I don’t know what to say, but I open my mouth and out tumbles: “You haven’t spoken to me in weeks. Even when I texted you my mom had cancer.” I take a deep breath to try to keep a grip on my anger. “Okay, so I did something wrong, but what kind of friend ignores texts like that? And now you’re suddenly concerned about me not having to cook?”
Guess I was angrier than I thought.
A flush creeps over Rosa’s cheeks and she looks down at the doormat. “I …” She looks up to meet my gaze. “Sammy, I know I haven’t been the greatest friend lately—”
“Talk about an understatement,” I say before she can finish. “I tell you my mom has cancer and you don’t even answer my texts? Or call? You act like I don’t even exist in school? I thought you were my best friend.”
“I was furious!” Rosa explodes. “Can you blame me? After that stuff with your dad in the news and then what I read in your diary.”
“I told you I was sorry about that!” I exclaim. “And I was. I mean, I am.”
“I know, but then I find out that Margo’s mom is also a racist and Margo lets her get away with it just to save her own skin—”
“And mine,” I confess quietly. “Margo did it to save my skin, too.”
Apparently, I’ve decided that brutal honesty is the best policy after what happened. Huh. Didn’t expect that of myself.
“What?”
Rosa seems genuinely taken aback by this news, which surprises me, given that she obviously read my diary. But then I realize I hadn’t written about my secret relief that Margo had done it so that Mrs. McHenry wouldn’t call my parents. Seems there are some things even I’m too ashamed to put on paper.
“Margo’s mom was going to call our parents to say we’d been drinking, even though we hadn’t,” I tell her. “And if she did, my parents would have found out that I’d gone to the concert.” I let out a bitter chuckle. “They did anyway, because of the hack. But Margo thought she was covering for me.”
“By selling me out,” Rosa says. “So I’m the expendable friend.”
“No!” I protest. “It’s not like that. But … I can understand why you might feel that way. And I’m sorry.”
“What about you, Sammy? We’ve been best friends forever, but you’re writing about how bad I smell? Saying ‘maybe it’s a cultural thing.’ ” The pain I see in her eyes pierces me like a stiletto. “It’s one thing to realize that Mrs. McHenry is a racist, but you? That was so messed up. I cried for hours after reading that.”
I’ve felt bad a lot since the hack, but that’s nothing compared to how awful I feel now, knowing how the words I wrote so carelessly hurt Rosa, even if she was never meant to see them. What was I even thinking by writing something like that? It’s like if she wrote that I’m cheap or have a big nose, just because I’m Jewish.
“I’m really sorry, Rosa,” I tell her. “It was a stupid, awful thing to write. I don’t know what I was thinking. I know it’s no excuse, but I wrote it at like, I don’t know, five in the morning when I’d barely slept and I was in a really bad mood because we had to leave the concert early.”
Rosa doesn’t say anything. She’s looking down at the ground. I don’t know if I should continue, but I do.
“I was just venting. I never thought anyone would see it—especially not the entire world.”
Rosa looks me straight in the eye. “But you still thought it,” she says.
“Rosa, you know me. We’ve been best friends since elementary school. I’m not a racist. Really. I’m just an idiot. Don’t years of actions speak louder than a few stupid words?”
Rosa shifts the Mr. Nosh bag from one hand to another. I get a whiff of Chinese food, and my traitorous stomach gives such a loud growl I’m sure she can hear it.
“I guess even nonracists can say stupid hurtful things,” she said. “At least you didn’t try to justify it by saying, ‘I’m not racist! My best friend is Hispanic!’ ”
“Even if she is,” I joke, hoping that she’s ready to laugh about it.
Luckily, she is.
“You’re such a dork,” she says. “Since we’re doing true confessions, the truth is, some of my crazier relatives still call Jews asesinos de Cristo. I tried arguing with them once, but it wasn’t worth it. It just ruined the family gathering and didn’t end up changing their minds.”
She holds out the bag, a peace offering, hope in her brown eyes.
“Anyway, I know how you love Mr. Nosh. So I thought it might cheer you up.”
Smiling, I take it. Good friends are worth forgiving. “You’re right. I do love Mr. Nosh. So does RJ. He’ll be psyched,” I say. “Wanna stay?”
“I … Okay,” Rosa says. “If you’re sure your mom’s up to it.”
“She’s a little out of it from the painkillers, but I’m sure a quick hello is fine,” I tell her, gesturing for her to come inside.
Scruffles comes scampering over to say hi, wagging his tail and sniffing in the direction of the Mr. Nosh bag. The smell of food has clearly overcome his devotion to Mom.
“Hey, puppy, long time no see!” Rosa says. “Sorry, this isn’t for you, buddy.”
Scruffles follows us into the kitchen, looking hopeful nonetheless.
“Mom, Rosa’s here,” I call to my mother. “She brought us dinner.”
“It’s from my mom, too,” Rosa says, going in to say hi to Mom. “She sends her love and said to call her if you need anything, no matter what.”
“I will,” Mom says. “And thanks for bringing dinner. It’s been tough on Sammy, having to take over so much on top of school and, well, … everything that’s been going on.” She smiles at me. “But she’s been incredible. I couldn’t do this without her.”
I wish we didn’t have to do this at all. But since we have to, I’m glad that Mom feels like I’m being incredible. I don’t feel all that incredible. Mostly, I feel scared and overwhelmed. It’s pretty much all I can do to put one foot in front of the other and keep going.
“Are you hungry at all, Mom?” I ask. “I can make you a plate and bring it in here.”
“No, I’m a little sleepy,” she says. “You and RJ go ahead and eat whenever you’re ready.”
Her eyelids are already practically closed, and I know she’ll probably be back asleep in five minutes.
Rosa takes a worried glance at Mom and follows me back into the kitchen. “Is she going to be okay?” she whispers.
“The sun will come out … tomorrow.” I play that stupid song in my head. Think Positive. Ninety-three is a much bigger number than seven. Most people would take that bet.
“The prognosis is good,” I reply quietly, but with more assurance than I actually feel. “She starts chemo in a few weeks, and that’s the worst part, from what we’ve been told.”
“That makes her lose her hair, right?” Rosa asks.
I nod, wondering how RJ is going to deal when that happens, even though Mom’s warned us that it’s coming.
“She’s trying to make the best of it. She said she’s always wanted to try having crazy-colored hair. She’s talking about getting a purple wig.”
Rosa laughs. “No way! Your mom in a purple wig? That I’ll have to see!”
“Well, you’ll have to come here, because RJ and I made her promise not to wear it in public. We’ve got enough problems at school without being known for our Crazy Purple-Haired Cancer Mom.”
As soon as I mention problems at school, Rosa stops laughing. She crosses her arms over her stomach, and her shoulders round inward, making her appear smaller than she already is.
“Sammy, I … I’m sorry again that I haven’t been a good friend recently. And I couldn’t have picked a worse time. I was just so … mad.”
“I know, you had every right to be, and—”
“No, I’m sorry. Because you made a good point. We’ve all said stuff about each other behind our backs. You just got caught.”
“I never meant to hurt you,” I explain. “I was just venting. To myself. Or a
t least I thought it was to myself. I was just trying to get stuff out of my head so it didn’t bother me as much.”
Rosa twists the end of a lock of hair. “I get that now I’ve had more time to think about it.” She glances away, then meets my gaze full on. “I messed up, too. I ditched my best friend when she needed me most because I was hurt and angry. And it took me this long to reach out to you to work it out.”
She takes a deep breath as if to summon her courage, and says, “I’m really sorry for that. I’ve missed you, Sammy. You’re my best friend. I hate us being mad at each other.”
“Me too,” I confess. “More than you can imagine.”
We smile at each other shyly and then fall into a bear hug. Her hair tickles my nose, smelling of the shampoo she’s used since sixth grade; the scent of familiarity, flowers, friendship.
Just then RJ comes into the kitchen. He does a double take, seeing Rosa and me hugging it out.
“So I take it you guys are friends again?” he asks, getting right to the point.
Rosa and I break apart, look at each other, and laugh.
“I guess you could say that,” I tell him.
“Girls are weird,” RJ observes. “One minute you guys are friends, then you’re enemies, then you’re friends again.” He spots the takeout bag. “Hey, is that Mr. Nosh for dinner?”
“Yeah, it was my peace offering,” Rosa says.
“Well, even if Sammy doesn’t forgive you, I do,” RJ says. “Can we eat? I’m starving!”
Scruffles thumps his tail against the cabinets in agreement.
“Me too,” I say.
We spread out the takeout and feast on our favorite dishes from Mr. Nosh, which of course Rosa knows because best friends do. She even ordered RJ chicken fried rice, which he shares with Scruffles, though we’re not supposed to give the dog human food. Whatever. It feels like a celebration, and we haven’t had much reason to do that lately.
“So I’m not following the prom Instagram anymore,” I confess. “Did you get a dress?”
“Yeah, I did,” Rosa says. “It was weird to go shopping for it without you.”
She takes out her cell and shows me a picture. The dress she bought is super cute—dark blue chiffon with pearls and sequin-beaded bodice. It’s very Rosa—and of course she’s bought crazy high heels to match, which I’d never be able even to walk in no matter how hard I tried.
“So does this mean you’ve totally given up on the idea of prom?” Rosa asks. “I’m sure I could find you a date if you want to go. Even if you just go as friends.”
I hesitate, not sure if telling her about our alternative plans will seem like I’m being, I don’t know. Hipster-wannabe? Hostile? A hostile hipster?
But we’re best friends again. That means being honest.
“I’ve given up on real prom, yeah,” I admit. “But a bunch of us have been planning a Faux Prom.”
Rosa chokes on a mouthful of sesame noodles, and RJ has to pat her on the back. I go refill her glass of water while she recovers.
“Are you serious?” she asks, when she finally swallows and recovers her breath. “A Faux Prom?”
“Yeah. A low-key, low-expense party for the social pariahs who for one reason or another don’t think they’d feel comfortable at prom.”
“But … you could have a good time,” Rosa argues. “You’ll come in my group and—”
“Yeah, and you’ll be off dancing with Eddy, and I’ll be surrounded by the same people who have been talking about me and staring at me and making fun of me for the last few weeks. Sounds like my idea of a good time … not.”
Rosa is quiet, staring down at her plate.
“Rosa, do you have any idea what it’s been like at school?”
RJ has been concentrating on eating, just listening and helping himself to more chicken with cashews, but here he’s got my back.
“It’s the worst,” he says. “And that’s even without having my journal posted, because I’d never be dumb enough to write a journal.”
“I’m sorry,” Rosa says, her voice soft. “I want to go to prom and I want you to be there with me, the way we always pictured it. It’s hard to imagine it any other way. I’m selfish, I guess.”
“Not selfish—just my best friend,” I assure her. “But life happens. Bad things surprise you when you least expect them. I’ve had to learn to deal with that. And I just can’t go to prom with the way things are. Are you … okay with that?”
“I’m not okay with it. I hate it. But I have to accept that’s the way it is.” Rosa sighs. “I guess there’s always senior prom, right?”
“Definitely,” I agree, not that I can think that far ahead, with everything that’s going on.
“Besides, she’s grounded anyway,” RJ points out. “She still hasn’t earned back prom rights.”
“I will!” I protest. “I just didn’t want to bug Dick and Helene with asking about it yet. It’s been so crazy around here.”
“So who all’s going to this Faux Prom?” Rosa asks. “And where is it?”
“It’s at BethAnn Jackson’s house,” I tell her. “There’s about thirty people coming so far.”
“Are notorious outcasts allowed to have dates?” Rosa asks.
I motion to RJ with my eyes. Rosa catches the hint, but RJ, who heard the question, doesn’t give up on finding out the answer.
“Well? Are they?” he asks.
Great. The last thing I want to do is talk about Noah in front of my brother.
But on the other hand, trying to keep my journal away from RJ was why I wrote it on my laptop, and that’s how I got in so much trouble in the first place.
“Yes. They are allowed to have dates. And mine is Noah Woods.”
Rosa’s eyes widen. “Noah from SAT prep? Quiet, geeky Noah?”
That’s probably what I would have said about him myself not that long ago. But now that I know him better, it seems so … inadequate to hear him described that way. Noah’s so much more than that.
“Funny, smart Noah, who has been a killer friend when I really needed one,” I say, with determination.
“Oooh. Sammy has a crush on Noah,” RJ says, snickering. “Sammy and Noah, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”
Example A of why the last thing I wanted to do is talk about my date in front of my brother.
“Don’t you have some homework to do or something?” I ask, giving him a pointed Get lost look.
“I did it already,” he says, smirking. “Besides, I haven’t had my fortune cookie yet.”
“Neither have I,” Rosa says. “Come on, we all have to read ours aloud.”
Picking the right cookie is a big deal for Rosa. She waves her hand over them until one sends out the “right energy.” RJ grabs the nearest one and I do eeny meeny miny mo between the two leftover ones.
“ ‘Land is always on the mind of a flying bird,’ ” RJ reads. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“It’s obvious, grasshopper,” I tell him. “If you don’t have a home, you’re always looking for one.”
“Or not,” Rosa says. “It could mean that even when you’re flying high, you need to stay grounded.”
“You guys have no idea what you’re talking about,” RJ says. “You’re just making this stuff up as you go along.”
Most of the time we’re faking it. That’s what Dad said. Maybe part of growing up is realizing that they’re just like us, but older and maybe a bit wiser. Making stuff up as they go along, and pretending they know what they’re doing.
“That’s what you think,” I say, pretending just like the best of them. “Go on, Rosa, read yours.”
“ ‘Time may fly by. But memories don’t,’ ” she reads, wrinkling her brow. “That’s … profound.”
“I want to forget the memories of now,” RJ says. “It’s been a total MiseryFest.”
My mouth opens to agree with him, but I don’t say the words. Because I realize that even though RJ’s right, it has been a total Mise
ryFest—I don’t want to forget it, exactly. But I do want to be at a point in the future when I can look back at the pain and it’s pixelated and fuzzy and doesn’t hurt so much.
Maybe someday we can even look back on this time and laugh. But most of all, we’ll know we got through it. We got dropped into this awful situation and kept going until we came out the other side. And we’ll know that we can do it if something bad ever happens to us again.
“Come on, Sammy, stop catching flies and open yours,” RJ says, feeding the last crumb of his cookie to Scruffles.
I open the cellophane, break apart my cookie, and extract the fortune. “ ‘We cannot change the direction of the wind, but we can adjust our sails,’ ” I read.
Just then, as if on cue, Scruffles lets out an incredibly loud, stinktastic fart.
“Scruffles! Gross!” Rosa shrieks, jumping up and moving to the other side of the table.
Scruffles waves his tail along the floor, as if trying to sweep the scent in her direction.
“We cannot change the direction of the wind,” I repeat, feeling a fit of giggling coming on.
RJ is pinching his nose with his fingers to block the smell.
“But we sure wish we could!” he exclaims in a nose-pinched nasal voice.
“What is going on in there?” Mom calls from the family room. “Sounds like I’m missing a party!”
“Sorry … did we wake you up?” I shout back, feeling guilty.
She shuffles in, looking a tiny bit less tired and pale than she had earlier. “It’s okay. It’s nice to hear you having a good time,” Mom says. “What’s so funny?”
“Scruffles farted,” RJ says, his fingers still pinched over his nose. “Can’t you smell?”
“That’s what’s causing all the hilarity?” Mom says, raising her hands to the ceiling and giving Rosa a look of mock despair. “The dog passing gas?”
Rosa nods. “Farts are funny. What can I say?”
“Well, as much as I’d like to pull a Queen Victoria and tell you ‘We are not amused,’ I have to agree, Rosa. They are,” Mom admits. “I’m just glad the air cleared before I got here.”
There’s one fortune cookie left. I hand it to Mom. “Here. Your turn to read your fortune,” I say.
In Case You Missed It Page 17