The Journal Of A Writer

Margo Gabriel

2010-07-22T12:00:00.000-07:00

PRESENT DAY

Margo

It’s 3 AM. I wake up, dizzy, disoriented, hung over. I look around. Nothing seems familiar. I don’t know where I am or how I ended up here. This is nothing new.

I snatch up my jean miniskirt from where it lays on a pile on the floor with the rest of my clothes and pull my cell phone from the back pocket.

The phone is almost out of battery and the light is dim as my heavy, clumsy fingers fumble with the keypad.

“Hello?” the familiar voice on the other end picks up almost immediately; tries not to sound like the voice of someone who has just been awoken from a lovely sleep.

My tongue cannot seem to form the words that I want to speak. “I dunno whereiam, “ I mumble incoherently, pulling my filmy tank top over my head, backwards maybe, and struggling with my skirt.

There is a short silence on the other end. A small, nearly inaudible sigh. “Stay where you are. I’ll find you.”

“I love youuu soo much,” I blubber just before the phone goes dead. I take a deep breath, try to clear my head, and throw up into my purse.

Gabriel

He carries her into his apartment as the sun peeks out from around the Sears Tower. He has to be at work in three hours, and he is exhausted. But when he lays her sleeping body gently down on his bed, sits on the edge, just watching her slow, relaxed breathing, none of that matters to him.

Her long, flaxen hair is dirty and tangled and her heavy eyeliner, which was so alluring a few hours ago, is smudged across her eyelids and cheeks, giving her the appearance of a very fair skinned raccoon. Her lips are chapped and her tongue sticks out a little when she breathes deeply. Her hands are clenched together tightly, and he slowly loosens them and holds them just for a second before laying them at her sides.

He looks at his watch; knows he should go shower and get ready. When he comes home she will surely be gone. But she’ll be back in a few nights at the most, drunk and disoriented and grateful. If only she would just stay, just once… he wipes the thought from his mind. He has other things to think about right now.

He gently smoothes the sweaty hair off of her forehead and kisses it softly, biting his lip to keep from crying out. It is too overwhelming. He goes to turn on the shower.

SEPTEMBER 1995

Margo

The sidewalk on West Laurel Street seems like the glassy, Zamboni-fresh ice that I skate on three times a week. My sneakers glide right over them. I don’t even feel myself walking, really. There’s a smile stretched across my face, ear to ear, and I couldn’t get rid of it even if I’d wanted to. Luckily, my braces have been off for four months.

My hand goes subconsciously to my mouth as I turn onto Tidge Lane. I run my index finger over my lips. They feel different. Different than they did when I brushed my teeth this morning. Different, even, than when I was putting chapstick on twenty minutes ago, as I waited for the bus.

I cut across old Mrs. Mahoney’s lawn and almost trip as I scamper up the steps of twelve, Tidge Lane. I burst in without knocking.

“Well, hello, Margo.”

“Hi, Carol,” I say to her, the spitting image of Gabriel, as she stands vacuuming the front hallway. Then I dash up the stairs.

Gabriel is in his bedroom, fidgeting with his cassette player.

“Trying to take it apart again?” I say coyly. “That didn’t work so well last time, Gabe.”

Gabriel doesn’t even turn around. “I missed something last time,” he explains. “It’ll work now.”

I perch myself on the edge of his neatly made bed. On his nightstand is a stack of technology magazines. The man on the cover of the top one, as geeky as he is holding a word processing unit, has hair exactly like Bobby Flaxett’s.

My hand goes to my mouth once more.

“So, want to go to Dairy Queen when I finish this piece?” Gabriel asks lackadaisically.

“Bobby Flaxett kissed me!” I blurt out.

Gabriel freezes in mid-unscrew.

“On the bench while we were waiting for the bus! He was sitting right next to me, and I was thinking about how cute he was and, how I’d heard he liked Mindy Elliot, and how jealous I was of her, and then–”

Gabriel whirls around, screwdriver clenched in hand. “That’s nice, Margo,” he says evenly. “And I have a lot of homework to do, so I don’t think we should go to Dairy Queen. Actually, I think you’d better leave.”

“What?” I’m baffled. “Okay… well I have to tell you everything tomorrow then, okay?”

Gabriel doesn’t say anything. I avoid his gaze as I leave the room. I suppose maybe I know subconsciously that the weary look in his eyes is really hurt, but I don’t see it then.

Gabriel

It was the first time he’d lost her, the first time she wasn’t completely his. The feeling was not one he ever wanted to feel again. His whole life, it was always just him and Margo. He guessed he’d known that soon she’d find interest in boys besides him, her best friend, but he had never expected to feel this way about it. It wasn’t supposed to feel like he wanted to break inside. Like he had already broken. His eyes weren’t supposed to feel wet. He was thirteen for crying out loud. He sat on his bed, realized he’d forgotten to breathe. Took a deep breath. Everything smelled different, tasted different. He’d always assumed he’d feel protective of Margo in the way that Daniel, her college-bound brother did. But that wasn’t it at all. He didn’t know why he was feeling this way or how to make it go away. And he knew in his heart that this was only the beginning of it. There was no going back for her now, and only a long road of broken pieces and watery eyes ahead for him.

APRIL 2000

Margo

“Honey, what is that? Smile normally.”

“Mo-om!”

“Sweetie, you’ve got lipstick on your tooth.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Gabriel fidgets with his collar. I sway back and forth on my silver heels, the highest I’ve ever been allowed to wear.

My mother and Carol stand before us, clutching respective chunky digital cameras.

Carol clicks her camera again. Tyler’s hand is sweaty on my exposed back.

“Carol, could you get a close up of Margo and Tyler,” my mother asks as she pulls the batteries out of her camera. “My battery died.”

“And then we should get one of all of you together,” Carol agrees as she comes closer to where I stand with Tyler. “Smile!”

The flash momentarily blinds me.

Click, click, click goes Carol’s camera as we move towards each other. Gabriel rolls his eyes at me, his hand on the small of Allie’s back.

“How about one of the girls?” my mother suggests enthusiastically. I give her a small look. I hardly know Allie outside of third period trig. We lean in and smile, pull away as soon as the flash goes off.

“And the boys?” Carol asks. I look over. Tyler is tying his shoe. Gabriel shifts uncomfortably. Tyler doesn’t go to school with us, and Gabriel doesn’t know him.

“Margo and Gabe, then,” instructs my mother. “Arms around each other.”

Gabriel and I laughingly obey. Carol snaps a few photos.

“Senior prom,” my mother murmurs, mostly to herself, or Carol, I don’t know.

“I know,” Carol responds. “I can’t believe it. This picture’s going on the mantle, right next to the one of them naked in the bathtub in 1984.”

Gabriel and I both blush, then laugh.

Click, click, click.

“Mom, we’re going to be late,” Gabriel says impatiently. We’ve both seen our respective dates standing awkwardly over on one side.

“Oh, just one more,” Carol insists.

Click.

“Phew,” I let out a breath. “I need to reapply my lipstick before we go. Allie, want to come with me?”

“Sure,” Allie follows me, trying not to break her heels in the soft soil of the lawn.

The mothers are reviewing photos on the tiny screen of Carol’s camera.

“Oh, that’s my favorite,” I hear my mother say.

“I don’t know,” Carol says tentatively. Allie is inside, but I pause at the door to listen. “I mean, I guess I always assumed… senior prom… it would be Margo and Gabe going together.”

“Didn’t we all, Carol,” my mother says softly. “Didn’t we all?”

Gabriel

Destiny’s Child is blaring. Allie is in the restroom with some of the girls from her softball team, fixing her hair. He fidgets with his tie. It’s purple, chosen by Margo. He watches her with Tyler, laughing, smiling, dancing. Carefree. He thinks of the pictures. His mother is probably developing them already, just as excited as they had been for prom.

The picture that will be framed on their mantle will not be the one of he and Allie, but the one of he and Margo.

So why are they on opposite ends of the room, instead of together, as they should be, he wonders.

PRESENT DAY

Gabriel

He is in his cubicle, typing absentmindedly at an article that he should have had in by yesterday, when his phone buzzes noiselessly in his pocket. He slips it into his hand and glances down quickly, feeling like a troublemaker in school. He’s an adult, in his office, at work, he reminds himself, and lifts the phone to his ear.

One missed call. It’s Margo, and he has a new voicemail. He presses #, then 1, 4, 7, and finally reaches his mailbox. 1, 3, 1, and he hears Margo’s tinny, compressed voice through the speaker.

“Gabe, you’d better not have plans for tonight, because I made reservations for seven at Flatwater.”

There is a short pause, the sound of fingers tapping out a message on a QWERTY keyboard.

Then the noise stops and Margo’s voice returns. “Yeah, so your ass better be down there at seven! See you then, okay? Love you, bye.”

There is a click.

“You have no new messages,” the automated voice tells him.

Gabriel hangs up, sits thinking for a moment. Then he pulls up a new text message on the screen and types out a message to Josh, his new friend and co-worker who has been out of town for the past week, letting him know that as it turns out he will not be able to make it to dinner that night.

Then he opens a blank document on his computer, flips through his notebook, and gets back to work.

Margo

It’s seven-fifteen, and I’m sitting alone at the table at Flatwater. I fidget with my necklace, brand new from the jewelry department in the Nordstrom at the Shops at State and Washington. I’m not usually a fidgeter, but I’m nervous. I never get second dates. I don’t even get dates at all, really. I don’t date.

But Galvin – for some reason, it clicked. I haven’t felt this way, this fluttery, infatuated feeling, since my freshman year in college. I try not to think about the disastrous end that came of that feeling, and concentrate on Galvin. We’re going to dinner and a wine tasting in Hinsdale. Tomorrow, six o’clock. His slight British accent is engraved in my mind. No beer pong, followed by dark, anonymous sex. This is what adults do. At least, that’s what I’m assuming, since I have no experience in the world of adult dating.

I need to talk to Gabriel.

As if he’s been listening to my thoughts, I look up and there stands Gabriel. He wears a rumpled suit, a minute coffee stain, only just noticeable, on the lapel, and grins sheepishly at me.

“Hey, you,” I get up, kiss him on the cheek, hand him a menu. “Sit. Order. My treat.”

Gabriel laughs, sits across from me. “Since when do you have money to treat me to dinner?”

“Well,” I draw out. “It’s my treat… with your credit card.”

We laugh.

The waiter comes then, a flamboyantly gay man who informs us his name is Raymundo, and we order. The same entrée, same course. It is chance, but not a surprise.

“So, how have you been,” he asks somewhat formally.

I am taken aback. “Since you saw me, what? Twelve hours ago?”

Gabriel chuckles. “I wasn’t sure if you recalled that meeting,” he quips.

“Oh, shut up,” I roll my eyes at him. “Well actually,” I pause for dramatic effect. “Big news! I have a second date!”

“What?” Gabriel looks confused.

“Me! The un date-able one! I got asked on a second date!”

“Oh, I didn’t know you were dating at all,” Gabriel says, frowning. “But hey,” he quickly adds “That’s so great, Marg!” and asks all of the appropriate questions. Who is he? What’s he like? Where is he taking you? But I sense that he’s not really there anymore.

“How about you?” I ask as we dig into our meal. “Is that friend of yours… the one you were writing the article with – Josh! Is he back in town?”

“Hmm? Yeah,” Gabriel is distracted. “Yeah, he is. We were going to have dinner tonight, but then you called…”

“Oh,” I am embarrassed. “Well, why didn’t you tell me you had plans? I feel bad!”

Gabriel shrugs it off. “Don’t be dumb, Margo. Obviously I’d rather be with you.”

“You’re sweet,” I say, smiling at him. But something is off.

“And will you be paying separately?” Raymundo asks, reappearing at the table. “Or is this a date?” He winks at me.

“Oh, no, no, no,” I say automatically, shaking my head. “No, we’re – we’re best friends, that’s all. He isn’t anyone. Although,” I lean forward, grin at the waiter. “I do have a second date tomorrow! Can you believe that?”

“Omigod, girlfriend,” the man exclaims, and giggles with me. “That’s so great! Congrats! I’ll be right back with your check, okay?”

“Okay!” I smile after him, then turn back to Gabriel. But he is staring out the window silently, and does not turn to meet my gaze when I look at him.

Gabriel

He isn’t anyone. He isn’t anyone.

The words echo over and over in my mind.

MARCH 2004

Gabriel

He doesn’t usually drink. It’s not his thing. He doesn’t like the way it tastes, doesn’t like the way he feels while intoxicated. Doesn’t like not being in control. He wonders if maybe that was the thing that began to distance him from Margo.

He sees her now, sprawled on the lap of a boy in his Social Sciences class. Her hair is a tangle of blonde, her dress short, transparent, and, it seems, optional.

He raises the plastic cup he holds to his lips, takes a sip. Then another.

Margo is all over Social Sciences boy. Her hands run through his hair, over his chest, her lips on his face, his neck.

He drinks, gags with the taste. Drinks again. Sinks into the wall, around the corner from all the others. He is alone now. He drinks again.

Soon there are squeals, drunken laughter. Two semi-entwined bodies push past him, stumble into a room behind a closed door. He sees the long, blond hair, recognizes the familiar laugh. He drinks.

He sinks into a dazed, drunken doze. Scoots his body towards the music to drown out the noise from behind the closed door.

Drinks, drinks, drinks.

He hears a slam. From a door, maybe? He doesn’t know from where, doesn’t care. It hurts his ears.

“Gabriel, Gabriel.”

Who is talking? He feels the warmth of a body sitting very close to him. Looks over. Margo.

“What are you doing here?” he wants to ask, but his mouth doesn’t remember how to form the words.

He stares at her. She is so beautiful, even with her mascara smeared and her eyes bloodshot and her hair a birds nest. He wants to kiss her. It’s so simple. He wonders why he has never done it before. It seems so silly to him. He kisses her. Just like that.

He’s thought about it for eight years, and it’s everything he’s imagined. And she’s kissing him back, and he’s wondering why he waited so long, and then he isn’t thinking anymore, can’t think.

Margo

I wake up, taste lip gloss, taste vomit. I’m in my dorm, don’t remember how I got there. I roll over, try to go back to sleep. There is a body there. In my bed. And I have no clue who it is.

I cautiously raise myself up so I can look around the mop of brown hair to the face. A sharp pain shoots to my temple. I groan. The body is naked, from what I can gather. And out. Seriously out. He doesn’t even stir when I push him, roll him over so he’s facing me.

I remember Jason, from Gabriel’s Social Sciences class. But Jason is blond. At least, I think he is.

I move the hair out of the face, take in the features. I let out a small yelp, push the body away from me, scramble out of bed.

My head throbs, a single word pulsating through.
Gabriel, Gabriel.

Gabriel

His dreams are hazy, muddled. Vaguely familiar people drift in and out. A single face is constant. Margo.

He sleeps and sleeps, because he doesn’t want to wake up and find out that it isn’t true.

JULY 1987

Gabriel

He has just gotten a haircut, and the hairs the hairdresser forgot to wipe off tickle his neck. His head feels oddly light with the absence of his usual mop of brown curls. He shakes his head back and forth, getting a feel for the new haircut, as he walks back to the car, holding his mother’s hand as they cross the parking lot.

“Mom,” he says as Carol buckles him into the backseat.

“Yeah, honey?” Carol asks, closing the door and going around to the driver’s seat.

He speaks quietly, not sure of the reaction his question is going to evoke. “Why couldn’t Daddy help Margo’s dad build our tree house?”

Carol opens her mouth, then pauses, waits until she’s pulled out of the parking lot to answer. “Daddy’s just really busy right now, Gabe,” she explains. “But I’m sure David did a great job with the tree house, honey. Even without Daddy’s help. Have you seen it yet?”

“Not yet,” he responds. He may be little, but he hasn’t missed Carol’s obvious attempt to dodge the subject of his father. Tom has been home less and less with each passing day. He remembers when he was there every night to tuck him in and kiss him goodnight. Sometimes they even read bedtime stories together. Now he and Carol eat alone, and his books sit collecting dust in his closet.

“Well David told me he, Margo, and Daniel were going to put the finishing touches on it this afternoon,” Carol continues, pretending not to notice his weighted silence. “Do you want to go over and help them? I’m sure Margo would want you to.”

He nods, hoping Carol will catch the gesture through the rear view mirror. She does, and smiles slightly. She is comfortable with him when Tom is not part of the conversation. She doesn’t know how long it will be before she will not be able to put off telling him any longer. She hopes as long as possible.

They turn onto Tidge Lane. The tall shady trees that line the block are a relief from the summer heat. Carol drives past number twelve and stops the car at number fourteen. “Go on, honey,” she says. “I’ll come over later to check it out, okay?”

“Are you sure, Mommy?” he asks cautiously, the ever courteous son, even at five. “Do you need help cooking dinner?”

“Sweetie, I have it under control,” Carol smiles appreciatively. “But thank you. Now go! Get out of here!”

He hastily unbuckles his seatbelt and scrambles up the lawn, turning back thrice to wave wildly at Carol. She waves back as he climbs over the broken gate to Margo’s backyard and she pulls away.

“Margo!” he calls uncertainly. “Margo?”

“We’re over here, Gabe,” a man’s voice calls back. Margo’s father, David, and her brother, Daniel, are high up in the tallest tree in their backyard. Daniel hands David nails as he hammers in the last plank of their new tree house.

“Gabriel!” Margo, who stands watching from the ground, exclaims, running over to him. Her blonde hair is tied in short pigtails. “Look Gabriel, it’s done, it’s done!”

“Lets go up,” he responds eagerly.

“One second, you guys,” David calls down. “Danny’s going to come down and help you up.”

Daniel beams with the responsibility he’s been awarded as he scuttles down the ladder. “Don’t even move until I’m down there, Margo,” he says to them. “You too, Gabriel.”

He nods obediently at the older boy, looks over at Margo. She is laughing, rolling her eyes.

Margo

Danny thinks he knows everything. He thinks he’s so smart just because he’s in fifth grade. Well, I may be littler than him, but I sure do know more than him. Such as the fact that I can climb up a ladder by myself with no help at all. Especially not from him. I’m five and a half years old, for goodness sake.

“Gabriel,” I mutter to him as Danny and Daddy make sure the ladder is secure. “Lets climb up now!”

Gabriel shakes his head. “We should wait for you brother to help us,” he responds.

“Why?”

“’Cause he’s bigger,” Gabriel explains logically. “And your dad said so.”

“So, what?” I retort.

“Okay, ready to come on up to your new tree house?” Daddy calls from up in the tree. “Who wants to climb up first?”

I look at Gabriel. “You go,” he says automatically. He is staring at the ladder, the long way to the house of wood my dad sits in. He looks nervous.

I scamper over to the ladder, bouncing back and forth on my feet excitedly.

“Okay honey, be very careful,” Daddy calls down. “Danny will help you up and I’ll be here to grab you at the top.”

“Okay, okay,” I say impatiently. “Can I climb now?”

“Okay, Margo, put your foot in my hand and I’ll hoist you–” Danny begins, but I grab for the ladder and start climbing quickly, quickly, up the ladder.

“Margo, what are you doing?” Daddy yells, frightened. “Stop! Wait for Danny!”

“No!” I am elated, climbing, climbing. I look down, see how far away Gabriel is, how far the ground is, and giggle. I lift my foot to the next rung and miss it completely. My foot flails and I struggle to regain my footing.

“Daddy!” I screech, bursting into tears. “Daddy, help me!”
My father’s face is panicked. He reaches his hand down to grab mine, only a few rungs down. I kick violently, trying not to fall. My hands slip.

“Daddy!” I cry at the top of my lungs. I fall. It is a moment, and then I am down, and my arm is pinned under me, pain shooting up it. I scream. And scream.

Gabriel

Everything seems to be moving slowly. Margo lies crumpled on the ground, crying. Daniel rushes towards her, tries to pick her up. David yells at him, tells him to stay away. He is coming down, skipping rungs, running to her.

He stands rooted in place.

The back door opens, Margo’s mother comes out, holding baby Beth. She screams, runs to her daughter.

“Deborah,” David yells at her. “Deborah, get the car! It’s her arm! Get the car!”

He stands rooted in place.

David is lifting Margo, carrying her writhing body, her arm twisted awkwardly, her little mouth reverberating with cries of pain. The car engine starts in the distance. Deborah is handing the baby to Daniel. Margo cries. Daniel is calling after them. Margo screams. There are shouts, cries, yells.

He stands rooted in place.

“Danny!” Deborah calls, a last, frazzled instruction. “Take Gabriel home and talk to Carol, okay?”
And Margo’s screams are interrupted, her voice, high, strangled, emerges. “Nononono!” she shrieks in between sobs. “I want Gabriel to come! Gabriel has to come!”

He catches sight of Margo’s teary, pain-stricken face as she disappears into the house. Her wide, navy eyes meet his. There is so much pain, he sees it all, feels it all. And he sinks to the ground, sobbing deep, pain-filled cries. His chest heaves, his whole body aches. His right arm throbs with pain. He wails, and wails. Margo’s pain-filled eyes fill his mind. The hurt is unbearable.

OCTOBER 1999

Gabriel

Amy. Amy. Amy.

They sit together at lunch, walk each other to their classes, kiss outside her locker during passing periods. He drives her home from school every day in the beat up, powder blue Volvo that is Carol’s, but that he has unofficially claimed nowadays.

Amy. Amy. Amy.

He is allowed to stare into her deep brown eyes, run his hands through her curly, russet hair, cup her soft, freckled cheeks. She is sweet, reserved. In a word, nice. They speak of silly things, and of thoughtful things, and sometimes, of nothing at all. They never fight. Nothing of her reminds him of Margo. And that is his favorite thing about her.

He’s known Margo seventeen years and six months. He’s been dating Amy three months, and for those three months, the feeling in the pit of his stomach whenever he’s with Margo has lessened. Before it was a sharp pain, now it is only a dulled pang he senses only when he goes looking for it. Which, he notices, is more often than he should, considering he has a girlfriend.

October twenty ninth. They have been studying trigonometry together for hours in his bedroom. They are stretched out on the carpet, their bodies facing each other. He watches her delicate hand write out each step of the problem. It moves slower and slower, her eyes grow glassy. He knows she’s hardly gotten any sleep this last week. Too much homework. She is so dedicated, such a good student. Margo doesn’t care about any of that stuff. She’s smart, yes, but her idea of studying these days seems to be getting so wasted that she can’t even recall she has a test. Amy is better for him, he assures himself.

Amy’s pencil falls out of her hand. She is nodding off. “Amy?” he says cautiously. “Ames?”

She looks up at him sleepily, reaches her hand out to stroke his cheek. “I love you, Gabriel,” she says, more certainly than he’s ever heard her say anything since he’s known her. He blinks at her. Her eyes close, she lays her head down in his lap, doesn’t pause to wait for a response. She seems so certain.

“I love you,” he practices the words as Amy’s breathing steadies. “I love you.”

But then name that naturally forms in his mouth after the words isn’t Amy’s.

He tries, tries again, to put the thought out of his mind as it grows dark.

He lays his head back and closes his eyes. He sleeps lightly, and dreams of Margo.

DECEMBER 1995

Margo

We’re at the mall, looking for presents for Beth’s birthday. Both of us, all by ourselves. It’s the first time our mother’s have ever let us go anywhere alone. Carol warned us of every possible situation on the drive over, gave us money for a pay phone, and kissed our foreheads as we got out of the car.

But now we’re here, all alone, and free.

“What do nine year old girls even like?” Gabriel asks, looking around at the bright lights and music of the surrounding stores, baffled. “Barbies?”
“Uh,” I chuckle. “I don’t know about any other nine year olds, but have you met my sister? She wouldn’t be caught dead with a Barbie.”

“Oh yeah,” Gabriel nods. “I forgot she was still in that army phase.”

Beth goes through the strangest obsessions, and the latest one is an unusual fascination with the United States military. She refuses to wear anything but camouflage clothing, and begs my parents for a toy rifle every night at dinner.

“G.I. Joe dolls,” we say simultaneously. Gabriel checks a map of the mall posted on the wall for the location of a toy store.

“So,” I say slyly. “Have you asked Sarah Hawkins to the Snow Ball yet?”

“Huh?” Gabriel looks up from the map, confused.

“Sarah Hawkins,” I repeat. “Didn’t you say you though she was cute?”

“Oh,” Gabriel runs his hand through his hair, something he does when he in visibly uncomfortable. “Oh, yeah. But I’m not gonna ask her to the Snow Ball.”

“Why not?” I persist. “We can double!”
“What?” Gabriel’s head snaps up. “I mean,” he says hastily. “I didn’t know you were going with anyone.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you asked!” I squeal. “I’ve been bursting to tell you! Gary Hill asked me after school today!”

Gabriel is silent. “Gary Hill,” he repeats.

“Yeah! Can you believe it?” I am practically jumping up and down. It bugs me that Gabriel isn’t more excited for me. I mean, I’ve been practically swooning over Gary Hill for the last three weeks.

“That’s cool, Mar,” he says finally, not meeting my eyes. “But I don’t think I’m going to go. I… I think I have something to do that day anyway.”

“What could you possibly be doing at eight o’clock on a Friday night?” I ask him, annoyed. “You can’t let me go alone, Gabe! I need your reassurance! I’m going to be so nervous. It’s Gary Hill, Gabriel.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel shrugs. “I know. Maybe you can double with Julie or someone. There’s a Discovery Channel special I’ve been dying to watch.”

“You hate Discovery Channel,” I retort. “We only watch those gross deformed body part shows because I love them.”

Gabriel shrugs again. “Well, maybe I like them now,” he says simply. “You don’t know everything about me, Margo.”

I blink. I don’t even know what I did. Lately, Gabriel is always getting upset about nothing. And if there’s one thing I do know, it’s everything about Gabriel Adamson.

Although lately it feels like there’s something I’m missing. Although I can’t put my finger on what.

Gabriel

He never thought Sarah Hawkins was cute. He doesn’t think about girls that way. Doesn’t need to. He knows which girl he loves, the only girl he will ever love.

Love.

It’s a big word. He’s never thought about it in that formation, picked those letters to put together. But the feeling, the swell he feels inside when he thinks about her, the feeling that he supposes matches that word, that has always been there.

PRESENT DAY

Gabriel

He is sleeping when he calls. A peaceful dreamless sleep. He hasn’t seen her, talked to her since Wednesday. It is the weekend now. It’s never that long, but he’s been busy, writing articles, trying to get on his boss’s good side as he thinks about who in the office will receive the promotion. He assumes Margo has been busy too. Most likely not with the same things – although he hasn’t received a drunken phone call in a few weeks – but busy, nonetheless.

His phone vibrates angrily on his bedside table, then screen spelling out her name. He reaches for the phone, rolls over onto his back, hits SEND to answer it.

“Hello?” His voice is groggy.

“Gabriel!” she sounds excited.

“Hey, Mar,” he smiles sleepily at the sound of her voice.

“I can’t talk for long,” she says, lowering her voice. “But I couldn’t wait to tell you! Guess where I am?”

“I don’t know,” Gabriel rubs his eyes. “It’s too early, Margo. Can we have lunch later? Tell me about it then.”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Margo says gleefully. She is giddy. “But Gabriel?”

“Hmm?” He is nodding off.

“Gabe?”

“Yeah?”
“I’m at Eric’s apartment! Eric Forchinsky, Gabe!”

The sleep that has been lingering, clouding his mind, evaporates.

He thought he was past all these childish games when it came to boyfriends. But he guesses not.

“Margo, you’re breaking up,” he says, and hangs up the phone.

MARCH 2002

Gabriel

In the weeks following she is in his every thought. He pictures each curve of her body, the taste of her lips, the smell of her hair. He keeps to himself. Being near her is too much for him. He is too vulnerable.

She leaves school for spring break, visits with her family. He stays, studies, broods. He sketches, indistinguishable blurs of unsharpened pencil. He can make out the waves of her hair, the crevices in her neck and breastbone, the sparkle in her deep, navy eyes, only just barely.

To anyone looking on it is just a scribble. His feelings reciprocate his drawings. They are all over the place, disorganized, blurry. He cannot grasp his feelings, cannot tell what he is feeling and what he wants to feel. He doesn’t know if the difference is small enough that it can be bridged, or even if there is a difference at all.

He takes apart fifteen cell phones that week, then puts them all back together perfectly. For those few silent, secluded moments in his dorm room, alone with his screwdriver, he is able to forget. But then he wonders, does he want to forget?

It was the best day of his life.

It was the best day, but in that, it was the worst. He has never known such a feeling in his lifetime. Such pure, unfiltered joy, but such excruciating, heart wrenching, absolute pain, simultaneously. He cannot fathom it. Cannot wrap his mind around a feeling that he himself is experiencing. And that is the most frightening thing.

Then spring break is over, and he doesn’t have to agonize over it anymore. Margo makes it easier for him. She comes back with Eric.

PRESENT DAY

Margo

He is different than I remember him, but also the same. He is older, more chiselled. His face is rougher, more weathered. But his handsome, boyish look, his blue eyes, always gleaming, his sly smile, the distinct taste of his tongue, all the same. He is familiar, and it is a nice feeling, one I‘ve never experienced with anyone except Gabriel. Our conversation is not forced, unfamiliar. We know each other. Our bodies fit together easily, naturally. It is a feeling that I never want to lose. I crave him.

In the morning I awake suddenly, alarmingly. A strange feeling is creeping through me. I realize it is from the absence of my usual post hook-up hangover, and I cannot stop smiling.

Eric, Eric, Eric. He is different. The fact that it is morning, and I’m waking up in his apartment proves exactly that.

He’s left a note for me on his pillow, informing me he’s gone to get us bagels. The corners of my mouth refuse to turn down.

The door to the apartment opens, the smell of warm, freshly baked bagels reaches my nose. I dance out of bed and over toward him, not even caring if I look like morning. It doesn’t matter.

“Hi,” he grins dopily at me.

“Hi.” My smile matches his own.

“I brought bagels,” he says, holding up the bags, still smiling.

I respond by kissing him.

“Margo, Margo,” he says, cupping my face and pulling away so he can look at me. “I have to get ready for work, unfortunately, but it was really great seeing you again.” His smile grows bigger.

I bite my lip. “Really great,” I echo.

“Yeah, so I was thinking we could meet up for lunch,” he continues, a question now tinting his tone of voice.

“Yes!” I say eagerly, forget all about Gabriel. “Yes!”

DECEMBER 1999

Gabriel

They’ve talked about it, discussed the technicalities, decided. It isn’t romantic, it isn’t spur of the moment. It’s New Year’s Eve, like they’ve planned, and now they have to go through with it. It seems a chore, to him anyway.

They’re at Amy’s house, have been for hours. Carol is working late, not unusual, even for a holiday. They’ve watched Dick Clark with Amy’s drunk aunts, toasted champagne glasses filled with sparkling cider with her youngest cousins, listened to countless stories about Amy as a baby. Now they’ve excused themselves to watch a movie in Amy’s room, across the house from the living room where the family is congregated, door closed.

It’s eleven thirty seven, and they both sit silently on Amy’s bed, side by side, holding hands and watching The Blair Witch Project on mute. Amy shuts of the TV, turns to face him.

“Are we going to do this, Gabe?” she asks quietly.

“Do you want to?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says. “Do you?”
He nods. Somehow, it seems more like a fair trade agreement than what it’s supposed to be.

Amy smiles, kisses him lightly. “I love you,” she says easily.

“I love you too,” he responds. Automatically. He thinks of Margo.

JANUARY 2000

Gabriel

He lies completely still, plays a game with himself. How quietly can he breathe? Quietly enough that Amy will forget he is there?

She breathes heavily, evenly, beside him. They are holding hands again. He wonders if she will notice if he takes his hand out of her grasp. He doesn’t want to be near her anymore.

He feels empty. Completely empty.

It’s a new millennium.

He wanted this to be a new start.

What was he expecting, anyway?

He likes Amy, likes her a lot. He can’t keep playing this game, can’t keep hurting her.

Nothing, not a new century, not even losing his virginity to someone who is in love with him, can change fact.

He’s still absolutely and irrevocably in love with Margo.

PRESENT DAY

Margo

We’re in the car, and in the hours drive back home, Eric has managed to think of every possible scenario that can go wrong.

“Are you sure it’s okay,” he says now, as I turn on my blinker to change lanes. “That this stuffing has butter in it? I don’t think that’s kosher, Mar.”

“Eric, hon,” I say patiently. “My family doesn’t keep kosher. I don’t think my parents have been to temple since their wedding. I’m not even Bat Mitzvahed. Don’t worry!”

“Okay,” he takes a deep breath. “I’m just really nervous. I want your family to like me.”

“They will!” I say confidently. “And even if they don’t, I like you. That’s all that should matter. It’s all that matters to me.” I reach over and squeeze his hand.

“Me too,” Eric says slowly, taking a deep breath, smiling over at me. “I love you, Mar.”

I look over in surprise. He’s never said that before. Yet, it doesn’t seem unnatural. “Love you, too,” I say easily. We smile at each other. I grasp his hand again, then change lanes to exit the freeway. “Ready?”

Gabriel

“Tell us about him, Gabriel.”

They’re all gathered in Margo’s living room. He, his mother, Deborah, David, Daniel, and Beth, just like every year. The only one missing is Margo, and she’s arriving with someone that will surely throw off the balance.

“Margo never brings her boyfriends home to meet us,” Deborah observes. “Is this really serious?”

“Um,” he fidgets. “I don’t know. I mean, it could be. They’ve been seeing each other for a few months.”

Beth snorts. “Exclusively?” she asks. “That doesn’t sound like Margo.”

“Elizabeth,” Deborah scolds. “Maybe this is a special boy.”

“Well, I’d like to meet him before I decide if he is a special boy or not,” David jumps in. “Call me old fashioned, but I don’t like the idea of Margo running around with boys and not bringing them home. Never have.”

“It would be so much easier if…” Deborah starts and then trails off, sharing a knowing look with his mother.

“What?” Beth asks, unhappy about being left out of anything.

“Oh, nothing,” Deborah says dismissively.

“What?” Beth persists. “I don’t get it!”
“God, Beth,” Daniel says, looking up from his sports magazine in annoyance at his younger sister. “Are you really that dense? Mom and Dad and Carol all wish it was Margo and Gabriel that had ended up together.”

A heavy silence follows. Daniel catches his eye, and the look he gives him lets him know that the ‘and Gabriel’ at the end of that sentence was implied, and everyone knows it.

Margo

“We’re here!” I sing-song, opening the unlocked front door to my childhood home. I hear movement inside. Everyone is seated around the coffee table in the living room. They all stand when we arrive, come to greet us.

“Guys, this is Eric,” I say brightly. Eric clutches my hand. “Eric, this is everyone.”

He smiles weakly. “Nice to meet you.”

“My mom, my father,” I introduce, pointing them out. “My brother, Danny, my sister Beth, Gabriel’s mother, and of course you know Gabriel.”

Polite conversation follows, along with the taking of coats. A tour of the house is offered, dishes are taken. College majors are exchanged (Beth), Bulls scores are discussed (Daniel), car loans are brought up (Dad), and Eric’s family is inquired about (Mom and Carol). Dinner is served. Kosher is not observed. I see Eric visibly relax as he chatters with my mother about his Aunt Karen’s stuffing recipe. I smile at him, he smiles back. I realize I haven’t spoken to Gabriel once since I arrived, but I don’t think much of it.

Gabriel

By the time the pumpkin pie is served, everyone is adequately sloshed. The conversation has slowly died, and now they all sit, happily eating, enjoying each other’s company. An NFL game is on low in the background and Daniel, Eric, and David are discussing it amongst themselves. He doesn’t like football.

Beth has been flirting with him all evening, for what reason, he is not entirely sure. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but she is very beautiful. He’s never really noticed that before. She’s always been like his little sister. But with her wavy, tousled blonde hair, her deep, navy eyes, she is practically Margo’s clone.

Perhaps that is why, when Beth asks if he will help her clear the table, he agrees.

They’re in the kitchen, soaping dishes. He hears the dull hum of the living room television set, where he imagines everyone else is seated. Beth is having the time of her life with the soap bubbles. They’re more on her arms and chin than they are the plates.

“Gabe, Gabe look,” she says, giggling. She lifts her hands to his face, paints his cheeks with bubbles. “Ha, ha, you’d look so funny with a beard! Wouldn’t you, Gabie? So funny!”

He is silent, feeling her soft, slender fingers on his face. Her hands are Margo’s.

“Gabriel,” Beth giggles, depositing soap bubbles in his hair and proceeding to wrap her arms around his neck. She sticks her tongue out and beams up at him. “Ha, ha, you’re a snowman. A cute snowman,” she giggles again.

He looks down into her eyes, her navy eyes. Margo’s eyes. But at that moment, he hears high pitched laughter, and looks up, out the window into the yard. There are two figures outside, their bodies illuminated by a single porch light. He stomach takes an every familiar lurch.

Margo

We are lying on the dewy grass in my old backyard, laughing, kissing, touching in the darkness. Drunk, happy. “I love you,” I say. “I love you, I love you, I love you, Eric Forchinsky.”

“I love you, Margo Gold,” Eric laughs.

“How much?” I demand, sitting up.

“Thiiis much,” he shows me with his arms, then wraps them around me, tackles me down again, kisses me.

“Let’s go somewhere!” I say suddenly, excited. “Why stay here? We can go anywhere, Eric! You and me, we’re invincible! We can do anything!”

“We can!” he exclaims. “What should we do?”

“Anything!” I cry gleefully.

“Let’s get married!” he throws out.

“Yes!” I respond, giggling. “Yes!”
We laugh and laugh.

Eric pulls me to my feet, still laughing. He twirls, me around, dips me, kisses me, nearly drops me. “Let’s go!” he says, staggering forward.

“Let’s go!” I repeat joyfully.

Gabriel

He can’t take his eyes off of them. He feels the Thanksgiving dinner, so delicious just a few hours ago, threatening to come up. He runs his fingers over Beth’s soapy cheek, examines her pointed nose, her shoulders, her collarbone, her breasts. Margo, Margo, Margo, Margo.

He hears Margo squeal. He is overcome in that moment. It’s a mixture of the champagne, the laughter coming from the backyard, and Beth’s uncanny resemblance to her sister, but before he knows what he is doing, he is clutching Beth’s face, and he is kissing her, and kissing her, and Beth is squealing, mumbling, and they are moving, in a haste of bubbles, out of the kitchen, and Beth is kissing him back, and he does not stop, but he knows then how different she is from Margo. She doesn’t taste like Margo, feel like Margo, give him the same feelings, the feelings that no matter how similar the DNA, only Margo can make him feel.

JUNE 1989

Margo

“Okay,” I say. “Ready for this? It might hurt a little.”

We are seated crisscross apple sauce, facing each other, in the woods behind our houses.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Gabriel asks hesitantly.

“It’s fine,” I say confidently. “Danny told me all about it. It’s the ultimate bond, Gabe. So nothing can ever separate us. Don’t you want that?”

“Yeah,” Gabriel admits. “Okay, but lets not tell our moms. They might get worried. And want to know where you got that needle.” He eyes the sewing needle I have clutched between my right thumb and index finger suspiciously.

“Of course,” I agree. “This is a secret between us. Now give me your thumb.”

He holds out his left thumb reluctantly. I prick is as gently as I can muster, and a small drop of blood appears at the surface of his skin.

“Ouch,” he exclaims half-heartedly.

“See?” I say. “Not that bad, huh?” I prick my own thumb easily.

“Now what?” Gabriel asks.

“Now we press our thumbs together,” I explain. “Here, hold yours out.”

He extends his thumb to me, and I press mine into it. “There,” I say. “Now our blood is mixed together forever. We’re blood brothers now, Gabe.”

“Blood brothers,” Gabriel repeats, trying the phrase out.

“Now the rules of being blood brothers are,” I continue. “Nothing can ever separate us now. We will die for each other if we need to, ’kay?”

Gabriel nods solemnly.

“We have to always have each others backs no matter what. For the rest of our lives.”

“What if we aren’t friends for the rest of our lives?” Gabriel asks.

“We will be,” I say surely. “We’re blood brothers now. We have to do anything for each other. Agreed?”

“Anything for each other,” Gabriel repeats. He’s pauses for a moment, thinking. “Agreed.”

PRESENT DAY

Margo

When I get back to Chicago, the first place I go is to Gabriel’s.

“Hey!” he says happily when I burst in. I hug him hard. He hugs me back, surprised. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in ages!”
“I know!” I exclaim happily. “Wanna know why?”

“Why?” Gabriel asks, going into his kitchen. I follow.

“Because I did this!” I can’t suppress my grin. “Look, look!” I feel like a five year old, but I can’t help myself. I stick my left hand in his face, wiggle my fourth finger. He turns white.

Gabriel

His breakfast, down the drain.

He rinses his mouth out.

That rock, on Margo’s finger. His Margo. Not his rock.

His lunch, down the drain.

PART TWO

PRESENT DAY

Margo

It’s been a year and a half. A year and a half.

We’ve been to clinic after clinic, seen specialist after specialist. Nothing has worked.

Now we sit, side by side, me biting my lip, Eric prodding his knuckles uneasily. I can’t look at him.

“Mr. and Mrs. Forchinsky,” the doctor, a new doctor, opens the door and strides in. This is easy for him. He sits in this office every day, delivers the bad news, over and over. He is indifferent. The faces blur together. We are not real people to him, just names he will soon, and easily forget. It is his job, and nothing more. But this is my life, our life, and the words he soon will speak will change everything.

This is our last shot, Eric said to me last night as we went to bed. If not… I don’t want to think about it.

I was never the type who thought I’d have children. Growing up, the thought never crossed my mind. I’m not the patient type, always screaming at Danny and rough with Beth. I was always the one out on Friday nights, never the one stuck home babysitting. But now the idea has presented itself, and I have fallen in love. Fallen in love with this little person that I will make, this little person that will be born from a part of me, this little person that does not even so much as exist yet, but that I have already fallen wholeheartedly in love with. I am already tied devotedly to him or her, to follow them wherever life takes them. I have never felt this kind of love before. Never with a man, not with my family, not with Gabriel, even. This is new, and beautiful, and the only way I can make it stay, make it grow into something concrete, is with the little one that I hope to bear. Hope, hope. Please, I think. Please.

“Well, I’m afraid that it is,” he glances at our file and reads over our previous test results. “Once again, bad news.”

I exhale, finally able to breathe. I am numb now. I can process the information, the words that come out of his mouth, but I cannot begin to feel them yet. My brain cannot process what this means for me, for the future. It just hears words, puts them together into sentences. Syntax is all.

“But I can tell you why the insemination has not been working,” he continues.

Something new. My head perks up. Maybe if he tells us what we’ve been doing wrong, we can find a cure, fix it, somehow. Somehow. There has to be a way. There can’t not be a way. I don’t want to think, can’t think about it.

“Well there are two factors. One, your sperm,” he looks to Eric. “Have a very low mobility rate. So that’s the first thing. There is a very unlikely chance that they will make it all the way to the uterus, you see.”

“So what does that mean for us?” I hear myself saying. “Can you implant them or something? Isn’t that the point of this?”

“Well, that brings me to the second problem,” he continues. “For reasons that science cannot yet explain, in a few rare cases, certain mens’ sperm just are not compatible with certain womens’ eggs. It’s like two magnets that you hold together with the wrong charges facing. No matter how hard you push them together, they just won’t stay.”

I swallow heavily. I have stopped processing altogether.

“So what does this mean?” Eric asks finally. “Are we not going to be able –“

“Don’t say it,” I hiss. I can hear it. Not now. I have to process first. Accept. Accept that the little bundle in my arms, the curly haired toddler, the gawky middle school-er, the broad shouldered graduating senior, will never be mine. I will always be looking on as other parents experience the milestones, as other parents get hugs and bandage knees and experience the totally overpowering, totally unconditional love that has already built up inside me, ready to explode out, not ready to disappear, not ready to be told that there is nowhere for it to go.

“Well, there are other options, now that we have located the problem,” he says. “There is, of course, adoption.”

Eric looks over at me ever so slightly, just a tilt of his neck, but I feel the question hanging in the air between us.

I imagine the little bundle again, but I know I can’t do it. This baby needs to be my creation. I need to carry it, and Eric needs to be there to cut the umbilical cord, and I need to look at it and see myself, and know that I can accomplish some good in this world, despite my faults, and that good has come in the form of this beautiful being that is all me, all me. No, I decide. It cannot be someone else’s. It just can’t.

Eric senses that, I suppose, because he asks if there is anything else.

“You could look into sperm donors,” the doctor says. He turns to me. “Your uterus is not completely uninhabitable, it is just these certain sperm. A sperm donor would be a very good alternative. You would still carry and give birth to the baby, of course.” He senses that is something I need.

Eric looks at me. I nod slowly, hesitantly.

“Would you like me to give you the information for a few sperm banks in the area?” the doctor asks.

“Yes, thank you,” I say, but it is just a formality, just a game, because I know, I know. There is only one person besides Eric. Only one. I do not want the sperm of a stranger, do not want my baby with the eyes of a person I have never met, or the hair, or the gap toothed grin, of even the fingernails of a stranger. Of anyone else, really. Anyone else except one person.

Except the person I haven’t spoken to in eight months.

Except him.

Gabriel

“Do you want to come up for a drink?” he asks, as they near his apartment.

He looks over at her. Rita. It’s their second date, and he’s hoping how likeable the woman is will make up for the lack of spark he feels, but he’s thinking probably not, and trying to ignore the fact.

“Of course!” Rita says pleasantly, hanging off his arm as they enter the building.

And then they’re riding up the elevator, and she’s laughing, retelling some story she heard at work, and he isn’t paying much attention to anything except the way the buttons light up when they reach the correct floor.

Every time he’s been out on the past eight months, set up after set up by his ever-willing friend, Josh, has ended up exactly like this one. Great girl, seemingly perfect relationship, but he just doesn’t care.

He thinks about this on late nights during muted old war specials on TV. He’d thought that as long as Margo was such a huge part of his life, he would never be able to move on, even when it became evident – by her marriage – that she was never going to feel the same way, and he had to force himself to stop dreaming.

But he had tried. Tried to move on. Cut her out of his life, moved to a place where he wouldn’t run into her every day. And he’d been back for a month and still hadn’t spoken to her. It was perfect, ideally. Unfortunately, their relationship was not, and never had been typical, never had been ideal. And although he kept going to dinners, kept bringing the Rita’s of the world upstairs for a drink, he knew somewhere in the back of his mind, in a place that he did not like to visit often but was very aware of, that as long as Margo was even a thought in his mind, he wouldn’t be able to develop a relationship with any other woman. And as much as he had tried to change that, he couldn’t. And it killed him, but he just couldn’t.

Even though he hadn’t seen her for eight months, she was on his mind every day. He thought about her, dreamt about her, had every detail of her face etched in his mind. As if he could ever forget her. As if. He didn’t know what he was trying to accomplish by trying.

He unlocked his apartment door, stepped inside behind Rita, and trying to forget Margo became a lot more difficult.

Margo

I’m sitting on his cracked leather couch, feeling like home, and looking around at the place that I no longer know. There are new frames on the wall, different books on the coffee table, a potted plant in the corner of the room where there was once a bare wall.

I’m sitting, and waiting, playing with my watch, wondering what I could possibly say, what I could possibly do, to convince him, to even talk to him, begin a relationship with him again after eight months. And I’m coming up blank.

And then I hear the door unlocking, and in is stepping not Gabriel, but a pretty, olive skinned woman that I’ve never seen before, and behind her, Gabriel. He is talking to her, asking her what she would like to drink, midsentence when he sees me and his speech cuts off abruptly.

And there is the face I haven’t seen for so many months, the person who’s life is now unfamiliar to me, filled with strange women and potted plants that I didn’t know about, but yet so familiar, so easy. A comfortable warmth washes over me, a feeling I haven’t felt in so long, a feeling I can only describe as Gabriel. A feeling I get only when I’m around the one person in the world who knows me best, who has always known me best. But despite the familiarity, the Gabriel standing before me is not the Gabriel I know, he is changed, his life has moved on, without me, as has mine. And in his eyes I see this, this cold, hard emptiness of not knowing, of not recognizing, a feeling that I have never had with him, which gives me cold shivers up and down my body. Not a good feeling. Not at all.

“What…” he speaks, finally, his voice cracking. He is unable to finish his sentence. And he has opened a door, and I know we cannot sit staring at each other any longer. We have to speak, I have to speak. And so I do. I speak. And although the words are natural, my tone of voice comes out funny, like I am speaking to a stranger, and I recognize this, and I see in his face that he does too, but I can’t change it, and I’ve no idea why.

“Well, you weren’t home so I thought I’d come in and wait.” I’m speaking at a million miles an hour, explaining how I needed to see him and his neighbor buzzed me in. I hold up my purple keychain. “I still have a key,” I finish meekly.

Gabriel stares at me for – I count silently – five Mississippi’s. He doesn’t say a word to me, doesn’t acknowledge that I’ve even spoken. Just stares.

Gabriel

He’s not entirely sure the woman sitting in front of him is a real person, and resists the urge to reach out and touch her just to make sure. This is surreal.

She’s speaking, explaining, and all he wants to do is hold her, hold her and never let go, never let her go, again. And then he remembers Rita. Lovely Rita, standing stock still beside him, apparently bewildered.

“Rita, I think we’d better take a rain check,” he says hastily. “This might be important.”

She looks perplexed. “What? But…” she gestures to Margo. “What? Who…”

“Oh, no,” he says quickly. “No.. it’s not… we’re… she’s my friend. We’re just friends.” The familiar feeling arises as the perpetual truth in his statement registers in his mind after so many months of putting it on the backburner in his life.

“I’ll call you later tonight,” he says, ushering her out the door. “I had a nice time.”

“Oh, me too,” Rita manages to say. She hugs him awkwardly, out of formality, and is all to eager for the door to close behind her.

He shuts the door softly, slowly, delaying. But then he has to, and he turns back to her. To her. To Margo. The name so familiar, yet so strange. He hasn’t said it aloud in forever. In his dreams there is no need for names, because she – they, are more than human; together anyway. That is how he has always felt about them, what they would be together. But there she is, on his couch, as human, as Margo, as ever. And he remembers. Remembers the real woman, so different, so imperfect, compared to the Margo he has known in his mind for eight months.

He stands across from her, looks for a long second. And she is looking too, thinking the same things as he is, he knows. He can always tell with her. Can always tell everything. Their connection is something more than that of two completely separate people. Always has been. Eight months hasn’t changed that.. She has not been a part of his life for all this time, yet it doesn’t feel unnatural, strangely enough, that she is sitting in his living room, that she is there, out of the blue. Out of the blue, indeed. Why is she, he wonders, and then asks, his tone of voice similar to the uneasy nature hers took on earlier. And the comfort of it all is gone with the words, with the human communication, and he is suddenly uneasy around her, for perhaps the first time in his life.

He clears his throat, an uncomfortable noise, uncomfortable feeling in his mouth, in his vocal cords, which are suddenly rusty, suddenly ignorant of their function. “So. . .” he starts out awkwardly. “Erm, so. . . how’s – how’s married life?”

He leans his body back uneasily, perches on the armrest of the other, unoccupied couch. His awkward stance mimics reflects how uncomfortable he feels with this whole situation.

“Um,” Margo says, pauses. “Um. Good. Eric’s great. . . he has a new job. . . although it means he has to travel more, which I don’t love, obviously, and Lisa’s actually been seeing his brother. . . “

He is very conscious of each fingernail on his left hand. The thumbnail is ragged and bitten, the ring finger short and jagged. The middle two are dirty, dirtier than usual, he’d say. He hopes she doesn’t notice, doesn’t think this is his usual hygiene. Why should he care what she thinks, he contradicts his internal monologue. She probably won’t even notice anything is different about him, he argues with himself. But his fingernails have always been well groomed. . . . but Margo doesn’t care about things like that, he decides. He is the freak of nature, the one who has memorized every detail of Margo so accurately that he recognizes that her hair is slightly darker blonde – the ash shade she has always wanted to dye it, he realizes. That the ring that she has always worn on her right thumb is gone, that she has more freckles, is tanner. And that the locket he gave her for her eleventh birthday, because she’d been admiring it in the jewelery store window for months, the locket with the picture of two grinning, gap toothed pre-teens that vaguely resemble himself and her inside, is still fastened securely around her neck, the chain barely visible from underneath her crisp crew neck T-shirt, but there, nonetheless, still there.

He smiles, the first action since she’s been there that does not seem entirely unnatural.

Margo

I don’t know how to do this. I have absolutely no fucking clue. I don’t even know how to talk about trivial things with him, even how to say hello anymore. How can I possibly – I cut myself off mid-thought, afraid that in thinking it I will talk myself out of it, talk myself out of the only way I have fathomed for this to ever be possible.

I need to start at the beginning, work my way back to where we were, and then. And then. Maybe. Possibly. But for now, the very beginning. Simple, easy, I try to tell myself. But even then I have a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach, a pang that I’ve tried to ignore, but a pang that despite my stubborn refusal to form a concrete thought from, I know exactly the reason for. And then it’s too late, and I’ve thought about it to much, and I’ve let the pang become concrete in my mind, let my thoughts solidly wonder. If it weren’t for this, this thing I am so clearly set upon, this thing that involves Gabriel, that almost makes him a part of an agenda I have, or something, would I ever have come back to him, ever have stood in this apartment again, before my best friend. I don’t know if I’m even entitled to call him that anymore. I like to tell myself of course, of course I would have, no doubt in my mind, but then I wonder, why didn’t I before? And then I can’t wonder anymore, because I can’t bear what I may realize.

“Gabriel,” I say suddenly, realizing we’ve been sitting in silence for several minutes, each of us absorbed in our own thoughts. “Could you. . . I mean, do you want to. . . . dinner?” I stammer, not able to piece my words together.

Gabriel glances briefly at his watch. “Marg,” he says gently. “It’s past ten.”

I blush, a deep, embarrassed blush, a feeling that I associate with awkward first dates, not with this, not with Gabriel. I blink, clear my head briefly, “Oh. Oh,” I laugh a little. “Well,” I pause, hesitate to bring this up, bring it into the already awkward, already tense equation. But I can’t help it, and I do. “Well, we could go down to the Jewel on Halsted and get a pint of Rocky Road ice cream and come back here,” I blurt out, all in one breath.

Gabriel is still, doesn’t speak for a few moments, doesn’t even acknowledge what I’ve said. They are long, silence-filled moments. He shoves his hands into his pockets, pulls them out again, fiddles with his fingernails which, I notice, are raw and torn, unusual for him. His nails are always neat and rounded, always. It’s one of the million little things I love – or loved? – about him. His consistent fingernails. I chuckle out loud.

Gabriel looks up, almost meets my eyes, but looks away just in time, and I’m glad. I don’t know what I would have seen in his eyes. His forehead crinkles easily, confused by my outburst. My lips spread into an involuntary smile, and his frown melts away, and he nods once, sharply. “Okay.”

“Okay?” I repeat, sure I’ve imagined it.

“Yeah,” his hands go back into his pockets, and he shrugs awkwardly, but now it’s the familiar awkwardness that I love about him, not the same painful, uncomfortable air as before. “Yeah, rocky road does sound kind of good right now.”

He gives me a half smile, opens the door, and he goes out first, doesn’t hold the door for me, doesn’t look back, and I’m glad, so glad, in fact, that I’m grinning wider than I have in a long time, grinning at this man who doesn’t do things like that for me, this man who will eat chocolate ice cream on the floor of his empty apartment with me even when we haven’t talked in months, this man who, I know now, will always be my friend. This man that I know, I know, will do anything for me. Because he knows I will do anything for him.

I catch up to him in the dim hallway, press the DOWN button for the elevator, loop my arm through his. And he doesn’t pull away.

Gabriel

His eyes flit open briefly and find the glow in the dark numbers of his bedside clock. It is well past three.

He lets his eyes adjust to the darkness of his bedroom and looks around, notices the melted ice cream dripping onto his Pottery Barn nightstand, the curtains that are not fully closed and will let unwanted light in at sunrise, the uncomfortable cramped feeling he has in his feet that he realizes is due to the fact that his shoes are still on.

And he notices a strange weight on his right arm, and he turns and sees a body, her body. She lies across his arm, still fully clothed and wrapped in his down comforter. Her unkempt blonde hair is splayed around her, the ends creeping across his chest, which silently rises and falls with each breath. Her head is tucked between his shoulder and chin, her face blank and peaceful in slumber.

He doesn’t do anything, doesn’t touch her, doesn’t move her, for fear of waking her and losing this moment, this moment that seems still in time.

He just lays silently and looks at her. She is beautiful, to him, in that three AM haze. She is always beautiful to him. She is everything to him. Even if he can’t be sure about anything about himself, he can always be sure of that.

Margo

Gabriel is still asleep when I wake up in the morning. I edge off his bed slowly, moving silently and little-by-little. I’m afraid my sudden movement will wake him. He looks so funny when he sleeps – funny in an adorable way. His feet, still in his shoes, hang off the end of his bed, and his tongue sticks through the part of his lips just the tiniest bit. And he often laughs when he sleeps. That’s something I’ve only ever known Gabriel to do. He laughs, really laughs. You can always tells what he’s dreaming. He’s sort of like a dog.

Now though, he is silent, breathing steadily, his hands folded across his stomach. I untangle myself from a blanket that is still wrapped around him as I stand, and catch a glimpse of what was my hair and is now just a mess in the mirror across the room. We must be a pretty funny sight, the two of us. Fully clothed, tongues (his) and hair (mine) sticking out everywhere, both wrapped in an oversized blanket and falling all over each other. But, I suppose, that’s’ just Gabriel and I. And it isn’t as if anyone is looking.

I walk over to the bathroom to attempt to make myself presentable, snatching my cell phone from my bag on the hall table along the way. Two missed calls. One is Beth, which I disregard, making a mental note to call her back later, and the other, from just an hour ago, is Eric. I dial him back immediately, cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear as I brush out my hair with Gabriel’s ratty men’s comb.

“Hey, babe,” Eric’s familiar voice picks up after the first ring.

“Hi,” I smile at the sound of his voice. I hear the sounds of scraping plates and utensils in the background. “Where are you?” I ask casually.

“Oh, um, about to go into a meeting actually, so I can’t really talk,” Eric explains hurriedly.

“Oh,” my smile falters. “Okay. Well, when are you going to be home?”

Lately, Eric has been going to out-of-town meetings much more than in-town meetings. It’s only for a night or two, but that is always a lifetime for me when I’m alone in our dark, empty house with the TiVo as my only companion. It’s been difficult.

“I really don’t know, Margo.” Eric sounds impatient now. “It really depends on how this next meeting goes.” High pitched laughter cuts in from the background.

“Who’s that?” I inquire, furrowing my brow a bit.

“A co-worker, Marg,” Eric answers quickly. “Look, hon, I really should go, I’ve got to get to my meeting.”

“Okay,” I say reluctantly. “I love you.”
“You too,” Eric responds.

“Call me later,” I add.

“I will, baby.”

He always says that, but he always forgets, always has some meeting, some dinner, some event, something more important than me. Always.

“Okay… bye,” I begin to close my phone.

“Wait,” Eric’s voice is quick. I bring to phone back to my ear. “How’s Prunella?” I roll my eyes. Eric is obsessed with his stupid goldfish.

“Um, I’m actually not at home–” I begin, then stop to contemplate whether to reveal my whereabouts, and finally, decide against it, “–right now. But I’m sure she’s fine, Eric. I mean, she’s a goldfish.”

‘”She’s my baby, hon,” Eric says seriously. “You know that!”

“Oh,” his words bring a certain topic to my attention, a topic I’ve been trying to hard to pretend isn’t relevant for the last twelve hours. It seems strange to be able to freely talk about it. “Speaking of that, Eric, when you get back, I think we need to talk about the baby, okay? We need to make some decisions about what’s going to happen here. I’ve talked to the fertility clinic and–“

“Yeah, whatever, whatever, sounds fine,” Eric interjects.

“Whatever?” I feel hot, involuntary tears springing to my eyes. “Whatever? This isn’t ‘whatever,’ Eric, this is our child! This is our future! This is everything!”

Eric groans. “Babe, I’ve really got to go.”

“Eric!” I exclaim.

But he’s already hung up.

Gabriel

He awakes abruptly, anxious from a dream he is struggling to remember. In the dream, he and Margo are much younger, perhaps five or six years old, and chasing each other around the field behind their houses. But Margo’s hair is much longer than it would have been then, her face wiser. He realizes in thinking that she looks just like the adult Margo does presently. But in their five-year-old bodies they are carefree, can just enjoy each other and their friendship without any complications.

But it has been decades since he has played tag, and presently he is very aware of the fact that he is alone in his bed, when he recalls Margo sleeping beside him. He pauses, thinking. Was that whole evening a part of his dream as well?

But then he sees Margo’s sandals beside his bed and it is evident what he knows he has known the whole time. He’s not sure if he is trying to fool himself because he doesn’t want it to be true, doesn’t want to know her – who she is, anymore – doesn’t know if he can handle the hurt he knows she will surely cause him, or because he can’t believe it’s really true. That she’s back in his life again. That she came back to him, after the way he just completely cut her out. Can’t believe that he isn’t making it all up to appease the gaping emptiness he has felt without her.

But it is too early for such thinking, he decides, and gets out of bed, trots down the hallway, and that’s when he hears her. The bathroom door is closed, but the sniffling coming from inside is not overlooked.

He stops, knocks politely, feels slightly awful that he isn’t already aware of the reason for her tears. It is just another reminder of the enormous bridge they now have to build over the gap that has been the last eight months, the enormous gap of each others lives that they do not know.

The door opens, and there stands Margo, rumpled and barefooted, old mascara streaking her cheeks. She rubs her eyes, blinks, but it doesn’t do any good. She only looks like more of a raccoon.

“Hey,” he says softly. “What’s wrong, Marg?”

Margo sniffles, rubs her nose with the back of her hand. “Morning,” she mumbles in response, blinks thrice more. “Nothing, nothing,” she tries to smile. “Want some breakfast? It’s the least I can do in return for you letting me stay here.” She tries to slip out of the doorway past him, but he puts his arm out.

“Margo,” he says. “Come, sit. I’ll make some coffee, and you can tell me why you’re crying, okay?”

His words are gentle, his touch light as he guides her to the living room and arranges pillows behind her on the couch. “Why did you stay over anyhow?” he asks, putting every ounce of effort into not sounding bitter. “Isn’t he – Eric – wondering?”

Margo shakes her head profusely, tries to regain her composure. “No,” she squeaks. “Eric’s on a business trip. He always seems to be. I don’t see why his boss can’t send someone else sometimes, you know?”

He forgets about coffee, sits next to Margo, holds her right hand in his hands, runs his thumb along the lines of her palm, the way they did when they were kids and spent ages predicting each other’s families and jobs and misfortunes.

They sit for a few minutes, he with her palm. She leans her head to rest on his shoulder and sighs, but doesn’t speak.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he finally asks. He feels her shrug against his shoulder and doesn’t speak again.

But Margo ˙unexpectedly explodes. “It’s not just that!” she exclaims, suddenly angry, wrenches her hand away from his, turns to look at him. “I mean that’s work, you know? I can handle that. I’m a mature person, right? I am! But it’s not just that, Gabriel!”
He just nods, allows her to continue.

“He says he’ll call me and he doesn’t, and I worry! I worry about him! And I mean, we aren’t in college anymore! I shouldn’t have to be sitting by the phone, wondering if he’ll call. He’s my husband!”

She pauses, gulps in air, continues. “And even when he does, or even when he’s home, he never wants to talk. All he wants to talk about are the Cubs or whatever’s on TV or his stupid, goddamn goldfish. His goldfish! He never wants to talk about the thing that’s most important to me, always changes the subject. . . “ she trails off, looks at her fingernails.

“What?” he can’t help but ask. He’s not sure what he should do. He wants more than anything to console her, but nothing, no action, seems quite right. So he just sits, sits as she picks ferociously at a hangnail, with a scowl on her face that reveals so much more than simply a scowl.

Margo finally looks up, meets his eyes for half a second, breathes in, out. Seems to be deciding something. She goes back to her hangnail, back to him, then to her hangnail again.

She opens her mouth, pauses thoughtfully, speaks more quietly when her voice returns. “We’re. . . we’re trying to have a baby.”

The last word is no more than the tiniest whisper, but it is the word he hears the loudest, the clearest of the entire sentence, of the entire conversation, of their entire relationship even.

He feels last night’s ice cream edging it’s way up his throat, and he’s growing dizzy even as he tries to shut those feelings out, really tries.

2008-05-14T17:33:00.001-07:00

It was an exceptionally hot, humid day on the island of Dolphin Cove, off the coast of Florida. The rare breeze that blew across the sweat soaked faces of the Dolphin Cove campers aboard the small boat crossing the ten mile stretch from the mainland to Dolphin Cove was hotter than the still air itself. But Briony Greer didn’t care. She was too excited. It was her first time back at Dolphin Cove, the summer camp she had attended since she was eight. But her last year had been three years ago, when she was thirteen. And now, she and her six camp BFFs and originally Bunk 3 roommates were all back as CITs at sixteen. And she couldn’t wait to see her friends again.

“Bri, Bri,” an excited, high-pitched voice interrupted Briony’s thoughts. She looked down and saw her eight-year-old half-sister, Symphony. Everyone said Symphony was the spitting image of Briony, but Briony didn’t think so. She had ultra-glossy, professionally straightened, boob-length ebony locks, deep hazel eyes, and soft, mocha colored skin. She was toned from her slim biceps down to her perfectly sculpted calves, and, though she was a little on the thin side, Briony had not spent countless exhausting hours dancing for nothing–she looked good.

Symphony, on the other hand, was a little pudgy, though Briony’s mother insisted it was just baby fat. She wore her mahogany ringlets in two high pigtails and had a splatter of freckles dotting her tanned face. In Briony’s eyes, the only think of Symphony’s that resembled Briony whatsoever was her stunning voice. Both Greer girls had been blessed with amazing singing abilities but unlike Briony, who planned to Broadway one day, Symphony just enjoyed singing along to Hannah Montana on the radio.

“What’s up, Symph?” Briony asked, her momentary annoyance with her sister for ruining her peaceful moment evaporating. Nothing was going to put her in a bad mood that day. Nothing.

Symphony wrapped her freckled arms around Briony’s arms and pulled herself up so she was sitting in the seat next to her. “Tell me about her again, Bri,” she said, her brown eyes wide with excitement. “Tell me about-” she lowered her voice, “Atlanta Harris.”

Briony rolled her eyes. Symphony was still in shock that Briony was friends with Atlanta Harris, a star on her favorite Disney TV show. Briony didn’t see what the big deal was. She and all her camp friends had know Atlanta since they were seven or eight, and to them, she was just Lannie, the sweet, strawberry blond who had been afraid to swim in the deep end of the pool until their third summer and had a massive crush on the lifeguard, Kyle. “Look, Symph,” she explained as the captain of the boat sounded the horn to signal that they were pulling into the dock. At the glimpse of the all too familiar lake and the cabins past the volleyball net, tennis courts, and pool, Briony’s stomach leapt. She was finally back!

“C’mon, Symphony,” Briony exclaimed, giddy with excitement like she was nine years old again. “Let’s go!”

Symphony was suddenly nervous. “I don’t wanna go,” she whined, down casting her eyes. She tugged on Briony’s arm. “I wanna go back home, Bri. I don’t wanna go.”

Briony shook her head at Symphony. Of all times, she chose now to be homesick. Briony didn’t have the patience for that. She scooped Symphony up onto her back and dashed for the stairs that led to the familiar, splintered wood pier. It was so good to be home.

Lannie Harris pushed her way through the hordes of preteen campers, searching for a familiar face. She was wearing cutoff Bermuda shorts and a simple pink H&M halter that matched her pink Havaiana’s. Her favorite wraparound Gucci sunglasses were positioned on her freckled nose, shielding her ever-so-recognizable aquamarine eyes from view so she could focus on her real mission: finding her friends.

Lannie pushed her pixie blond locks out of her face and sighed. She had dyed her hair blond for a Warner Bros. movie she had just finished filming and she was going through a reverse treatment to get her natural color back. Lannie wondered if her friends would recognize her with signature strawberry blond waves gone. Of course, her face had been plastered across the cover of every tween celebrity magazine possible the second she went blond–but she doubted any of her camp friends read Popstar.

Lannie was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice as a tall, lanky girl who was looking over her shoulder bumped into her.

“Oh sorry,” Lannie piped up. The girl looked to be about her own age–sixteen, and had short, choppy platinum blond locks that reminded Lannie of Pink’s 2006 hairdo, or in her case, hair-don’t She wore a black what looked to be a sports bra over a hot pink tee shirt that was ripped to reveal her pierced navel. She wore baggy, army green cargos sitting so low on her waist that they were practically falling off her, and a black, spike-studded belt. On her feet were paint splattered Chucks. She turned to face Lannie and gave her a little grin. Her unusually bright emerald green eyes shone.

Lannie blinked and pushed her sunglasses up so they rested on top of her head. There was only one person in the whole world she knew that had striking, emerald green eyes. “Macy?” she said in amazement.

Macy McIntire stared at Lannie for what seemed like an eternity and Lannie wondered if she had made a mistake. But she couldn’t have. Even if the girl she was looking at had zero resemblance to the brown-ringleted, guitar playing poet she had last seen three years ago, those green eyes were Macy. Lannie would know those eyes in a crowd of thousands. She would never forget those eyes.

“Lan?” Macy said incredulously. Lannie’s face broke into a wide, uncontrollable grin. Macy’s eyes widened. “Oh my God, Lannie!” Lannie could not hold off a second longer. She promptly threw her arms around her friend. The two girls embraced for a long time before Lannie, sniffling slightly, asked the question.

“Have you seen anyone else?”

“Nah,” Macy shook her head. “You’re the first one I’ve found. C’mon, lets go find everyone else.”

The two girls linked arms and began their search for the other Bunk 3 girls. Campers stared as the pair pushed their way through groups of kids–a punk rebel and one of the most well know teen sensations in America–on a quest to find their very best friends.

Iris Santos sat on a bench in the vicinity of a grand oak tree, shaded from the heat and the mess of campers milling about the beach, looking for friends they hadn’t seen in a year–or, in Iris’s case, three years. She dusted off her white Hollister short-shorts and smoothed out her white wife-beater, aware of how stunning the white looked against her deeply tanned, cappuchino colored skin.

“Wow, Iris,” said the blond who sat next to her. “Just wow. You are so gorgeous.”

Iris blushed. “God, Brianna. Compared to you, I’m, like, an ugly stepsister or something.” She studied her friend. Brianna Foster looked the same as always: stunningly gorgeous. But in the three years time that had elapsed since the two had last seen each other, Brianna had gotten even more beautiful, if that was possible. Her long, beachy blond waves cascaded over her moss-green-and-white striped bikini top and floated onto her white, zip up BCBG cover up. Her simple outfit was accentuated with gold, Grecian goddess-esque thong sandals and a simple gold pendant. On Iris it would have looked plain. But on Brianna it looked stunning.

“Iris,” Brianna said seriously, surveying her friend. Iris was still petite and curvy, but she had lost her glasses, shed her braces, and gotten rid of the baby fat that had gathered on her stomach and under her chin at age thirteen. Now she had slimmed out and gotten a wicked pixie haircut and brightened up her dark hair with warm brown highlights. Her gorgeous almond shaped eyes were jaded–from many hours of staying up in the darkroom, Brianna presumed–but perfectly accentuated with just a touch of gold glitter eyeshadow. “You’re hot.”

Iris blushed. She had not been expecting that. Suddenly, long arms grabbed her from behind and squeezed. She hadn’t been expecting that either. “Hey you,” said a voice she hadn’t heard in a long time. She jumped, surprised. Next to her, Brianna shrieked and jumped up.

“Taaaaaaaaaahhhhliiiiieeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!” she cried gleefully, throwing her arms around the anonymous person behind Iris. Iris turned and saw Talia Emerson’s familiar smile grinning at her from beyond Brianna’s blond waves. Talia was taller than she had been at thirteen, but besides that, she looked almost exactly the same. Her long, chestnut colored hair cascaded down her back with not a single hair out of place, and her cute bangs were side swept so the eager, excited look in her indigo eyes was not to be missed. She wore jean shorts and a soccer jersey of some sort–her usual attire. And without braces, her smile seemed wider than ever. Iris could not resist. She wrapped her arms around her friends and joined in on the hug. God, it was good to see them.

Elizabeth Hendricks stumbled off the last boat that docked and her heart warmed at the familiar sight of her beloved camp. Campers were already milling about, and it smelled like home. Her home. She did her best to gather up her little brothers, Tommy and Jake, who were engaged in a water gun fight, and her little sister, Emmy, who was nervously reverting to an old habit of sucking her thumb, and anxiously pushed her way off the boat and onto the soft, white sand.

Once situated on land, Tommy and Jake found their friends, and, after a chorus of “Hey dude”s and “What’s up, bro?”s, they went off to do whatever eleven-year-old boys do, leaving Elizabeth stranded on the surf with a panicky, thumb sucking eight-year-old.

“Hey, Em,” Elizabeth said, scanning the crowd for any sign of her friends. Do you see any of your friends?” Emmy shook her head hastily, her thumb never leaving her mouth.

“Well, what about...” Elizabeth’s steady gray eyes searched for a group of little girls her Emmy might be friends with. She loved her little sister, but right now she wanted to find Macy, Talia, Brianna, Briony, Lannie, and Iris. And, of course, Reese. God knew if Reese was even going to show up. But her search was interrupted by a familiar head of black hair hurrying by. “Briony!” she exclaimed.

The head turned, revealing Briony, who was giving a small girl about Emmy’s age a harried piggy back ride. Her eyes widened when she saw Elizabeth. “Oh my God,” she dropped the girl into the sand. “Elizabeth!” The two girls ran towards each other in a tangled, happy embrace.

“Wow, Liz,” Briony said happily, surveying her friend. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” Elizabeth grumbled, jealous of Briony’s stunning transformation from cute to flat out gorgeous. She fingered the white blond locks that fell softly to her belly button and straightened the hem of her baby blue tank top.

“Come on, girl,” Briony joked, grinning at her friend. “Of course it’s a good thing. You are so sexy, girl.” She let out her trademark cackle. “And I’ll bet Aaron is gonna love those.”

Elizabeth blushed and folded her arms across her C-cups, giggling. Aaron had been her camp crush back when she was thirteen, and things had heated up the last week before camp ended. It had been three years, and she hadn’t talked to him since. She’d been looking forward to seeing him again for practically forever.

“Elizabeth,” said a small voice. Elizabeth looked down. Emmy had removed her thumb from her mouth and was now staring anxiously up at her sister, eyeing the two unfamiliar girls nervously.

“Emmy,” Elizabeth said, raising her eyebrows at her sister. “Look who’s here. It’s...” she trailed off, waiting for Briony to fill in the blank.

“My sister, Symphony,” Briony piped up. She bent down so she was eye level with Emmy. “Emmy, right?” Emmy nodded vigorously. She was about to put her thumb back in her mouth, but she glanced at Symphony, who was standing seductively, for an eight-year-old, at least, with her hands on her hips, and thought better of it. “Well, it’s Symph’s first year here at Dolphin Cove,” she explained, oblivious to Symphony’s embarrassed pout. “But you’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

Emmy nodded happily. “Last year,” she explained.

“Well, I was thinking maybe you could hang out with Symph, and show her the ropes,” Briony continued.

“Of course,” Emmy smiled, glad to be put in the position of the ‘experienced camper.’

“I think I see Jen, one of the counselors,” Elizabeth said, waving over the tall brunette that was head of the seven and eight-year-old girls division. After a quick round of hugs and “Oh my God you’re back”s to Elizabeth and Briony, Jen introduced herself to the little girls, who were now cautiously gripping each other’s arms, and led them away to join a pack of excited, very pink little girls that were crowded on one edge of the beach.

“So,” Briony began, linking arms with Elizabeth. “Have you seen anyone?” Elizabeth shook her head. “I just got-” she started to explain, but then paused when she spotted a group of girls sitting in the shade of the big oak tree, waving wildly and calling, “Bri, Liz! Bri, Liz!” Elizabeth looked at Briony and shrugged before the two girls took off across the sand to meet their friends.

It was later that day when a helicopter disrupted the peaceful silence of waves lapping the shore on the far side of Dolphin Cove. It landed on the helicopter pad the Saunders family had paid to have put in nine years ago. A stunning girl with curly blond tresses and eyes the color of the deep ocean stumbled out and behind her two men dressed in black stepped out with almost a dozen suitcases. The girl straightened her Marc Jacobs sundress, dug the heels of her turqouise Jimmy Choo ankle boots firmly into the sand, lowered her Prada sunglasses to shield her eyes, and checked her leather Coach watch. It was one o’clock. Reese Saunders had officially arrived at Dolphin Cove.

Talia Emerson sat on her bed–the bottom to Iris’s top bunk. That’s the way it had been since the first summer of camp nine years ago. The girls had spent the last hour, their free hour after lunch, gossiping and catching up, and now things were a little more subdued. Lannie was sprawled on her stomach on Talia’s bed, going through the pictures on Talia’s Sony Megapixel. And Talia was just daydreaming.

“Woah,” Lannie suddenly burst out. “Rewind.”

“What?” Talia asked, leaning over so she could see the display screen Lannie was looking at. Lannie held up a picture of a tanned, buff guy with curly brown locks and twinkling eyes who was grinning at the camera.

“Who is this gift from heaven?” Lannie teased. Talia blinked rapidly to keep the tears from coming and stared at her brightly painted toenails. It wasn’t Lannie’s fault. She had no way of knowing. Why hadn’t Talia deleted those pictures anyway? She tried to convince herself she had forgotten, but she knew that she hadn’t. She knew that she still wasn’t over his dreamy eyes and soft, sweet smile and curly tendrils. His gorgeous face. Him, in general.

‘That’s Derek,” Talia said quietly. “my ex-boyfriend.” It was no use pretending. She was bad at lying and Lannie knew her too well anyway.

Suddenly, Brianna’s loud, expressive voice filled the tiny cabin. It was high pitched, like it always was when she was excited. All that came out before she jumped up, giddy, was, “Reeeeeeeeeeeee!” Talia fixed her eyes on the screen door, where a head of curly blond hair was poking in. “Omigod, Reese!”

2008-05-08T17:16:00.001-07:00

Callie Whittum sat down at the cracked, ancient oak table that dominated the Whittum family kitchen, ten minutes late for dinner.

“Callie,” Mrs. Whittum said, fixing her gentle, watery gray eyes on Callie’s bright, mascara-lined aquamarine ones. “Dinner was ready ten minutes ago. I told you to be back by the time the streetlights turned on. Where have you been? I’ve been getting worried.”

Callie tried not to let her grin show. No matter how upset her mother was, she could never really get angry. “Sorry, Mom,” she said breezily. “I lost track of time at Emma’s house.” She giggled, thinking of how she and her best friend, Emma Reynolds, had been pigging out on doughnuts, cold pizza, and freshly baked cherry cobbler when Mrs. Reynolds had found them and freaked out–she had spent all day baking the cobbler for a church party later that day. Then she had sent Callie home, ten minutes after the streetlights turned on.

“Well, you’re here now, and that’s what’s important,” Mr. Whittum, the peacemaker of the family, said, rubbing his shiny, bald forehead. He gestured to the make-your-own-tacos ingredients that were spread out around the table. “Help yourself. Its delicious.”

Callie stared longingly at at the just wormed tortillas, crisp, mint green lettuce, perfectly round tomato slices, diced meat, and mozzerella cheese. It all looked so delicious but...her bulging, full to the top stomach reminded her that she could shove an inch more of food down her pizza, doughnut, and cobbler filled stomach. “I’m not hungry,” she said, sighing. “I already at at Emma’s.”

Mrs. Whittum eyed Callie suspiciously. “What?” she asked.

“Oh, uh,” Callie mumbled. She didn’t want to have to explain to her mother that she’d gotten in trouble for eating the cobbler. “..you know,” she finished. “Just, um, stuff.”

“Callie,” Mrs. Whittum bit her lip anxiously. “Are you trying to lose weight? Because you know you are a healthy girl.”

Callie looked down at herself. ‘Skinny’ was never going to be a word used to describe her, but she certainly wasn’t fat either. As her mother had described it, she was healthy for a tall twelve-year-old. She had a lot of muscle on her bones from playing soccer, softball, and gymnastics. Unlike her older sister, Megan, she had never really cared much about her weight. She’d never worried about what she ate or counted calories and obsessed over carbs.

“No, Mom,” Callie sighed. They had been over this many times before. “I’m seriously not trying to lose weight. I swear. I just totally pigged out at Emma’s and now I’m stuffed. Could I please be excused?”

Mrs. Whittum glanced up at the ceiling and then at her husband. She looked tired and worried. She studied Callie intently, taking careful notice of the curves her daughter had recently developed. “Okay,” she agreed. “But remember, Callie, you’re growing up and your body is changing. It’s only natural for you to put on some weight. It’s nothing bad. And if you ever feel like you do want to lose some weight, come and talk to me first. Healthy eating and excersize is the way to lose weight, not starvation.”

“I know, Mom!” Callie practically shouted, storming out of the kitchen. She slammed the door for good measure and the paused outside to listen.

“Derek, I just don’t know what to do,” Mrs. Whittum whimpered. Callie could picture her usually bright, smiling face crumpled and bent over as tears began to form in her eyes.

“Allie, it isn’t your fault,” Mr. Whittum responded. “You only want to protect her.”

“I ju-just don’t want her to end up like M-m-m-megan,” Mrs. Whittum blubbered. “I couldn’t protect one daughter from getting h-h-huurt, and I need to protect the o-o-other.”

“I know,” Mr. Whittum murmered. “I know.”

Callie sighed impatiently. She had grown tired of her mother’s relentless antics months ago, and now she felt no sympathy for her. So what if Megan had been bulemic and later anorexic for four years without Mrs. Whittum noticing before a counselor at Megan’s high school had finally called her up and told her that her daughter had a life-threatening illness. So what if Megan was now in rehab and had to rebuild her whole life again. Just because one Whittum girl had a problem didn’t mean the other did. And Callie was sick of her parents constantly bugging her and bugging her about it. Just plain sick.

2008-05-07T20:27:00.000-07:00

17 di settembre, 1880

Caro nonna,

Today is near the end of our voyage, Papa says. He took Isabella and I up on the main deck and we were able to see land in the distance. I could not make out anything, but it’s there. Oh, nonna, I am so pleased. We have been on this small, cramped boat far too long. The small children grew restless much time ago. We are all anxious to stretch our legs and walk on solid land again. It seems ages ago that I bid you goodbye in Firenze. I miss you so much, nonna. Mama is ill and cranky, and she does nothing more than lay in her dark corner all day and moan. It frightens me, nonna. I am used to seeing Mama so strong and brave, and now she is weak and sick. I am worried about her. Sebastiano has told me stories of how they take the sick away from their families in the new county. I do not want them to take Mama away from us. They cannot take Mama away from us. Papa will not let them. I will not let them.

Molto Amato,

Brigida

18 di settembre, 1880

Caro nonna,

I am writing to you late this evening. Isabella sits on one side of me and Natashenka sits behind her on our small shared cot, braiding her long, wavy hair. They both say to tell you hello and send their love. Please pardon if my writing is messy, but I cannot see where I write. It is an immense darkness down here. It is hot and cramped. Though I cannot see anything, I can hear the sounds of many bodies turning and moving and rustling and whispering softly to each other and retching. I can smell them too. A month’s worth of human secretion is down here, nonna. It is horrible. I never imagined that humans would be reduced to living like animals, but here we are. And what angers me the most is that the cargo that the sailors bring back from Italia is positioned on the decks above us, traveling much more comfortably than us. It isn’t fair, nonna. Papa says to think that when this is all over we will be in America. Terra di il libero, Papa says. Land of the free. I do not understand this. How can it be free if Papa had to sell nearly everything we own so we could come on this terrible journey? Papa says we are going to a place called Nuovo York. New York. Each night, instead of telling us the usual stories about Coniglio Paolo, the mischievious rabbit who gets into all sort of mischief, and our favorite fable, he sits as Isabella, Tomasso, and I lie, falling asleep, and tells us of this place, New nYork. Even Natashenka and Sebastiano listen, and they always claim they are too old for Papa’s stories. He tells us of buildings that seem to touch the clouds, and streets filled with people, and yelling and delicious smells of all sorts of food being sold by merchants. He tells us of busy ports and bustling businesses. I can hardly believe any of it. I have never heard of anything like it and often I wonder if Papa is making this all up. But then he tells us of the tenement he and zio Lorenzo and zia Stefana have and how Zio and Zia and has promised to fix it up so it will be all ready for us when Papa arrives back with us. He tells us of how the apartment is small but cozy and has many memories of Italia and there are always warm, delicious smells coming from zia Stefana’s delicious dishes in the kitchen. He says that no matter how unfamiliar the world outside is, coming home into the fourth floor apartment on the busy street Canal is always wonderful. Papa says there are many friendly people there and it is much like Firenze in that everyone knows everyone. It all sounds so wonderful I can hardly wait.

Molto Amato,

Brigida

19 di settembre, 1880

Caro nonna,

Today we saw it, nonna. The ones on the boat that have made this voyage before, for it is not only Papa, but many others fathers that have come back for their families, have been speaking of the majesty, the magnificence, that will await us when we finally arrive to the new country. None of us have been able to believe it. Until today, that is. When I see it I can hardly breathe. Can hardly believe what is before me. When I see it I know that all Papa has said is true. The promise of freedom, of happiness, it is all true. It has to be! We cannot have come all that was for nothing. I just know it. And standing there, taller than anything I have ever seen in my life, one arm raised into the stormy skies, as green as the much too expensive mint gelatto at Enzo’s, the beautiful woman shines brightly the pursuit of freedom and a new life. A better life for us. I am so jumpy that I nearly fall of the boat. I cannot wait any longer. I have to be there. I have to be there now.

It takes another two hours until we dock at a place Papa says is called isola di Ellis. Ellis Island. I don’t see an island. All I see is a square brick building and many, many boats much like ours with dizzy people wrapped in shawls and worn coats pouring out, tired and clinging to one another, crying out in joy. The board is lowered to let us onto land and I am lost in the crowd. I cannot see Papa or Natashenka or Sebastiano or Gemma anywhere, much less smaller Isabella or Tomasso, so I just allow myself to be swept along. I will wait for them on solid land. The land of the free. My new home. I cannot wait!

Molto Amano,

Brigida

20 di settembre, 1880

Caro nonna,

Oh nonna, it is so early that there is no light yet so i am writing by a candle. It seems like centuries since I left the boat yesterday afternoon. I realized soon that everyone had gotten off the boat except for a few families with sick ones that were going more slowly. I began to get worried because I did not see Papa or anyone among those. Then I spotted Isabella and Gemma. Finally. They came up onto the main deck looking dizzy and confused. They looked more of sixty than of thirteen and nine. But when they saw me their faces lit up. They called to Papa that I was there and then Papa appeared with a dehydrated Mama in his arms and Sebastiano and Natashenka alongside him. Tomasso was trailing along behind, not sure what to make of the whole thing. Papa nearly jumped when he saw me. “Brigida, pensiere quello perdere!” He thought he had lost me? How strange. This whole time I thought I had lost him. But my eyes were focused on Mama, who was lying limp.

“Mama?” I asked tentatively.

“Acqua!” Papa exclaimed. “Lei dovere acqua!”

“Papa,” Sebastiano said reasonably. He was the most reasonable fourteen year old boy I had ever seen. All of his friends were rash and always in mischief. But not Sebi. “Papa, nessuna acqua.”

He was right. I saw no water but the ocean itself, and we certainly weren’t going to give Mama that.

Suddenly, a uniformed man came up to Papa and started speaking to him in rapid English. I did not know what he was saying, but I took it from his hand gestures that he was trying to escort us into the long line that was snaking its way out of the square brick building.

Now, Papa had been living in Nuovo York for long enough that his English was not so scratched anymore and he could speak semi-fluently. Fluently enough to have a conversation with a security guard. But in his fury, his face turned red and he started yelling in italiano. “Mia moglie dovere acqua! Mia moglie dovere acqua ora! Lie aux morire se lei no bere acqua ora!” He went on shouting like that, his face getting redder and redder, until Sebi grabbed his arm and looked up at the guard fiercely, his deep brown eyes, usually so calm and loving, flashing angrily. Then he said, in the choppy English he had learned in grammar school, “Me mama need the water. Need the water or die she will. Need the water, need it now!” The man looked at Mama’s crumpled figure and smiled apologetically. Then he told us, in strained italiano, that there was nothing he could do. That every family needed something for their sick ones. But all he could do for us now was check us off into the line. Papa frowned angrily as the security guard walked off, a happy-go-lucky smile on his face.

The line was long and unmoving, so Papa set Mama down on a tree root so she could rest in peace. I sank down beside her and gazed at her sickly, frail body. “Mama?” I whispered to her, brushing my fingers across her sunken eyelids. Slowly, her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at me. Her once clear blue eyes, passed on, not to Natashenka, Sebastiano, Gemma, Isabella, or Tomasso, but to me, the only di Cucciaio child who look anything like Mama with her pale blue eyes, fair skin, and reddish brown curls, were now distant and empty.

“Stefana?” Mama whispers hoarsly through dry lips.

“No Mama,” I cup her soft cheek in my own palm. “Io sono Brigida. Tuo figlia. Noi sono qui. Nuovo York. America, Mama!” I try my best to explain to her that I am not her sister, but her daughter, and that we have finally arrived in America.

“America?” she is confused. Her eyes start to close again and her body is limp.

“Mama, Mama,” I cry. Her eyes seem to pry themselves open, but I know they will not stay open for long. I explain anxiously what Papa has told me so many times before. When we are checked for the deathly sickness, anyone who has it will be sent to quarantine. And then, well, I don’t even wan’t to think about it. The thought of starting a life in this new and strange country without Mama by my side–even if she is weak and ill–is too horrible for words.

“Mama,” I say urgently. “Tu dovere fingere.” I explain to her that when we go inside, no matter how bad she is feeling, she must pretend not to be ill. Mama’s eyes open again. “Fingere?” she asks. She is not understanding that she has to pretend. The line is moving faster now-we are almost to the entrance. “Papa!” I cry frantically as Mama’s body falls limp once again. I feel a hot breath on my back and realize that he has been standing behind me. He gives my shoulder a sad little squeeze. “Noi aux provare,” he says softly. I can see in his eyes that he has already given up hope. I want to shout, want to scream. We cannot just try, we must succeed! We must!

I pull sharply away from Papa and Natashenka and Gemma catch me and pull me close to them on either side. Isabella clutches tight to Nata’s hand and Tomasso follows eagerly after Sebi as he helps Papa get Mama up. Then he and Papa wrap Mama’s limp arms around them and cover her in a tattered shawl. I catch Mama’s feet dragging across the cobblestoned path as we proceed through the entrance and wince, but from the front it looks like Mama is just walking along between her husband and son. It’s all going to work out, I decide with relief.

We walk inside a long, dark hall crowded with people and suitcases. Children cry, adults shout, and above it all, fans whir slowly, blowing the stuffy air around and making the room even hotter. Papa pulls out a small, square blue card. It is creased and folded, like someone has held it and ran their fingers over it many times. It looks important, and I take that it is when he holds it up to a guard and he lets us through to the front of another long line.

A matter of minutes later, we are called up to the counter. Papa gestures us to stay back, but the old, tired looking man behind the counter beckons us forward. All of us, even Tomasso.

“Name?” the man says, eying us like he thinks we are stupid. I hate being looked at this way. Papa slides the blue card forward and the man studies it curiously.

“Vincent Spoon,” he says finally. I look up, confused. What is he talking about?

Papa nods, but his face says that he finds these two words as unfamiliar as I do. “That is me,” he says finally. I stare at Papa, wide-eyed. His name is Vincenzo di Cucciaio. His Papa’s name and his Papa before him. Sebi’s full name. Vincenzo Sebastiano di Cucciaio.

The man said a lot of words really fast and Papa nodded his head many times before he spoke. “Mia noglie, my wife,” he said, squeezing Mama in what looked like affection but I could tell was really to keep her from falling over. “She is, ahhh, mute. Yes,” he concludes confidantly with a straight face. Then man seems to buy it. He asks a few questions and Papa says Mama’s name–Fernanda. But the second name he says is strange. It is what the man called him. Spoon. I blink in surprise. The man thrusts out a stack of papers for Papa to sign and proceeds to write Mama’s name on a fancy looking document. He points to Nata and Sebi and Gemma, and behind them, I with Tomasso and Isabella. Papa rests his hand on Gemma’s curly brown locks and speaks in words I do not know. Then he announces, “My children. Sebastiano, Natashenka, Gemma, Brigida, Isabella, and Tomasso.”

“Sebastian, Natasha, Genny, Bridget, Isabelle, and Thomas.” I watch horrified as Papa nods.

The man stamps my hand with a blue mark and smiles. He is missing his front teeth. “Welcome to America, Bridget,” he says. I blink and rip my hand away from him. I am not Bridget. No matter what. I am Brigida di Cucciaio, not Bridget Spoon in any way, shape or form.

Molto Amano,

Brigida

21 di settembre, 1880

Caro nonna,

I have not yet recovered from the shock. Mama and Tomasso are gone. They took them away from us, just like that. What happened was just this. We got in another long line. It was so long I could not even see what we were in line for. But when we grew closer I realized it was some sort of health inspection. My breath came in sharp. Mama just had to get by it.

Sebi went first. The doctor, a cold blooded man with thin blonde hair and a sharp voice, instructed him to take of his shirt and then held a strange device up to his chest before patting him and pointing out where he was to wait for us–on the other side of a door. He shrugged and joined the happy families filing through it. I could not bear to focus my eyes on the other door, where ill people were being shuffled through as their families were held back.

Next Natashenka, Gemma, and Isabella, then I. I was astonished to realize that the doctor expected us to step out of our petticoats in the middle of this public hall. But trembling, I did as I was told. I just wanted to be free of this prison. Last of the children was Tomasso. He was crying as the doctor inspected him. Then he said a few words to Papa and Papa clung onto Tomasso fiercely. The doctor shrugged and informed Papa there was nothing he could do. I stared at my little brother. Tomasso was the healthiest and liveliest of all of us. What could possibly be wrong with him. Saliva bubbled in my throat but I swallowed my fear. Papa would not let anything happen to little Tomasso. I knew that.

Next was Mama. Papa helped her out of her garments and I looked away, ashamed of Mama’s violation of privacy. The doctor had yet to put his machine to her when he nodded grimly and shoved her away. A scream ecaped me. How could he treat Mama this way. Tomasso looked very confused as another doctor began escorting him and Mama to the sickroom. Papa grabbed for Mama but missed. Sebi, Natashenka, Gemma, Isabella and I just stood there, paralyzed with shock. What were they doing? The man drew a gun and pushed Papa away. He shoved Mama and Tomasso into a room filled with ill people and shut and bolted the door. Then someone else escorted Papa and the rest of us outside. Papa was still shouting, his rage lost in the crowd of people. All around me people were screaming and crying and yelling. I covered my eyes and felt tears slide down my cheeks as I pictured Mama’s sad, empty eyes and Tomasso’s usually bright cheerful face so blank and confused, not understanding why these men were taking him away from his father and brother and sisters. I turned back but all I saw was a crowd of people I did not know, pushing past me, shoving and calling to each other. Suddenly, the thought of our humble, impoverished life in Firenze seemed wonderful compaired to this sad mess. I just want to be there with you, nonna. I just want to go home.

Molto Amano,

Brigida

2008-03-14T19:54:00.000-07:00

I walk into the room

Finally

I have been waiting

Outside

In the fluorescently lit room

Sitting

On a cracked, vinyl chair

Waiting

Just waiting
With a sea of kids

My age

Good kids

Great kids

Kids rehearsing

With their parents

Or by themselves

Muttering

The lines

I know so well

I scope out

My competition

There is a girl

With red hair

Who sits next to me

Her mother yells

At her

She yells rude things

When the girl forgets

A line

Or says it wrong

I do not know

Why she yells

The girl is very good

Maybe the best

In the

Fluorescently lit room

I am

Number 262

Finally

They call me

Into the room

Past the red door

That every kid

Sitting on a

Cracked, vinyl chair

Wishes to go through

And three faces

Stare up at me

They stare

And smile

Not a nice smile

They look tired

Very tired

I can imagine

I am the 262^nd person

They have seen

Since early that morning

Since I first sat down

In that

Cracked, vinyl chair

In that

Fluorescently lit room

“Hello,” a woman says

Pleasantly

Very pleasantly

But I look past her voice

Read her face

I am an actor

I understand

Emotion

Hers is

Stressed

Tired

Maybe even
Bored

I take a breath

A deep breath

Clear my throat

Smile

Smiles help

Then I begin

The street light
From the window

Outside

Illuminates

Her face

It is dark

Outside

Already night

I have spent

A whole day

In that

Fluorescently lit room

Sitting in that

Cracked, vinyl chair

I say the first

Line

The first word

Even

Already

It is wrong

I can see it

In their

Faces

I ask to start again

But they shake their heads

“Keep going.”

I continue

But I don’t really

Try

I already know

I am

Out

The man

The frowning man

Who sits

In between the two women

Holds up his

Hand

Stops me

“Thank you,”

He says
Grimly

But it is clear

He is not

Thankful

At all

The other

Woman

Smiles apologetically

I stuff

My hands in my

Pockets

And go back out

Through the red door

The red haired girl

Is next

I smile as she

Goes in

But she only

Frowns

At me

A nasty frown

Her mother also

Frowns

And glares

At my mother

My mother looks
Away

She is new

To the business

We both are

We don’t understand

The unfriendly

Atmosphere

I shrug my shoulders

At my mother and she

Hugs me

Every parent and actor

Stares

At her

Sympathy

The red haired girl

Comes back out

Crying

Her mother rises

Yells

Shouts

Grabs the girl

And drags her

Away

My mother glances

At me

I roll

My eyes

We walk out

Of the

Fluorescently lit room
Away from the sea of

Cracked, vinyl chairs

To our car

Waiting silently in the

Full parking lot

It is past

Dinner now

We stop at a fast food restaurant

For a bite to eat

We have been there

Since breakfast

All for those five minutes

In the room past

The red door

That is how it always is

A lot of waiting

Not much time

But it is all worth it

When you get that call

Late at night

Telling you

To come back in

Two weeks

So you can start

The read throughs.

2008-03-02T18:50:00.000-08:00

Libby Farthmore sat on the steps leading up to the lobby of her New York City apartment building, enjoying the steady drizzle and endless gray sky. She had a book in her lap, one of the two she was supposed to read over winter break, but, although it was three days into break, A Tree Grows In Brooklyn lay, yet to be opened, on her lap. The rain was just so much more interesting than the too many pages full of boring, repetitive words that lay between the thick, bound covers of a required reading book for the eighth grade. Libby thought the book looked mildly interesting and, though she would never admit it, thought she might have actually read it if it hadn’t been required. What fun was it reading required books?

“Leebay, you is sure you do not want to come in. Very cold out of side.”

“I’m fine,” Libby assured László, the kind, gray-haired doorman of her building. László had been the doorman since before Libby could remember. He had moved from Hungary to the New York when he was in his twenties, but still had a thick accent. László was the nicest adult Libby knew. He treated each kid in the building like they were his own.

Suddenly, Libby heard the intercom buzz and a familiar voice blare out of it from inside the lobby. “Elizabeth?” it called. “László, is Elizabeth there?”

“Mo-om,” Libby complained. “I hate it when you call me that!”

“Yees,” László said cheerfully. “Leebay ees right here, Mees Farthmore.”

“Libby, you’ve been down there far too long,” Mrs. Farthmore complained. “I don’t want you getting sick. Grandma is coming next week and she’ll want to take you out to museums and such.”

“But Mom, I like being out here with the rain,” Libby complained. “It helps me, um, get in touch with nature.” “We’re in New York City, Lib,” Libby heard her fifteen-year-old brother, Henry, call. “There is no nature.” “Leebay, perhaps better go up to apartment now,” László said, smiling. “Would not want to make momma anger. She make deelicious devil’s food cake, no?”

“Okaay,” Libby agreed reluctantly. “I’ll be right up, Mom,” she said into the intercom.

“Bye, my Leebay,” László said, nodding to her and she pressed the button for the twelfth floor.

“Bye Lás,” Libby said, smiling, as the elevator door opened and she stepped in. “See you in a while.” “Crocodile,” Libby heard László call as the doors slid shut and she bagan her journey to apartment 12B.

Kristen Baker picked up the phone in the hallway of her fifteenth floor apartment and dialed her best friend, Libby’s phone number. As she listened to the phone ring in her ears, she wished for the hundredth time that she had a phone in her room, instead of the old, white one in the hall that was nice if you liked twirling your finger around the thick cord but not nice if you wanted some privacy. Usually, Kristen ended up crawling into the hall closet. Luckily, she wasn’t going to be having a top secret conversation. She just needed to ask Libby a quick question. “Hello?” Libby’s mother, Mrs. Farthmore’s voice rang out on the other end. Kristen heard Libby’s five-year-old sister, Jenny, singing in the background.

“Hi Mrs. Farthmore, could I talk to Libby please?” Kristen asked politely. She had much more phone ettiquite than her twin sister, Sydney, who, when calling her best friend, Alexa, just went, “Is Alexa there?” and sometimes burped loudly.

“Um, I’m sorry Kristen, Libby isn’t avaliab-” She was interupted by a loud slamming of doors, shuffling of feet, and muffled yelling, before a breathless Libby’s voice came from the other end.

“I’m here, I’m here,” she gasped for a breath. “Hey, Kris, what’s up?”

“Hmm…nothing,” Kristen replied, sitting on the cherry wood end table that housed the phone and propping her feet, clad in striped knee socks, against the cream colored wall. “I was just wondering if you wanted to go on a bike ride. Sydney’s at the movies with Alexa, Dad’s at work, and I’m bored.”

Libby coughed, and it turned into a laugh. “A bike ride? Kristen, it’s pouring! Why don’t we go see a movie like Sydney?”

“There aren’t any good movies playing,” Kristen explained. “And besides, you love being out in the rain. We could bike to 52nd and Franklin and get hot dogs at Giani’s. He’s better than all the rest.”

“My mom doesn’t want me being out in the rain,” Libby explained stubbornly. “Besides, I’m a vegetarian.” Kristen laughed. “Since when, Lib? You had orange chicken at my house last night.”

“Huh?” Libby asked in mock confusion.

“The Chinese take-out my dad got us,” Kristen said slowly. “Orange chicken. You ate it.”

“Oh!” Libby exclaimed. Kristen could practically see her face lighting up. “Oh…right! Haha. Um, uh…that was meat? WHAT?! Since when?”

“Libby!” Kristen exclaimed in annoyment.

“Sorry,” Libby giggled. “I just, I dunno. How about we just hang out at your place?”

“Boring,” Kristen complained.

“Okay, come over here then,” Libby tried.

“Fine,” Kristen agreed reluctantly. “But I still think it would be funner to go on a bike ride.”

“The only reason you want to go on a bike ride is because Blake Huckabee’s house is on the way to Giani’s and you’re hoping maybe he’ll be outside,” Libby informed Kristen.

Kristen was glad that Libby wasn’t there to see her face turn bright red. “That is so not true. I didn’t even think of that!”

“Kristen, really,” Libby said. Kristen could picture her rolling her eyes.

“Well, I’ll be down in a minute, bye!” Kristen said, quickly hanging up. She pulled a faded, Manhattan Volleyball Club sweatshirt over her brightly colored Forever 21 babydoll, dusted off her jean cutoffs, and decided for and then against pulling her new yellow Converse over her striped socks, before locking her front door and padding into the elevator in her sock feet, where she rode down to the twelfth floor and rang the doorbell.

The door creaked and Kristen heard the sound of the chain lock being undone before Libby’s voice called out, “Jenny, don’t open the door without asking who it is.”

“Okay,” Jenny’s sweet voice responded. “Who is it?” she squeaked.

“Me,” Kristen replied, smiling.

“Oh,” Jenny said, struggling as she pulled the door open. “Libby, it’s okay. It’s only Kristen.”

“Only Kristen?” Kristen asked, pretending to be deeply hurt. “Only Kristen? What are you talking about, Jenny?” “Sorry Kristen,” Jenny giggled. “You are the most importantest person in my life.”

“That more like it,” Kristen laughed, scooping Jenny up into a hug.

Libby rolled her eyes. “You’ve trained her well, Kris,” she said, shaking her head.

“If you don’t mind,” Jenny said, wiggling out of Kristen’s arms and heading towards the dining room table, where the phone lay silent. “I’m expecting a very important call.”

“Oh?” Libby asked, tickling her little sister. “From who, may I ask?”

“Jonathan Hendricks,” Jenny said importantly.

“A boy?” Kristen teased. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“Silly,” Jenny giggled, blushing.

“He is!” Libby exclaimed. “Jonathan and Jenny, sitting in a tree…”

“K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” Kristen joined in.

“Yuck!” Jenny exclaimed. “Yuck, yuck, yuck!”

“Bye, hon,” Kristen said as she followed Libby to her bedroom. “Have fun with Jonathan.” “Shhh,” Jenny whispered. “Don’t tell. Mommy might be mad.” “Okay,” Kristen whispered back before closing the door to Libby’s bedroom.

Libby had flopped onto her unmade bed. She wore a gray Abercrombie jacket and had changed into pink flannel pajama bottoms. Her dark brown hair hung loosely down her back, and she pushed her overgrown bangs out of her big, blue eyes as she sat up. “So,” she said with a mischievious glint in her eye, as Kristen sank into the purple bean bag chair that was positioned ontop of a heap of clothes in the corner next to Libby’s desk. “Let’s call Blake.” “No!” exclaimed Kristen hurriedly.

“Why not?” complained Libby. “It’ll be fun.”

“Nooo,” whined Kristen as Libby reached for her rhinestone encrusted cell phone. Suddenly, the phone rang, blaring No Air by Jordin Sparks and Chris Brown.

“Saved by the bell,” Kristen muttered with a small laugh.

“Hello?” Libby said cheerfully, turning the phone on speakerphone.

“Heey,” said a familiar voice. Kristen rolled her eyes and Libby frowned at her.

“Hi Frankie,” she said, twriling a lock of hair around her chipped, navy colored fingernails. “What’s up?” “Nothing much,” Frankie responded. Libby disregarded Kristen, who was making barfing noises, and turned the phone off speakerphone to finish the conversation.

“I was thinking maybe we could go to mall later,” Frankie continued. “To see a movie or something. That new one that just came out yesterday. It looks good.” Libby laughed, thinking about Kristen’s earlier comment, that there were ‘no good movies playing.’

“Sure, Frankie,” Libby agreed. “I’ll call you in a bit and we can figure it out, okay?”

“Great,” Frankie finished. “I’ll talk to you later, Libby. I’ll get the showtimes off the Internet, so call me.” “Kay,” Libby agreed. “Bye.”

“Bye,” Frankie said before hanging up.

“Ugh,” Kristen said the moment Libby put the phone down. “How can you be friends with her? She so, so…arh!” “Kristen, the only reason you don’t like her is because she’s going out with Blake,” Libby exclaimed in frustration. “You don’t even know her!”

“Well, maybe I don’t need to,” Kristen retorted. “Maybe I can tell just from looking that she’s a rotten, no-good-” “KRISTEN!” Libby cried.

“Sorry,” Kristen mumbled. “But it’s true.,” she added more quietly.

Libby’s heart sped up. “Look, Kris, I’m not going to just sit here and let you insult my friend-”

“Friend?” roared Kristen. “Friend? Frankie isn’t your friend, Libby. She’s just using you to get to Clifton. She wants to steal him away from you and two-time Blake. And everyone knows it but you!”

“That isn’t true!” Libby was on the verge of tears. “I can’t believe you’d say that, Kristen!”

“Oh, so now you’re believing Frankie over me?” Kristen exploded. “Frankie, who you’ve known since what? September. Over me, who you’ve known your whole life.”

“Look, Kris, just because you’re jealous of me and Frankie being friends-”

“Jealous? So now you’re putting words in my mouth. Who said I was jealous?”

“Kristen, it’s kind of obvious.”

“Just because I think-no I know Frankie is using you, doesn’t make me jealous of her. Why would I be jealous of her?”

“You know what, Kristen, why are we even discussing this?”

“I don’t know, why are we?”

“I don’t know!”

“Well, NEITHER DO I!”

“FINE!”

“I have things to do, anyway.”

“Right with Frankie, your new best friend.”

“Just leave me alone, Kristen.”

“I will!”

“Good!”

“Bye.”

“Hmph.”

Libby flopped back onto her bed and watched Kristen slam the door and stop down the hall before going out the front door. What was Kristen’s problem anyway? Making all these accusations and saying such mean things about Frankie. It was clear she was just jealous anyhow. Libby pulled out the latest Teen Vogue and began to flip through it as she waited for Kristen to call and beg for forgiveness. But the next time Libby’s phone rang, it was Frankie, calling with movie times. The two girls agreed to meet at the theater in two hours, when the movie started. And when Libby left for the movie, Kristen still had yet to call.

Frankie Sosa sat silently on a vacated bench outside the AMC movie theater at the mall. She pulled out her scratched Verizon Wireless enV, a hand-me-down from her sixteen-year-old sister, Lucy, who went through phones as quickly as Frankie went through shoes, and pretended to text someone, a helpful tactic to avoid looking like a loser when you were alone.

“Hey,” said a voice. A male voice. Frankie looked up. Clifton Reed stood there, decked out in a striped Hollister polo and just-baggy-enough faded jeans. He smiled shyly at Frankie, his newly, free of braces teeth shining. His warm brown eyes gleamed at her. She loved the way his messy brown locks fell into his eyes, causing him to shake his head like an overgrown puppy.

“Hi Clifton,” Frankie said, smiling and blushing slightly. She concentrated on meeting his gaze but found she could not.

“So, what’s up,” Clifton said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and shifting his weight. “Are you waiting for someone? I’m here alone.”

Say you’re here alone, Frankie commanded herself. Say you’re here alone and maybe you can go see a movie together. But she would never do that to Libby. “I’m, ah, waiting for someone,” Frankie said, her voice cracking. “Oh?” Clifton raised his eyebrows. Frankie was delighted that he sounded a little dissapointed. “Anyone I know?” he continued.

“Um,” Frankie delayed her response. She racked her brain on something to say. She couldn’t exactly lie-Libby would be here any minute. “Yeah. Libby.”

“Oh,” Clifton said. His face seemed to glow at the sound of her name. Frankie sunk down in her seat. How could she have ever thought that Clifton was even a little bit into her. It was obvious he was all about Libby. And she’d just have to live with that. She had Blake, after all. Even if he was “just a friend” to her.

(dont worry i am adding more to this story right now and i'll post more soon)

2008-02-26T17:35:00.000-08:00

This is a chain story I'm doing on Lisiharrison.net.....I am writing Elizabeth's part. I will post who is writing the other girls as soon as I find out. Here is the beginning that I wrote. I'll add to it as it grows, since it is a chain story. :)

Okay....here is the credit of authors.

Me.....Elizabeth

Alyssa.....Vienna

Cori......Nikki

Elizabeth:

Elizabeth Hunter stepped off the stuffy, old yellow bus in anticipation. She breathed in the thick, humid summer air of South Carolina and sighed with contempt and she took in the familiar surroundings of Camp Arrowhead, the summer camp she’d been attending for seven years, since she was six years old. Camp Arrowhead was her true home. Back in California, her best friend, Anna, had moved away and her parents had just finalized their divorce. She was ready to forget about everything and have a great summer.

“Lizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!” shrieked a familiar voice. Elizabeth jumped, startled and then grinned at the sight of her best camp friend, Vienna. The slender, tanned girl rushed towards Elizabeth, her caramel brown hair spewing out behind her as she made her way through hordes of campers.

“Hey!” Elizabeth exclaimed, wrapping her friend in a hug.

“Oh my gosh,” were Vienna’s first words. “What the heck did you do to your hair? It’s so, so dark!”

Elizabeth laughed, fingering her armpit length locks, which were a mousy brown, instead of their usual sandy blond color. “I dyed it,” she said simply. “For an audition.”

Vienna rolled her eyes. “You are way too into your acting stuff, Liz.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. She loved that Vienna didn’t treat her like a superstar, even though she was one of the regulars on Nickelodeon’s hit show, All’s Fair In Love, War, And Junior High. “We all have our things,” she giggled, referring to Vienna’s unhealthy obsessions with soccer and junk food, two things that did not go well together. “So, what’s new?” Vienna asked as the two girls made their way down the shady path towards Bunk 4C, their bunk since forever. But a shrill voice interrupted their conversation.

“Vienna!” cried a girl who’s most distinct feature was the reddish tresses that hung out of her high pony as she waved to Vienna and ran towards the two girls.

“Nikki!” exclaimed Vienna, hugging the newcomer. “You’re here!”

“I’m here!” Nikki cried and they hugged again.

“Liz,” Vienna said with a grin. “This is Nikki. We were best friends before she moved away in fifth grade. I emailed her and told her about camp, and she signed up! Nikki, this is Elizabeth.”

“Her best camp friend,” Elizabeth added hastily, smoothing down her white Hollister babydoll.

“Hi,” Nikki chirped excitedly. “Omigosh, Vienna, I have got to tell you what happened on the plane. And, come on, show me your cabin!”

With that, the two girls ran off, leaving Elizabeth standing in the dust, her white Vans slip-ons gathering dirt.

Vienna:

Vienna and Nikki burst through the door of Vienna’s cabin in a fit of hysterics.
“Ok, ok, ok, let me get this straight,” Vienna giggled, “The guy behind you in the plane ACTUALLY asked you if you had a boyfriend?”
“Yeah, he seriously did! It was soooo hilarious! But he was like, eleven! I swear! I was like, ‘Sorry, but I do!’ I think he started crying!” Nikki laughed. The two girls started laughing again. The wiped the tears from each others eyes and finally calmed down enough to look around them. Vienna inhaled the inviting scent of pine and wet wood.
“Home sweet home!” she sighed.
“Elizabeth seems nice,” Nikki ventured, “but she looks familiar. Where do I know her from?”
Vienna slightly rolled her eyes. “She’s from that show on Nick, All’s Fair in Love and War, and Junior High,” she said casually. Nikki’s eyes widened.
“No way!!! She’s a star? That’s so awesome! You have to tell me about her!” Nikki jumped on Vienna’s bunk and layed on her stomach. She propped her head up on her fists and let her feet kick her back side. Vienna sat beside her.
“There’s really nothing to tell. She’s way nice, and she’s my BCF,” Vienna paused, “Best Camp Friend.”
“I got that part,” Nikki giggled, “but I wanna know that gossip! Seriously! Ok, did she really date Chace Murphey then dump him two hours later? Did she actually dump soy sauce on his head because he was talking about his sick mother?” Nikki asked, intrigued.
“Absolutely not!” Vienna snapped. “Elizabeth would ne-ver do that! You can’t listen to gossip like that.”
“Oh,” Nikki said, sounding slightly disappointed, “Okay. Well, I’m gonna go back to my cabin and unpack. Maybe I’ll catch up with you later?”
“Sure!” Vienna smiled. “We can sit together at dinner!”
“Ok, just make sure you invite Elizabeth! Cuz I’d really like to get to know her. See ya!” Nikki said, skipping out of Vienna’s cabin.
Vienna pulled her cap over her head and sighed. Sometimes being friends with a star was a real pain.

Nikki:

It was dinnertime. Nikki walked in and looked for Vienna. She saw Elizabeth first though and started walking over to her. “HeyElizabeth! Have you seen Vienna?” Nikki asked.

“Uhh yeah, she had to change. You know how Vienna is with her clothes.” Elizabeth laughed.

“I know! She wears like five outfits a day.” The two girls laughed. “I have to ask you a question about your show, but you probably don’t want to hear it because you’re on a break.”

Nikki wanted to ask Elizabeth about all the rumors she heard.

“It’s okay. I’m used to it. That is why I love Vienna so much because she treats me like a normal human being.” Elizabeth was a normal kid and Nikki had to remember that.

“Yeah, Vienna’s a great friend. Omigod, I love your shirt! Where did you get it?” Nikki looked at what Elizabeth was eating and felt sick.

“Thanks, I got it from Tyler Lyson for my birthday.” Nikki saw Vienna walk in, but she turned away.

“No way! Is it true about him and Lauren Brooks?” Elizabeth laughed. “No, he said he would rather date a monkey then her.” The two girls were practically on the floor laughing.

“Hey guys! What is so funny?” Vienna came and asked. “Oh, nothing it was a had to be there moment.” Elizabeth told Vienna.

“Oh, okay!” Vienna said with a smile, but Nikki could see the sadness that she was left out in her eyes.

2008-02-24T10:48:00.000-08:00

“Zoey, hurry up!”

“Coming,” Zoey called back. She grabbed her digital camera and traipsed out of her bedroom.

Katie was sitting on Zoey’s kitchen counter, clicking her fingernails on the cold tile impatiently. Her long golden hair was pulled back into a tight bun, with loose strands falling in her face. She had on a simple navy tee shirt and blue jeans, but Katie could always turn something ordinary into something extraordinary.

Beside Katie, leaning against the kitchen counter with an annoyed look on her face, was Bethany. Bethany was in all of Katie’s classes at Monroe Middle School and none of Zoey’s. Katie had only just met her when sixth grade had started off two weeks ago, but already Bethany was all she could talk about. Her phone conversations with Zoey were now spent telling her best friend all about Bethany. What Bethany had done. What Bethany had wore. What Bethany had eaten. What stall Bethany used in the restroom. And Zoey was plain sick of Bethany.

Zoey gazed at Bethany, camera in hand. Bethany was pretty, with shoulder-length brown hair and tanned skin. She wore a lime green sweater and a jean skirt. Her legs were outfitted with brown leggings and on her feet were white ballet flats. Bethany had a great smile, but right then the look on her face was one of pure disgust. “Um,” said Bethany in an insulting tone. “Hate to break it to you, Zoey, but redheads cannot wear pink.” She gestured to Zoey’s light pink shirt and then to her orange pigtails.

Katie laughed a loud fake laugh to cover up the awkward silence. She touched Zoey’s shoulder. “Isn’t she funny,” she said loudly to Zoey.

Zoey gripped her camera tightly. She almost felt like snapping back, but she wasn’t that kind of person. So she just smiled, gritting her teeth.

“Um, Katie, can we, like, go?” asked Bethany impatiently. “It’s like, getting dark.”

“Yeah, let’s go,” agreed Katie, jumping off the counter.

Bethany grabbed Katie’s hand and pulled her towards the door and the two girls ran down the sidewalk, laughing. “Hey guys, wait up!” called Zoey, panting, almost half a block behind.

Bethany turned around and smirked. “Hurry,” she said fake-sweetly. She whispered something to Katie and the two girls cracked up.

Zoey half-ran, half-skipped down the block to join Katie and Bethany. “Can you guys stop for a second?” she asked, bending down and breathing deeply. “I need to catch my breath.”

“Um,” Katie said uncertainly. She glanced at Bethany, who rolled her eyes. “Look, Zoey, it’s getting dark and we really want to get to the beach before sunset so we can take pictures,” she continued.

“Yeah, and you’ve, like, got the camera,” said Bethany, raising her eyebrows.

“Okay,” said Zoey, straightening up. But her insides were rolling over. Was that all she was? The person with the camera? Was she worth nothing else? Not to Bethany, necessarily, but to Katie?

Three blocks later, they had reached the beach. The chilly waters of the Atlantic Ocean nipped the soft yellow sand and a cool breeze whooshed by, blowing Bethany’s hair back. The whole area was nearly deserted, and the three girls took off their shoes and walked along the water in their bare feet. Bethany was chattering rapidly to Katie about something that had happened in one of their classes and Katie was nodding and shooting apologetic looks in Zoey’s direction. Suddenly, Bethany stopped and turned towards Zoey.

“Like, omigosh,” she breathed. “This is perfect. The sun is setting and everything. You’ve got to get a picture.” Zoey shrugged. “Okay,” she agreed, turning her camera on. She held it up in the direction of the ocean and Bethany burst out laughing.

“No, stupid,” she said. “Don’t take a picture of the ocean.Take a picture of us.” She threw her arm around Katie and rolled her eyes dramatically. “Duh.”

Zoey blushed and readjusted the focus of her camera. Katie smiled a little, looking very uncomfortable. “One, two, three,” Zoey said, trying to make her voice sound excited. “Say cheese!”

“Cheese!” exclaimed Katie and then trailed off as Bethany laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh.

“Say cheese,” Bethany imitated Zoey. “Omigosh, that’s like, so dorky.” She laughed again and Katie joined in, staring at the ground. Zoey forced herself to giggle.

“I was just playing around,” she announced.

Bethany stared at her. “Huh?” she said. Then, “Okay, take a few more.”

Zoey stood, clicking away, as Bethany and Katie posed, a different one for each photo. Several times Katie glanced at Zoey and seemed about to say something to Bethany, but never did. Finally Zoey spoke up.

“Um, Bethany, could you take a picture of me and Katie now?” she asked timidly.

Bethany stared. And stared. She let out a small laugh and rolled her eyes as if she was sure Zoey was kidding. “I’m not a good photographer,” she told Zoey in a way that plainly meant, no way. “Besides, it’s getting pretty dark. We should, like, go.”

Zoey turned to Katie anxiously. Katie let out a tiny nod. “We should,” she said quietly.

Zoey shrugged. “’Kay,” she muttered and pocketed her camera.

The three walked in silence for a while and then Bethany turned to Katie. “Omigosh,” she squealed. “You should, like, sleep over!”

“Uh,” Katie said nervously, shooting a look at Zoey. Zoey could see in her eyes that she was bursting with excitement.
“I have homework,” Zoey said quickly, fingering one of her pigtails. Katie nodded. She turned back to Bethany eagerly. Now that Zoey had dismissed the possibility of being left out, Katie could show her excitement. The two girls chatted excitedly as they walked down the darkening beach. Zoey twirled her hair through her fingers and the bracelet on her left arm jingled. Katie had given it to her when they were in third grade. There were four small letters engraved on the silver heart. B, E, S, and T. Best. Katie had the other half, which said Friends.

Zoey glanced over at Bethany and Katie who were laughing about something together. She thought about all the great things Katie had told her about Bethany. Was this really the same Bethany? Why did she have it out to get Zoey? And more importantly, why wasn’t Katie, her best friend, standing up for her?

Later that evening, Zoey was sprawled on her bed, reading a Nancy Drew novel. Her unfinished science homework sat on her desk. Zoey loved mysteries, especially Nancy Drew. She wanted to be a private investigator when she got older. She could almost always solve the mystery in Nancy Drew before Nancy did.

Zoey turned the page and realized she had reached a new chapter. She put her book down, then picked it back up. She had promised herself that when she got to the next chapter she’d stop and do her science homework. But it was just so good!

You’ll regret it tomorrow, Zoey thought to herself. She carefully marked her page and went to her desk. She tried to do her science homework but classifying rocks was just too boring. The same thought kept running through her mind. How did Nancy, Bess, and George, a threesome, get along so well? Wasn’t one of them always feeling left out? Zoey was open to Bethany’s friendship with Katie, really, but why was Bethany so certain to make sure Zoey felt left out? And why was Katie letting Bethany walk all over Zoey? Why was Zoey?

“Zoey, it’s getting late,” said Zoey’s mother, poking her head into Zoey’s room. “You should get to sleep.” “Okay,” Zoey agreed. “Let me just finish this worksheet quickly.”

“Sure, Zo,” said Zoey’s mother. “Good night, sweetheart.”

‘’Night, Mom,” Zoey said, turning back to her homework. She pushed all thoughts of Bethany and Katie out of her mind and concentrating on identifying all the Igneous rocks on the worksheet. Then she switched off her desk light, grabbed her book, and crawled into bed. But before she could finish another chapter, she was sound asleep. The next morning was Thursday. Zoey had band practice every Tuesday and Thursday before school started. She fumbled through her closet groggily for an outfit, putting on the first suitable she found: a green tank top and her favorite jeans. She slipped her feet into her sneakers and pulled her hair into a long red braid before going over to the kitchen to eat breakfast.

“Here, Zo,” said her father as she gulped down her Frosted Flakes. he slid her flute case across the table towards her. “It was in the trunk of my car. Wouldn’t want to forget it, would you?”

Zoey giggled. “Whoops,” she said. “Thanks Daddy.”

“No problem, pumpkin,” he said, checking his watch. “You’d better get going. Katie’ll be here any minute.” “Okay,” Zoey mumbled with her mouth full. She set her empty cereal bowl in the sink and picked up her pink backpack.

“Bye Daddy,” she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Say bye to Mom for me.”

“Bye Zo,” said Zoey’s father. He handed her her flute case. “Have fun.”

“I will,” said Zoey as she skipped towards the door.

Katie, who lived a block away, was walking towards Zoey’s house.

“Hi,” she said when she reached Zoey.

“Hey Katie,” Zoey said back. The girls walked in an unnatural silence until they reached the stop sign at the end of the block and Katie suddenly turned to Zoey.

“Zoey, look,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry about, you know, how Bethany was acting before. I don’t know why she was doing that. She not usually like that.”

Zoey shrugged. “It’s okay,” she said.

Katie’s face slowly spread into a grin. “Good,” she said cheerfully. “I knew you’d understand, Zo.”

“Yeah,” Zoey muttered, scuffing the sole of her sneaker on the sidewalk.

They had reached Monroe Middle School, and the two girls climbed the stairs to the band room, where groups of kids were getting ready for practice to start. Katie and Zoey sat at their usual seats in the corner and began putting together their instruments. Then Katie set down her clarinet and looked over at Zoey nervously.

“Zoey,” she said. “I really would like it if you could give Bethany another chance. She’s really cool. Really.”

“Sure, Katie,” Zoey said automatically. She couldn’t stand to see her best friend so upset. And besides, if Katie thought Bethany was so great, she must be. Maybe she’d just been having a bad day the day before. But all through practice Zoey couldn’t help but think that Bethany hadn’t been being mean to Zoey without realizing–she’d been doing it on purpose. But why, was what Zoey didn’t understand.

“Omigosh, Zo, we’re way overdue for back to school shopping,” Katie squealed, back to her old self, as she and Zoey left the band room an hour later, arm in arm.

“Yeah,” said Zoey, smiling. “How about today after schoo-”

“Kay-teee!” shrieked a voice from behind them. Katie and Zoey whirled around to see Bethany standing there, decked out in a black leotard, a glittering pink miniskirt, and cowboy boots. Her hair was French-braided, with little sparkly pink barrettes holding it together.

“Omigosh girl, last night was sooo fun,” Bethany chattered, embracing Katie. “It’s too bad you had to leave early and-” She stopped short, noticing Zoey, and sneered. “Oh,” she said coldly. “It’s you.”

Zoey swallowed and before she knew it, she was speaking. “Um, my name is Zoey.”

Bethany stared at her blankly. “Good for you,” she said finally, with a smirk on her powdered face. “Anyway Katie, we should totally, like, go shopping after school. It would be sooo much fun, like…”

Zoey tuned Bethany out, watching Katie. The girl looked nervous and her eyes kept darting between Bethany and Zoey. Zoey bore her eyes into Katie, willing her to say something–to tell Bethany that she and Zoey already had shopping plans; to look away and continue her conversation with Zoey; to tell Bethany to please stop being mean to Zoey because Zoey was her friend. But apparently Zoey wasn’t important enough to Katie, because Katie just shot an apologetic look at Zoey as Bethany dragged her away, turning back once to grin at Zoey. It wasn’t a friendly grin.

Zoey sat in science class two hours later, doodling in her notebook. First she sketched two happy girls, one with pigtails and the other with long hair. Then she sketched a second drawing next to it. This one showed the same two girls and a third one with dark hair. The third girl was pulling the girl with long hair out of the pigtailed girl’s grasp and sticking her tongue out at her. The pigtailed girl stood alone, pulling on her pigtails and crying. “Zoey,” said a voice. Zoey looked up. Her science teacher, Mr. Matheson, was frowning at her. “Did you hear me?” “Um,” said Zoey, biting her lip. “No?” The class cracked up.

Mr. Matheson sighed. “Zoey, Zoey, Zoey,” he said, shaking his head.

“Mr. M, Mr. M, Mr. M,” said Zoey, shaking hers. The class exploded with laughter.

“Ahem,” said Mr. Matheson quietly. The class was silent.

“Alex, could you tell Zoey what we’re doing?” asked Mr. Matheson.

“But Mr. Matheson, can’t you just tell me?” Zoey asked, completely serious. Everyone laughed. Zoey smiled. She liked being funny. Making everyone laugh. Everyone liked her in class. It helped her forget about certain people who positively didn’t like her and how much it hurt.

Mr. Matheson smiled. He never got fed up with Zoey, like some teachers did. He just went along with her. “I guess,” he said. “Zoey you need to go to the principal’s office immediately. You’ve been expelled.”

Zoey gaped at him. But then he grinned and she laughed. “Okay,” she grumbled. “Alex, you tell me.”

Alex laughed. “We’re separating into groups,” he said. “Mr. M was about to tell us what groups we’re in.” “Oh,” said Zoey cheerfully. Then, because she couldn’t think of anything funny to say, all she added was, “okay.” Mr. Matheson waited a few seconds, expecting her to say something more. When she didn’t, he spoke. “All right. When you hear what group you’re in, please go sit with those people,” he said. “I have Jennifer, Jason, and Kelly. Michael, Jacob, and Regina. Michelle O., Michelle T., and Anita. Bryce, Hunter, and Zoey. Tyler, Ryan, and Ben…” Zoey looked across the room to where Bryce and Hunter were sitting together. Bryce had gone to her elementary school, but Hunter hadn’t. The two knew each other, though, and were good friends. Bryce was tall, with floppy blondish hair and blue eyes. He wore a black tee shirt and jean shorts. Hunter, on the other hand, was short, with frizzy hair, bright green eyes and a load of freckles. She wore a tee shirt that read, I’d Rather Be Dancing and a huge smile on her face.

“Hi, Zoey,” Hunter chirped when Zoey had scooted her chair over to them. “So how fun is this gonna be? Creating a diorama on rocks! Omigosh, I can hardly, like, breathe, I’m so ecstatic.” She rolled her eyes and snorted. Zoey giggled. Hunter had the same sense of humor as her.

Bryce raised his eyebrows. “Ignore her,” he told Zoey. “She’s got some-” he lowered his voice “-issues.” “Do not!” exclaimed Hunter, whacking his shoulder.

“So,” said Zoey, pulling out a piece of paper so Mr. Matheson would think they were working. “How do you guys know each other?”

“Our moms are best friends,” Hunter informed her. “But why my mom would be friends with someone who could produce a creature like Bryce, I still haven’t figured out.” She stuck out her tongue. Zoey laughed. Bryce pouted. “Um, Hunter, I think we should probably start,” he said. “Mr. M is giving us the evil eye.”

“Oh-kaay,” Hunter agreed. “So how are we going to make rocks interesting?” She turned to Zoey, scrunching up her face in mock confusion. “Can you think of a way that’s humanly possible?” she asked. “I can’t.”

“Hmmm,” Zoey said, scratching her chin. “I know. We could paint faces on them. We could turn them into characters from Dora the Explorer.” She chuckled.

Bryce snorted. “Dora the Explorer?” he asked.

“Don’t listen to him, Zoey,” said Hunter. “Bryce goes home everyday and watches that show like there’s no tomorrow.”

“I can totally see that,” Zoey agreed. “C’mon, vamonos, everybody, let’s go,” she sang.

Hunter joined in. She turned to Bryce. “Ring a bell,” she giggled.

“Whatever,” Bryce muttered, trying not to smile.

“Zoey,” rang out Mr. Matheson’s voice. “Is you’re group working on a rock diorama or a comedy skit?” “We’re trying to think of ways to make rocks interesting,” Zoey informed him. “We haven’t thought of anything yet. I don’t think we’ll be able to. I mean, they’re rocks.”

Mr. Matheson shook his head sadly. “Better men that you have tried,” he told them.

Hunter and Zoey tried to look offended. “Men?” asked Zoey.

“I bet the first person to figure out how to make rocks interesting will be a woman,” Hunter chimed in. Zoey nodded. “We’ve got it all up here,” she said, pointing to her head. She and Hunter slapped five. “Hey,” said Bryce slowly. “Mr. M is right. We should do a comedy skit.”

Hunter and Zoey turned slowly towards him. “Huh?” Hunter said finally. Zoey and Bryce laughed.

“Well, like we could use the rocks a make up a funny skit explaining about the different types and stuff. Iggie Nyus for Igneous, she could be like a nosy neighbor or something, and Met and Amor Fasis could be like the new people moving in next door and so on…” he trailed off.

“Hey, that’s cool,” Zoey said, grinning.

“I swear he’s a woman at heart,” Hunter told her. “How else could he have come up with a genius idea like that?” Zoey and Bryce laughed. Bryce picked up his pen. “Well, let’s get to work,” he said. “We’ve only got fifteen minutes left.”

Seventeen minutes later, Bryce put the beginning plot of their skit into his binder and picked up his backpack. “Hey, do you guys want to meet after school to work on this?” asked Hunter.

“I’ve got plan-” Zoey started, and then stopped. She was pretty peeved at Katie. Her best friend had just let Bethany walk all over her and was ditching their plans for Bethany. Let Katie get a taste of her own medicine. Zoey vowed to ignore Katie for the next few days until she apologized and lived up to her apology. “Sure,” she told Hunter and Bryce. “Do you want to meet at my house?”

“Okay,” agreed Bryce. He turned to Hunter. “Sure,” she said. “We’ll meet you at the flag pole after school.” When the last bell rang later that day, Zoey, who was in gym, stuffed her gym clothes into her locker and slammed it shut. Her hair was messed up, but who cared? She had to meet Hunter and Bryce. Suddenly, from deep inside her backpack, Zoey’s cell phone rang.

“Hello?” she said, pulling it out and flipping it open.

“Zo?” said the voice on the other end. It was Katie. “Look, I’m really sorry but we can’t go shopping today. I have this thing with Bethany,” she stopped suddenly, and her voice lowered. “You don’t mind, do you? You understand, right?”

“Sure, Katie,” Zoey said coldly. It was fine for Katie to have other friends, but blowing her off for Bethany was just not cool. Well, two could play this game. “And you won’t see me around much,” Zoey continued. “I’ll probably be hanging out with Bryce and Hunter. We’ve got this huge project.” She stopped, then sweetly asked, “You know them, right?”

“Yeah, that’s cool,” replied Katie. She sounded a tiny bit relieved, but mostly hurt. “Bye, Zoey.”

“Bye,” said Zoey, pressing the END button.

She winced, remembering the tone of Katie’s voice. She knew that Katie hadn’t ever purposely meant to hurt her, even as much as she had. And she had purposely hurt Katie. Zoey’s heart pounded when she realized she’d been acting, well, like Bethany. She promised herself that she’d call Katie that night and have a long talk with her. A real talk, like they used to have. But right then she had to meet Hunter and Bryce. She pushed all thoughts of Katie and Bethany out of her mind and headed for the flag pole.

“Okay, so what’s Amor gonna say now,” asked Bryce. He was sitting across from Zoey at her kitchen table, scribbling into a tattered notebook. Hunter sat next to him, doodling on her fingernails with a purple felt-tipped pen and looking thoughtful.

“I don’t know,” Zoey said, biting her lip. “I think all the funny has been washed out of me.”

“Well, lucky for you, I’m here,” Hunter announced. Zoey gigged. Hunter was a big ball of energy, just exploding all over the place. She could never stop talking. Bryce was quiet and more thoughtful, but Hunter did enough talking for the two of them. Seeing how they fed off each other reminded Zoey of herself and Katie. But she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Katie.

“…and they’re the ones who will fall in the volcano>?” Bryce was asking.

“Exactly,” Hunter replied. She turned to Zoey. “Is that good?”

Zoey nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “I think this is going to turn out great.”

“Fully,” Bryce added.

Zoey stared at him. “Fully?”

“Ignore his surfer-speak,” Hunter said, rolling her eyes. “He’s just weird like that. You’ll get used to it.” “Sure,” Zoey said slowly, but her mind was elsewhere. You’ll get used to it. Hunter had said it like Zoey was going to be hanging out with them in the future. As in, after the science project. She hoped so. Hanging out with Bryce and Hunter was so much fun. It reminded her of the awesome times she used to have with Katie. Before Bethany Katie. B.B. Katie. But now, with Bethany in the picture, Zoey’s face no longer lit up at the thought of Katie. When her friend’s smiling face passed through Zoey’s mind, she just gave a sort of sad smile. That was the expression Zoey had on her face right then.

Hunter was staring at Zoey curiously. “What’s up?” she asked, concerned. “You’ve got this weird look on your face. Like…like you’ve just lost your best friend or something…” she stopped suddenly. “Zoey, are you okay?” Silent tears were streaming down Zoey’s face. She bent her head, immersing her face in a curtain of orange hair. She didn’t want Hunter and Bryce to see her crying.

“I-I think you-you’d better go now,” Zoey mumbled, wiping her eyes. She clumsily cleared up the table and managed to smile. “See you tomorrow, guys,” she told Hunter and Bryce, who were looking very concerned. “Bye.” Hunter frowned. She looked as if she was about to say something to Zoey, but Bryce nudged her and she closed her mouth.

“Bye, Zoey,” Bryce said, pushing Hunter out the door.

“Bye,” Hunter added.

“Jeez, Hunter,” Zoey heard Bryce say. “Can’t you keep your big mouth shut for once. Look what you did!” “I didn’t do anything,” Hunter retorted. “I don’t know what happened, Bryce. I’m sorry, okay.”

Zoey picked up an empty bag of Fritos from the table and threw it in the trash. She ran down the hall to her room and jumped on her bed where she lay for an hour, crying into her pillow. She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew, the front door creaked and Zoey heard the sounds of her mother getting home from work. There was a knock on her door.

“Zoey?” said Zoey’s mother. “Can I come in?”

“Okay,” Zoey mumbled. Zoey’s mother opened the door and came over and sat on the edge of Zoey’s bed. “Zoey? Are you okay?” she asked. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

“I’m fine,” Zoey muttered, burying her face in her pillow.

“Now Zo,” said Zoey’s mother, stroking Zoey’s hair. “Something’s up. Do you want to talk about it?”

Zoey shook her head vigorously, but then the whole story poured out; about Bethany, about Katie, about Bethany and Katie, and about Bryce and Hunter too.
“I just really want the friendship between Bethany, Katie, and me to work out,” Zoey blubbered. “Three-way friendships work in Nancy Drew, but I guess that it’s really just in books that it does.”

“That’s not true, Zo,” Zoey’s mother said softly. “These two kids you’re doing a science project with–Hunter and Bryce–they seem like really good friends.. And from what you’ve told me, it seems like you’ve got a good thing going with them. Three friends. And you guys are all getting on great, huh?”

“It’s just for a science project,” Zoey muttered. “They have to be nice to me.”

“It can be ‘just for a science project’,” Zoey’s mother told her. “Or you can make it more. But you have to work at it. Friendships don’t develop by themselves. You have to put effort into them.”

Zoey sighed. “But Bethany doesn’t want to be friends,” she said. “She just wants to make sure I have none, especially Katie.”

“I think you should give this girl a chance,” said Zoey’s mother. “Be the bigger person. If she’s mean to you, you have to stand up for yourself. Don’t rely on Katie to do it for you. I’m sure Katie’s feeling very tangled up right now.”

“Why?” asked Zoey.

“Because she really likes Bethany, even if you can’t see why, and you too, of course. I think she’s afraid that if she spends too much time with you she’ll lose Bethany, and vice versa. So she tried having all three of you hang out together, but that didn’t work either.”

Zoey nodded slowly. Maybe she’d been too hard on Katie. “So you’re saying I should confront both of them and tell them how I feel, right?” she asked.

“I think that would be a good idea,” Zoey’s mother confirmed. “And, good gracious, it’s six already. I’ve got to go cook dinner, Zo.” She kissed Zoey’s forehead. “Finish your homework, sweetheart, okay?”

“Okay,” Zoey agreed. She sat down at her desk and looked up at her bulletin board, focusing on a picture of herself and Katie at the beach a few months ago. Their arms were around each other, their eyes were crossed, and their smiles were huge. Zoey rested her head on her desk and sighed. Her mom had told her she should tell Bethany and Katie exactly how she felt. But how did she feel?

The next day was Friday. Zoey woke up late so her mother told her that she’d drive Zoey to school. Zoey texted Katie that her mom was driving her and she wouldn’t be walking. Zoey was glad that she wouldn’t have to face Katie until later. She still wasn’t sure what she was going to say to her.

Zoey was sitting in the auditorium reading a Nancy Drew novel called The Hidden Staircase when someone plopped down in the seat across from her.

“Hi, can I sit here,” the person said. Zoey almost didn’t hear her because it was so loud in the auditorium. She looked up. There, with here hair tied in a messy ponytail and a shy smile on her face, was Katie. “Unless you’re sitting with Hunter and Bryce,” she continued in a rush. “I can, you know, move somewhere else if you want and-” “Katie,” Zoey said, keeping her voice level. “Katie, it’s fine.”

“Oh, okay,” said Katie, blushing. “Okay. I’ll just read now.” She pulled out a bright pink book and flipped it open to a random page. Zoey tried to concentrate on Nancy Drew, but she could feel Katie’s eyes watching her. Five minutes before the bell rang, Bethany, wearing calf-length light pink converse, knee-length dark pink socks, white short shorts, and a bright pink long sleeved tee, marched over to the table where Zoey and Katie sat. Zoey closed her eyes and braced herself, anticipating the next five minutes filled with insults and ridicule. That’s when she decided it was time to face Bethany and Katie.

Bethany stood behind Katie, narrowing her eyes at Zoey. “Hey Katie,” she squealed. “Luuuv you pony. Sooo cute.” She squinted at Zoey. “Um, do you, like, ever wear anything besides pigtails? They’re, like, so first grade.” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Come on, Katie, lets, like, go sit somewhere else. I’ve got to show you this new lip gloss set I got.” She tugged on Katie’s arm. Katie stood up, but didn’t move.

Zoey stood up, then sat back down. She took a deep breath and looked Bethany in the eye. “No.”

Bethany blinked. “Like, excuse me?”

“No.” Zoey said it again, clear as anything. Bethany turned to Katie.

“Like, what’s up with her?” she asked. Katie had a stricken look in her eyes. She whimpered, and then looked at Zoey and shook her head. Zoey nodded.

“Look, Bethany, I’ve had enough of you,” Zoey said, hardly believing what she was saying. “I’ve had enough of you being mean to me. Katie is a great friend, but you can’t have her all to yourself. She’s my friend too. And it’s fine with me if you don’t want to be friends with me, but please don’t be mean to me. It hurts a lot, and in case you didn’t notice, it makes Katie super uncomfortable.” Katie was squirming. “Maybe we don’t have much in common, but we do have one thing in common–we both think Katie’s a great friend. Am I right?”

Bethany nodded, looking paralyzed.

“And Katie, you’ve been my best friend forever, and friends stand up for each other,” Zoey continued, looking at Katie. “It hurt when Bethany teased me, but it hurt more when you didn’t stand up for me. Because that’s what friends do.”

Katie nodded. A single tear trickled down her cheek. “I-I’m sorry, Zo,” she said in a voice that was barely audible. Zoey pressed her lips into a small smile. “I understand, Katie,” she said quietly. “I do.” She squeezed Katie’s hand sympathetically. Then she turned back to Bethany.

“Sit down, Bethany,” Zoey said. “I’d like to try and start over again. I think I know where you’re coming from. I’m not going to steal Katie, okay? I just want to be friends. With her, and with you, too. If Katie thinks you’re great enough to be friends with her, then I want to be your friend, too.”

Bethany narrowed her eyes. She stared at the ground. “Whatever,” she muttered storming away.

“No, Bethany, wait!” cried Katie. Bethany looked back and sneered at Katie. Another tear tricked down Katie’s cheek.

Zoey jumped up. “Bethany, wait!” she exclaimed, speed-walking towards Bethany. She grabbed the girl by her shoulder to stop her.

“What?” Bethany snapped, turning around.

“Look,” said Zoey. “if you don’t want to try and be friends, fine. But you should still be friends with Katie. She really likes you.”

“Yeah right,” Bethany retorted. “She like you way better than me. You guys are best friends.”

“A person can have more than one friend,” Zoey told Bethany. “One friendship doesn’t take away from the other. They just feed each other. It’s like love. You can love one person and you have more love for a different person but it doesn’t take away from your love for the first person. And besides, you should see Katie. She talks about you nonstop.”

Bethany lips twitched, like she was about to smile, and then her eyes narrowed. “Okay,” she said quietly. “I really like Katie.”

“Go over and sit with her,” said Zoey. “I’m sure she itching to see your lip gloss. I don’t care about that kind of stuff. And I just saw my friend Hunter over there.” She gave Bethany a nudge and Bethany scurried back to the table where Katie was sitting alone.

Zoey gave her a thumbs up, and Katie grinned. Zoey glanced at Hunter and then back to Katie. Katie made a ‘go on’ gesture with her hands and, with one final grin at Katie, Zoey skipped over to Hunter with a smile on her face.

2008-02-23T12:18:00.000-08:00

I walk through the front door and immediately know something is wrong.

“Becca?” Mom calls. She appears in the doorway. Her honey colored curls are brimming with gray and the crease lines on her face have deepened. Her deep, usually bright blue eyes have clouded over. She stands very still and I inhale sharply, suddenly afraid. Then she lunges towards me and wraps me in her arms so tightly that I feel her heart beating against my own chest. I suddenly realize that I am nearly taller than her, and it makes me feel oddly weak.

“Oh Becca,” Mom murmurs into my soft brown waves, inherited solely from Daddy.

I pull away and gaze at her sharply. “What? What is it, Mom?”

She bites her lip and a single tear slides down her cheek. “It’s your dad,” she manages to get out. “He’s missing.” I find that I cannot breathe.

Hardly a year ago, Daddy had an affair with his co-worker and left Mom. I only met the woman once. She was beautiful. I hated her the instant I saw her. Six months later, the woman, Nancy, I think her name was, came to her senses and left Daddy for her husband, who welcomed her with open arms. Daddy tried to come back to Mom, and I could see the hurt in her eyes as she turned him away–refused to speak to him. She loved him more than anything, but he had hurt her too deeply. She could not look at him without seeing Nancy. I find that sometimes she cannot look at me, the replica of him, without that look of utter pain flashing through her deep blue eyes.

A thousand thoughts rush through my mind all at once. If only I had answered his emails. If only I had gone over to his apartment when he invited me. If only I had forgiven him. If only... After all, I do know what it feels like to be him. Derek, my boyfriend of two years, went to Switzerland to stay with his uncle for five weeks and while he was gone, I got involved with someone else. He was a sophomore and he adored me. Derek found out and he wouldn’t take me back. That was when I realized that Derek was truly the only one I could ever love. And Derek is going to college in California come fall, and I will never see him again.

“The police called,” Mom continues. I can tell she is fighting to keep her voice steady. “They want to know if you know anything.”

“Of course I don’t know anything,” I exclaim, bursting into tears. “I’ve been at school all day. How could I know anything? Oh Mom-” I fall into her arms, no longer able to support my own weight. Suddenly, the things I have been worried about all day, like the fact that Tasha and I are in a fight and I don’t know why, or that I got a C on my biology exam, or that today at lunch I saw Derek with another girl, are hardly the remains of deceased bugs on the windshield of my life.

The phone rings. Mom sucks in her breath to keep from breaking down. “I suppose I should get that,” she says in an oddly false tone. I watch her walk robotically into the kitchen and pick up the phone. “Hello?” On one hand, I expect it to be my father, calling to tell us not to worry, that he is coming home. On the other hand, I expect it to be the police, calling to inform us that my father is dead.

“Oh, hi Marcie,” I hear Mom chirp. Her voice sounds cheerful and sweet and completely the wrong tone for the occasion. “Yes, I think next Wednesday would be fine,” she says. It is Marcie from her book club. How strange it is that Marcie’s life is completely normal. She will get off the phone with Mom and mark the date in her colander. She will drive her son to soccer practice and then cook dinner. Later, she and her husband will watch a romantic-comedy together before falling asleep on the couch. Tomorrow, they will wake up and do it all over again. Meanwhile, my life is in pieces.

Slowly, I trudge down the hall to my bedroom. I push open the door and face the space I call home. It seems different, somehow. The James Lamont posters plastered all over my walls suddenly seem stupid and childish. I tear them off the walls angrily and crumple them up, forgetting that I have been obsessed with James Lamont ever since I was ten. My computer chimes and an new IM appears from my friend, Marissa. She asks what’s happened between me and Tasha. I throw a pillow at the computer angrily. How can she be so foolish to think I will worry about that at a time like this. My father may be dead. Then it dawns on me that Marissa, simple, innocent Marissa, doesn’t know a thing of the tragedy my life has become.

I gently replace the pillow on my bed and turn off my computer there will be time for all of that later. I flop onto my bed and pick up my phone. Instinctively, I begin to dial Tasha’s number. It is on the second ring when I remember we aren’t speaking to each other. I long to talk to her. My heart is hurting so badly I don’t know if I will ever be able to repair it.

The second person I think to call is Derek, but of course I can’t call him either. I think of calling Marissa, or some other friends like Toni or Jessica or Gina, but they won’t understand. Sure, they can tell me how bad they feel and how sorry they are, but they won’t get it. They don’t know me, really. Not the way Tasha and Derek do.

I unzip my backpack and pull out my geometry homework, what I vowed to do as soon as I was home. But I cannot possibly concentrate on the exact square root of an angle. Not now. Perhaps not ever again.

I hear Mom’s voice, coming closer. She has dropped her false act and is crying freely now. I strain to hear who she is talking with.

“...oh Lisa, if only...” I hear her blubber before bursting into a fresh set of tears. Of course. Lisa. Tasha’s mother and Mom’s best friend. I calculate exactly five seconds before my phone rings. It take three.

“Becca,” Tasha’s voice explodes. “Ohmygod, Bec. Ohmygod. I’m coming over.” She doesn’t stop to ask, doesn’t mention that just hours ago we weren’t speaking. She just comes. I hear the front door open and Tasha’s light footsteps pad down the hall. They stop at my door and she pushes it open. The moment I see her, her dirty blonde locks pulled back into a ponytail and her brown eyes wide with concern, I throw myself into her arms. I can’t stop the tears from coming. They drip down my face and sink into Tasha’s new blouse, which cost her three months worth of babysitting money. But she doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t say a word as I blubber and sniff and cry like the tears will never stop. She just holds me. Because that’s what true friends do.

2008-02-21T16:51:00.002-08:00

Eleven-year-old Harmony Granger stirred her mashed potatoes around her plate with her fork. It seemed like her mother was always making mashed potatoes. Harmony hated mashed potatoes. But what did it matter? As long as Olivia, Harmony’s fourteen-year-old sister, and Judson, Harmony’s eight-year-old brother, would eat them, it was overlooked that Harmony loathed them.

“Harmony, stop playing with your mashed potatoes and eat them, please,” said Harmony’s mother, giving her daughter a disapproving look.

Mrs. Granger was a very busy woman. She ran a homeless shelter in Newman Heights, where the Grangers lived. On top of that, she was the official third grade room mother, a team mom for Judson’s soccer, football, basketball, baseball and hockey teams, took care of her sister’s two little girls, Harmony’s cousins Lucy and Alla, so Harmony’s Aunt Ivy could finish up at work, and acted as a taxi, shuttling Judson off to the playground and to his sports practices and friends houses. She drove Olivia to all her dance classes, tap lessons, drama rehearsals, vocal classes and figure skating sessions.

All Harmony had ever asked for were karate lessons but her parents had said no, because it was too expensive right then (“Why doesn’t Olivia cancel some of her activities then?”), there was too much going on at the moment (“Not for me! I don’t have any activities at all!”), and Harmony’s mother was tired of driving her kids everywhere (“You never drive me anywhere because I have nowhere to go!”). Mr. and Mrs. Granger always went on about how they weren’t going to drop any of Olivia’s activities (It’s very important for her to take all the classes she is-it opens so many doors for her career in the future.”) or take Judson off some of his teams (“He needs to exercise and being exposed to all different kinds of sports is good for him.”).

“Harmony?”

“What?” Harmony looked up, startled. Her parents and sister were staring at her. Judson was busy wolfing down his mashed potatoes, which he had mixed with chicken and drowned in ketchup.

“What in the world are you doing?” Mrs. Granger asked. Harmony looked down. She had arranged her mashed potatoes in a series of mountains and was proceeding to place peas on each mountaintop.

“Oh, uh…” Harmony stuttered, flustered. “I didn’t realize I was doing that…”

“How many times have we asked you not to play with your food?” Mr. Granger scolded. “You don’t see Olivia or Judson playing with their food, do you. We just put it on their plates and they eat right up.”

“Sorry,” Harmony apologized. “You know I don’t like mashed potatoes.” She turned to her mother, who rolled her eyes in exasperation. “I thought you were making ravioli with that yummy meat sauce,” Harmony said, her stomach rumbling with the thought.

“I was going to, but my plans changed,” Mrs. Granger said with little patience. “Sometimes things change, Harmony. And you have to learn to deal with them.”

“But I hate mashed potatoes!” Harmony whimpered. “More than anything!”

“Well, do you expect that I’m not going to make a perfectly good food just because one person in our family doesn’t like it?” asked an annoyed Mrs. Granger.

“What about tomato soup?” accused Harmony. “I love tomato soup! But you never make it, just because Olivia doesn’t like it.”

“We’re not talking about that, Harmony,” insisted Mrs. Granger. “We’re talking about the fact that you refuse to eat perfectly good mashed potatoes.”

“Well that’s because I hate them!” exclaimed Harmony, frustrated. “Just like Olivia hates tomato soup. She’s the only one in the family who does, but do you ever make it? No. Of course not-”

“Ahem.”

Harmony and her mother turned to look in the direction of the noise. Mr. Granger was clearing his throat. “Well,” he said. “Hate to interrupt that lovely discussion, but Mom and I have some important news.” He turned to look at his wife, who smiled at him encouragingly. Harmony’s stomach rumbled loudly.

“Harmony, if you aren’t going to eat the mashed potatoes, give them to Judson,” Mrs. Granger said, sounding extremely wiped out.

“Yum,” agreed Judson, licking his lips. He held out his plate and Harmony scraped her mashed potatoes onto it with disgust.

“Find something else to eat,” Mr. Granger told her. “Mom isn’t going to fix anything else.”

“I know,” replied Harmony. She jumped out of her chair and walked over to the refrigerator.

“Hmmm…” she murmured, pulling both doors open.

“Harmony, don’t do that, you waste electricity,” Mrs. Granger said, sighing.

“Judson always does it,” Harmony complained.

“But Judson does it to cool off when he comes home from practice,” Mrs. Granger insisted.

“Okay,” cried Harmony. She snatched a Klondike Bar out of the freezer and let the door close.

“Harmony’s eating a Klondike Bar,” Olivia announced as Harmony pulled back the wrapper and bit into the soft vanilla-chocolatey goodness.

“Harmony, put it back,” Mr. Granger said.

“But you told me to get something to eat,” Harmony protested.
“Put it back and fix yourself a peanut butter sandwich,” Mr. Granger said firmly.

“I want a Klondike Bar!” cried Judson, stuffing the last of Harmony’s mashed potatoes into his mouth.

“Give it to Judson,” Mrs. Granger told Harmony.

“What?” exclaimed Harmony. “Why does he get one?”

“I haven’t seen him making a fuss over something simple like mashed potatoes,” Mrs. Granger said simply. Grudgingly, Harmony took out the jar of Jif Extra-Creamy peanut butter and spread it onto a slice of bread. Not bothering to pull out another slice, she folded the bread in half and stomped back to the table.

“Here,” she muttered, shoving the Klondike Bar at her brother.

“Yum,” said Judson eagerly.

Harmony bit into the peanut butter sandwich and frowned. Peanut butter wasn’t far from mashed potatoes on the list of foods she didn’t like.

“What was your news, Daddy?” Olivia asked sugar-sweetly, putting a huge forkful of mashed potato into her mouth. “Oh yeah,” Mr. Granger said. “Thanks for reminding me, darling.” He smiled at Olivia and his eyes skimmed over Harmony before they stopped on Judson. “Guess what, Jud? Grandma is coming to live with us!”

“Grandma?” Harmony asked, choking on a chunk of peanut butter. This wasn’t the news she had expected to hear. “Ever since Grandpa died, she’s been kind of lonely, so instead of putting her in a retirement home, Dad and I decided it would be fun to have her come to Newman Heights, to live with us,” Mrs. Granger explained.

“But Grandma’s an old bat,” exclaimed Olivia.

“Yeah,” agreed Harmony, glad that Olivia was on her side for once. “She’s always pulling out a hankie and wiping my face like it’s dirty and pinching my cheeks and calling me Harmy. And that was when Grandpa was alive. Now whenever I see her she bursts into tears and hugs me and wants me to give her foot massages.”

“Harmony!” exclaimed Mrs. Granger. “How dare you speak that way about Grandma. That was very rude. Apologize to Dad this instant.”

“But-but…” stammered Harmony, enraged. “But Olivia started it. She called Grandma an old bat!”

“Harmony,” said Mrs. Granger in a warning tone.

“Sorry Dad,” muttered Harmony angrily.

“What about Grammy in Florida?” asked Judson. “Is she coming too? I like her. She gives me five dollar bills and comes to all my games.”

“No, Jud,” Mrs. Granger explained. “Grammy is staying with Grandpop in Florida. They’ll come and visit for Christmas like they usually do.”

“Aw man,” Judson grumbled, pounding his fist on the table. “Dang it.”

“Stinks, doesn’t it,” Harmony sympathized.

“Harmony Granger, do you need to be excused?” Mrs. Granger exploded. “I’ve had enough of your rudeness for one night.”

“I was just-”

“Enough. You heard your mother. Go to your room,” ordered Mr. Granger.

By now Harmony knew better than to argue. Without another word, she left the kitchen and took the stairs two by two up to the second floor. She ran angrily past her parents room and rolled her eyes as she passed Judson’s, which was across the hall. Her sister’s fat cat, Momo, darted out from the bathroom and Harmony let out a shriek as she tripped over him.

“Harmony, I know you’re angry but please don’t throw a fit!” called Mrs. Granger from downstairs. Harmony stomped to the end of the hall and threw open the door to her bedroom. After a moment, she changed her mind and, snatching up Little Women, the book she was currently reading, she left her room and dashed up the stairs to the third floor. There were only three rooms on the third floor: Olivia’s vast bedroom, a small, dingy guest bedroom, and Olivia’s bathroom. Harmony headed straight for the bathroom and locked the door after her.

Olivia’s bathroom was fairly big and cluttered with makeup and hair accessories. Harmony climbed onto the counter and stared at her reflection in the mirror.

Harmony was average sized, for eleven, according to her mother. She was tall, in her opinion, and lanky, but not slender, like Olivia. Olivia was gorgeous and the spitting image of Mrs. Granger, with sleek blond hair and dazzling blue eyes. She was tall also and had an amazing fashion sense. Judson, on the other hand, looked more like Mr. Granger. He was tall for eight–the Grangers were a tall family–and had dark brown hair that seemed to always be getting in his eyes. He was missing his front teeth and when he smiled, dimples appeared among his freckles. But Harmony was different. She didn’t look like her mother or her father. She had reddish-brown hair that fell in tight waves and–no matter how hard she combed it–always frizzed up. Her eyes were essentially a sort of hazel color but sometimes appeared green and sometimes brown. In Harmony’s opinion, her best feature was two perfectly even rows of pearly whites–she would never need braces like Olivia did.

Harmony eased herself off the counter and walked to the far end of the bathroom, sinking her feet into the fluffy white bath mat that took up most of the floor. She pulled open the window and hoisted herself up onto the ledge, clutching her book tightly in her right hand.

Gripping the window frame firmly, Harmony eased first her left and then her right leg out of the window so she was perched on one of the sturdy branches of the ancient oak tree outside. Then she gently slid into a crouch and let go of the window so that she was completely on the tree. Then she began to climb.

Down below, two small boys chased each other up the street–one on a scooter and the other rollerblading. Harmony reached her favorite perch, high above the roof of her house, and sat very still–her legs dangling–watching the boys. She watched as they tagged each other and shrieked in delight; she watched as they fell onto their front lawn and wrestled each other with great joy; she watched as a great oaf of a dog came running out and the boys cried out in excitement as the jumped on it, and she chuckled. The boys reminded Harmony of herself and Olivia when they were very young–before Judson was born. They used to have great fun together, playing dolls and riding their tricycles together.

But when Judson was born, all that was forgotten. Jud, being the baby, got all the attention. And when Olivia started kindergarten soon after than, the attention was riveted on her as well. Harmony, three at the time, was lost somewhere in the midst.

“Harmony?” came a voice from somewhere down below.

Harmony, startled, nearly jumped, but caught herself, remembering she was on a tree.

“Harmony?” came the voice again. “I know you’re up there! Come down!”

Harmony squinted in the settling darkness. “What do you want, Olivia?” she called accusingly. “Mom wants to have a family meeting and you’re going to be in big trouble if you’re aren’t there in two minutes!” Olivia cried gleefully. Harmony heard a clunk as Olivia wrenched the bathroom window shut. “No!” exclaimed Harmony. Hastily, she made her way down the tree until she reached the branch closest to the window. Just as she thought, Olivia had closed the bathroom window and locked it. Harmony was stuck in a tree three stories off the ground. Harmony looked around. There was no one in sight. How was she going to get down? She knew her mother was going to be angry when Harmony wasn’t there. Mrs. Granger was very picky about family meetings. She would be furious if Harmony wasn’t there. And surely Harmony wouldn’t be able to tell her that it was because Olivia had locked the bathroom window. First off, Mrs. Granger wouldn’t believe that her precious Olivia would do anything like that, and second, she would be even more angry that Harmony was out on the tree. With a sinking feeling, Harmony realized that her only choice was to slide down the trunk of the tree. She threw her book to the ground, realizing she hadn’t read a single page, and scrambled down to the lowest branch, somewhere between the second and third stories. Clenching her teeth, she wrapped her arms around the thick trunk of the tree and swung her feet off the branch. “Aahhh!” Harmony exclaimed in surprise. She had nearly fallen off the tree and was hanging by her feet, her arms flailing wildly around. With a disgruntled shove, she manage to get her arms around the tree again, and pushed herself down, the bark scraping her skin with every movement. When Harmony was nearly five feet off the ground, she let go of the tree and felt herself fall through the air. She landed with a soft thump in the grass and, trying to ignore the stinging sensation that she was feeling from the numerous scratches on her arms and legs, tore across the lawn to the front door. Harmony burst into her house and listened for voices. She heard her mother from the den, and scampered towards it, stopping for a moment outside the door to listen. “…and I know it’s a pain, but I’ll need you guys to pitch in to help move Harmony’s stuff…” Mrs. Granger was saying. Harmony burst in angrily and cried out, “What are you talking about? Why are we moving my stuff?” “You would have known if you’d been here on time,” Mrs. Granger said coldly. “You’re grounded for a week, young lady.” Spotting Harmony’s scratches, she sighed with exasperation and simply said, “I’m not even going to ask,” before turning back to the rest of the family. “Sit down, Harmony,” said Mr. Granger flatly, frowning at her. Harmony leapt into her favorite leather arm chair and snuggled contently under a warm fleece blanket. “Hey!” Judson snapped. “Momo was sitting there!” He held up the cat, which was looking very uncomfortable squashed in his arms, it’s fat wobbling. “I’m sitting here, Judson,” Harmony said patiently. “Momo’s sitting with you.” “Momo wants his own seat!” wailed Judson, shaking the cat horribly. Momo meowed and tried to scratch Judson. “Harmony, please sit somewhere else,” Mrs. Granger said with another sigh, as if it was Harmony’s fault that Judson was having a fit. “But Mom, that’s completely not fair!” insisted Harmony, sinking deeper into the arm chair. “Do you need to go to your room again?” asked Mr. Granger. Olivia snickered. “For like, the last time ever,” she said under her breath. Harmony whipped her head around. “What’s she talking about?” she demanded. “Do I need to ask you again or should you just leave?” Mrs. Granger was growing impatient. Heaving a huge sigh to show her mother how unfair she thought the whole thing was, Harmony sat instead in the rickety old rocking chair in the corner and Judson dropped Momo in the arm chair. Momo promptly leapt off and scurried out of the room. Harmony did not dare get back in the arm chair and stayed put, fidgeting uncomfortably. “As I was saying,” Mrs. Granger continued without another glance at Harmony. “I know you guys hate it, but it’s for Grandma’s sake, okay.” “Hate what?” Harmony questioned anxiously. “Mom says we have to help move all your stuff to the third floor,” Judson informed her sullenly. “What?” Harmony was still confused. “Why are we moving my stuff to the third floor?” “Because Grandma’s getting your room and you’re getting the guest bedroom!” exclaimed Olivia gleefully, pleased to be the bearer of such horrible news. Harmony was quiet for a few seconds, as the news had not really sunk in. Then she exploded. “Why do I have to move up to the guest bedroom? Why can’t Jud or Olivia? Why is it always me that everything bad happens to?” “Harmony Granger, control yourself,” shouted Mr. Granger. “You are moving up to the third floor. End of discussion.” “Why me?” Harmony wailed pitifully. “Grandma has a bad knee,” Judson informed Harmony cheerfully. “She can’t climb all the way to the third floor.” “But what about you?” Harmony retorted, glaring at her brother. “I want to keep my room,” Judson told her, grinning his sweet, dimpled smile, which Harmony found infuriating. She turned to her mother, steaming. “Oh, so all Judson has to do is say, ‘I want my room’ and you decide that I’ll have to move?” she demanded. “If you’d been here-” Mrs. Granger started, determined to use Harmony’s tardiness against her. “If I’d been here it wouldn’t have made a difference! You give Judson and Olivia whatever they want! I’m always second in line in your opinion. I get all of Olivia’s hand-me-downs, you let Judson and Olivia choose what activities they’d like to do and then say ‘Sorry, Harmony, we haven’t got any more time for anything you want to do’. If Olivia wants to have a big birthday party, I don’t get one because she’s already had one! If I want to invite a friend over you never let me because Jud or Olivia’s friend is already over! You always listen to their ideas before mine! Sometimes I wish I was part of a different family! No I take that back! I always wish I was part of a different family!” Harmony felt a feeling of relief wash over her. She had been holding that in for ages. At the same time, she was dreading what was coming next. Judson burst into tears and Mrs. Granger went over to comfort him. Olivia stared accusingly at Harmony. “That’s quite enough out of you, Harmony,” said Mr. Granger harshly. “You are excused. Go to your room. I’ll be up to take your bed apart in a few minutes. Start moving your stuff up to the third floor.” Harmony stood up and stiffly walked out, silent tears streaming down her face. She thundered up the stairs and burst into her room. This was the last time itwould be her room. She looked around. Her parents had never really let her decorate it nicely (“We’ve already spent a ton of money on Olivia’s room.”) but Harmony loved it just the same. It was small, the smallest bedroom in the house, apart from the guest bedroom, or, as she should probably start calling it, her new bedroom. The walls were jus an ordinary white (“When am I going to find the time to paint it, Harmony? I’ve got much too much to do.”) but Harmony had plastered them with posters full of inspirational sayings and pictures of her favorite poets. There was also a life size poster of Jet Li, the kung fu movie master. Jet Li was Harmony’s idol. A large window took up most of the far wall and beneath it was Harmony’s bed. It was a misshapen old twin bed that had once been Olivia’s. Harmony had saved up her own money (“We just can’t afford it right now with all the things Jud and Olivia are doing.”) mowing lawns and taking care of her neighbor’s cats. It was a deep purple, Harmony’s absolute favorite color, with a pink stripe occuring every so often. Half a dozen or so pillows, all ones Olivia had thrown out when they became too old, sat at the head of the bed along with Harmony’s entire collection of stuffed animals. An old blue carpet which had been Judson’s before he had begged for a new one took up most of the floor. Harmony had wanted a purple one but her mother had simply told her that she was not going to waste money on a new carpet when Harmony had a perfectly good one already.

Harmony’s desk, which Mr. Granger had built for Olivia but given to Harmony when Olivia had found one in a catologue that she liked better, sat against another wall. Harmony had drawn purple squiggles on it with a Sharpie and it was covered in books and papers of all sorts. Harmony picked up a Harry Potterbook and set it back down with a sigh.

“Harmony?”

“Come in,” called Harmony grimly. She fell back onto her bed, knowing her mother would be upset that she had not yet started moving her things.

“Harmony,” Mrs. Granger said again as she opened the door. She strode into Harmony’s room and sat down at her desk chair.

“I’m sorry,” Harmony said hastily, saving her mother the trouble of yelling at her. She jumped off her bed and began to gather her things off the floor. “I’m taking my stuff up now.”

“No, Harmony, sit down,” commanded Mrs. Granger, yet her voice was oddly gentle. “I’m sorry. I know I get irritated with you a lot and you can be pretty, well, infuriating sometimes, for lack of a better word.”

Harmony’s mouth hung open. Was her mother actually apologizing to her?

“I know that sometimes you ask me for things and I don’t give them to you,” Mrs. Granger continued, staring at the floor. “it’s just that sometimes we don’t have enough money for everything all you kids want to do. And I don’t want any of you to miss out on anything. I hadn’t realized that, well, by giving Olivia and Jud all the opportunities they deserve, I was depriving you of so many things. And I’m really sorry for that. I promise that we will be making some changes. Olivia and Judson are doing too much, and I want you to be able to do some things too. Those karate lessons you’ve been talking about…”

“Oh really!?!” exclaimed Harmony with a mix of excitement and puzzlement. “Thanks. Mom!” She leaped up and threw her arms around her mother, who seem slightly thrown off, but returned the hug.

“And Harmony, another thing. I know that Grandma coming here is going to change a lot of things and we’re going to have to adapt a bit. That includes moving up to the third floor,” Mrs. Granger said softly. Harmony looked at the floor. “But we’re not just putting you up there because Judson doesn’t want to,” she continued. “Jud’s still little. He gets up during the night and gets scared. He needs to be close to us. You’re older–almost a teenager–and Dad and I know you can handle it. That’s why we’re asking you to move up there.”

“But that room is so tiny and dingy,” Harmony said and was immediately sorry. She knew that now she would be yelled at for sure.

“I know, and that’s why we are going to spruce it up,” Mrs. Granger said eagerly. “That room is way overdue for a makeover. I thought that this weekend we could take a trip to Home Depot–just you, me, and Olivia if she wants to–and pick up some purple paint. And Olivia has a whole box full of Pottery Barn Teen magazines that you could look through for some new stuff. By the time we’re done with it, that room won’t know what hit it.”

Harmony laughed. “Are you serious, Mom?” she asked, awestruck.

“Yep,” Mrs. Granger chuckled. “And on a more serious note, I never want you to wish to be in a different family again, honey. I’m sorry that the way we’ve acted has made you feel that way, and I hope that Dad and my new take on things will change that. We’ve been downstairs having a talk, and we’re both terribly sorry.”

“That’s okay, Mom,” Harmony said, her eyes lighting up. “I understand.”

“Ohh,” Mrs. Granger said, flustered, as tears began to pour down her face.

“Don’t cry, Mom,” Harmony said, giving her mother a big smile. She wiped the tears off Mrs. Granger’s face and looked back at her happily. “When’s Grandma coming?” she asked.

“Day after tomorrow,” sniffled Mrs. Granger, getting up.

“Well, what are we waiting for then?” exclaimed Harmony. “Round everyone up–lets get moving!”