by Vail, Rachel
My new friendship ring was still on the night table, where Mom had left it after our fight. She must’ve crawled under my bed to get it for me. Yesterday I promised Zoe I would never take it off except to put it in my Bring Yourself in a Sack. Oh, well. It was eight thirty, and I was in bed already because I couldn’t think of what else to do. My satin pillowcase felt cool against my hot face. Nobody had come to check on me.
Finally, Mom pushed my door open and came over to sit on the edge of my bed. I didn’t roll over to talk with her like I usually do. She didn’t say anything, just touched my forehead and pushed my hair back from it, over and over, like when I was a baby. I didn’t want her to stop, so I stayed very still.
After a minute, Mom said, “I’m sorry I upset you.”
I didn’t answer. Good, I was thinking.
She stroked my head a few more times, then stood up. I listened to her footsteps crossing my floor, her slippers scratching against the wood, her long fingernails clicking as they touched my doorknob.
“What should I do?” I asked without turning around.
I heard her coming back to sit beside me again. I rolled to face her, and she leaned over me, her hand behind my back. She smiled down at the stuffed dog clutched in my arm—History, my stop-sucking-my-thumb present from when I was two and a half years old. I used to bring him everywhere, but most of the time lately I just leave him lined up on my shelf with the other things I’m too old for. I thought she might be about to launch into the old story of how when she handed him to me, nine years ago, she’d suggested we could call him Doggie, but I said no, his name is History. She and Dad thought I was brilliant. I always like that story, but I wasn’t really in the mood. I was relieved when her smile faded quickly and she looked serious again.
I waited for her to say something. When she didn’t, I buried my face in what’s left of History’s brown fur and asked again, “What should I do?”
“What do you think?” she asked slowly.
“I don’t know! That’s why I’m asking you!” I didn’t mean to get mad. I never ever used to yell at her, but she’s been so frustrating lately.
“OK,” she said calmly. “OK, I just wondered if you’d thought of anything.”
I looked up at the ceiling and didn’t answer.
“Because,” she continued, “I’ve been thinking about it, and it occurs to me, maybe this isn’t nice but, well, OK. Just hear me out, but, maybe you don’t need to say anything to Morgan.”
“But, you said . . .”
She bit her lip and tilted her head to the side, opening her big green eyes wide. “I don’t know if I’d put my ring in my Sack about Myself, but . . .”
“Bring Yourself in a Sack,” I corrected.
“OK,” she said. “So maybe you don’t have to shove it in Morgan’s face that you and Zoe have become best friends, but the truth is, you have to do what’s right for you. And do you feel like being best friends with Zoe is better for you?”
“Yes,” I said.
“OK. Then, OK. I keep thinking about how happy you looked last weekend, when Zoe slept over. Hearing you girls whispering in here until I don’t know when, and giggling. You’ve seemed so much more confident and, well, happy this week. You don’t smile when you’re with Morgan.”
I sat up. “I smile.” I’m always defending Morgan to her.
“Uh-huh,” Mom said. She waited for me to keep going, if I wanted to.
I bent over my legs and buried my face between my knees. “It’s just,” I whispered, “Zoe and I understand each other.”
Mom didn’t say anything so I turned to look at her. She was nodding.
“And she’s honest, like, Morgan always has to act tough, like she doesn’t care what her mother thinks or anybody, but like, Zoe—she’s so funny.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Mom said.
I hugged my knees. “She told me about this time her mother took just her out of the five kids in her family to Sesame Street Live once when she was little and bought her an Elmo flashlight even though it was overpriced.”
Mom nodded some more.
“And she still has it,” I whispered. “And sometimes she sleeps with it under her pillow because it feels like her mother giving her attention just specially. You know? I don’t think she ever told anybody but me about it.”
“It’s wonderful that she feels like she can confide in you,” Mom whispered back.
“Exactly. And I feel like I can really talk to her, too.”
“That’s such a powerful bond,” Mom said. “And why shouldn’t you enjoy that? You’re such a nice person, you would never want to purposefully hurt Morgan’s feelings, but you know what? Sometimes a person has to do what’s right for herself.”
“That’s what I think.”
Mom pushed my hair back from my forehead. “And when you do what’s right for yourself, things have a way of working themselves out.”
“Like when you ran away from home?”
Mom looked up at my ceiling, then shook her head slowly. “That was different. It was very hard, believe me.” She took a deep breath and stood up.
I wasn’t quite ready for her to leave, yet. “Tommy didn’t call,” I said.
“I was thinking about that.” She sat back down.
“It doesn’t matter,” I assured her. “I’ll see him in school tomorrow.”
She brought her shoulders up near her ears—her excited expression. When Tommy Levit called to ask me out Friday afternoon, I had barely hung up before I was jumping up and down in the kitchen. My mother ripped off her cow apron to hug me and beg for all the details, listening with her shoulders up near her ears. She let me tell her the whole Tommy conversation three times, and the pork chops burned, but she said, “Who cares, this is much more important.”
“Are you nervous about it?” Mom asked.
I nodded.
“Maybe we can do a French twist in your hair. That always looks especially pretty on you,” she suggested.
Usually I just wear a plain bun. Mom is the one who sometimes wears a French twist and looks especially pretty in it, but I said, “OK,” hoping maybe it would look good on me, too.
“Don’t scream at me,” Mom whispered. “But, Tommy’s the one who kissed Morgan last year, right?”
“Mmm-hmm,” I said.
“Oh,” said Mom without looking at me.
“She doesn’t like him anymore, though,” I explained. “She likes his twin brother, Jonas.”
“Oh, that’s fun,” Mom said. She sounded relieved. She pulled her feet up to sit cross-legged on my bed. “That was a long time ago, anyway, that she kissed Tommy.”
I sat up, too. “It was the day I got chosen to be a bug in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
Mom laughed, covering her mouth with her long, elegant fingers.
“At the time it felt like, so what, kissing. I get my toe shoes spray-painted brown.”
“You stood out.”
“Get kissed, be a bug. Hmm.”
Mom scrunched up her nose. “Which sounds better now?”
“That’s not the . . .” I said, hugging History. “There’s just, a lot—so much—going on right now.”
“There sure is,” she agreed. “Tomorrow’s a big day for you.”
I nodded. She reached over and picked up my ring from the night table and handed it to me. I put it on. “Thanks,” I whispered, looking again at how beautiful, how strong but delicate, my friendship ring is.
Mom pulled my covers up to my chin and tucked them tight around my body and History’s. “It’ll be a good day. It’ll all work out,” she whispered.
“Really?” I asked. “You sure?”
“I have every confidence,” she said, and kissed my forehead.
four
I was up early doing my stretches and finishing my project
. When I took my shower, I used double cream rinse so my hair would slick back smooth. I wanted to look good. I put on my black flared-leg Capezio pants and a gray T-shirt. While Mom was tucking my straggly hairs into a French twist, she told me I looked really cute.
“Really?”
She kissed my forehead. “Really.”
Paul was using the computer, still in his pajamas, so Mom dressed him. I hate that—he’s eight, not two. Make him do something for himself. Anyway, we still got to school early. We always do, because Mom has to be at work. She goes in early so she can get out early to take me to dance.
Morgan was already at school, waiting for me sitting on the wall. She rides her bike.
“Hi!” I said. I tried to shove my ringed hand into my pocket, but my black flared Capezios have no pockets.
“Come up,” Morgan said. “Did he call?”
“Who?” Why didn’t I think of a plan, I asked myself. Mom is so stupid to say it will all work out. How? What does that mean, it will all work out? It doesn’t make any sense. My head was buzzing as I climbed the wall and sat next to Morgan with my book bag on my lap, my hands hidden underneath.
“Who,” Morgan repeated. “As if. Tommy!”
“No,” I said. “He didn’t. Not since Friday, I mean.”
“Don’t worry. When I went out with him last year, he never called me. Did you talk to Zoe?”
“About what?” Panic.
“About Jonas,” she said impatiently.
“Oh,” I said, rubbing the quilted cotton of my book bag like it could bring me luck. “Um, I-I-I, yeah. I did.”
“And?”
“She, I didn’t, she was going to.”
“Oh, dread,” Morgan said, blowing her bangs away from her eyes. “Maybe she’ll ask him on the bus this morning!”
“Yeah,” I said.
She grabbed me on the arms and said, “Eeee!” I almost fell off the wall. “Won’t that be fun?” she asked me. “The four of us? Now if you’d just quit ballet and play soccer like a normal person, we could . . .”
“Morgan!” She’s wanted me to quit since fourth grade, when she had to.
“I know, I know,” she said quickly. We never really talk too much about ballet. As soon as the subject comes up, we can’t even look at each other. It always feels like she’s angry at me, that I didn’t quit then, too. I wonder sometimes how things would be different now if we hadn’t been eavesdropping that afternoon.
“It’s not that I don’t want to play soccer,” I whispered.
“I know. Forget it. Anyway he’s cute, don’t you think?”
“Jonas? Yeah,” I said, trying to keep my book bag balanced on my lap.
“Gawky, but in a cute way. He’s sweeter than Tommy,” Morgan said, blowing her long bangs out of her eyes.
“Tommy’s obnoxious,” I agreed.
“Jonas’s hair, though.”
“What?” I asked.
Morgan bit her bottom lip. “It’s sort of . . .”
“I like curly hair,” I assured her. “And he’s so sweet.”
“Too sweet, you think?” She stared into my eyes. Her eyes are so dark you can’t see the pupils.
“No,” I stuttered. I wiped the sweat off my forehead.
Morgan shrugged. “Anyway, the four of us could have so much fun together, as a foursome. Hey!” Morgan said, grabbing my hand. “You got the ring!”
“What ring?” I asked, even though she had grabbed the only ring I had on, my new friendship ring with Zoe.
“The friendship ring!” she squealed. “This is the one we saw last week, right?”
She had been there when Zoe and I first noticed them. I swallowed. No words were coming out.
“I thought you were waiting for me,” she said in her pouty way. “How much did it cost?”
“Twenty-nine dollars,” I heard myself answering.
“Whoa.” Morgan shook her head. Her long brown hair is straight and shiny, and she was wearing her khaki shorts and black polo shirt, her favorites. It’s her look, that and sandals. Morgan has style, even my mother admits that.
“Um. . . . They have installment,” I mumbled.
She smiled. “That’s true,” she said. “Maybe if I do some chores, my mom will give me money to put down. Do you think she’ll ask him?”
“Who?”
“Zoe!” Morgan said. “Jonas!”
“Oh,” I said. “Um, yeah, probably.”
“Should I pull my hair back?” She stretched the black scrunchie she was wearing on her wrist and shook her hair off her face, to show me the pulled-back option.
“It looks good down,” I told her.
“All right. Thanks.” She smiled at me, crossed her fingers, and touched her tiny turned-up nose. It was our secret sign for being best friends. We had made it up back in fourth grade.
I made the sign back, quickly, then pulled my T-shirt away from my body a few times to give myself some air. It was an awfully hot day, for mid-September.
“Here they are!” Morgan pointed at the bus rumbling into the circle. It had a big letter B on it, so I knew who was inside. “Do I look OK?” Morgan asked. “Be honest.” She gritted her teeth so I could inspect them. She has a terror of something being caught between her teeth—she brushes at least three times every day, with plain baking soda sometimes, which made me gag when I tried it at her house. Morgan told me, “Stick with it, you can get used to anything.”
“You look great,” I said. “You could do a toothpaste commercial.”
She shoved me lightly. Then we both turned to watch the B bus’s door creak open. She blew at her bangs again, then shook her hair back from her face. It looked very cool, how she did that.
A few sixth graders got off the bus first, then Jonas and Tommy Levit. Jonas looked over at us and smiled, but Tommy headed straight for the upper playground where some boys were playing Cream the Carrier. He has the straightest eyebrows, I noticed. They make him look so serious and intense.
“Jonas really does walk like a chicken,” Morgan whispered. “Doesn’t he?”
“Tommy’s high-tops are untied,” I said.
Morgan flicked her hair back again and whispered, “We’re so bad.”
Another couple of kids got off. Maybe Zoe will be absent, I thought and wished. I had found ten items this morning besides my ring for my Bring Yourself in a Sack. I could just avoid the whole thing, and Mom would end up being right—it would all work out.
Just as I was praying that, though, Zoe stepped off the bus. I saw her look around for us, her dirty-blond hair tucked behind her ears, her oversize T-shirt hanging loosely down over her jeans.
“Hey!” Zoe yelled when she spotted us. She waved, and I saw that her friendship ring was right there on her finger.
I jumped down and said “Hi!” I crossed my arms over my chest, hoping Zoe would do the same, but instead she was actually playing with her ring—wiggling it around with her thumb looped under her two middle fingers to get at it. The boys on the upper playground could notice that ring.
Morgan jumped down and stood next to us.
“So,” I said quickly to Zoe. “Did you say anything to Jonas?”
“Like what?” she asked. She hiked her backpack up on her shoulder and played with her ring again. “I mean, they’re at my bus stop.” Her hand looked huge to me; I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
“No,” I said, smiling at her and leaning in close. “About Morgan.”
Zoe looked at Morgan, so I did, too. She was staring at her perfectly turned-out feet in their clunky sandals. Morgan wears sandals until November.
“Oh,” Zoe said. “Not yet. But listen, Morgan, my sister said yes, you can have her old cleats for soccer. Size five, right?”
“Yeah,” Morgan mumbled, without looking up. My stomach lurched.
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The bell to go in rang.
“I’ll bring them in tomorrow,” Zoe told her.
Morgan shrugged. I tried to think of what to do. She saw it, obviously. She saw Zoe’s ring, and I was stuck there between them, unable to disappear.
Zoe shrugged at me.
I had to say something, so I asked Zoe, “You’ll ask Jonas?” My voice sounded cracky and far away.
Zoe tilted her head and said, “Sure.”
“Don’t,” Morgan said.
“What?” Zoe asked. “You changed your mind already?” She smiled at me and then at Morgan and then back at me. She has the friendliest smile—you can see her molars; it makes you have to smile back.
Kids were passing us going in to school. “You coming?” Olivia Pogostin asked us.
I nodded and looked up at my book bag on the wall, next to Morgan’s. “Zoe?” I asked. “Could you grab mine and Morgan’s bags? We’re too short.” Morgan and I used to share a chair at each other’s kitchen tables, and her mother would say look at the Tinies! A little pair of Tinies! It was a sort of thing with us, being little. I wanted to show her we’re still friends.
Morgan didn’t smile back. She glanced at Zoe, then grabbed her own bag. I guess she’s grown a lot since last year. “I can get my own,” she said.
Zoe pulled my bag down and, handing it to me, said, “I’ll try to talk to Jonas today.”
“No,” Morgan said. “I hate him. He walks like a chicken. Ew.” She walked fast into school, yelling, “Hey, Olivia—wait up!” Zoe and I shrugged at each other and followed her in. My legs felt like two hundred pounds each.
five
Permission slips for apple picking were handed out in homeroom. “Yes!” Lou Hochstetter said when he got his. “Apple picking!”
“Ah,” said Ms. Cress. “Something excites Lou besides World War Two artillery?”
“I like other stuff,” Lou protested. “I like, um . . .”
“Yes?” asked Ms. Cress. She’s always about to laugh, which I think is unusual for a math/science teacher. But she’s also really young, like twenty-something, and she wears short skirts with boots—except when she’s coaching the girls’ soccer team, when she wears sneakers, short-shorts, and T-shirts. All the boys come to soccer games at least partly because they’re all in love with her. It would be typical of Lou to say, “I like you!”