Best Friend Next Door

  “The thing is,” I say, “I was wondering if I could get out our garden hose and spray water all over the backyard to make it into an ice-skating rink.”

  Margo stares at me. “You want to do that for Emme?”

  “Can I?”

  She rinses her hands in the sink. “I want to show you something. Put on your coat and boots and come on outside. Grab your hat and gloves, too. The temperature is dropping.”

  Margo and I head out the side door. Sure enough, Emme and her moms and my dad are in her backyard. When they see me, Emme runs over. Her cheeks are bright red and her hat is covered in snow.

  “Look!” she says, gesturing behind her. “We’re bringing New York City to you.”

  I look into her yard and suck in my breath even though my lungs are icy from the bitter cold. They’ve built a snowman that looks like the Statue of Liberty, complete with a crown and a small orange shovel for a torch. They’ve strung white lights around a pine tree, and my dad and Julia are wrapping red and green lights around the swing set.

  “That’s the Rockefeller Center tree,” Emme says, pointing at the pine tree, “and the swing set will be the Empire State Building. See how we put that stick on top for the point?”

  I can’t stop smiling. I was going to make an ice rink for Emme, and she’s made New York City for me. They all have.

  “I love it,” I say, hugging Emme. Her parka is so puffy she feels like a human sleeping bag.

  Emme wipes at her nose with her glove. “I’m glad.”

  “I’m sorry about before,” I say. “I was disappointed about the trip and—”

  “We’re the Og Twins,” she says. “It’s okay. Besides, I thought of a really good palindrome. Want to hear it? Won snow. Isn’t that awesome?”

  “Won snow,” I say, nodding. “If there’s anything we won today, it’s definitely snow.”

  I pull my fleece hat out of my pocket, tug it over my ears, and tell Emme about the ice rink idea. We get to work immediately, uncoiling the hose from the garage and spraying my yard with water. My dad says he’ll research backyard rinks, but we figure we may as well get started with the water because it’ll take a while to freeze. Actually, it’s so cold it probably won’t even take that long. It might even be frozen by tomorrow morning.

  After we’ve sprayed water on a good portion of my backyard, my fingers are so cold I can hardly bend them. Margo invites everyone inside for lunch and hot cocoa. It’s a total surprise when she serves us sandwiches with peanut butter. Well, not the sandwich part. It’s the peanut butter—maple, white chocolate, and cinnamon raisin. She ordered them as a present from that peanut-butter restaurant in New York City!

  As we gather around our table—me and my parents, Emme and her parents—eating sandwiches and drinking mugs of cocoa, I realize it’s becoming a great birthday.

  “Thanks, you guys,” I say, “for, you know, everything.”

  “Are you having a glass-half-full moment?” Emme asks, biting into her second sandwich. This one is maple peanut butter with Nutella.

  I swirl my mini-marshmallows around in the hot chocolate. “More like mug half full.”

  We both laugh. Because it is a mug-half-full day. Definitely.

  Later that evening, Emme and I are stretched out in my living room watching a movie. We’ve opened the couch so it’s a bed, and piled it with pillows. We’re having a sleepover, and my parents said we can stay up late and have as much screen time as we want.

  We pause the movie for a snack break and head into the kitchen. I look out the back window. It’s dark, but I can see by the yard lights that the snow is still coming down.

  “Do you think it’s frozen yet?” I ask Emme.

  “The rink? Maybe. It’s so cold out.”

  “Want to check?”

  Emme tosses back a handful of cheese popcorn. “Totally! My skates are in my garage. I’ll run over and grab them and you can get yours and we’ll meet in the backyard.”

  I don’t own ice skates. Obviously, I don’t own ice skates. Somehow I didn’t consider the fact that making an ice rink means I have to try skating again. Duh.

  “If you don’t have skates,” Emme says, “we can always take turns with mine. They might be a little small on you, but—”

  “Do you think it’s completely lame if I slide around on boots?” I ask. Even the prospect of being on ice in boots makes me nervous, but I’ll do it for Emme. Especially after she created a backyard New York City for me. And forgave me for this morning.

  Emme shrugs. “Whatever. You can always trade with me if you want.”

  Five minutes later, Emme and I meet in my backyard. We both have our coats and hats and gloves on, but she’s clomping in her ice skates. She looks so much taller with her skates on, even taller than me.

  Emme and I lean down and rap our knuckles against the frozen puddles of ice. From what I can see with the light from the porch, the water has frozen in various icy patches throughout the yard.

  “I guess it’s not like a real ice rink,” I say to Emme.

  Emme is grinning as she leans over to tighten her skates. “I’ve never been to an outdoor rink before. This is a perfect first time.”

  Emme steps onto the ice and then reaches back for me. My heart is pounding and my teeth are chattering. I carefully inch forward. It’s slippery, but I don’t fall backward and smash my skull like the last time I was on the ice.

  As we make our way slowly around my yard, holding hands and slipping from frozen puddle to frozen puddle, Emme says, “I know we’re not in New York City, but I still love it.”

  “What do you mean we’re not in New York City?” I use my free hand to point to her backyard, to the swing set dressed in red and green lights and the lit-up pine tree and the snowman with the shovel-torch. “That’s the Empire State Building over there. And the Statue of Liberty.” I gesture all around me. “And if that’s the famous Christmas tree, then this is the Rockefeller Center ice rink.”

  Emme giggles. “It’s amazing, right? We have Rockefeller Center all to ourselves.” Then she tips her face to the sky and shouts, “I love New York!”

  “Me too,” I say, laughing. “I love New York!”

  Emme starts singing “New York, New York,” except she doesn’t know most of the words and neither do I. But we still attempt to sing it as we slip around the backyard, the sky hazy with snow, my best friend and me.

  Emme?” Mom J says as she stands in our doorway, car keys in her hand. “You’re really okay being home alone? Remember to practice calling me from the landline. And Margo is right next door if you need anything.”

  It’s a chilly, gray day in the middle of January. Hannah calls this the dog days of winter. I’m paler than I’ve ever been. Even my freckles are pale. I’m sprawled on the rug, my pencils all around me. I’m trying to finish a self-portrait that I started in art club but I’m so distracted I keep messing up and making my nose crooked. Mom J is headed to her first day as a volunteer at a greenhouse-gardening program for children. She and Mom C came up with this idea after I got upset about her three-o’clock-miracle story. At the greenhouse, Mom J can spend time with other kids, get new ideas for articles, and not always write about me. Also, she says she wants to meet more friends in Greeley. Friends. That’s what’s on my mind, too, right now.

  “Emme? Did you hear me?”

  I shade in under one eyebrow. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve been home alone. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

  “You’ll feed Butterball his diet food at five? And put more water in his dish? I think he’s finished his water already.”

  “Yep,” I say, grabbing my eraser.

  “If you can get your homework done,” Mom J says, “let’s go to the ice rink after dinner.”

  “Really?” I ask, looking up.

  Mom J nods. “Do you think Hannah would want to come?”

  I shake my head glumly. No, I’m not just thinking about friends. I’m thinking about Hannah.

 
“Probably not,” I say.

  “Why not? Wasn’t she going to give it another try?”

  Her backyard rink ended up being fun, especially that first night. It’s not like it was real skating, but we did get some decent strides in, even with Hannah wearing her snow boots. After our homemade rink, Hannah said she’d try real ice-skating with me. But whenever I ask her to go, she’s always running off to play volleyball at the Y or shooting hoops in the freezing cold.

  “You should probably go to your gardening thing,” I say to Mom J. “It’s after four.”

  Mom J hurries out the front door, locking it behind her.

  Once she’s gone, I crumple up my self-portrait and grab a new sheet of paper. I’m totally messing up today. I’m just so worried. Usually, Hannah is the official worrier of the Og Twins, but something has been bothering me these past few weeks: I think Hannah is going to drop out of the Dolphins. She hasn’t said anything to me, but she keeps skipping practices and when she does come swimming I often see her whispering with Coach Missy on the bench.

  I’m worried that if Hannah stops swimming and starts playing whateverball she’ll get to be best friends with the sporty girls and they’ll swing their long hair around and eat pizza together every day.

  And then it will be the end of the Og Twins.

  Sure enough, on the way to practice the next day, Hannah is saying how the last thing she wants to do is swim laps for two hours. It’s actually only an hour and forty-five minutes, but I’m not going to tell her that.

  I’m eating my banana and looking out the window when Hannah leans forward toward Margo. “Do I really, really have to swim today?”

  I can see in the rearview mirror that Margo is frowning. “Let’s just get through today. That’s what we talked about.”

  What we talked about. The banana feels thick in my mouth.

  Hannah groans and peels back the wrapper on her fruit leather. “I wish I could skip it.”

  I rub my stomach, but it keeps flipping like crazy.

  But then, when we get to the locker room, Hannah is acting normal again.

  “Guess what?” she says as we’re hanging our coats in the lockers. “My dad is picking us up and bringing cupcakes. Vanilla with dark-chocolate frosting.”

  “Yum,” I say. My throat is hurting a little, but it’s hard to say no to a cupcake.

  Hannah nods. “Only the best for the Og Twins.”

  Og Twins. She said it (I’m counting that as a good thing).

  We change into our swimsuits. We have matching practice suits, black Speedos with splashes of yellow, bright green, and white. We both have blue Dolphins swim caps. Hannah’s says STRAFEL on the front. My last name (Hoffman-Shields) is wrapped around the circumference of my head.

  As I pull my cap on and we head to the pool, Hannah links elbows with me. “Whoever thought of hyphenated last names,” she says, “never saw a team swim cap.”

  So true. I have to laugh. (Another good thing.)

  But then, as we’re doing our butterfly laps, Hannah hoists herself out of the pool and starts talking to Coach Missy again. Coach Missy is nodding and her face looks serious. I also notice that Hannah’s toenails aren’t painted anymore. Mine are currently black-and-white-striped.

  I’m so focused on watching Hannah and Coach Missy that I lose my rhythm, swim too fast, and smash into Jillian’s legs. The kid behind me slams into me and it’s one big traffic pileup. I end up getting a gush of chlorine up my nostrils. Which also stinks. Literally.

  That night, I’m on the stairs giving Butterball his nightly exercise. It’s not that hard. I just pull a catnip mouse on a string and he pounces after it. Whatever we’re doing seems to be working. We put him on my moms’ scale the other day and he’s already down to eleven and a half pounds. Dr. Konning is going to be so impressed when we bring him back.

  “Emme?” Mom C calls from the kitchen. She’s in there making chili for tomorrow. Ever since she started working, she hasn’t been able to cook much. She said this is one of her New Year’s goals, to cook at least one recipe every week. “Hannah’s here.”

  I toss the mouse to Butterball and walk down the stairs.

  Hannah is standing in the living room with a cupcake on a paper plate. “You didn’t eat this after practice. I thought maybe you’d want it now.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I say, sitting on the couch. I’m feeling achy tonight, probably from practice. It was intense, especially the extra kicking work that Coach Missy had us do. And my throat is hurting worse. I haven’t said anything about it, though, because then Mom J will rush in and stick her thermometer in my ear.

  Hannah sets the cupcake on the coffee table and flops down next to me. She runs her hand through her hair and then studies her thumbnail. She seems nervous.

  “Also,” Hannah says after a second, “I have something to tell you.”

  I hold my breath and start tapping my foot fast on the wood floor.

  “The thing is,” Hannah says, “I’m going to stop swimming with the Dolphins. Today was my last day.”

  I exhale loudly. So it’s true.

  “I want to do volleyball,” Hannah says, “and that’s after school three days a week. I can’t do both.”

  “I’ll be back in a second,” I say, walking to the bathroom. Partially I have to pee, but also I need to be alone for a minute. As I’m washing my hands, I stare into the mirror. What will I write on my legs at meets now? Obviously I can’t write Go Hannah Og. And no one will be writing Go Emme Og, either.

  When I come back, Hannah says, “Please don’t be mad, Emme. We’ll still be the Og Twins.”

  “I’m not mad,” I say quietly.

  Hannah smiles weakly. “Good,” she says, “because we don’t have to have matching swimsuits or the same haircut to be best friends. No way am I going solos on you. Get it? Solos?”

  I try to smile at her palindrome.

  Just then, Mom J walks in carrying a watering can for the plants. She brought home all these clippings from the organic garden and she’s been fussing over them like they’re infants.

  “Emme,” Mom J says, touching my forehead. “Your cheeks are bright red.”

  “Redder is another palindrome,” Hannah offers. I can tell she’s really trying.

  Mom J sets down the watering can and comes back with the thermometer, popping it in my ear.

  “One hundred and two point one,” she says when it beeps. “That’s a high fever, Em. Hannah, you should go before you catch it.”

  As soon as Hannah leaves, I lie down on the couch. Maybe Hannah is right about the swimsuits and the haircuts. And even the pizza. Maybe we don’t need all those things in common. But I can’t help feeling like they’re part of who we are. And without them we won’t be anything.

  I have a fever for the next two days. Mom J parks me on the couch and brings me broth and tea with honey. Ms. Chung gives my homework to Jillian, who gives it to Hannah, who delivers it to Mom J at the door. One afternoon Leesa calls to check in. Mom J brings me the phone but I only stay on for five minutes. Leesa and I have talked a few times since we saw her in Connecticut, and she even said she was sorry for calling me cute, but it doesn’t feel the same. I don’t worship her the way I used to. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe that’s part of growing up.

  On Thursday, Mom J takes me to the doctor for a throat culture. He’s also Hannah’s pediatrician, a tall man named Dr. Smith with a dark beard but no mustache. He reminds me of Abraham Lincoln.

  “I’ve heard you and Hannah Strafel are best friends,” Dr. Smith says as he sticks that long Q-tip down my throat.

  I gag and clutch my neck. Doctors and dentists have this demented idea that you want to make casual conversation as they’re ramming things in your mouth (not true).

  “She’s a wonderful girl,” he says. “I’ve known Hannah since she was a toddler. I heard she’s starting volleyball soon.”

  I nod weakly. Even my pediatrician knows that Hannah is dropping out of swimming. r />
  That night, Hannah calls. “Are you feeling better?”

  “A little,” I say. “At least I don’t have strep.”

  “And you met Dr. Abraham Lincoln.”

  I giggle. “I was thinking the same thing!”

  “Listen,” Hannah says, “I meant what I said the other day. We’re still best friends even though I’m not in the Dolphins anymore.”

  “Okay,” I say. It’s one thing to hear it, though. And another (much harder) to believe it.

  By the weekend, I’m feeling a lot better. Over breakfast on Saturday, Mom C and Mom J tell me about a winter camp called Deepwoods that Hannah’s dad heard about. They even show me pictures. It’s a few hours from here and takes place for three days during Presidents’ Day vacation in the middle of February. I’ve never had a week off in February before but I guess that’s a New York thing. We were supposed to visit family friends in Boston but my moms say they can shift our trip a few days earlier so we’ll go before the winter camp session.

  “If Hannah is going to the winter camp,” I say, “then I’ll go, too.”

  “Excellent!” Mom J says. “It sounds amazing.”

  As I clear the table, Mom J gets on the phone with Margo and they firm up plans. I think they all feel bad that our trip to New York City was canceled and they’re hoping this will make up for it.

  That afternoon, Hannah comes over to hang out.

  “Can you believe we’re going to Deepwoods Winter Camp?” she asks, sinking next to me on the beanbag chair. We used to have the beanbag on our porch in Captiva, but now I keep it in my room.

  “I never even knew they had winter camps,” I say. “My moms said there will be sledding and tubing and ice fishing.”

  Not that I have any idea what ice fishing is, but it sounds fun.

  “I was thinking we could decorate our bunk,” Hannah said. “Like with glittery snowflakes and—”

  “And pictures of pandas!” I say, squealing.

  “Can you believe Sophie is coming, too?” Hannah asks.