My Last Best Friend (3 page)

I swear, I will never understand boys.

"Ida!" Stacey calls to me. I look away from the boys and see Stacey's big-crayon smile shining like a supernova. I can feel its gravitational force pulling me in, but I dig my toes into the tile floor and hang on.

Stacey slips away from the other girls and walks up to me, waving a piece of purple paper. "Did you get yours?"

"Get my what?" I ask.

"Your invitation," Stacey says, handing me the paper. Unfolding it I read:

The next thing I know, Jenna is shoving an invitation into my other hand. "My mother says I have to invite every girl in the class. Even you, I-
duh.
"

I look from the invitation to the crowd of girls. I see purple paper everywhere.

Jenna grabs Stacey's hand and pulls her away from me. And that's how Jenna and Stacey stay for the rest of the day. Stuck together.

***

When I get home after school I go straight to my bedroom. I toss my backpack on the floor and fall onto my bed, relieved to be somewhere soft and warm and familiar. I look at my sock monkey, George, who is lying on my pillow. George isn't particularly soft or warm, but he is familiar. He's been in our family since my dad was a kid.

I pull my invitation from Jenna out of my pocket and show it to George. "Everyone's going," I tell him. "Except me."

George just stares at me.

"Because," I say. "Sleepovers are stupid."

George takes time to think this over. While he's thinking I hear a knock on my door. A moment later my mom is peeking in.

"Hi, Ida! I thought I heard you come home. Can I come in?"

I slip the invitation under George and say, "Sure."

My mom sits next to me on my bed. "How was your day?" she asks.

"Fine," I reply.

"What did you do?"

"Oh, you know. The usual. Reading. Writing. Math."

"How about recess? Did you play with Jenna?"

"No," I say. "She was busy playing with the new girl."

My mom's eyes brighten. "The new girl?"

I fidget a little and nod. "Stacey Merriweather."

"Is she nice?" my mom asks.

"She's okay," I say, and fidget some more. Of course, George decides to fidget right along with me. It isn't long before Jenna's invitation is peeking out from under him.

"What's that?" my mom asks, pointing to the purple paper.

"Oh, it's just an invitation," I say. "To Jenna's sleepover. But I'm not going."

"Not going?" my mom says. "Why not?"

I just shrug and tuck the invitation back under George. "Jenna only invited me because her mom said she had to."

"Now, Ida, I'm sure that's not true."

"Yes it is," I say. "Jenna's mean. She only pretends to like me when you're around. I'm
not
going to her sleepover."

"But, Ida," my mom says. "You've hardly left this room since Elizabeth moved away. This party will be a chance for you to make some new friends."

"I don't need new friends," I say, and slide off my bed. "Besides, I like my room. And staying home with you. And Dad. And George. Plus, I'm busy with a new drawing." I grab my backpack and pull out my sketchbook.

My mom just sits there. Then she takes the invitation out from under George and looks it over. "Let's talk about this when Dad gets home."

"Fine," I say. "But I'm still not going." Then I open my sketchbook and start to draw.

As soon as my dad gets home, he and my mom start talking all quiet downstairs. I know because I'm pressing my ear against my bedroom door. A few minutes later, I hear my dad bounding up the steps, two at a time. I dive for my bed and give him a casual "Come in" as soon as he knocks.

My dad plops down on my bed, wearing his usual goofy grin. "Hi, Ida. Gotta joke for you," he says.

I sit up a little. "Let's hear it," I say.

"Knock, knock."

"Who's there?"

"Boo."

"Boo who?"

My dad frowns in a concerned sort of way. "Aw, Ida. Don't cry!"

I roll my eyes.

My dad laughs. "I know," he says. "It's not my best joke, but I thought it might cheer you up."

"I don't need cheering up," I say.

My dad's goofy grin trails away. "Yeah, you do, Ida. And Mom and I have decided you're going to the sleepover."

I jump off my bed and punch my fists into my hips. "But
I
don't want to go!" I shout.

My dad nods. "I know," he says, all calm. "But you can't keep moping around. We think making new friends is a good idea. Mom will call to let Jenna's mom know you'll be there."

I grab the closest thing to me, which is George, and throw him as hard as I can. George hits my dad in the chest and then falls in a gangly heap on the floor.

I fall to the floor, too.

My dad just sits there for a moment. Then he gets up and quietly closes the door on his way out.

I curl up into a tight ball, breathing hard and blinking fast so that no tears will be able to leak out.

Finally, I reach over and pull George to me.

"I'm sorry," I say.

Friday morning my mom helps me pack my bag for the big sleepover. Pajamas, clothes, flashlight, hairbrush, toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant....

I want to bring George, but I know Jenna would do something mean to him. One time Elizabeth brought her favorite rag doll to school and Jenna stole it. Then she, Brooke, Meeka, and Jolene threw the doll in a Dumpster because they said it was old and smelly. I don't want George to end up in one of Jenna's recycling bins.

I spend most of Friday morning thinking about how much I don't want to go to Jenna's sleepover. But by the time lunch rolls around, all I can think about is—what is Stacey's real name?

I know, I know. You're saying,
Her name is Stacey.
And you're right. It is. But it isn't.

I guess I better try to explain.

It all started because our whole class was acting way more brainy than usual. We all got perfect scores on our first spelling quiz. Mr. Crow was so pleased he decided we deserved a reward.

"Howz' about we play a game?" he said. "It's called Fib."

Mr. Crow explained that each of us had to think of three things to tell about ourselves, but one of the things had to be a fib. "We'll try to guess who is fibbing about what," Mr. Crow said. "It'll be fun."

Mr. Crow started the game off by saying, "Three things about me are:

1. I was born in England.

2. I don't own a television.

3. My brother is a plumber."

Right away kids started waving their hands in the air. Everyone guessed that he was fibbing about not owning a television. But not me. I figured anyone with a ponytail as long as Mr. Crow's, who isn't a girl, probably spends most of his time reading really thick books instead of watching really stupid TV shows. Plus, he is always drinking tea, which means he must have been born in England since tea is pretty much all they ever drink over there. So I raised my hand and said, "You're fibbing about your brother."

"Good answer, Ida!" Mr. Crow said. "You are absolutely correct. My brother is a veterinarian, not a plumber."

"So that means you really don't own a television?" Jenna asked.

"That's right," Mr. Crow said.

"Weird," Jenna replied. Pretty much the whole class had to agree with that.

Next, we went around the room and took turns making up fibs. When it was my turn I said, "Three things about me are:

1. I have Dr. Seuss's autograph.

2. I want to be an artist when I grow up.

3. My dad wears Scooby Doo underpants."

Brooke guessed that I was fibbing about the autograph. Nope. That was true. My mom met
Dr. Seuss when she was a kid, and she gave me the book he autographed for her.

Tom guessed that I was fibbing about wanting to be an artist because nobody's ever seen my sketchbook.

"So that means you're fibbing about your dad wearing Scooby Doo underpants?" Stacey finally guessed.

"Yep," I said. "He only wears Bugs Bunny."

When I said that, Stacey laughed so hard I thought she might pee her pants.

After a few more kids told fibs, it was Stacey's turn. She said, "Three things about me are:

1. I like making new friends.

2. My favorite color is green.

3. My real name isn't Stacey."

Jenna guessed that Stacey was fibbing about her favorite color. Surprise, surprise. Even the boys knew that on account of practically everything Stacey owns is pink or purple. Jenna gave herself a round of applause for being right and then barged right into telling her fib.

But something
wasn't
right. Stacey said she
fibbed about her favorite color, which means the other two things were true. Then ... what is her real name?

I don't know why I need to know her real name. I just do. But I don't want her to know that I want to know.

By the time lunch is over, I know what I have to do.

Instead of going straight outside for recess, I sneak back to our classroom. I pull a crumpled piece of paper and a half-chewed pencil from my desk. I think for a minute, and then I write:

So what IS your real name?

Signed,

A Girl

I toss the note on Stacey's desk. Then I race outside before anyone catches me sneaking around.

I kick rocks around the playground five times before I realize I made the stupidest mistake in the history of the world.

How is Stacey Merriweather supposed to answer my question when she doesn't know who is asking it? Will she get up in front of the whole class, wave my piece of crumpled paper in the air, and shout, "
What girl left this note on my desk?!
"

If she does, I will turn as red as Rusty Smith's hair. Then everyone will know it was me.

While I'm thinking this through, the bell rings, and I know I have to get that note before Stacey does.

I race into the school, barrel through a bunch of first graders, slip past the office, and tear down the hallway. It seems to take forever, but I finally zoom through our classroom doorway.

Then I freeze.

Stacey Merriweather is standing by her desk. She's tucking my crumpled piece of paper into her pocket.

I am toast.

"Excuse
me
, I-
duh
," Jenna suddenly says as she shoves me through the doorway.

She shoves me so hard I trip over my feet and fall flat on my face.

Jenna looks down at me. "You should be more
careful," she says with a smirk. She steps over me and marches to her desk.

Stacey just stares at Jenna like she doesn't know what to say.

Everyone starts coming into the classroom, so I get up and slump to my desk.

Stacey walks over to me. "Are you okay, Ida?" she asks. "You'll still be able to go to Jenna's party, won't you?"

"I'm fine," I mumble.

"Because I really want you to go. And I'm sure Jenna didn't mean to knock you down."

"Yeah, and I'm an Olympic athlete," I say.

I squeeze my eyes shut until Stacey gets the hint and goes back to her desk. A minute later I hear Mr. Crow say, "Take out your science books, please." I take a deep breath and open my eyes. That's when my heart stops.

On the chalkboard, between next week's spelling words and today's math problems, I see it.

In curly cursive letters.

I blink my eyes and look again.

It's still there.