Bad Best Friend

by Rachel Vail

  “But you are smart.”

  “I just need a break,” Ava said. “I don’t want to probe how I feel about my dad being older and having kids from his first marriage, and my values, how they’re like my mom’s or different, how I’m like her or not like her, what I think about God and history and how I want to make an impact on the world.”

  So it wasn’t just that she wanted to hang with the more popular crowd. It was also that she specifically did NOT want to hang with me.

  “I just . . .” She did that hair tuck thing again. “Sometimes I want to be shallow and talk about fashion, and paint colors, and eyebrows.”

  “You want to talk about eyebrows?”

  “See?”

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said. “I’m happy to talk about eyebrows, if you want.”

  “Niki.”

  “So, eyebrows,” I said, hating the desperation in my voice, trying to make it sound jokey, fun. “What is even the deal with eyebrows? Right? Just a random extra stripe of hair across your face, who invented that?”

  Ava smiled sadly. “Niki. You’re the best person I know. But you know I’m right. Maybe we just need a break from each other. Okay?”

  “What does that even mean, a break?”

  “Just, let’s not hang out so much for a while, see how that, how we . . . independence. You know? I have to figure out who I am as a person, not just as Niki’s best friend.”

  I didn’t really have an answer to that. All my words seemed wrong. I just listened to the waves lapping up around me.

  “Aren’t your feet freezing off?”

  I shrugged. “We’ll ignore each other?”

  “Not ignore,” Ava said. “Niki, I said . . .”

  “Right. Just, like, does it include hanging out after school? Or no hanging out but you can text whenever, or only text in an emergency?”

  “Niki.”

  “I just want to know what are the parameters of—”

  “OMG, Niki, the parameters?”

  “I don’t want to mess it all up with my immaturity and wholesomeness, which is apparently what I do.”

  “Niki,” Ava said, gently. “When I’m with you, you’re like, you’re the one person in the world who always sees right through me. The only one who loves me despite knowing all my hideousness.”

  “You’re saying that and it sounds like a compliment.”

  “It is!” she yelled. “It so is. I know you’re the best friend I could ever have, and I don’t deserve you, and . . . don’t you get it?”

  “No,” I said. “Ava, I really don’t.”

  “I need to not be the bad best friend for a minute.”

  “You’re not!” Had I ever said she was bad? “I never said one thing about—”

  “I need to be not judged. I need to not have to be honest, or creative, or wholesome every single minute. I just need to be not, not reliant on you, the way I am, I always am. I want to see how it feels, who I am, when I hang out with . . .”

  “With the Squad.”

  “Yeah.”

  I poured my tea into the water. It warmed up the whole ocean.

  Just kidding. The warmth didn’t even reach my toes, right beneath it.

  “Sure,” I said. “Have fun.”

  “You wanted to know the truth, Niki. And I always want to be honest with you, especially with you.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Fine, whatever. If you need a towel before you go, you know where they are. I gotta go.”

  “But, Ava!” I didn’t have an argument, I just wanted her to stop. “Can’t we . . .”

  She kept walking up the hill and into her house.

  After a few minutes I put my mug down on the patio table. I walked around front to get my scooter. I realized as I cut through the Japanese rock garden beside their hot tub that my sneakers were down on the grass, but I didn’t feel like going back to get them. Let Ava look out her window and see them out there. If that’s so drama? So be it.

  I scooted home barefoot.

  It was . . . not as painful as my insides felt.

  12

  AFTER DINNER I told Mom I had to ask her something. She loves that.

  I know if I told her everything about what was going on with Ava, she’d be concerned but also proud. She knows Ava is fragile, that she’s sometimes hard on me—but she’s proud that I have high EQ, empathy, that I’m mature beyond my years. It’s why she can count on me to help with Danny, too, when he’s having a meltdown. She and Dad think I am “really gifted” in dealing with him. I know other kids my age don’t have to help their brothers or sisters with homework or tell them how to not be annoying, but they also don’t get as much trust and respect from their parents as I get. Maybe it’s thanks to Danny that I am able to be patient and empathic to Ava. Maybe I’ll be a psychologist when I grow up, or a senator. I’m good at listening to people and finding solutions.

  But even though it was the only thing on my mind, I didn’t want to talk about the Ava situation with Mom. Instead I said, “Can we talk about eyebrows?”

  “Yes,” Mom said. “I was thinking we should.”

  “You were?” Is everybody thinking about eyebrows except me?

  She brought me to her bathroom and took out her tweezers. Just a little shaping, she said, and yanked out, like, a thousand hairs that were trying their best to stay firmly anchored to my face, while I sat on the closed toilet and complained. She laughed and pressed a cool washcloth on my on-fire forehead when it got too intense, saying It hurts to be beautiful and Almost done, almost done.

  “Do you hate me?” I asked her.

  PLUCK!

  “I love you, silly!” PLUCK. “Look how pretty!”

  She showed me my face in the mirror when she was done. It just looked like me, but blotchier.

  “So much better, right?” she asked.

  “I’m thinking of maybe starting to wear mascara,” I told her.

  She smiled, a little misty-eyed.

  “What?”

  “My baby’s growing up,” she said.

  Not enough, apparently, I thought but didn’t say.

  “I’ll buy you some tomorrow,” she said. “You should try the hypoallergenic stuff, in case you’re sensitive.”

  “In case?” I said.

  She laughed. “My sweet, sensitive girl.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks.” Though my plan was to wear it to school tomorrow. Or to get in a fight with her, where I could say, I am thirteen, not nine! You have to stop treating me like such a baby! You have to let me grow up and wear mascara and discuss eyebrows!

  But it was all okay with her.

  She plucked a stray hair from between her eyebrows, leaning close to the mirror, and said, “I haven’t gotten a single response for Danny’s birthday party, and Sunday’s right around the corner. I’m so stressed.”

  “Maybe people are just bad at responding,” I said.

  “I hope that’s it,” she said. “Poor Danny. I want to make this fun for him, make him feel special.”

  I nodded.

  “Maybe you should invite a couple of your friends to come, Niki, so it feels more like a party. You know? Your friends are so lively. And fun. They’re like my friends when I was your age, always giggling. And they could help out! I could pay them, if you think, like, as party assistants. My friends and I once made such a . . .”

  “No,” I said quickly. I did not want to get into her social successes or my own social problems. “I think that might feel like showing off, to Danny, if my friends are at his party.”

  “You’re right, you’re right,” Mom said. “Of course. You’re so wise. So much wiser than I was at your age. Or still!”

  I shrugged. “You just had you and Auntie Bay, who was as popular as you, so you didn’t have to think about .
. .”

  “Oh, Auntie Bay was much more popular than I ever was.”

  “Whoever shows up for Danny’s party, that’ll be fine,” I assured her. “I don’t think Danny cares how many people come.”

  Mom nodded. She loves throwing parties. “I got so many cute things for it,” she said. “Maybe you’ll look it all over, give me your opinion.”

  “I should get my homework done,” I said, getting up. “So, in a bit, okay?”

  “Sure! You’re so responsible.” She kissed my head.

  As I left, Mom called after me, “Would you do me a favor, if you . . .”

  “What?” I asked, though I knew.

  “Just, if you have a chance—see how Danny is doing on his book report? It’s so hard for him, and you’re the only one who—”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “You’re the finest kind, Niki!”

  “You’re welcome,” I answered.

  I went to Danny’s door. He was watching something on his computer. I watched him, sitting there all glassy-eyed, then slipped into my room instead of helping him. I just needed a few minutes first. Fumble followed me and jumped onto my bed when I sat down. I floofed his ears and asked him how he thought my eyebrows looked. He wagged his tail, which I took as his opinion that they were okay. He had as much to say about them as I did, after that, apparently.

  I was reading on my bed when Mom passed my door. Guess I was too slow.

  I could hear Mom’s sweet voice, trying to talk Danny into starting his homework. Joking, sweet-talking, bargaining:

  Read for ten minutes

  Read it to me while I make you a snack in the kitchen

  Hey, how about if you see if you can get a title and first sentence done before the timer buzzes? You always used to love racing the timer

  You’ll feel better if you get some done and then you can take a break and watch one of your shows

  Why is this throw pillow in here, Danny, you know that belongs on the couch and I like to keep it nice

  I was trying not to listen but it was hard.

  No, Danny, I know you think you can work and watch at the same time but

  I scratched Fumble’s head. He was on alert, facing my door. Me too.

  Try half a page, how would that be

  Danny, are you listening, because I need

  Please don’t crumple that throw pillow, Danny, that’s a nice

  Fumble cocked his head, listening intently. More intently than Danny, clearly.

  “Really?” I whispered to Fumble. “You know exactly what’s gonna happen.”

  Fumble bobbled his head.

  “Fair point,” I agreed. “There’s that. The one question.”

  The one slight element of suspense: Will it end quietly, with Mom basically doing Danny’s homework for him? Or in a tornado, with Danny screaming and throwing all his stuff?

  Fumble and I looked into each other’s eyes. “I should’ve gone in there to help him,” I whispered.

  Fumble whined his agreement.

  “I know. I suck. Selfish,” I whispered. “Okay. What’s your bet? Fight or no fight?”

  Fumble, as a dog-only speaker, didn’t answer.

  “I’ll take the deluxe blowout fight,” I said. “You take peace process. Bet?”

  I held out my hand. Fumble put his paw in it and we shook.

  We faced the door and waited, listening.

  Mom was still in there, cajoling, softly. Danny was grunting but nothing had slammed into a wall yet. Fumble was looking all smug, but I was like, Just wait.

  Because that’s how this dance goes, Fumble and I both knew.

  Stuff could still start flying; Danny could start yelling, NO NO NO!

  That burst, when it comes, always sends Mom stomping out of Danny’s room to go vent to Dad, who then charges into Danny’s room and bellows at him: YOU WILL NOT TREAT YOUR MOTHER LIKE THAT, DON’T YOU DARE! PICK THIS UP! I AM WARNING YOU, DANNY, YOU BETTER . . . and around that point Mom goes flying past my door back into Danny’s room to get Dad to Stop, calm down, let’s not blow this out of proportion, Jake . . .

  . . . and then Dad, confused and undermined, tromps out. Leaving then-sobbing Danny to be comforted by Mom.

  We have that whole dance down solid. We could win with that dance on one of Danny’s favorite competition shows.

  My part is to sit on my bed and watch. I am the audience. Me and Fumble.

  We waited.

  Silence.

  Silence.

  Moment of it could go either way and . . .

  No crash.

  “Okay? Let’s just try it, okay?” Mom said.

  No response.

  “You can put your head on the throw pillow,” she said. “And then after, we’ll put it back on the couch nicely where it belongs, okay? For now it can be a special listening pillow.”

  When Mom started reading Danny’s book out loud to him, I shook Fumble’s paw again. “You win,” I whispered to him. “Phew.”

  At least everything was calm.

  Clam.

  In first grade, all the kids in Snug Island Primary School make posters with their personal mottos. I remember Holly invited me over to make our posters together. She and I both made ours say GOOD BETTER BEST, NEVER LET IT REST, which is a thing my mom always says and Holly thought was so cool, at the time. We drew huge trophies, then meticulously filled in the shape with glue and then added gold glitter on it. We did it in her cellar. They had a whole art corner down there, full of supplies. It took us hours. Her family is very into projects, and they don’t mind messes.

  When it was his turn to do the project, Danny drew a circle with black marker on grayish construction paper. Inside the circle, he put two dots for eyes, and a straight-across line for a mouth. No nose or ears or hair. Underneath the blank-looking face, Danny had written in his mixed-case writing, bE CLaM.

  Be clam? Dad asked him.

  Calm! Danny yelled. That is how you spell calm! The L is silent!

  My parents and I all made eye contact and held down our smiles. I felt in on the grown-up job of protecting Danny from the truth. And on getting how cute it was, his misspelling, his intensity about it. I loved that feeling, being on the grown-up team.

  Be clam, Dad sometimes whispers to Mom or me, when tensions flare.

  Mom thought it was so awesome, she had the picture framed. It’s in the family room, as if BE CLAM is our family motto. Or maybe our family aspiration.

  Mine is probably somewhere, in the cellar or whatever. Chunks of the glitter fell off on the way to school, so it was honestly garbage even that day.

  I picked up my phone. Ava always complains about her mom to me. When I complain about mine to her, she’s always like, Oh, Niki, your mom is so easy on you, you have no idea. But I thought, Ooo, I could tell her about my mom and how she’s babying Danny, how mad it makes me feel.

  But Ava didn’t want me to text her. If I did, maybe she’d say that my mom babies me, too, and that’s why I’m too babyish for her now.

  I decided to text Holly. Why not.

  Good better best, I texted her.

  Sent it.

  She could ignore it if she wanted or if she thought it was weird/random.

  No response.

  Why do I ever text anybody?

  Maybe Holly is busy with her actual friends, Nadine and Beth. Maybe they were all looking at that text from me at that moment, like, What??? I took out my eraser, useless for deleting texts. Or myself.

  A knock on my door made me jump.

  “Come in,” I said.

  “How’s it going?” Mom asked, in my doorway.

  “Good,” I said. “Homework.”

  She smiled without showing teeth, a sad smile.

  “Sorry I didn’t help him with his ho
mework yet. I just had to—”

  “It’s okay,” Mom said. “Everything good with you?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said, rubbing my eraser with my thumb.

  “Okay,” she said. “Your feet are filthy, sweetheart. Maybe take a shower before bed?”

  I nodded quickly, trying to come up with an excuse for why my feet got filthy, and where my sneakers were. But she didn’t ask. She just sighed and left.

  My phone buzzed. It was Holly. I opened it, more eager than I wanted to be.

  Never let it rest!

  I don’t know why that felt like air in my lungs but wow did it.

  I hearted it, then turned off my phone. I didn’t want to spend the rest of the night actively not-texting Ava. Let this response be enough, I decided.

  When I heard Mom talking downstairs with Dad, I tiptoed back into her bathroom and found an old mascara, which I slipped into my pocket before I went to check on my brother, and knuckle him through the rest of his homework as usual.

  The stolen mascara felt dangerous and heavy against my thigh the whole time.

  13

  MY VISION HAS always been perfect.

  I could be a fighter pilot.

  First test I ever flat-out flunked: the vision test at school today.

  We had to go during fifth period before we were allowed to eat lunch. Ava and Britney were behind me in line to get tested. They groaned when the nurse kept asking me to try again.

  “I think there’s an eyelash smooshed into my eye,” I said.

  “Both eyes?” the nurse asked.

  I leaned closer to her. “I’m wearing mascara,” I confided.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she answered.

  “I might have allergies,” I whispered. “To mascara. It could be. My mom thought I might. It’s my first day wearing it.”

  Ava was rolling her eyes up to the ceiling.

  “I don’t think that’s the problem,” the nurse whispered back.

  “I should go,” I begged her. “I’m fine; I can see everything. I can see around corners.”

  “We have to alert your parents,” she said.

  “Alert my parents?” I asked. “About the mascara?”