’m really upset about this.”

  “I know.” Kaylan puts an arm around me. “Okay. Okay. We’ll write the note. But maybe we should talk to Isabela first? Inspire her to write the note?”

  I consider it for a second.

  “I think that will make it even more powerful,” Kaylan suggests. “Let’s talk to her at the Halloween party!”

  “Maybe. But I don’t want to bring up a bad subject during a fun time. . . .”

  “Well, we won’t spend the whole time talking about it,” she reminds me. “Anyway, I gotta go check the extra-help schedule. See you at lunch, dahling.”

  “Of course. Ta-ta, dahling.”

  At
the lunch table, the girls are deciding what club to join.

  “I’m definitely not doing Krav Maga and definitely not doing mindfulness meditation, no offense, Arianna,” Cami says, still obviously disgruntled from her club not getting picked. “I would’ve done the adult coloring, though.” She shoots M.W. a look. “I may just stick with gymnastics outside of school and my cello lessons, and that’s probably enough. I mean, we have so much more homework in seventh grade.”

  “Yeah, she’s right,” Kaylan adds, putting mayo on her turkey sandwich. “And I think it’s going to get even worse. Ryan had tons of homework last year. Not that he ever really did it.” She laughs. “But he did have a lot.”

  I crack up, too, and steal a chip out of Kaylan’s bag.

  “Want to trade my pretzels for your chips?” I ask her.

  She contemplates that a minute and then nods in agreement.

  “I’m joining Mindfulness, by the way,” M.W. tells me. “It seems really good.”

  “Thanks. And also, today is just the trial day. If you don’t like it, you can totally switch.”

  Kaylan rolls her eyes. “I’m not joining anything, but I’m staying after school to use the computer lab and email some of the local comedy clubs.”

  “Did you find any funny people in this school?” Amirah asks. “You can still recruit them for your comedy nights.”

  “We probably do,” Kaylan says defensively. “They’ll come out of the woodwork. You’ll see.”

  “What does that expression even mean?” June shrugs. “Like, what’s woodwork?”

  No one answers her.

  “Okay, guys, for real, can I just say that I am so glad we decided to be crayons for Halloween?” Cami claps. “Kaylan, your idea was fab.”

  “Thank you, dear.”

  “So we’re all set for tomorrow? We’re going to meet at Jay’s house at five when the party starts, stay for a little, and then trick-or-treat around there?” Cami asks, going over the plan for the millionth time. “Are we dressing up for school?”

  “Yes!” Kira yells. “Of course. Everyone does!”

  “They do?” M.W. asks. “I don’t remember last year.”

  “Me either,” I whisper to her.

  Kaylan says, “I’m in,” and then reaches across the table for one of Sydney’s mini chocolate chip cookies.