Best Friend Next Door (12 page)

I’m trying not to think about how they’re all here for me.

“The first case on the adoption calendar today,” the bald guy says, “is for the matter of Hannah Eileen Strafel.”

Okay, it’s hard to deny. They
are
all here because of me. My stomach is growling. I wiggle my toes in my boots. I think I’m getting a blister. Margo squeezes my hand.

Judge O’Toole instructs us to go around the table and state our names. As it gets closer to me, my mouth feels dry. What if I can’t talk? Or what if I can’t remember my name? I wish I could just kick my boots off.

“Hannah?” the judge says. “Can you say your name please?”

I take a deep breath. “Hannah Eileen Strafel.”

My dad reaches over and takes my other hand.

“How old are you, Hannah?” asks the woman who was talking to the judge.

“Ten,” I say. “I’ll be eleven in a couple weeks.”

Thinking about that reminds me of how Emme and her mom Julia and Margo and I are going to New York City for our joint birthday. I still can’t believe that’s happening.

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.

B
utterball’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 it 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.