by D. L. Green
One. Shout that Ally was the jerk for not accepting two apologies plus an offer for a third.
Two. Give the third apology.
Three. Think of something else to do.
But I didn’t have pen and paper, or any time to focus. So I followed my instinct and ran down the hallway to catch up with Ally.
The Shin twins were walking toward us. They said, “Hey, Ally,” at the same time. Nick Shin’s voice had turned manly over the summer. Nate Shin’s voice was still squeaky. Even though I had classes with both of them, neither of them acknowledged me.
As Ally waved to them, I told her, “I texted you in the middle of the night because I couldn’t sleep.”
Ally didn’t stop walking or slow down or even look at me. But she said, “Why couldn’t you sleep?”
I was so grateful for those four words. (Or five if you counted “couldn’t” as two words.) They weren’t as good as “Let’s be friends again” or “I accept your apology” or “You’re a nice person,” but they were a lot better than silence.
“I couldn’t sleep because I felt bad about being a jerk at rehearsal,” I said. “I’m such a total idiot.”
Ally slowed down. “You’re not a total idiot.”
“I’m at least a partial idiot. And a total jerk.”
“Partial jerk,” she said. She stopped walking.
“I’m really, really sorry.” I was begging, but Ally deserved it, after how I’d treated her.
She looked at me, right into my eyes, and said, “Okay, I forgive you.”
“Are you just saying that so I’ll shut up?”
“Definitely.” She laughed. “No, really I forgive you. Do you want to see a movie Saturday night? I’m going with some of the girls from the play.”
I pictured myself huddling in the snack bar line with Ally and Sarah and Kimmi. The other girls would forgive me after seeing that Ally had. I could tell my joke about popcorn being healthy because corn is a vegetable, which McKenzie always laughed at.
Then I remembered I had plans with McKenzie. “Thanks a lot,” I told Ally. “But I have someone coming over Saturday.”
“Does she want to come to the movies too?”
I shook my head. “She doesn’t like movies.” Total lie. “But, yeah. Thanks. Sorry.” I switched to a silly, sing-song voice. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”
We both laughed.
Something made me look down the hallway. McKenzie was walking toward us.
I quit laughing.
She glared at Ally, then turned and walked away.
“Is that who’s coming over Saturday night?” Ally asked.
I stared at McKenzie’s stiff back and her too-short jeans and nodded.
“I know she doesn’t like me,” Ally said.
“She likes you,” I said. Another total lie. I kept staring down the hallway, even though McKenzie was gone. “Time for class.”
We walked to Ally’s classroom. “Let me know if you change your mind about the movie,” she said before going inside.
I stood at the door for a moment, thinking that a month ago it would have seemed ridiculous for Ally and me to become friends. Now we weren’t just becoming friends. We were friends.
I headed for my class and tried to figure out an explanation for McKenzie. I hoped I wouldn’t see her before lunch.
Of course, she was waiting for me in front of my classroom. She said with a scowl, “For someone who texted me yesterday that you hated Ally, you sure seem to like her.”
“Ally didn’t do anything wrong,” I said. “I was taking out my problems on her. I still don’t know where my dad is, and I heard my mom crying, and—”
“So, you and Alleycat are BFFs now or something?”
“You’re my BFF,” I said.
McKenzie lost her scowl. She nodded. Maybe things would blow over.
They could have blown over—if McKenzie hadn’t interrupted me when I was talking about my parents, or if I hadn’t let the interruption bother me. But those things happened.
“You know what?” I said. “Ally’s nice once you get to know her.”
“I don’t want to get to know her. I barely get to see you anymore, with all your rehearsals.”
“Yeah. I’m glad we’re getting together Saturday night.” Not a total lie, but sort of one.
“Let’s go to the movies,” McKenzie said.
I pictured us running into Ally and the other girls at the theater. Ally would ask us to sit with her, and McKenzie would scowl again, and I wouldn’t know what to do. So I said, “Can you just come over?”
“You’re always telling me what to do these days,” McKenzie said.
“Sorry.”
If Ally had heard me apologize, she probably would have told me to stop. But McKenzie didn’t. She kept talking. “Ask your mom to pick me up, okay?” She didn’t wait for my okay back. “She’ll be so thrilled to hurl questions at us.”
I felt my face tighten. It was different for me to complain about my mom than for McKenzie to do it. Or anyone, really. I didn’t like it when Dad did it either.
“My mom’s not a Free-Range Kids mom,” I said. “But she’s not bad.”
McKenzie nodded. “Yeah. Your mom is kind of great.”
Text from Ally: Seeing Love Sucks at Valley Theater tomorrow at 730. R u sure u can’t come
Violet: Sorry AGAIN. Can’t.
SEVENTEEN
A lot of weird things happened with McKenzie on Saturday. Mom picked her up from her house—really from the sidewalk in front of her house. That wasn’t weird. McKenzie came over for sleepovers a lot, and that was the usual arrangement. Judging from the last time Mom tried to go into McKenzie’s house, Mom wasn’t welcome there.
But after McKenzie got in the back seat with me and we pulled away from the curb, Mom said she’d been shopping at the mall yesterday. Weird Thing Number One.
“Huh?” I said, because I knew Mom hated shopping. She wasn’t like the Real Housewives of Orange County on TV, who spent approximately 25 percent of their waking hours shopping, 25 percent getting beauty/surgical treatments, 25 percent drinking, and 25 percent feuding with one another. Mom barely did any Real Housewives of Orange County things, except for feuding when Dad lived with us. She did not shop at the mall.
Mom said, “I stumbled onto a fantastic sale and saw some clothes that shouted your name.”
“I didn’t know clothes could shout,” I joked.
McKenzie smiled at me and Mom laughed, but it sounded like a fake laugh. She said, “So I bought them. You know I can’t resist a bargain.”
The can’t-resist-a-bargain part was true. Last year, Mom had filled one of our kitchen cupboards with cans of pea soup on sale for ten cents apiece. I used to like pea soup.
“You bought me bargain clothes?” I grumbled.
“Just because they were on sale doesn’t mean they’re not nice. They’re in the bag on the back seat,” Mom said. “And the clothes are for McKenzie, not you.” Weird Thing Number Two.
McKenzie reached into the paper tote bag between us and pulled out a navy-blue sweater, a red long-sleeved T-shirt, a white cotton nightgown, and two pairs of jeans. Then she quickly stuffed them back in the bag and said, “Thank you.”
“Mom, you always say you hate shopping,” I said.
Mom didn’t respond.
“And how do a solid-colored sweater and T-shirt and cotton nightgown and Levi’s shout McKenzie’s name?” Weird Thing Number Three.
“Because they…” Mom trailed off.
“You know red is my favorite color,” McKenzie said, which only explained the red T-shirt.
“You didn’t find anything that shouted Violet?” I asked Mom.
She glanced at me. “The last time I bought clothes for you, you said you wanted to pick out your own things b
ecause you didn’t want to dress like a middle-aged mother.”
She had a point. Mackenzie could use some new clothes, but it still felt kind of weird.
“Mom,” I said, “I don’t get why you were out browsing and why—”
“See that gray house?” she interrupted me.
“I see it,” McKenzie said.
“Can you believe there was a bidding war for that?” Mom asked excitedly, like the house had a UFO on its lawn instead of a SOLD sign. “The seller got an all-cash deal twenty thousand dollars over the asking price.”
“Well, it is on a corner lot,” McKenzie said, as if she cared about real estate.
“True,” Mom said.
“And it’s only a few blocks from the elementary school.”
“You have quite the eye for real estate, McKenzie,” Mom said.
I groaned, but McKenzie smiled and said, “Thanks, Ms. Summers.” Weird Thing Number Four.
Dinner wasn’t weird—mac and cheese and soggy green beans. Mom offered to heat up some pea soup, but even McKenzie was tired of it. As usual, Mom asked about our teachers and what we were learning and homework assignments, but we vagued out on her. I hadn’t told Mom about my advanced math assignments. She knew I was good at math, but I didn’t think she knew I had a “remarkable flair for mathematics,” as Ms. Merriweather had written on my last supplemental assignment. If Mom ever found out, she’d expect me to get As in math for the rest of my life.
After dinner, McKenzie said, “You know what’s fun?
Hate-watching the Kardashians. I bet one of their shows is on now. They’re always on. Let’s check.”
McKenzie was right about the show being on, but wrong about it being fun to hate-watch. It was boring. And as soon as I made my first hate-watch comment, McKenzie said Kris Jenner looked really good for her age and was a great mother to six kids.
Then I realized McKenzie wasn’t hate-watching the show. She was love-watching it. Weird Thing Number Five.
My brain wandered. I wondered if the Love Sucks movie was any good. Even if it wasn’t, if I were seeing it with Ally and the other girls tonight, I probably could have joked about it and they wouldn’t have gotten upset.
I looked at McKenzie, who was staring at the TV. I got an idea about tonight’s Weird Things. First, I noticed McKenzie’s sweater was tight on her and the sleeves were too short. Then I saw her jeans were frayed on the bottom—and not on-purpose, stylish frayed. Finally, I understood why Mom made up that story about finding a bargain with McKenzie’s name on it while shopping at the mall. None of it seemed weird anymore—more like nice.
“You know what?” I said. “Those clothes my mom found do look like your style.”
McKenzie kept staring at the TV, but she nodded.
EIGHTEEN
As soon as McKenzie left Sunday morning, I hurried to my bedroom and checked my email.
Yes! Dad! I knew he’d email me back.
Dear Violet,
I’m sorry I haven’t seen you since I left. I’m working some things out in my life. I love you very much.
Your mother and I think it would be good for you to see a therapist to help you sort out issues about our separation. It would be better to talk about your issues face-to-face with your mother and/or a therapist than through emails with me.
Love,
Dad
My eyes narrowed, blurring Dad’s words on my laptop. I wanted to punch it and throw it against the wall. I let out a long, strange noise, a growl/roar that sounded something like, “Awkgrrawhuh!”
Mom knocked on my door. “Are you all right, Violet?”
I ran to my door, threw it open, and shouted, “You talked to Dad and didn’t even tell me? Why didn’t I get to talk to him too? And you both think I shouldn’t email him and I need a therapist?”
“Oh, Violet.” Mom’s face crumpled like she was going to cry. As if she had any right to. “I wish your dad would talk to you. I can’t force—”
I slammed the door shut. I was angry and had every right to be—stuck with a mom who was in my face all the time, and a dad who was never in my face and never in my house and never, ever anywhere near me. Where in the world was he anyway? What was he hiding?
I got out my phone and called him, jabbing the screen hard, as if that would show him how angry I was.
I didn’t know what I was going to say to him, but I didn’t care. I just needed to talk to him. I needed him to talk to me.
He didn’t answer.
The only message I left was, “Da-a-a-ad,” which sounded whiny, not angry. Embarrassing.
I hung up and clenched the phone tight in my hand.
Then I plopped on my bed and scrolled through my contact list. McKenzie knew all about my family. She’d understand.
But I didn’t call her. Because she’d probably start talking about herself again and I absolutely could not take that.
I stared at the screen. Ally? She wouldn’t understand, not with her nice parents and cute sisters and perfect life.
Then I called Dad again and left a calmer message: “Dad, I don’t need therapy. I just need to talk to you. Call me and tell me what’s going on.”
I sat on my bed and waited for him to call me back.
But he didn’t.
So I left another message. And another. And another. They all said the exact same two words: “Call me.”
I filled up his voicemail box. Now he’d have to listen to me: “Call me. Call me! CALL ME! CALL ME! CALL ME! CALL ME! CALL ME! CALL ME!”
NINETEEN
I checked my phone as soon as I woke the next morning.
Nothing.
And as soon as I got out of the shower.
Nothing.
And on the way to school while my mom talked about the tennis court or volleyball court or basketball court or whatever was on the lot of her supposedly magnificent real estate listing.
Nothing, except McKenzie butt-dialed me and I heard nineties music and a raspy cough, which meant her mom was driving her to school for a change.
I only checked my phone once in math class, because I wanted Ms. Merriweather to keep trusting me to work on my own. If I had to pretend to pay attention in class while she explained the differences between a circle and a sphere and between a sphere and a spear, I’d find a spear to stab through my ears.
I checked my phone every time I got bored in history class. Ms. Killjoy (real name: Ms. Kilroy) was going on about the amazing steam engine, so I checked my phone about a quadrillion times.
A quadrillion more nothings.
“Violet, do you want your phone taken away?” Killjoy asked.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. I looked at the time on my phone. Class wouldn’t be over for another twenty minutes. I couldn’t imagine waiting that long without checking my phone again. So I said, “My great-grandmother is dying. I need to check for news.”
“I thought your great-grandmother died last month, when your Revolutionary War essay was due.”
“That was my other great-grandmother.”
Killjoy raised her eyebrows.
Keely Washington cracked, “Girl, you’re running out of relatives,” and most of the class laughed.
Actually, both my great-grandmothers were ridiculously healthy. My Nana Susan headed a Friends of the Library program, and my Nana Judy played tennis twice a week. But I really was checking for news—from my dad—so I hadn’t lied that much.
Dad didn’t call during class or while I walked to the cafeteria. So I gazed at my phone at lunchtime as McKenzie and I sat across from each other in our usual corner, just us and an overwhelming stink of overcooked broccoli and disgusting beef stew and annoying fits of laughter from kids whose parents never told them to stop emailing them.
McKenzie was talking about the road trip her family went on before
her dad died. “Best vacation of my life,” she said. Apart from our disappointing Girl Scout camping trip, it was the only vacation of her life I’d heard about—and I’d heard about it at least twice before. She said, “My first time in the mountains and my first time seeing bear cubs.”
“Last time you told that story, you said it was dark outside and they may have been raccoons,” I said.
“You’re so pissy today,” McKenzie said.
I was. A true best friend would have apologized. A true best friend would have pretended not to have heard McKenzie’s story before.
But…a true best friend would get to talk too. Mr. Goldstein said every character was the star of their own story. I was done being the quiet sidekick in McKenzie’s story.
I said, “I’m in a pissy mood because I left a ton of messages on my dad’s voicemail and he hasn’t called back.”
“At least you have a dad to leave messages for,” McKenzie said.
“At least your dad didn’t leave you voluntarily,” I said.
McKenzie glared at me. “I can’t believe you, Violet.”
I could hardly believe me either. I’d been rude and maybe even mean to my best friend. And instead of trying to back down, I said, “I can’t believe you, McKenzie. You’re always making things about yourself.”
Then we got quiet for a long time, which wasn’t like us. At least it wasn’t like McKenzie, who was probably dying to say something. She never stayed quiet. Even when you were supposed to, like at the movies and in class, she still whispered stuff. But now, with both of us so mad, talking would mean surrendering. We even ate our sandwiches quietly. Mine, tuna on wheat. McKenzie’s, ham on white—probably. I refused to look at her to make sure. I knew I could out-silence a silence-hater like McKenzie.
I thought about her dumb contest about who had it worse in the dad department. How did you even win that contest? By having it the worst or the best? Not that either of us had it the best. Someone like Ally had it the best. Or the daughter of a billionaire, as long as he wasn’t one of those evil billionaire bad guys in movies. If I were a billionaire, I wouldn’t spend my time plotting to destroy the world. I’d hang out in my gigantic swimming pool with water slide and Jacuzzi, and have my personal assistant bring me baked goods.
