Best Friend Next Door

  Mom J shakes salt onto cucumber spears. “Give her a chance to tell you. I bet she’s still getting used to the idea.”

  “I guess,” I say. But something about it makes me feel funny. Ever since Hannah found Butterball last month and we started hanging out, we’ve been telling each other everything.

  Or so I thought.

  At three fifteen, the doorbell rings. I know right away it’s Hannah and my heart jumps with a mix of weirdness (I’m going to give her a chance to tell me about her stepmom’s pregnancy) and excitement (I have the BEST surprise for her). Hannah hasn’t been to my room since the walls were painted last week.

  “Emme?” Mom J calls out. “Are you awake? Hannah is coming upstairs.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  I’m sitting on my floor working on the collage that I’m doing with my cousin. After I sent my contribution of shells and shell sketches, Leesa mailed me back her addition to the tagboard. She painted a massive silvery peace symbol, which is so Leesa. For my turn, I’m trying to draw a picture of a baby panda. I watched a video of a panda sleeping on playground equipment at a preserve in China and it got me inspired.

  “Cute panda,” Hannah says, standing in my doorway. “So I didn’t see you at lunch or recess or leaving school. Did you go home sick?”

  “Yeah,” I say, shrugging. There’s no way I can tell Hannah how mean Gina and her friends are being to me. I don’t want her to think she’s picked the wrong person to hang out with, like I’m going to pull her down. “I didn’t feel well.”

  “Can you still come to swim practice? We’re leaving in a half hour. My dad bought some peanut butter cookies for the drive.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “I have to ask my—”

  “Hey!” Hannah says. “You painted your walls! Is it Blue Allure? It doesn’t look like Sophie’s room anymore, but I love it.”

  “Speaking of Sophie …” I raise my eyebrows at Hannah. This is the big surprise.

  Hannah looks confused, so I point toward the wall by the closet, where Hannah’s friend once drew a smiley face. When the painters came over, I taped around Sophie’s drawing so they wouldn’t paint over it. I figured it was the least I could do to thank Hannah for not being mad that I moved into Sophie’s house.

  “Aaaaaah!” Hannah shrieks.

  “Everything okay?” Mom J calls from downstairs.

  “You left Sophie’s smiley face on the wall!” Hannah says.

  “Everything’s fine,” I call down to Mom J. Then I grin at Hannah. “Do you like it? Are you surprised?”

  Hannah wraps her arms around me. “Emme, I love it. It’s just so you to do something special like that.”

  I smile and hug her back. After we let go, I try to figure out how to get Hannah to tell me the baby news. It’s not like I can outright say, Does anyone in your family happen to be pregnant? Instead, as Hannah picks up the glittery wand on my desk and begins shaking it back and forth, I tip my head to one side.

  “Anything new going on with you?” I ask.

  Hannah twirls the wand between her fingers, the glitter and stars swirling around in the water. “Not really.”

  “Nothing at all?” I can’t help feeling a little annoyed. She’s got this huge thing in her life that she’s not telling me. “Everything is the same?”

  Hannah gives me a strange look and then sets the wand back on my desk. Instead of answering my question, she says, “Are you really sick? Like, do you have a cold?”

  My stomach flips over when I think about what happened at school today. I guess I’m keeping something to myself, too. But it’s different. A baby is good news. My teacher and the other kids in my class hating me? Not so great.

  “I’m not really sick,” I mutter. “I was just tired.”

  “Then can you come to practice? Please? It’ll be boring without you. Pretty please with a peanut butter cup on top?”

  “Let me ask my mom,” I say.

  I push my panda sketch aside and we both run downstairs to Mom J’s office. So maybe Hannah’s not ready to tell me that her stepmom is pregnant. I guess I’ll have to be okay with that (for now).

  “Mom J?” I clasp my hands together hopefully.

  “You want to go to swim practice?” she asks, turning in her swivel chair and smiling at us. “That’s the three-o’clock miracle.”

  “Huh?” I ask. I glance at Hannah but she just shrugs.

  “That’s what I call illnesses that disappear by the time school’s out,” Mom J says. She rolls toward me in her chair and touches my forehead. “You’re still not warm. It seems like the miracle happened to you.”

  “I guess.” I shift from one foot to the other. “So can I go?”

  “Pack your wet bag,” Mom J says. “Miracle child.”

  The problem is, the miracle is gone by the next morning. When I open my dresser drawers, trying to figure out what to wear to school, I feel horrible all over again. I have my regular comfy leggings and T-shirts, but what if everyone says they’re so not Greeley? Then again, when Mom C took me back-to-school shopping, we bought sporty tees and jeans, more like what Gina and Alexa and Haley wear. But then they’ll say I’m copying them.

  When Mom C walks in, I’m standing in my pajamas, staring into my drawer.

  “Everything okay?” she asks. “You didn’t answer when I called. We’re going to have breakfast before I leave for work.”

  “I don’t feel well,” I whisper, sitting on my bed.

  Mom C touches the back of my neck. At least she doesn’t go for the ear thermometer.

  “You’re not warm.” Mom C sits down next to me. “Is it school? Is something happening there?”

  I lean into her arm. She smells so good, like fabric softener and vanilla skin cream. I squeeze my eyes tight. And almost spill it all, about Ms. Linhart and those horrible girls. But what good would it do? Maybe three-o’clock miracles happen, but my mom can’t make my entire classroom disappear.

  “Do you need one more personal day?” Mom C asks.

  I nod. “This’ll be my last one.”

  “You can only read books today,” Mom C says. “And not good ones. Long, boring biographies. Or write letters to Olivia and Lucy. No screen time. No panda cam. Zero fun.”

  She’s smiling, but I know she means it. I can’t keep hiding forever.

  Once Mom C has left for work and Mom J is in her office, I borrow Mom J’s phone to call Leesa.

  “Aunt Julia?” Leesa asks.

  “No,” I say. “It’s me. Emme.”

  “Hey, cuz!” Leesa shouts. People are laughing in the background. I picture her on the way to breakfast at her boarding school. I try to imagine everyone wearing plaid skirts and carrying books on their hips. “What’s up? Did you get the collage I sent back to you?”

  “Yeah,” I say, leaning back on my bed. “I love your peace symbol. Now I’m working on my part.”

  “Fab-amazing,” Leesa says. “Rock on, crazy artist.”

  The thing I love about Leesa is that she’s a total free spirit. She plays the ukulele and has her ears pierced seven times and she even has this strange way of talking.

  “So … whazzup?” Leesa asks.

  “I’m having a hard time at school. Don’t tell my moms, okay? It’s just that—”

  “Other girls?” Leesa asks. “Or your teacher?”

  “Both. Mostly the girls.”

  “Clothes? Snotty comments? Making you feel bad about yourself?”

  It feels like she’s reading my mind. “All of the above.”

  “Welcome to fifth grade. It can be a tough year. Just don’t give them power. And be yourself. Keep up with the good vibes. You’re my rockin’ little cuz.”

  I pick at a scab on my knee. I don’t feel very rockin’. And I have no idea what vibes have to do with any of this.

  “Listen,” Leesa says, “I’ve got to go. There’s a mad dash on the French toast and I need some. Love you like crazy. Be yourself, okay? Bye!”

  “I love you, t
oo,” I say, but she’s already hung up.

  I set down the phone and stare out the window. It’s still raining out. I wonder if it’s going to rain forever. I wonder if we’re all going to be sucked into the gloppy mud.

  Dumb mud. I smile weakly. I’ll have to tell that palindrome to Hannah.

  Yesterday Hannah said that leaving Sophie’s smiley face on the wall was so me. And Leesa said to be myself. But here’s the thing: I honestly have no idea what or who I am anymore.

  What’s og?” Coach Missy asks, standing above Emme and me. She’s swinging a stopwatch from her wrist. She has on one blue flip-flop and one white flip-flop. That’s what our coach does on meet days because those are the colors for all the teams at the YMCA, including the Dolphins.

  “Og,” I explain, “is go backward. So if I write Go Emme Og, then it’s a palindrome.”

  Coach Missy shakes her head. “You guys are too much.”

  Emme and I are sitting at the edge of the pool. We’ve just done our freestyle and kick-swim warm-ups and now we’re waiting for the meet to begin. It’s the second meet of the season. Emme’s swimming back and butterfly and I’m swimming two freestyles. We’re also doing the medley relay together. We’re wearing our crazy-tight racing suits, our team caps, and we have goggles dangling around our necks. At the moment Coach Missy finds us, we’re writing on each other with black Sharpies. At swim meets everyone records event information on their arms with a marker. Lots of girls also write Eat My Bubbles or Kick Kick Kick on their shins. Emme and I decided I’d put Go Emme Og on my leg and she’d put Go Hannah Og on her leg. Lucky-charm palindromes.

  “You’re the Og Twins,” Coach Missy says. “That’s what I’m calling you from now on. I’ve never seen two people who are more alike. Look at your toenails!”

  Emme and I tap our toes together. Once I learned that Emme always paints her toenails different colors, I started doing it, too. We currently have rainbow toes, red on the left pinkie all the way to violet on the right pinkie. We did a bunch of extra blue toenails in the middle because the rainbow only has seven colors. Maybe it seems kooky, but it makes sense to us.

  “Total Og Twins,” Coach Missy says, walking away.

  Emme and I grin at each other. It’s true that we’re basically twins. We have the palindrome thing and the peanut butter thing and we live on the same street and have the same birthday and we both have sandy hair with a slight greenish hue. The only difference, really, is that I’m tall and Emme is tiny. Also, it’s looking like Emme loves ice-skating, which I’m scared of. Not that I’ve told her that. I don’t want her to think I’m a wimp.

  “Are you nervous?” I ask Emme.

  She shakes her head. “Not really. I just focus on one thing during the race, like kicking. What about you?”

  I’m so nervous my teeth are chattering and I’m sitting on my hands to keep from chewing my nails. It doesn’t help that I’m in the first heat. Also, I hate diving off the blocks. I’m always worried I’m going to fall and hit my head. I scan the bleachers. I can’t see my dad and Margo. It was raining hard out, so they dropped us off at the door of the Y and circled for parking. What if they can’t find parking for the whole meet and they miss all my races? I wish they’d get here already.

  Emme snaps the lid onto the Sharpie. “Remember,” she says, “it’s just a pool loop. Get it? Pool loop.”

  “Pool loop,” I say, nodding. “Awesome.”

  Coach Missy blows her whistle. “Swimmers, take your places on the blocks.”

  I fit my goggles in place. They’re way too tight. I’m probably going to get a headache.

  “Og,” Emme says to me as she stands up.

  “Og,” I say weakly, and then walk over to lane two.

  The Dolphins place third in the meet, which is awesome. Even more awesome is that Emme and I both get our personal bests—Emme in the two-hundred back and me in the fifty free. Even more awesome is that our medley relay WON! We were five entire seconds ahead of the Thunderbirds.

  After the meet, we all shower and change. All the girls are singing in the locker room and goofing around and celebrating our awesomeness. But then, when we come to the deck for our wrap-up meeting, we fall silent. Coach Missy is crying. She’s holding her phone in one hand and dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

  “I just got a text from my sister,” she explains as we gather around her on the bleachers. “She lives in Deer Park. That’s a few hours north, where I grew up. They’ve been getting even worse rain than we have this fall, and the town has flooded. They’re evacuating hundreds of houses as we speak. People might lose everything.”

  I stare at Coach Missy. I’ve never seen her this upset. I have no idea what to say.

  “Is there anything we can do?” Emme asks. “Like, how can we help?”

  I nod along with a bunch of other girls.

  Coach Missy shakes her head. “For now,” she says, “just be grateful for what you have. You all did some amazing swimming today. I’m proud of all of you.”

  When I come down from the bleachers, my dad and Margo are waiting for me. I give them both hugs. I am grateful for my parents and for everything I have. Even if I do my best to ignore the fact that Margo’s belly is pressing against me as she squeezes me tight.

  On Monday, Mr. Bryce stands at the front of the rug during morning meeting. He’s wearing his checkerboard tie. He’s smiling and holding a big yellow envelope in each hand. They’re labeled TEAM A and TEAM B. We definitely have the coolest fifth-grade teacher. Sometimes Mr. Bryce juggles balls while he’s teaching. One sunny morning last week, when we finally got a break from the rain, he was doing read-aloud on the rug. He was reading Holes. He glanced toward the window and said, “Let’s take this outside.” He ended up reading and walking backward as we strolled from the school to Franklin Street to Southampton Park and back again. I told Emme about it at lunch and she was so jealous. She said Ms. Linhart would never, ever do anything fun like that.

  “Who’s ever heard of a fund-raiser?” Mr. Bryce asks. We’ve finished attendance and this is the part of morning meeting where we talk about current events.

  I lift my hand.

  Mr. Bryce nods toward me. “Hannah?”

  “It’s where you raise money,” I say. “Like how we have the Earth Ball and the silent auction at Greeley to raise money for the school.”

  “Exactly,” Mr. Bryce says. “There are also fund-raisers for specific causes. Who knows some examples of causes?”

  I waggle my hand again, but this time he calls on Layla. She’s really nice and she’s always sharing her Jelly Bellys at recess. Layla’s skin is smooth and dark, and she’s the tallest kid, boy or girl, in our grade. Layla and I were together in second grade, but not in third or fourth.

  “A cause is something that does good things,” Layla says, twisting one of her braids around her finger, “like animal rights or fighting diseases.”

  Mr. Bryce nods as he fires up the Smart Board. We all spring onto our knees for a closer look.

  “This is Deer Park,” Mr. Bryce says, scrolling past photos of submerged homes and muddy rivers gushing down streets. “It’s in the Adirondacks. This past weekend, they had to evacuate over one hundred—”

  “My swim coach is from there!” I blurt out. “Her sister had to evacuate on Saturday.”

  “Exactly, Hannah,” Mr. Bryce says. “Remember to raise your hand next time.”

  Everyone gapes at me. It’s not like I’m embarrassed that Mr. Bryce called me out. I mean, I know someone who knows someone who lives in Deer Park! How can I hold that in?

  “People are losing everything,” Mr. Bryce says. “Kids just like you suddenly don’t have their clothes or beds or—”

  “Or iPads,” Denny blurts out.

  I make a face at Denny. He has tangled rusty hair and freckles. Annoying through and through.

  Marley raises her hand. “How can we help?”

  Mr. Bryce grins. “Finally, what I was getting to! I called the lo
cal Red Cross. Our class is going to send money to the Deer Park families who lost their homes.”

  “But how will we get the money?” Layla asks.

  Mr. Bryce gestures to the two envelopes in his hand. “We’re going to have a fund-raiser. The class will divide into two teams. Each team will start with a ten-dollar budget. That’s already in the envelope. A week from today, we’ll tally our money and send it to Deer Park. We’ll also have a lunch party next Friday, to celebrate.”

  Upon hearing that, we all cheer and stomp our feet on the rug.

  Mr. Bryce grins. “Whichever team raises more money gets to pick the menu.”

  We cheer even louder. Denny raises his hand.

  “Yes, Denny?”

  “How are you going to choose teams?” Denny asks.

  “Boys versus girls,” Mr. Bryce says.

  Usually it’s just Emme and me at lunch. Sometimes a few girls from my class join us. But today, all the girls in Mr. Bryce’s class gather around a long table. It’s me, Layla, Natalie, Marley, and a bunch of others. Emme sits next to me and unzips her lunch box. She seems quiet. I feel bad that Emme got Ms. Linhart. I know some people in that class, like Gina and Alexa, and they’re really mean—the kind of girls who make you feel bad for no reason.

  “Does anyone have nuts in their lunch?” Marley calls out, peering down the table at all of us.

  “Are you allergic?” Emme asks.

  I squeeze Emme’s leg like Don’t get Marley started, but it’s too late. There’s nothing Marley loves more than talking about her nut allergy.

  “Anaphylactic,” Marley says. “I could literally die if I ate a nut. It’s supposed to be a nut-free cafeteria, but—”

  “We know,” Layla says, rolling her eyes. “No one here has nuts, right? Right. So let’s talk about the fund-raiser.”

  Emme mouths Sorry to me and I shake my head like No biggie. I can see Emme’s heat and lane times in faded Sharpie on her arm, just like mine. Also, totally by chance, we both brought leftover quesadillas for lunch. The Og Twins strike again!

  Natalie dumps the contents of the yellow envelope onto the table. Sure enough, there’s a ten-dollar bill. There are a few sheets of paper, including one for recording our expenses. Mr. Bryce also included an article about the Deer Park evacuations.