Best Friend Next Door (16 page)

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
whatever
ball 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.

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.