Best Friend Next Door

  Once everyone has said their names and my dad and Margo give them our address, the judge starts signing papers.

  “It’s a lot of signing,” she says, winking at me. “It’ll be a while.”

  I watch the clock on the far wall. I try not to worry that something is wrong with our paperwork. I’ve heard that can happen and then you have to wait a few more months for the adoption. Instead I think about how, on the drive to the courthouse, we talked about what I’d call Margo from now on, like if I want to start calling her Mom. I don’t know about that. Emme would probably be a good person to ask about it because when we first met she told me how she switched to Mom C and Mom J when she was eight. Margo said she’s fine with anything, but I should know that she’s been my mom in every single way since the day she met me. Today is just about making it legal.

  “Okay,” the judge finally says. “After I sign on this one last line, it’s going to be official. Drumroll, please …”

  The lawyer and the bald guy and the other woman drum on the tabletop with their fingers. I can’t help grinning.

  “Hannah Eileen Strafel,” Judge O’Toole says as she sets down her pen, “you are now officially the daughter of Margo Strafel.”

  We all start crying and hugging and taking pictures. The judge gives me a gift bag with a gorgeous white picture frame inside.

  “To remember this day forever,” she says, touching my arm. “Thank you for letting me be a part of it.”

  As we’re walking out of the courtroom, I realize they didn’t say Christine Tenny’s name after all.

  Even though it’s only eleven fifteen, my dad, Margo, and I are all so hungry we decide to go to our celebratory lunch early. We drive to an Italian restaurant called Spiga. We went there once before, when Margo finished her master’s degree. It’s really fancy with white tablecloths and candles and breadsticks in a basket. I’m about to order penne with Parmesan when I change my mind and say, “I’ll get the thin-crust pizza.”

  “Pizza?” my dad asks.

  “Pizza?” Margo asks.

  “Pizza,” I say.

  I kick off my boots under the table and flex my cramped toes. I can’t explain why I want to try pizza when I’ve always insisted it’s slithery and gross. Maybe I’m just really hungry. Or maybe things in my life are starting to change.

  My dad orders a sausage pizza and Margo and I share a thin-crust veggie supreme. I eat three slices and part of a fourth. I don’t know what the opposite of slithery is. Scrumptiously yummily perfect? Yes, it’s true. The pizza is perfect.

  I guess it’s been a big day for me in so many ways.

  Butterball’s new vet is in a low brick building with forest-green trim. The sign out front says KONNING & MORRIS: SMALL ANIMALS, ALL ANIMALS. As Mom J and I pull into the parking lot for my cat’s annual checkup, I say, “All animals? Like pandas?”

  “Always pandas,” Mom J says, smiling. “Who could turn away a panda?”

  We’re both in a great mood because we’re going on a road trip tomorrow afternoon. We’re driving to Connecticut to see my cousin, Leesa, play ukulele in a holiday concert at her boarding school. My aunt and uncle, Leesa’s parents, live down in South Carolina, so we’ll be her only family members there. We’re going to leave right after school on Friday, drive partway, and sleep in a hotel. On Saturday, we’ll take Leesa out to lunch and then see her concert that evening. At some point, maybe at lunch, I want to tell Leesa about how the collage got ruined. My moms say I don’t have to. I can just say I lost it and we need to start another one. They say it’s not really a lie—more like I’m protecting myself from feeling bad all over again.

  I lug Butterball’s travel case with me out of the backseat. He’s cowered in one corner, ears flat, looking nervous. He’s wearing Hannah’s blue collar today. Between Butterball and the carrying case, the whole thing weighs so much I can barely make it across the parking lot.

  “Can you take him?” I huff, passing the case over to Mom J.

  “Oh, you fat, fat cat.” Mom J peers into the gate door. “Your judgment day is here.”

  Sure enough, the vet comes down hard on Butterball. After Dr. Konning flips through his chart and gives him his shots, she crosses her arms over her chest and says, “I know you’ve heard this before, but—”

  “He needs to lose weight?” I ask.

  The vet scratches Butterball’s head and says, “This sweetie? Big-time.”

  Dr. Konning has long dark hair, chocolate-brown eyes, and an accent. When I ask where she’s from, she says the Netherlands. I can tell she loves cats by the way she keeps nuzzling Butterball and saying what a sweetie he is.

  “According to your last vet in Florida,” she says, “Butterball weighed eleven pounds. Now he’s thirteen.”

  “That much?” Mom J asks.

  “It’s all the Oceanfish and Tuna,” I say, wrinkling my nose.

  “Well, things need to change,” the vet says. “He’s a six-year-old overweight male cat and—”

  “We think he’s six,” I say. “He was a stray.”

  Dr. Konning nods. “If he doesn’t lose weight, he’s at high risk of getting diabetes or arthritis or other serious diseases.”

  Dr. Konning prints out paperwork on feline diets and explains how we need to switch his food and buy chasing toys to get him exercise. All the while, Butterball purrs and nuzzles into the vet’s fingers. He has no clue he’s about to start kitty boot camp.

  Back in the car, Mom J and I are quiet. I guess we noticed that Butterball was plumping up but we didn’t realize it was such a big deal. Before we go home, Mom J wants to swing by the pet store to get diet cat food to bring to Hannah’s house. Her family is going to watch Butterball while we’re away this weekend.

  “I can’t imagine Butterball getting a disease,” I say, fiddling with the zipper on my new parka.

  Mom J glances at the travel case next to me on the backseat. “We’ll help him lose weight. He just has to stop sneaking food. Are you okay, Em? Your cheeks are flushed.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m fine. I’ve got my winter coat on. I’m not sick. I can go to school tomorrow. Who’s he sneaking food from?”

  “Up and down Centennial. Some neighbors have told me he comes begging for treats. Speaking of you staying home sick, I’ve been meaning to tell you about—”

  “Naughty cat!” I say, tapping his case. He’s licking his paw, still oblivious. “Butterball is totally the wrong name for a cat on a diet. Remember how Hannah named him Radar that time he ran away? Maybe that’d be better for him.”

  As we pull into the pet store, I realize I never did get to hear what Mom J was going to say before about me being sick. Because I’m not sick. Huh.

  That night, my moms and I carry Butterball and all his gear over to Hannah’s house. We’ve got his dish, his water bowl, his diet food, his litter box, extra litter, his new laser pen and string toys to chase, and a scratching post so he doesn’t mutilate their couch. Hannah’s sitting at the kitchen table, eating a slice of cold pizza piled with vegetables.

  “Pizza?” I ask. This is as shocking as if I walked in on Hannah eating worms. “What on earth are you doing?”

  Hannah shrugs. “I had some at a restaurant yesterday and it was so good. Want a slice? We have leftovers. Sausage, too.”

  I shake my head quickly and step backward. Even looking at pizza grosses me out, the way the yellowish cheese and red sauce blend together and get all pink and gloppy. Hannah has always said the same thing. We’ve always said we’re the only kids in America who hate pizza.

  “So what if Butterball asks for food and he’s already had his meal?” Hannah asks, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “He nips at your ankles, right?”

  Butterball is sniffing around under the table. I hoist him into my arms. I still can’t look at the pizza on Hannah’s plate. I still can’t believe she’s eating it. “If he’s begging for food, you should distract him. You can shine that laser beam onto the wall and get him to chase i
t around.”

  “I heard there’s an app where a cat can chase mice on the screen,” she says.

  “Seriously?”

  Hannah nods and then calls into the living room. “Margo? Dad? Does Butterball using the iPad count as my screen time?”

  All the parents are in the living room admiring a massive collection of baby gear that’s been accumulating by their window—a car seat, a stroller, a stack of folded blankets, a giraffe mobile, even a portable crib. I’ve noticed items arriving over the past few weeks, but Hannah never says a word about them.

  “Yes, it counts!” Margo calls into the kitchen.

  “You too, Emme,” Mom C says. “Butterball’s screen time is your screen time.”

  Hannah grins and flips her hair over her shoulder. “It was worth a try.”

  In the center of the table, they have the vase with the flowers we brought over last night, as an adoption gift. It’s a ceramic vase filled with red tulips. According to my moms’ bulb book (yep, they’re still obsessed with bulbs), red tulips symbolize eternal love.

  “Your hair’s getting so long,” I say. I recently got my hair cut to my chin, like a blunt bob. When I met Hannah in August we had the same hairstyle.

  “I know,” Hannah says. “I can finally put it all up in a ponytail. I’m going to grow it way down my back.”

  In my head, I’m thinking, She’s eating pizza … She’s growing her hair out … What’s happening to the Og Twins? But instead I say, “Cool.” Because we still have swimming. And palindromes. And our joint birthday. And our trip to New York City.

  Just like an Og Twin, Hannah reads my last thought. “Can you believe we’re going to New York City in two weeks?”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” I say. “We should go ice-skating in Central Park. Wouldn’t that be awesome?”

  Hannah frowns. “Maybe.”

  Before I can ask what’s wrong, Mom J says it’s time to go home and pack for our road trip.

  At school the next day, Ms. Chung announces that we’re doing an anti-bullying workshop instead of gym.

  “Every fifth-grade class will have three workshops on this important topic,” Ms. Chung says, smoothing the silk scarf around her neck. That’s how she talks (sort of formal).

  I look to see if anyone is staring at me (they’re not). Even so, my cheeks are heating up. I wonder if they’re doing these workshops because of what happened to me in Ms. Linhart’s class. I know my moms had a meeting with the principal about making sure they have zero tolerance for bullying at Greeley Elementary.

  I walk down to the gym with Jillian. She swims in the silver level with Hannah and me. She reminds me of my friend Olivia from Captiva Island. Not a best friend, but a good person to hang out with. Honestly, everyone in Ms. Chung’s class is nice. Ms. Chung is older, with threads of white in her black hair, and the whole classroom vibe (as Leesa would say) is calm. It’s not a constant party like Mr. Bryce’s class, but it’s so, so, so much better than Ms. Linhart’s. Whenever I see Gina or Haley or Alexa in the cafeteria, I get shaky all over. Usually I stare at my lunch until they pass by. I don’t want to make eye contact with them or hear them say “O.M.G.!” or give them any chance to dis me.

  When we get to the gym there’s a super-tall African American guy with a goatee giving everyone high fives. He must be at least six foot six.

  “My name’s Tim Mitchell,” he tells us as we gather around him on the polished wooden floor, “but people call me Tiny. Get it? Because I’m tiny.”

  We all laugh. It is funny to think that his nickname is Tiny. He’s so tall that he’d make Mom C look short.

  “Sometimes you have to embrace the joke,” Tiny says, walking back and forth in front of us. Then he stops and his face gets serious. “And sometimes you don’t. Sometimes people cross lines that they shouldn’t cross or that you don’t want them to cross. That’s what we’re here to talk about.”

  Tiny starts by saying how most of us have probably been bullied at some point, and it’s nothing to be ashamed about. In fact, there’s a lot we can learn from the experience.

  “But I’m not going to start with the bully,” he says. “I’m going to start with the bystanders. You know them, right? The people on the sidelines grinning and fueling the fire, or even just watching and not doing anything?”

  I immediately think about the other kids in Ms. Linhart’s class and how they were whispering and laughing when someone (probably Gina, Alexa, or Haley) wrote LOSER on my collage.

  “The thing is,” Tiny says, “if you don’t have bystanders, the bully doesn’t have much to keep him or her going. No reaction.”

  Tiny uncaps a marker, walks over to a big pad of paper, and has us brainstorm ways to be actively involved protectors instead of not-so-innocent bystanders. We’re all calling out stuff like “Walk away!” “Get a teacher!” “Tell the bully to quit it!” Then some kids tell Tiny how they’ve been bullied. Jillian says it happened to her in second grade. I have to wonder if Gina and her friends were involved.

  Tiny sets down his marker. “Now we’re going to move around a little. We’re going to do something called the Mookey Line.”

  We all stare at him.

  “Who’s ever heard of mookey?”

  Again, silence.

  “Good,” Tiny says, “because it’s a made-up word. But let’s pretend it’s an insult. A really bad one. I’m going to have you guys stand in two lines, facing each other.” When no one moves, Tiny says, “Come on, let’s do it!”

  We all hustle into two lines. I’m next to Jillian and a guy with a cast on one arm. His name is Leo.

  “Okay, I’m going to walk down the center of you guys and you all need to shout mookey at me. Really let me have it … and watch what I do.”

  Tiny walks in the aisle between us and we all start saying mookey to him. At first we’re low-key about it, but after a second we’re belting it out. “Mookey!” we scream. “Mookey! Mookey!” Some kids even jab their fingers toward him.

  The thing is, Tiny never once looks at us. He just walks along, eyes forward, shoulders back.

  “And that is how you walk the Mookey Line,” he says, holding up his hand to silence us. “You keep your head up and you don’t let them get to you. You don’t give them a reaction. Who wants to go next?”

  I have no idea how it happens but my hand shoots into the air.

  “Brave soul,” Tiny says, smiling down at me. He must be twice my height. “Come on over here. What’s your name?”

  “Emme.”

  “Emme.” He gestures toward my class, still in parallel lines. “Walk the Mookey Line.”

  I take my first step and everyone starts shouting at me. I thought it would be scary, but it actually feels cool to hold my head high and ignore them all.

  Leo goes next, and then a few other guys, and then Jillian. By the end, we’ve all had a turn to walk the Mookey Line.

  As we leave the gym, our class passes Ms. Linhart’s class lined up outside for their workshop. When I see Gina (standing apart from Haley and Alexa?!?), I look her right in the eye. She looks back at me for a second, and then she turns away.

  My moms pick me up right after school and we leave for Connecticut. Mom C took the afternoon off and they loaded the car with chips and peanut butter cookies and trail mix. We drive until it’s dark, and then eat dinner and sleep over in a hotel.

  We arrive in eastern Connecticut around lunchtime the next day. Leesa’s boarding school is surrounded by a low stone fence. Inside are brick buildings, statues, and acres of fields and trees. It’s amazing to think she lives here. It looks like something from a movie.

  We call Leesa and make a plan to meet her in front of her dorm. When we pull up, she skips toward our car, waving wildly. Her hair is arranged in about fifteen braids with ribbon strung through them. She’s wearing a black coat, checkered tights, and tall magenta boots. I haven’t seen her in a year, but she looks as good-vibey as ever.

  “Aunt Claire! Aunt Ju
lia! Emme!” Leesa says, hugging all of us.

  It’s bitter cold out, so we quickly pile back into the car. Leesa is in the backseat next to me. We drive across campus to the main office. As my moms go inside to sign Leesa out, my cousin squeezes my arm. “You’re still so teeny, cuz. It’s really cute.”

  Teeny and cute make me sound like a baby chick. “I’ve grown a little,” I say. (Okay, a half inch in the past six months, but I’ll take it.)

  My moms return to the car and we pull through the front gate. We’re going to a restaurant for lunch (French food, Leesa’s choice).

  Leesa sings to herself on the drive. “It’s a song from the concert tonight,” she says to me. “I’ll be playing this on my ukulele.”

  “Cool,” I say.

  After a few minutes, we get stuck behind a slow-moving vehicle. I decide to get my (semi-true) confession out of the way now so I can enjoy the rest of lunch. I lean over to Leesa. “You know how you sent the collage back to me a while ago?”

  Leesa grins. “Did you like the gas thingy? Awesome, right? Someone in my dorm gave me that picture.”

  I nod. “I loved it, except …” I pause. A white lie is okay. It wasn’t my fault the collage got ruined. “I, uh, lost it. Is it okay if we start another one? I can mail you the first installment.”

  Leesa shrugs. “No biggie. Actch, let’s chill on the collages for now. I’m kind of over it.”

  I stare at Leesa. I thought she might be mad that I said I lost the collage. The last thing I expected was that she wanted to quit doing them.

  “No offense,” she says. “I’m just busy with school and all.”

  “That’s fine,” I say quietly, even though it sort of isn’t.

  The restaurant is called Delphine’s. From the second we sit down until when the food arrives, Leesa talks about herself and her friends and the concert tonight and what she’s doing over winter break. Actch, it’s a little annoying. I have so much I want to tell her about Greeley and Hannah and our new house and swim team and switching classrooms. But whenever I try to talk, she interrupts me with a story about herself. After a while, I focus on my hamburger and fries. They brought three kinds of dip (ketchup, mayonnaise, and garlic oil), so I’m alternating one fry per dip.