Five Things About Ava Andrews

by Margaret Dilloway

  It’s also part of my 504 that I not be forced to stand up in front of groups unless I’ve had warning, so I can prepare. My heart thumpity-thumps once more, and I automatically put my hand over the scar below my left collarbone, feeling the hard outline of the ICD pacemaker there. The ICD stands for implantable cardioverter defibrillator—it’s like what you stick on people when their heart stops, to shock them. Anxiety makes my heart weird, on top of the genetic condition I’ve got, noncompaction cardiomyopathy. Basically it’s spongy heart tissue that can make your heart beat wrong. This could either make it stop beating or make it get bigger, and big hearts don’t work as well—they get kind of floppy.

  I must look shocked because Mr. Sukow continues. “I saw you nod—so is that okay? I didn’t want to stress you out by asking you to read.”

  I touch the ding on the door. “I guess it’s okay.” It’s not super okay, but what else am I supposed to say? Besides, he can’t go back in time and not read it. I look at my black Vans.

  “It’s very funny. We all loved it.” He pats me on the shoulder. “I hope you’re comfortable enough to read your own work one day.”

  Wait, he thought it was good? And he’s not annoyed with me for leaving? My brain’s too confused to answer. The class loved it? Mr. Sukow is probably exaggerating. When sixth graders don’t make fun of something, that means it’s all right, or they didn’t want to make him mad. Not that they love it.

  I seriously doubt that I’ll ever be relaxed enough to read my own work aloud. If Zelia were here, she would have done it for me. She would be talking for me now, saying, “Don’t you worry about Ava. She’s fine how she is. She doesn’t need to stand up in front of people if she doesn’t want to.”

  I sit with that thought for a moment, until another comes to me.

  The thing is, I do really want to. Sometimes.

  I want to share grade-A work. I want to be able to talk to people. I don’t want to pretend the library is my first choice at lunch. But when I have to do these things, it’s like my body literally freezes up, as if I’m a rabbit hiding from a vicious dog.

  “Ava?” Mr. Sukow asks. “Are you all right?”

  I nod automatically. It doesn’t matter. This is who I am, how I was born. And I just have to accept that.

  After school, my backpack’s hurting my shoulders and my spine, and I have to stop before I leave campus and try to rearrange it all. It feels like I’m carrying twenty soup cans around.

  If Zelia were here, she’d carry my backpack for me. She’s a good friend like that. When we walk in groups, she always turned around to make sure I didn’t fall behind. To wait up.

  I think about calling my grandfather or step-grandmother for a ride. I sit down against a wall and pull out my phone, then think better of it. Jīchan only lives two blocks away. The doctor says walking helps my heart. I’ll never be a triathlete, but I should try to be healthy.

  Then a girl from English class jogs up and I cringe as if she’s a bee buzzing toward me. Cecily—I recognize her as one of Zelia’s improv friends. I’ve never talked to her, but I’ve seen her at Zelia’s shows. “Hey,” she says a little breathlessly. Her dark hair is cut really short, and I’ve heard some kids tell her she looks like a boy, but obviously she doesn’t care. I think that’s pretty cool. “Your story was really good.”

  Thanks, I want to say, but my stupid throat clenches in on itself like a fist, so I half turn away from her and nod instead. I don’t know why my body reacts like that, but it does.

  She doesn’t say anything else, so I don’t say anything else. We search each other’s faces for a few seconds. Her skin’s kind of a honey bronze, which makes her green eyes stand out. Mine’s probably turning the color of a stop sign. “I love your hair,” I say instead of anything important or clever, but to my relief she smiles.

  “You’re Zelia’s friend, right?”

  I nod.

  She shifts her backpack to her other shoulder. “I haven’t texted with her since she left. How’s she doing?”

  “Good.” I think of Zelia, and the plans we made to be the best we could be at our new middle school. “She likes the autumn in Maine. It’s already a lot colder than here. She sent me a package of fall leaves.” We don’t have those in San Diego—only a few trees turn red and gold, and usually not until December.

  Cecily clears her throat. “Say. I have to miss English tomorrow for a doctor’s appointment.” She smiles. “Could I text you for the assignment?”

  My face still feels hot. “S-sure,” I stammer. I tell her my number, and Cecily texts me hers.

  A minivan honks, and Cecily waves at someone. “That’s my ride. I gotta go.”

  “Okay,” I say. “You go ahead.” What a weird thing to say. Cecily doesn’t need my permission. She runs off.

  I look at my phone. Cecily. Text me whenever.

  A mix of relief and excitement fills me. Cecily thinks I’m a good writer. Maybe she thinks I’m kind of cool. Or at least okay. Or at least wouldn’t mind talking to me again.

  It’d be nice to have a friend, instead of this carved-out jack-o’-lantern sensation that Zelia left. Sitting alone at lunch. Playing video games alone every weekend.

  I could do stuff with Cecily. A movie reel plays in my head of me and Cecily skipping through fields. Maybe she likes to draw, too, or watch the same kind of movies, or even just hang out like Zelia and I did.

  Or maybe she just needs the English assignment.

  No, brain, I tell myself. Don’t be such a hater.

  I walk to my grandparents’ house, forgetting how much my backpack had been bothering me.

  Chapter 4

  That evening, Dad’s in the kitchen making spaghetti and salad. I sit at the island, watching. He’s wearing his casual outfit: pressed khakis and a tucked-in polo shirt. His sandy-brown hair is neatly combed. Mom says Dad looks like a handsome ’80s movie villain, and Mom is into villains—her favorite Disney character is Captain Hook, after all. I’m just glad he doesn’t try to dress like a hipster.

  Dad owns a Cotillion program for sixth graders. It’s a social skills course where kids learn manners, basic ballroom dance moves, how to eat at a fancily set table, how to shake hands, how to make small talk, and a bunch of other boring stuff. His father ran it before him, and Dad says it’s a proud Andrews tradition. He does it all over the county, with classes meeting in the evenings.

  Dad likes to make Cotillion into a big deal. He sends the students an invitation through the mail—not even email—and everyone has to dress up. The worst part is that you have to both talk to and dance with strangers. Hold hands with strange boys—gross. I have brothers. I know where those hands have been.

  It’s a completely awful thing to make kids do. I mean, both Luke and Hudson said it was the single most terrible experience of their lives. But Mom and Dad say it’s a “rite of passage” for sixth graders. At least sixth graders around here.

  My stomach gurgles painfully anyway, and a tidal wave of exhaustion hits my chest. I don’t want to go to Cotillion.

  “Hungry? Have some carrot sticks.” Dad pushes a plate toward me. “We have to leave by six to set up.”

  I put my face down on the counter, pressing my cheek onto the cold granite. “My tummy hurts. I’m tired. I just want to go to bed.”

  “Faker.” Luke bounds into the kitchen, still dressed in his dirty soccer uniform. At least he took off his cleats and socks. He opens the fridge and drains the milk carton of the last drops, then lets out a window-rattling belch.

  “Cotillion obviously didn’t work on him. Why should I have to go?” I glare at my tattletale brother. He never believes me about my anxiety and thinks I just try to get out of stuff because I’m lazy.

  Luke grins, grabbing a handful of carrot sticks and sticking them all into his mouth at once, like the man in Guinness World Records who smokes dozens of cigarettes at the same time.

  “He’ll be thankful one day. You all will be.” Dad rolls his eyes. “Why
haven’t you changed, Luke?”

  “I was doing homework.” Luke says this like it’s a valid reason to not change out of gross, grass-stained clothes.

  “You smell like a sick duck who lives in an algae-covered pond.” I wrinkle my nose.

  Dad chuckles. “That’s quite the image.”

  “Yeah?” Luke counters. “How do you even know what a sick duck smells like?”

  I shrug, satisfied with what I said. “Like you.”

  “If you’re well enough to make jokes, Ava, you’re well enough for Cotillion.” Dad stirs the pot of pasta. “Eat some bread—your stomach’s just nervous and churning up acid. That will settle it.” He hands me a piece of French bread he’s making into a garlic loaf.

  “Fine.” I take a bite. Cotillion in my family is like going to the dentist—there’s no choice.

  There’s a knock at the side door, and then my grandfather sticks his face in. I jump up at the sight of his tanned, friendly smile. “Jīchan!” I run over and hug him.

  He smells comfortingly of grass and pine needles. He pats my head. “Hey, Ava. Don’t mind me. Just returning the jigsaw I borrowed.” He waves at my dad. “I put it in the shed. Thanks.”

  Because Jīchan and my step-grandma live so close, they’re always popping in. We borrow stuff from each other all the time. Dad says between the two of them they have enough tools to open a Home Depot.

  My phone buzzes. FaceTime from Zelia. I scurry to the living room, slipping my earbuds in. I’d called her after school, but she didn’t answer, so I’d texted her what Cecily said to me.

  “See you later!” I hear Jīchan call out.

  “Hey,” I say as her beaming, lightly freckled face appears on the screen. She’s lying on her bed, petting Willy Wonka. I can hear his purr clearly. Next to her is a water bottle covered with stickers that say San Diego and Navigando Point and San Diego Improv. “How are you today?”

  She gives me a thumbs-up, and I thumbs-up her back, exactly like we’re together in person.

  When Zelia and I met in first grade, she saved me. I was sitting cross-legged on the playground when three boys came around, bouncing one of those hard brown balls. “What’s your name?” the lead boy demanded.

  Why do you want to know? I wanted to ask. I didn’t like how they were looking at me. Like they were the bosses. My heart beat faster and my body got hot. I shook my head.

  “Why are you sitting here?” another boy asked. I said nothing, just crumbled a leaf.

  “If you don’t talk, I’m going to bounce this ball on your head.” The boy held it high.

  I couldn’t make my body move. I knew I should shout or run, but my whole mind stopped working. As if by not feeling anything, I could hide.

  Then, out of nowhere, Zelia appeared like a raging lioness, her caramel-chocolate-colored hair flying around her. She was the tallest girl in the class then. She’s still taller than me now. “Leave her alone!” She grabbed the ball out of the boy’s hands. “What has she ever done to you? Get out of here before I tell.” She hurled the ball at the boy so hard he caught it in his stomach with an oof.

  She helped me up, and it seemed as if some of her energy transferred to me. “Are you okay?” Zelia asked. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anybody hurt you.”

  And so I trusted her.

  I can talk with people I know and trust, no problem. It’s just that there are very few of those people around.

  “I saw Cecily today,” I tell her. “She says hi. She’s in my English class.”

  “Ohhhhh,” Zelia breathes. “Cecily is the best. She’s so good at improv. Ahh, that makes me miss it!” Zelia’s fast-talking and loud, and I relax, knowing I won’t have to say much.

  “Yeah,” I say because I don’t have anything else.

  Zelia leans forward so all I can see are the whites of her eyes. “They don’t even have improv here, except for the one at my mom’s college! Which obviously I can’t do.”

  Sympathy snaps like a rubber band inside me. I know how much Zelia loved being in that improv class. Some kids have sports, but Zelia’s had this since she was eight, taking classes at the theater. “That’s horrible. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know. It doesn’t seem like anyone here likes the same stuff I do.” She changes the subject. “How was lunch? Did you eat with anyone?” She takes a sip of water.

  “You sound like my mom,” I tease. But truthfully, Zelia knows me too well. Ava and Zelia were the Best Friends from A to Z. It didn’t matter if the teacher started turns at either end of the alphabet because one of us always got to go first, and then helped the other.

  I don’t want to tell her I have lunch alone and then go into the library, so instead I tell her about my essay, and then she makes me read it to her, and she laughs so hard that water spurts out of her mouth and nose onto Willy Wonka, who gives a startled Meowr! and runs away, and this makes me fall over laughing, too.

  It’s at times like these I can almost forget Zelia’s not here.

  Chapter 5

  Everyone else is already at the table when Dad calls me to dinner. Luke and Hudson had set it tonight. I hope mostly Hudson because I really don’t trust the way Luke washes his hands.

  “Hello, milady.” Hudson pushes his floppy brown hair out of his face. “Milk or water?”

  “Milk—I’ll get it myself.” Hudson enjoys doing things for me, but I don’t want him feeling like my servant. He’s seventeen, six years older than me, but somehow we’re closer than Luke and I are. I’m Hudson’s beloved younger sister, but Luke’s supremely annoying little sister. Hudson was ten when I had heart surgery, old enough to be worried about me. While I was healing, he hung out with me every day, reading me stories or just letting me snuggle.

  Unfortunately, I hardly ever see Hudson these days. Junior year’s the hardest, plus he drives himself to ballet rehearsal most days. Hudson’s been in dance since he was four.

  “Don’t worry, Ava. I’m having milk, too.” Hudson glides into the kitchen, looking like he’s about to jump into one of his ballet moves. Which is how Hudson always walks. People tell me my brothers are cute. A lot of Mom’s Japanese features—high cheekbones, a slim straight nose—have come out in them. I look more like Dad. An ’80s movie villain, female version. Plus I don’t wear khakis. I think my nose is too big for my face and my cheekbones are more like moon pies stuck on the sides of it, but Mom says I’ll grow into myself. Which is like a thing moms are required by law to say.

  “Need any help with your math?” Mom beams at me. Her short black hair sticks up all over the place, and she’s wearing a plaid shirt with a Darth Vader T-shirt underneath. Mom’s a bit of a Star Wars nut. She wanted to give us all weird names—I was supposed to be Padmé—but the only one she got away with was the normal-sounding Luke. “Dad didn’t even realize what I was doing,” she chortles every time she tells the story. She’s an aerospace engineer for a defense firm and works a lot of hours. Dad does most of the housework stuff.

  “I finished my math homework.” I actually don’t know whether it’s correct, but I do know that Mom gets super frustrated when she checks it. Mom has a real frenemy relationship with how they teach algebra these days. She’s super good at math, but the way she does it isn’t the way the teachers want us to do it. So she’ll end up emailing the teacher, Listen here. I have a master’s in mechanical engineering and this makes no sense, and you’d better straighten up before I come down there and have a math-off with you. Or something like that.

  I’d rather avoid math with Mom.

  We eat silently because my brothers and mom are too busy chewing to say anything. “Thank you for making dinner, hon-bun.” Mom kisses Dad. My parents are like oil and vinegar, they’re so different from each other. But as Dad says, “You need both to make a good salad dressing.” He should print that on a T-shirt.

  “You’re welcome.” Dad smiles at her like she just told him he won the Nobel Prize. My parents are kind of hopelessly in love for such a
n old couple. “Boys, do the dishes.”

  Hudson nods, already finished, and clears away his plate. “Anyone need anything from the kitchen?” He points at me. “Want seconds?”

  “I’m good, thanks.” We thumbs-up each other.

  Luke grumbles. “Why doesn’t Ava have to do dishes?”

  “Cotillion,” I say sweetly, glad for the first time that I’m going.

  “I had an email from Zelia’s mom today.” Mom breaks off a piece of garlic bread. “She says you’re invited to visit next summer.” She and Dad exchange a glance.

  I almost jump out of my chair as an excited jolt surges through me. Immediately I picture it. Me and Zelia watching anime and drawing like we did until she left. Swimming at the lake or catching lobsters or fighting bears or whatever people do in Maine. “Does that mean I can go?”

  Mom purses her lips. “I’m not sure.”

  I deflate like a beach ball thrown into a rosebush. “You never let me do anything.”

  “You have a hard time asking the teacher for a bathroom pass,” Dad points out. It’s why we came up with the finger method. “What happens if you get lost in an airport?”

  “They have accompanied flights for minors,” Mom says. “Besides, she might mature this year.” They both look at me.

  “Doubtful.” Luke covers his mouth with his hand and belches. Like the hand makes it better. “Excus-eh moi.”

  Dad shoots him a stern look. “Maybe if she does a good job at Cotillion. Learns how to look people in the eye. Talk to strangers. All that good stuff.”

  “That’s not hard at Cotillion,” Luke scoffs. “I got through that thing without saying more than five words. Do you want to dance?”

  Dad draws his bushy eyebrows together and clears his throat. Luke’s pushing it. Nobody insults Mr. Andrews’s Cotillion to his face and gets away with it.

  Luke backs off. “I’ll go start the dishes.” He clears his plate and disappears.