Read My Best Frenemy Online

Authors: Julie Bowe

My Best Frenemy (14 page)

BOOK: My Best Frenemy
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When the bus gets to my stop after school, me and Rachel head to my house.
Jenna follows along. Even after we turn the corner.
I stop and look at her. “Um... aren’t you going the wrong way? ”
“Yes,” she says. “I mean... no. I’m going with you. ”
“You are? ” I say.
“You are? ” Rachel says.
Jenna gives us a quick nod. “My mom . . . she told me I should. ”
Jenna glances away.
“But I don’t mind walking Rachel home,” I say.
“Yeah, Ida doesn’t mind, ” Rachel chimes in.
Jenna doesn’t say anything. She just kicks at a chunk of ice on the sidewalk until she kicks it loose.
“But, I suppose if you want to—” I start to say.
I hear a small cough and look at Rachel. She shakes her head
no
.
I look at Jenna again. “You can walk Rachel home, ” I say. “Just for today. ”
Rachel puffs.
Jenna sniffs, shaking back her braids. “If I have to, ” she says.
I take off for my house.
Rachel catches up.
Jenna follows along.
When we get there we ditch our coats and kick off our boots. I leave Jenna sitting on the staircase while Rachel starts her piano lesson. When I come back from the kitchen with a plate of brownies, Jenna’s checking her watch and tapping her foot to “Three Blind Mice.” There’s a hole in her sock and one toe peeks out. It’s painted orange to match her fingernails.
“If you want, ” I say, “we can wait in my room until Rachel’s done. ”
Jenna’s foot skips a beat. She checks her watch again. “I guess that would be okay, ” she says.
We grab our backpacks and head upstairs.
When we get to my room, Jenna sets her stuff by my bed and walks over to my fish tank. “Is this your new fish? ” she asks, tapping on the glass.
I set the brownies on my desk. “Good guess,” I say.
My fish darts behind the pirate. “Not very friendly, is he? ” Jenna taps on the glass harder.
“He’s just a little shy around strangers, ” I say.
“We had a fish once, ” Jenna says. “Two, actually. We won them at a fair. ”
“What happened to them? ” I ask.
Jenna shrugs. “Died. Flushed. ” She darts her eyes at me. “It was Rachel’s fault. She never fed them. ”
I walk over to the tank and sprinkle fish food onto the water. “I’ve heard that can be bad for a fish. ”
My fish darts back and forth, chasing the sinking flakes.
“Wow, look at him go! ” Jenna says. “You should name him Zippy. ”
“
Zippy?
” I say.
Jenna nibbles on the end of her braid. “Well, maybe not Zippy, exactly. That’s just short for something better. Like . . .
Zipp
opotamus. ”
“Tom said I should just ask my fish what he wants his name to be. ”
Jenna snorts. “And everyone thinks he’s such a brain. ”
I shrug. “It’s worth a try. ”
I tap on the fish tank. “Hello, fish, ” I say. “I was just wondering what you want your name to be. ”
Jenna rolls her eyes.
I lean over the top of the tank and cup my hair behind my ear. My fish swims to the surface and nips at a flake.
Jenna moves in closer. “What’s he saying? ”
“Just
pic, pic, pic . . .
” I reply.
“That’s not a name,” Jenna says. “Not unless it’s short for something like . . . Pickles or . . . Piccolo. ”
“Or Picasso, ” I say.
“That’s it, ” Jenna says. “Picasso. Pic for short. ”
I look into the tank again. “Pic? ” I say to my fish. “Is that your name? ”
“Of course it is,” Jenna says. “Just look at him. He’s a mess of colors and shapes like the old guy’s paintings. ”
“Pic . . . pic . . . pic! ”
my fish says.
I give Jenna a smile. “You’re right, ” I say.
Jenna nods. Then she flicks back her braids and heads for my bed. “We should do our homework now,” she says, unzipping her backpack. “Concrete poems? ”
“Good plan, ” I say.
Jenna pulls out a notebook. “You should write one about your new fish, ” she says. “And I’ll write one about my new—”
Jenna presses her lips together.
“New what?” I ask, grabbing the brownies and walking over to her.
“My new . . . dog,” she says. “Biscuit.” She opens her notebook and grabs the box of oil pastels from my nightstand. She takes out a brown stick and starts doodling a square dog.
I frown. “You’ve had Biscuit for more than a year. That’s not new. ”
Jenna gives the square dog triangle ears. She doesn’t answer.
I take a big, brave breath. “What about your new . . . baby? ” I say quietly. “You could write a poem about that. ”
Jenna stops doodling. She looks up at me.
“How did you know? ” she asks.
“My dad told me,” I say, sitting down on my bed. “This morning. ” I take a brownie and set the plate between us. “He didn’t know it was a secret. ” I take a bite. “
Is
it a secret? ”
Jenna takes a blue stick out of the box. “Sort of,” she says. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone yet. Especially not Rachel. ” She draws a circle near the dog—a ball maybe—and fills it in blue.
“Why not? ”
“Because sometimes babies don’t . . . stick . . . for my mom, ” she says. “She wants to be sure this one does before Rachel knows about it. She didn’t even want me to know, but I overheard her on the phone with her doctor, so I made her spill the beans. ”
Jenna turns to a clean page in her notebook. “Let’s get started. ”
I set my brownie down and pull my backpack toward me. I take out my notebook and turn to a clean page too.
“Maybe they’ll let you pick a name for it,” I say. “The baby, I mean. ”
“Maybe, ” Jenna says.
“Not Zippy, though, ” I say.
Jenna picks up a brownie and takes a bite. “Good plan. ”
Chapter 17
I wait until Thursday morning to ask Mom if I can go to Brooke’s sleep-over on Friday night.
Mom laughs. “No way,” she says, setting a bowl of oatmeal in front of me at our kitchen table. “Not unless you get your chores done, starting with that
fish
. We made a deal last week, remember? You were supposed to change the filter before we went shopping, but you didn’t, did you? ”
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll clean the filter as soon as I get home from school. I mean, as soon as I get home from the Purdee Good. It’s cookie day with Stacey. ” I pick up my spoon and stir the lumps in my oatmeal. “Sugar, please? ”
Mom snatches up the sugar container. Then she takes my bowl of oatmeal. “Change the filter, ” she says. “
Then
eat. Then I’ll drive you to school. ”
“But—”
“
Now.
”
I slide off my chair and trudge to my room.
Touching the fish filter is the worst thing ever. Even worse than touching Dylan Anderson’s shoe. Not that I have, but still.
“How can you live like this? ” I ask my fish as I pull the dirty filter out. It looks like something you would step on in a swamp. It smells like it too.
I drop the filter into a bucket.
I slide a new filter into place and plug in the motor again. Water gurgles. My fish swims in happy circles. The pirate lifts his jug.
“If you changed it more often, it wouldn’t be so gross, ” Mom says from my bedroom doorway.
I pick up the bucket. “Can I go to Brooke’s sleep-over now? ”
“Yes,” Mom says. “And after you throw away the old filter and wash your hands, you can have your oatmeal. ”
I look into the bucket. “Maybe just toast,” I say, and head for the garbage.
 
The bell is ringing when I get to school, so I hurry to hang up my stuff and join everyone else inside our classroom.
I slip my concrete poem into the homework basket on Mr. Crow’s desk. I drew a fish shape and wrote my poem inside it. Jenna was there. She said, “The fish could be better, but you rhymed the poem good. ”
Then I take the long way around the desk square so I can walk past Stacey.
“I get to go to Brooke’s sleep-over tomorrow, ” I whisper to her.
“Good! ” Stacey whispers back.
I do a half smile. “Are we going to the Purdee Good after dance today? ” I ask.
“Of course, ” Stacey says. “Like always. ”
This time I do a whole smile.
All day long it’s sleep-over this and sleep-over that. The more Brooke and the other girls talk about it, the more I pinch my earlobes. My fingernails are sharp enough to leave dents in them. But they’re not as sharp as needles.
Brooke says I won’t feel a thing when Meeka pierces my ears because they will freeze them with ice first. But I’m not so sure. I kept my ears uncovered for our whole afternoon recess. They were red and stinging when I got back inside. But when I pressed my fingernails into them I could still feel the pinch.
 
 
There are only a couple of people in the Purdee Good when I get there after walking Stacey to Miss Woo’s after school. I scoot onto a stool by the counter and slip off my backpack. I unzip my jacket and pull off my mittens and earmuffs.
“Those look just like Stacey’s earmuffs,” Kelli says as she sets a glass of milk in front of me.
“They are Stacey’s,” I reply. “We swapped for a while. ”
Kelli smiles. “My best friend Barb and I used to swap stuff all the time when we were kids. Hats. Clothes. Shoes. We were exactly the same size until eighth grade. ”
“Then what happened? ”
“Then Barb grew up and I grew . . . out. ” Kelli does a little laugh.
“Did you stay best friends? ”
“No, not really,” she says. “We were still friends, just not best friends. In high school, Barb was into sports and I was into books and—well—boys. ” Kelli looks past me, thinking. “We sort of . . . drifted. ”
I take a sip of milk.
Kelli clears away a couple of coffee cups. “Cookie? ” she asks.
“No thanks,” I say. “I’ll wait until Stacey gets here. ”
Kelli sets the dirty cups in a plastic bin and starts wiping the counter with a damp rag. She hums while she works and her earrings sparkle under the warm café lights. I study them for a minute.
“Did it hurt? ” I ask.
Kelli glances at me. “Did what hurt? ”
“Getting your ears pierced. ”
Kelli stops wiping. “Yes, ” she says. “A little. ”
I nod. “That’s what I thought. ”
Kelli walks over to me and leans against the counter. “Are you thinking about getting your ears pierced, Ida? ” she asks.
“A little, ” I say.
Kelli tosses the rag into the bin with the dirty cups and looks at me again. “If you’re worried about it, I’m sure Stacey would go with you. In fact, she just went with Brooke to that piercing boutique at the mall, so she’s all practiced up. ”
I nod again and sip my milk.
Kelli smiles. “That’s what best friends are for, right? To hold your hand through the tough stuff? ”
“I guess, ” I say.
A couple of people come into the café and Kelli gets busy with her job again. I take my milk to one of the booths and watch snowflakes fall outside the big café window. The streetlights blink on, making patches of the sidewalk look warm and golden. But it’s still cold and gray around the edges.
Stacey and the other girls come out of Miss Woo’s. They laugh and throw snow and shout good-bye to each other. Brooke, Meeka, and Jolene climb into cars and drive away. Jenna walks down the sidewalk by herself. Stacey waits for the street to clear and then crosses over to me.
The door jingles. “Hi! ” Stacey sings. She hangs up her stuff on the coat tree.
“Hi, Stace, ” Kelli says, leaning across the counter to give her a kiss. “How was dance? ”
“Good, ” she says, scooting in across from me. “We started working on our dance for the spring recital. It’s pretty hard, but Brooke and I are going to practice on the weekends when I don’t have to go to Dad’s. ”
Kelli brings Stacey a glass of milk and sets a giant cookie between us.
“You and Brooke? ” Kelli says.
Stacey nods and breaks the cookie in half. “We get to do a duet. It’s going to be the best part of the whole recital! ”
Stacey eats her half of the cookie and tells me all about the dance they’re going to do, and how she hopes their recital costumes will be purple and sparkly, and how Miss Woo told her she was born to be a dancer and that she and Brooke are a perfect match for the duet.
I nod and smile while she talks.
But on the inside I’m thinking about best friends and how they don’t always match. Like Brooke and Jenna. They were best friends until this year. Now they are best enemies. And me and Stacey. We’re best friends, I know we are. But now she’s Brooke’s best friend too. Maybe Brooke matches her better than me.
Dear Stella,
Mr. Crow liked my concrete poem so much he hung it up on the board in our classroom today. Actually, he hung up everyone’s poems, but still, mine was pretty good. I even have it memorized:
Jenna’s poem was the shortest one. She wrote it in a circle. The hollow kind:
She must have been feeling sad when she wrote it because of fighting with Brooke and because of keeping the secret about her new baby. That’s probably why she used my blue oil pastel stick. Because blue can be a sad color. Like that sad guitar player Mr. Picasso drew.
And the circle makes me think of the way birds fly around and around when they’re Looking for someplace to Land or for something to eat. Only in the poem, Jenna isn’t Looking for a tree branch or a bug.
Bye,
Ida
BOOK: My Best Frenemy
3.89Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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