Bad Best Friend

by Rachel Vail

  I buckled my seat belt and sank down low. “I thought Mom was taking me. Later.”

  “She had a . . . Danny, Danny has a, had . . . Mom is meeting with Ms. Chambers. The principal. Right now she’s there with Danny, and she might be hung up for a while, so, well, you’re stuck with me!”

  “I know who Ms. Chambers is.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Okay.” He started driving.

  After a minute, as I was considering turning on the radio, Dad cleared his throat. “If you could launch yourself out into space,” Dad said, “you’d see that the earth is a fragile blue marble spinning ceaselessly in the silent sky.”

  “Um,” I said. “Sure.”

  “What I’m saying is, perspective.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  “Things might feel like a big deal. Problems, at work or at school, or, like, with your body, or friends . . .”

  My father and I, I realized, did not often have conversations all alone, just the two of us. Usually Mom or Danny would be there too, and they would be the topic, or the leaders of the direction at least.

  “It makes everybody feel small and insignificant, catching sight of the earth from space,” Dad said. “Have you been to the planetarium?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “The seventh-grade trip to the planetarium in Portland last spring?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  I shrugged.

  “Did you feel that, when you went? Perspective?”

  “I felt nauseated on the bus,” I said. “Does that count?”

  He smirked.

  “For a couple of days afterward, I thought about maybe becoming an astronaut.”

  He nodded. He didn’t say, You’d be a great astronaut; you should follow that dream if you’re really interested, the way Mom would’ve, or What a doofus, the way Ava would’ve. Or, I got the highest ever score on my hearing test or some other unrelated news about himself, like Danny would’ve. He just drove on, so then I felt dumb for derailing his point about perspective.

  “I know what you mean, though,” I said. “About putting our own issues into perspective, by thinking about the universe.”

  He checked the rearview. “Well, that’s good. Perspective is important. Keeps a person from getting bogged down in the small stuff.”

  “The thing is, though, Dad? The day of the planetarium trip, the one thing I was stressed about was if Ava was mad at me, because she was giving me the silent treatment.”

  “The silent vastness of space didn’t make as huge an impression?”

  “We don’t live out in space. We live here.”

  “Yup.”

  “We’re just, here. Stuck to our tiny patch of earth, sucked down by gravity and other people.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I guess. But my point is, perspective.”

  “You’re worried about Danny.”

  He took a long minute before he nodded.

  “He’ll be okay,” I said.

  He let out a deep breath, but didn’t say any words.

  “I mean, I think, I think it’s a good thing, the testing,” I said.

  “You know about that?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Mom said something? Or, did Danny talk to you about . . .”

  “No,” I said. Whoops. “He hasn’t. I just, I think it’s good. Maybe there’s something that’ll be helpful to him.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Dad said.

  “I know.”

  “Your mom thinks anything they find could be a stigma against your brother, a thing he, we, all of us, have to then, you know, wear around our, like a sign on our foreheads, if anything is wrong with him, and . . .”

  I searched for something to say to reassure him, but the truth is, it felt kind of good to actually talk about what was happening. A relief. I didn’t want to make it go fakely away with a smile and a quick cleanup.

  “And you’re scared they’ll find something wrong?” I asked.

  He blinked twice, and then nodded. A tear dropped out of his eye.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Me too. Scared they’ll find something. Scared they won’t.”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  We just sat there in the car, staring out the front window.

  “Sometimes knowing doesn’t solve the problem,” Dad said quietly. “Sometimes there isn’t a cure. And no amount of perspective that I can come up with makes it okay to know my kid is suffering, and there’s nothing I . . .”

  He closed his eyes but tears fell out of them anyway. He didn’t wipe them away. He just let them fall onto his lap.

  We sat there together for a few minutes.

  I had never seen him cry before and I wasn’t sure what a person should do when her father is sitting in the driver’s seat in a car that’s off and he’s crying.

  21

  BREAKING NEWS: TREES have individual leaves.

  I just want to spend the rest of my life looking at things. That’s my big new ambition. The outlines of things, the separateness of each thing from every other thing in the whole universe. It wasn’t even an insight (ahahahahaha insight because sight OUT into the world, everything is suddenly IN SIGHT) I could legit describe to my father, who was like, Niki, are you okay?

  How do you answer without sounding like Looney Tunes when your entire thought is WOW is THIS what everybody’s been seeing all this time? All these sharp edges and OH MY GOD YOUR FACE IS SO SPECIFIC, you have individual eyelashes!

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “Want some ice cream?”

  “Ice cream,” I echoed. I didn’t even care, didn’t know if I could handle any more sensory input than holy crap there are specks of color in the sidewalk.

  Dad was a few steps in front of me. I was watching my shockingly detailed sneakers swing into my field of vision beneath me on the sidewalk, heading toward Scoops. Field of vision. Like it’s a field, anywhere you look. Everything is a field, with individual blades of grass each waving around trying to attract your attention and let you know they aren’t just a blur of generalized field but each is an individual, singular green pillar, unique in all the world, bold and extraordinary. Hello, I am a particular blade of grass in your field of . . .

  “Niki?” Dad was asking.

  I looked up. He has nubs of black hairs poking through his face skin where I thought he had a rub of shadow. Does everybody see all these details all day long, and still function?

  I am so impressed with everybody, how well they handle all this information coming at them all the time. I’ve had these magical glasses pressing heavily down on my nose for five minutes and might need to sleep for eleven hours straight from the intensity.

  Dad was holding open the door of Scoops, letting all their cold air out into the humid stillness. I walked in. “Thanks.”

  “Getting used to the glasses?” he asked.

  “Um, no! Not yet.”

  “I remember being completely shocked by how chalk looked on the chalkboard in my third-grade classroom, the day I got mine,” Dad said. “The texture. The unevenness.”

  “Oh man,” I said. “I just, I want to look at everything.”

  He put his arm around me. It was warm and heavy, reassuringly solid.

  I looked around the shop. We were the only two customers. Behind the counter were two servers: Isabel’s older sister Kallista, and a guy over six feet tall and broad, who was rocking slightly on his feet and humming to himself. His hair was standing up in clumps and his eyes were down. His humming was getting louder, and a few grunts slipped in.

  “Hi,” I said to Kallista.

  “Niki!” she said. “Hi, Mr. Ames.”

  “Hi,” my dad said.

  “New glasses?” Kallista asked. She graduated from high scho
ol last spring, and Isabel said she’s working here at Scoops and also tutoring for this whole year to make money for college. I don’t think my parents will make me, or let me, do that. There are so many kids in their family, though; that’s what they do. Kallista is eighteen, beautiful, super cool—and still friendly enough to notice new glasses on her little sister’s semi-friend. I was so flattered that she remembered my name, I couldn’t speak.

  I nodded.

  “They look awesome on you!”

  I could feel my cheeks heating up. Kallista is so pretty, even prettier than Isabel.

  “Do you know my cousin Rhys?” she was asking me.

  “No,” I managed. I didn’t want to stare at Kallista and grin like an idiot. I didn’t want Kallista to think I was rude, or a dork. I didn’t want to stare at Rhys, either. I didn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable, which he clearly was feeling anyway. But then that felt rude, and also I really wanted to look at everything. Including Kallista, including him. To notice everything. “Hi, Rhys,” I managed.

  Rhys made a grunting sound. Kallista smiled at him. He didn’t even notice. What a waste of that smile.

  “It’s his first day working here,” she told us. “Right, Rhysie?”

  He rocked and waggled his hands around a bit. Maybe waving hello at us or maybe just dealing with the blue latex gloves on his big hands. He was holding them parallel to the floor, fingers splayed. Probably the latex felt weird on his skin, I was thinking. Maybe it felt to him like my new glasses felt to me: so much information coming in over the nerves, too much to sort through. I considered telling him that, that I knew just how he was feeling, but then that felt presumptuous. Maybe he wasn’t feeling that at all, how would I know? And why would he or anyone care about how buzzy my head felt behind these new glasses?

  “He’s savage at scooping already,” Kallista was saying. “Super-strong wrists! Just tell him what flavor you want, and we’re on it.”

  “Okay,” I said, instead of making a thing of myself or him. How does Kallista have such smooth skin? I looked down to study the flavor choices. Is that what people think Danny is like, like Rhys, if they think something is wrong with him? Is that what Danny will be like when he gets older? If so, will I be as positive toward him as Kallista is toward Rhys? I should be more positive toward Danny.

  Also, wow, the chips in chocolate chip ice cream are curved little planks of chocolate.

  “Coffee please,” my dad was saying. “In a cup. Do you have coconut to put on top today?”

  “We do!” Kallista said. “I’m on toppings today. Free jimmies if you want ’em.”

  “No, thanks,” Dad said. “Just coconut.”

  Rhys scooped a huge amount of ice cream into a small cup and handed it to Kallista. “So generous,” Dad said. “Thanks!”

  Kallista rained some coconut flakes down on top. “My lucky day,” Dad said.

  I looked up at Rhys through my new glasses. He was chewing on his lower lip and rocking again. I really wanted to say something nice to him, to connect. I just didn’t know what, and didn’t want to embarrass him. Or myself.

  Defeated, I mumbled, “Chocolate chip please, in a cone?”

  He grabbed a cone with one hand and started scooping the chocolate chip with the other. But when he brought them together, the cone smashed, collapsing in on itself.

  His mouth turned down. His two hands, one with the destroyed cone and the other with the metal scooper and ice cream starting to drip off it, were parallel, in front of his face, like boxing gloves at the start of a bout. His grunting got louder and he started shaking his head. “No,” he said angrily. “No!”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Rhys, listen to me. It’s okay!”

  “Stupid!” Rhys grunted. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

  “Rhys, you’re not stupid,” Kallista said, stepping closer to him. “You’re doing a really good job.”

  “You are,” I agreed. “You’re not stupid, I swear.”

  “We don’t talk to him like that, Niki,” Kallista said to me, her face all blotchy red. “I don’t know where he learned that. I swear.”

  “That’s the way I like it best,” I said, loud. “Rhys! That is exactly, THANK YOU. My favorite way! It’s good. It’s okay. You’re good.”

  He chewed on his lip harder but he’d stopped yelling.

  “Can you put the ice cream in a cup?” I asked him. “One of the medium cups?”

  He banged the scooper, ice cream side up, onto the counter, and got a medium cup. Then he picked the scooper up and dumped the scoop of chocolate chip ice cream into it.

  “And now, crumble the cone, right on top?” I asked. “Please?”

  He hesitated. A small smile twitched his mouth. He moved his hand over to the melty bowl of ice cream and crushed the cone above it. There were some shards of cone but mostly it was cone-powder.

  He handed it over the top of the glass enclosure to me.

  I reached up to take it. “Awesome,” I said. “Thanks, Rhys.”

  His eyes flicked up at me as that little smile curved his lips. Then they flicked back down. He was taking off his gloves, tossing them into the garbage can, and pulling on a fresh pair.

  I smiled down at my beautiful serving of ice cream art, and then up at my dad. He kissed the top of my head.

  22

  I REALLY WANTED to get to school early, but it took Mom forever to drag Danny out of bed. I think she might have been actually brushing his teeth as he stood there in his pajamas; I don’t know, don’t want to. I waited in the car.

  “I have to—”

  “I know, Niki,” Mom said, pulling backward down the driveway. “I know, okay? I have things today too, I have a house that needs more than . . .” She stopped. “It’s fine, everything’s fine!”

  I turned to Danny. “Dude,” I said. “You have to get yourself up in the mornings. You’re not a baby. You’re nine now.”

  He growled at me.

  “Niki,” Mom said.

  I looked out the window. Niki? How is this on ME?

  “Your glasses look so cute,” she said, glancing at me in the rearview.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Everybody’s gonna love them,” she said. “I know it can feel stressful, going to school with a new—”

  “That’s not why I’m stressed,” I said.

  “You seem a little stressed,” she said, with a pleading giggle in her voice. But I wasn’t in the mood.

  “I get marked down for being late,” I mumbled. “I can’t—I can’t be late every day.”

  “You’ll be there before the bell,” Mom said, gliding through the stop sign.

  The car was barely stopped when I opened the door and got out. I heard her yelling to me to have a good day. I didn’t thank her or wish her a good day back, which I know is so rude and would gnaw at me the rest of the day, but right then I didn’t care. I was rushing to get in. Danny hadn’t even unbuckled his seat belt.

  It’s true, the bell hadn’t rung yet.

  We Are All Friends Here on the sign over my head. Wow, you can see the ridges in the paint strokes on the letters. The diamond sparkles of the treads on the steps. I held the banister going up.

  The thing is, as much as it was cool to see everything in high definition, it also (I know this isn’t true, but this is how it felt right at that moment) felt like suddenly everybody would be able to see me more clearly too. Like I’d shrugged off my superpower of blurriness. Like I was strutting up into the eighth-grade hallway like the star of a music video, in four-inch heels, a gold bodysuit, and fake eyelashes, singing HERE I AM at top volume. Even though I was in my jeans and boots and cozy blue sweatshirt.

  I peered around the stairwell barrier to the eighth-grade area.

  The only people not watching the Squad (plus Ava) practice cartwheels were Holly, Beth,
and Nadine. They were sitting on the floor, chattering away. Everybody else was watching the Squad like they were a live show of celebrities. Ava fit in perfectly, I had to admit that to myself. She looked like she was having genuine fun with them. Not annoyed, not tense. Just relaxed and, well, happy.

  “Niki!”

  I turned. Holly was waving.

  “Hi.” I waved back. Holly smiled and wiggled over to make room for me. Okay, then, I decided. Guess that’s the only place for me. On the floor, with the unpopular kids, I thought, nastily.

  “I love your new glasses, Niki,” Holly said as soon as I got close.

  I pushed them up my nose. “Thanks,” I said.

  “They look great,” she said. “How do they see?”

  I laughed, sitting down. “Great,” I said. “Everything is so . . . specific.”

  “Isn’t that a mind-quake?”

  “Yes!”

  Holly was smiling her gentle smile back at me. She pushed her glasses up at the exact same time as I did the same thing. We tilted our heads to the side and laughed one burble of HA! in unison.

  “Remember when your mom used to call us Frick and Frack?” Holly asked.

  “Yes!”

  “And sometimes one of us would say Hi, Frick and the other would say Hi, Frack?”

  “Which was which?” Nadine asked.

  “It didn’t matter,” I said. “I remember that. Hi, Frick!”

  “Hi, Frack,” Holly said.

  “But what does that mean?” Beth asked. “Is it from, like, a TV show or something?”

  “No idea,” Holly and I both said.

  “Jinx!” Beth yelled.

  “Holly Jasper Jones,” Nadine said. “I don’t know your middle name, Niki.”

  “Pickle!” Holly said.

  “Pickle?” Nadine asked. “Seriously? Because if so, Niki, that is the coolest thing I ever heard.”

  Holly and I glanced at each other. “No,” I admitted. “It’s Patrice, which I hated when I was little, so Holly and I decided to change it to Pickle. We thought pickles were the most sophisticated food and we liked them, so we figured we were all that.”