Best Friend Next Door (5 page)

“Class!” Ms. Linhart says. She’s frowning even
more
than usual.

“May I?” I ask quietly.

“Yes, you may.” Ms. Linhart turns back to the group. “You know about adding and subtracting numbers with decimals, but what about when you multiply them?”

I push up off the rug and walk out the door. I won’t cry on the way to the bathroom. I won’t cry in school. I will count the seconds until lunch and recess when I see Hannah. We always eat lunch together. Sometimes a few girls from her class join us. Hands down, it’s the best part of my day. Tuesdays and Thursdays are even better because those are the weekdays that we have swim team practice at the YMCA. I tried out for the Dolphins and made it. Hannah and I are both in the silver level, which is the top for our age group. On swim days, we walk home from school, have a snack, and then carpool to the Y. Today is a Tuesday, so it’s Hannah’s family’s turn to take us.

As I’m washing my hands, I think about eating bananas with Hannah on the way to practice. Laughing in the locker room. Shrieking as we dive into the cold water. Looking at the big clock that Coach Missy props up so we can watch our times. Everything will be okay once I’m away from my class and having fun at swim practice.

When I return to the classroom, people are getting ready for gym.

“It’s orienteering day so you’ll be outside rain or shine,” Ms. Linhart calls out. “Remember your raincoats and boots if you have them.”

My teacher seems truly happy at the prospect of us orienteering (whatever that means) in a downpour. I reach into my cubby for my raincoat and slide my arms into the sleeves.

“Seriously?” Gina whispers. “A purple flowered raincoat?”

I freeze mid-zip. Is she talking to me?

“That’s
so
fourth grade,” Haley says.

“So not Greeley,” says Alexa.

Gina, Alexa, and Haley are all wearing super-sporty black raincoats with neon-yellow stripes. I didn’t get the text message that our coats need to be identical. It’s not like I love my raincoat, but who cares? It keeps me dry.

“Are you sure you’re ten?” Gina asks. “You’re just so … tiny.”

I bite my lip. I can’t think of a single thing to say.

“Don’t get upset,” Gina says. “O.M.G., we’re just joking with you.” Then she spins around and walks briskly into the hall.

That’s it. I’ve had it.

As people start toward gym, I go up to Ms. Linhart. “I don’t feel well. May I go to the nurse?”

Yep,
May I
.

I’m not stupid, after all.

“It’s not a fever,” Mom J says when we get home. She’s obsessed with the new thermometer that she ordered. She probes it into my ear whenever I’m the least bit flushed. “And you’re not queasy?”

“Not really.” I set my backpack on the floor and sit on a stool in the kitchen. “I just feel … sick.”

“Sick how?” she asks. “Does your throat hurt? I would look down your throat but I still haven’t found our flashlights. I know they’re somewhere. Oh! I can use the light on my phone.”

I reach down to scratch Butterball on the head.

Mom C says that if Mom J hadn’t become a journalist she probably would have gone to medical school. Instead she’s acting out her doctor dreams with me. I can’t even tell her when I have a splinter because she’ll chase me with tweezers and Neosporin.

“I’m just tired,” I say, dodging her as she comes toward my throat with her phone on high beam.

I’ve told my moms that Ms. Linhart is strict, but that’s about it. I haven’t told anyone about Gina and the other girls. There’s nothing anyone can do about it, and tattling on them will just make me sound like a loser. Which I’m not. Or I didn’t think I was until I met Gina.

“Let’s have some soup,” Mom J says. “I have to finish an article after lunch and then I’m bringing ginger tea next door to Margo. You can rest in your room.”

“You mean Hannah’s stepmom?”

Mom J nods. “She’s lovely. We have tea now and then. She works from home a few days a week.”

“What do you know about Hannah’s
mom
?” I ask. Hannah’s never said anything about her parents getting divorced or when Margo became her stepmom.

“You mean her birth mom?” Mom J says. “Not sure.”

“Yeah, that’s what I meant,” I say. Since I have two moms, I know all about that stuff. Mom J gave birth to me, so she’s my birth mom. As soon as I was born, Mom C adopted me. I miss not having Mom C around all the time, but she loves her new job. She’s a litigator. That means she’s paid to argue in a courtroom. I wish I could be that brave. If I were, I’d litigate for Gina to leave me alone (and to never say “O.M.G.” again).

“How is Hannah feeling about the baby?” Mom J asks as she sets a steaming bowl of chicken-noodle soup in front of me.

“What baby?” I blow on my soup. I’m feeling much better than I did an hour ago. I’m so glad I’m not at school right now.

“Margo’s baby,” Mom J says. “She’s due in February.”

I drop my spoon into my bowl. “Hannah’s stepmom isn’t pregnant.”

“Of course she is. Haven’t you noticed her belly? She’s four months along.”

I stare at Mom J. A few weeks ago, I asked Hannah whether she was an only child and she said yes.

“Hannah didn’t tell you?”

“Nope.” I slurp up some noodles. “Can I ask her about it?”

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.