Best Friends Through Eternity

by Sylvia McNicoll

  I pull my hand from Mom’s. “It would have helped me.”

  “We didn’t do the right thing, then. I’m sorry.” Dad stares down at the mushrooms as if they were responsible. “We were just a mess.”

  “We intended to tell you. Someday. Once we got our own heads around it.” Mom shrugs. “And then too much time passed.”

  It explains a lot.

  “I’m sorry, too,” she says softly.

  “I get it.” And I do understand, but somehow I still feel lied to and cheated.

  “Seriously, is your stomach okay?” Dad asks. “Why don’t we go to the walk-in clinic, just in case?”

  “I’m fine.” I try to smile but can’t.

  He hands Mom a cup of tea, giving me a sideways glance. Then he goes back to his chopping. I can smell onions frying and see a stack of white cubes piling up. Dad is making my favorite—tofu stroganoff. He puts a large pot of water on to boil for the egg noodles.

  Mom asks me about my day as we wait for supper and try to act normal.

  I tell her about Cameron and Vanessa breaking up. She only knows them vaguely from hearing about them and seeing them at school occasionally. But I tell her again how good-looking Cameron is and how all the girls like him. “Mom, he flirted with me, but he instantly made a move on Jasmine.”

  “You’re all so young. Maybe he’s attracted to both of you. He can’t help that.”

  Dad begins serving supper. On Mom’s plate, the stroganoff over the noodles looks creamy delicious.

  He delivers my plate. On mine, the steaming rice is plain and white.

  “Aw, come on, Dad. I haven’t been to the bathroom since I came home. Can’t I have some stroganoff?”

  “Absolutely not. You have to rest your digestive system.”

  “You can have leftovers tomorrow for lunch,” Mom says, touching my wrist.

  “Great.” I taste my rice. Bland as its color, as my life has been. “You know that Jazz can only spend lunch hours with Cameron? And I have to pretend she’s volunteering at the library with me or she’ll get in trouble with her folks.”

  “Don’t they like Cameron?”

  I swallow my dry rice. “They don’t know him. It’s just, he’s a Westerner, and Jazz thinks they’re shopping for a husband from India for her already.”

  “If Cameron is such a Casanova and goes along with her deceit, maybe he’s not such a prize. Jasmine might be better off with a boyfriend her parents select.”

  Dad comes back on a statistic about divorces, and we have a discussion on romantic versus arranged marriages.

  We had this same discussion last time, except, a few days later, there was a news story on Indian women who had been duped into marrying guys who were only after their dowries. Their families arranged those marriages.

  After the revelation on Kim’s death, it turns into a cozy evening, apart from the dry rice supper, and it’s only afterward when I am on the computer looking up something for my history homework that I remember that Kim’s parents had asked for donations to the Kidney Foundation. What does that have to do with E. coli?

  RETAKE:

  Tuesday Morning

  Next morning Jazz knocks at our door, something that didn’t happen last time. “Sorry I’m here early.” She walks in, breathless. “I just couldn’t stay at home a minute longer. My parents were talking about my grandmother finding a suitable boy for me.”

  “But they don’t even know about Cameron.” How have I changed fate? I wonder. The last time I lived through Monday, I didn’t eat the stupid hamburger and fries, wasn’t sick, ate a good supper. Oh man, then I got up, had cereal on my own and headed out early. I met her at her house, and we left right away. This morning, Mom insisted on taking my temperature, quizzing me on my bathroom episodes and serving me a digestion-friendly breakfast. “Why would your parents want a husband for you now?”

  “I’m turning fifteen in February. They say I don’t have to get married right away. I can get engaged and still finish school.”

  “What about college? Can’t you stall them at least? Tell them you need to concentrate on school.”

  “I’m not allowed to have an opinion at my house. They think I’m becoming rebellious. That’s exactly why my uncle took my cousin Beena to India last year. I just had to get out of there, or I was going to blow it.”

  I frown, then point to the kitchen. “Want some breakfast? Granola with chia seeds? It will keep you regular.” I raise my non-eyebrows at her.

  “Is that what you had?”

  “Nah. I had organic goat yogurt. I have to be gentle to my intestines. On account of my burger and fries yesterday.”

  Jazz chuckles at that one. “Thanks, I’m good. I ate a breakfast bar.” It felt nice to distract her for a moment, but now her brow wrinkles. A dark ridge forms between her eyebrows.

  “I’m sorry.” I hesitate. “Do you want to talk to Mom or Dad about the India thing?”

  “No. They can’t do anything.”

  I shrug. “Maybe they can call Children’s Aid.”

  “And Children’s Aid will take me away from my family. How can I turn my back on them? Live with strangers. Oh!” She stops then and covers her mouth. “Sorry.”

  “No worries. It’s different for me. I never knew my birth family.”

  “Didn’t you ever want to find out about your real parents?” Jazz asks.

  “Mom and Dad are real. They’re enough. I don’t need more.” It’s what our adoptive parents wanted us to think, we knew that instinctively, but of course both Kim and I always wondered, Is my mom pretty? Is my dad strong? We dug that hole to China all the time. Mom never liked it when we did.

  “Let’s just go.” Jasmine hands me my coat from the closet.

  I slip it on, step into my boots and grab my backpack. We walk side by side without saying anything for a while. I won’t even try talking Jasmine out of seeing Cameron. Right now I have to agree that he is her last chance for real love. How sad is that?

  “So you’re going to visit your grandparents and cousins and aunts and uncles.” I try to put a different spin on her trip away. “It must be great to know your whole family history like that.”

  We’re nearing the schoolyard, the last block.

  “You could try to trace your family, too, you know. I’ve heard your mom say anytime you want to go back to China, she would take you.”

  “Yeah, but …” I stop. Jazz’s whole face begins to emit a glow. Her mouth stretches into a smile that almost reaches her ears.

  From the blacktop, Cameron waves.

  “You wave, too, in case anyone’s watching,” she says under her breath. “We’re keeping us a secret till we’re more sure.”

  In case Cameron wants to go back to the witch. I wave and grin just as broadly as Jasmine. A group of guys stand around Cameron. Are they bad-mouthing his ex, just the way the girls are Cameron?

  We head straight in to our lockers.

  At the other end of the hall, I notice a few of the second-string volleyball team—Gwyn, Emma and Zoe. They’re talking in low voices. Gwyn looks our way and gives us a hard stare.

  “Looks like your relationship’s not that big a secret,” I warn Jazz.

  She smiles sweetly. “Hi, Gwyn. Heard you played a great game last Friday.” M.M. Robinson won 34–28. Nothing unusual about that; they always win.

  “Thanks,” she sneers. How does Jazz know how Gwyn played? We weren’t at the game.

  The bell rings and I head to English class homeroom, which, my luck, I share with Emma, Gwyn and Vanessa. This is the day Mrs. Corbin decides to start our Shakespeare study for the year, and ironically the play she chooses is Romeo and Juliet.

  She starts by showing us a list of famous quotations used in everyday life that come from the play. The line appears on the screen at the front with a page number, and she calls on various people to read out the passage the quote comes from.

  The lines are interesting, but some of the kids stumble over the passages an
d that gets boring. Emma nudges me in the back and gives me a folded piece of paper. “Pass this to Vanessa,” she whispers. “Don’t look at it.”

  I turn around quickly. I don’t want to pass their silly note. Why can’t they just text each other like usual? But last class, Mrs. Corbin confiscated Emma’s phone. Guess she learned her lesson. And because I didn’t say no immediately, the paper now hangs between my thumb and forefinger. I listen as Gwyn reads the passage where Juliet asks about what is in a name and wince. Where was she back in grade four when we were taught about expressive reading?

  Emma pokes me in the back, hard. “Ow,” I call out.

  “What’s that note in your hand?” Mrs. Corbin asks.

  “I … I don’t know,” I answer, dropping it to the desk like it’s on fire. I sound like all those other stupid girls and hate myself for it.

  “Open it up and read it to the class, then,” Mrs. Corbin says.

  I scrunch up my mouth and unfold the paper, once, twice and three times, slowly, delaying to try to think of some way out of this. It’s too big a paper to chew and swallow. I curse Emma in the long moments, as nothing comes to me. I read the note to myself first.

  Vanessa,

  Can you believe it? Cameron’s going out with Banana. We saw him make goo-goo eyes at her this morning.

  Emma

  What! They think I’m going out with Cameron! Of course, it makes sense since he winked and blew a kiss at me in class yesterday. And we waved at each other this morning. Hadn’t I hoped I was the one he was calling on Monday?

  “We’re waiting, Paige,” Mrs. Corbin says, arms folded across her chest.

  “It’s not appropriate to read out loud,” I say in desperation.

  But it works.

  “Very well. You may throw it in the wastepaper basket. Since you all like writing notes so much, you’ll be happy to know your assignment is to read the first act of Romeo and Juliet and summarize it in one page. It is to be turned in tomorrow. You can start on that now.”

  There are groans, but I feel my skin cool to its normal temperature. A temporary reprieve. Vanessa will find out between the next classes about me being Cameron’s supposed chosen one.

  I’ll be the one the volleyball team will want to beat up.

  “Way to go, Banana,” Emma says as she jabs me in the back again, hard.

  I bite down on my tongue so as not to cry out. This will be a different way to stand up for Jazz. I will stand in for her instead.

  We read till the end of the period. Why do Romeo and Juliet fall for each other, anyway? And how so quickly and deeply? Why can’t they just settle for a nice cousin their parents choose for them?

  Poor Jasmine. I rush out when the period ends and catch up with her on our way to math. “They think I’m going out with Cameron,” I whisper.

  “Seriously?” She sounds too shocked.

  I feel like pinching her.

  But she hugs me instead. “This is great. He can play along with that, and we’ll make sure my parents never know.”

  “It’s perfect, all right.” I hug her back. This is why I’m here, after all, to stand up for her against these bullies. If I’m the victim, fine. It’s a way better reason to go into a coma. But another thought occurs to me. Only some events from before are re-occurring and some new things are happening. An altered destiny. Is it possible to alter destiny just a little more?

  At lunchtime I leave my thermos of stroganoff in the locker and suggest to Max that we eat at the mall with Cameron and Jazz.

  “Sure. We can have the three-side special at Wong’s.”

  “I hate Chinese,” I say, but then reconsider. “Does it have any monosodium glutamate in it?”

  “Oh plenty. Makes it taste good.” He grins.

  “All right, then.” Everyone knows food-court Chinese isn’t authentic, not like they serve dog or cat or even shark-fin soup. It resembles real Chinese about as much as Mickey Mouse does a real rodent. There is no reason to avoid it. We stroll off the school grounds, my arm linked through Cameron’s. I have to admit, that feels good. He is definitely taller than both Jazz and me, and he has broad shoulders and muscled athlete’s arms.

  Max walks on Cameron’s side and Jasmine on mine. If her mother drives by right now, she might even call my mother to warn her about me going out with Cameron. Jasmine and Max look like they’re just chumming along. But no parents see us. Only the volleyball team.

  I notice them huddled at the far end of the football field on the other side of the fence, watching us and puffing. Not from the cold, either. I can’t believe a bunch of jocks would do that to their bodies. They’re smoking.

  I lean into Cameron just to make it look really good, and we keep walking.

  In the mall, too, we continue along with Cameron and me attached to each other. I realize this playacting is my last chance at any kind of romance, too. But when we sit down at a table in the food court, boys across from girls, Jazz and Cameron don’t have to touch. The energy between them hums and pulses, a growing live thing. Our playacting has nothing to do with love.

  They share a plate of bo-bo balls, and Max helps me order my sides. I discover spareribs in garlic honey sauce aren’t half bad. Too bad a pig has to die for them. The fried rice and the Cantonese chow mein are delicious. Little bits of animal flesh in that, too. This can’t be the way my bio parents eat. Dad once told me they were poor, starving even, and they definitely couldn’t afford meat.

  Kim is right about a lot of things. I was so angry before and never realized it. This time through, it’s as if my fists are unclenching. And when I stop feeling so much hatred toward my bio parents, I begin to feel curious.

  Pretending to be Cameron’s girlfriend feels pretty good, too, better than being linked to Max, the school geek. That is, until gym class.

  Because of a presentation in the gym, the volleyball nets have been taken down. They need to be set up again. Mrs. Brown sends a couple of the girls from the volleyball team to get the poles and me and Zoe for the net. I should be safe with the teacher watching.

  But as Rebecca and Gwyn join to lift the first pole from the storage room, I can’t get out of their way fast enough. They back out and “accidentally” swing it so hard that I trip over it, face-planting on the laminate floor.

  “Oh no! Sorry! Paige, are you all right!” Emma sounds like she really means it.

  Gwyn actually cries. The class gathers round in a concerned circle. No one but Mrs. Brown is fooled. The message is clear: Mess with Van and your legs get smashed.

  Mrs. Brown feels along my left shinbone, then my right. “Where does it hurt?” she asks.

  “I don’t feel anything,” I answer, but I can see the welt across the front of my legs deepen in color.

  “We should call your parents,” Mrs. Brown says.

  “No, no!” They will take me to Emergency; they will fuss. I’ll miss days of my life at home with my legs up.

  “Let’s see if you can stand, then.”

  I refuse Emma’s hand and gather myself up slowly. If I keep my weight on my heels, I’ll be fine.

  “Gwyn, go get some ice from the office,” Mrs. Brown commands.

  I sit out the rest of the period on the bench, legs stretched in front of me with ice packs on my shins. I count myself lucky. If I hadn’t tripped, I might have been in double casts.

  RETAKE:

  Tuesday Afternoon

  By the end of the day, my legs throb and I can’t walk at a normal pace. All chance of hiding the incident from Jazz fails. “They bashed me with the volleyball poles,” I tell her as I limp off the school grounds with her.

  Jazz nods. “Rebecca passed me a note in history. It said I better tell my friend Banana to keep her hands off what doesn’t belong to her. Or more than just her legs will hurt.” Jazz throws her arms around me and hugs desperately. “I’m sorry. I never thought they would do anything like this.”

  “I did.” I shrug. “Some bruises, not a big deal. This guy means s
omething to you, right?” Over Jazz’s shoulders I suddenly spot Vanessa heading for a low, black sports car parked on the street.

  A woman with bright red hair stands near it, smoking. Her jeans are a slim fit, and she wears thigh-high black boots with laces and a poofy white sleeveless jacket over a red sweater. The tires on the car look as fat as her lips. Her eyes squint hard against the smoke from the cigarette, the hardness a family trait. She has to be Vanessa’s mother.

  Wow. Imagine having a mom who actually fits and looks at home in the boutique styles. Mine wears jean dresses designed to hide her body, and her silver hair always parts in the middle no matter what kind of style the salon tries on her—my adoptive mom, anyway. Who knows what my real mother wears.

  As Vanessa draws closer, her mother grabs her by the shoulders and shakes her, carping at her all the while about taking cigarettes from her purse. Vanessa must answer her back, and the woman winds up and slaps her.

  Vanessa’s face sets into stone, even as a hand mark reddens on her cheek. The woman shoves her toward the car, and Vanessa scrambles in. The driver’s door slams and bright orange sparks hit the road as the car pulls away.

  Maybe there are advantages to not looking like your mother. No one ever guesses Mom and I are related. Mom’s pink skin sunburns too easily, and beneath her jet black eyebrows, her faded blue eyes are rounder than my brown ones. But when Mom looks at me, her eyes are as gentle as her voice, even when she’s tired or annoyed. I wonder if my birth mother could be as patient. Would poverty make her as mean as Vanessa’s mom?

  In a split second, a window has opened to Vanessa’s life away from school. Something in that view tells me she needs Cameron just as much as Jazz.

  “He’s never going to go out with her again,” Jazz tells me, as though she knows what I’m thinking. “He’s told me that over and over. Whether my parents send me to India or those girls toss me into a ditch, Vanessa will not get him back.”

  Toss her in the ditch, I hope not. “Maybe you’re right,” I say. Something suddenly becomes as clear to me as that split-second window into Vanessa’s life. “For her, it’s not about getting him back, it’s about getting even.”