Not If I Can Help It

by Carolyn Mackler

  I look up quickly. She has her flashlight on and she’s peering under my bed.

  “This is so gross!” she says. “You’ve got bunched-up socks under there and gum wrappers and dust bunnies and … is that underwear?”

  “Stop it!” I snatch her phone out of her hand and turn the flashlight off. She has no right to look under my bed at the things I’ve cast off because they have bad seams or too-tight elastic.

  Ruby laughs. “You should clean under there or you’re going to start growing fungus and crud.”

  “I clean under there,” I say, even though I totally don’t. “I just haven’t in a while.”

  “Sorry,” Ruby says, shrugging. She reaches for her phone and slides it in the pocket of her shorts. “I was just joking. You don’t have to get so mad.”

  I shrug and go back to building LEGOs.

  “I am actually sorry,” Ruby says. “I didn’t mean that about fungus and crud.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. Because the truth is, the last thing I want is to be in a fight with my best friend. “I’m sorry about how I snapped at you in the bathroom this morning.”

  “It’s okay back,” Ruby says.

  “Dinner’s ready!” Ruby’s mom shouts from the kitchen. “Willa! Ruby! Benji! Come to the table.”

  Ruby shrugs and heads out the door. I hear Benji scampering across the apartment. I press my hands into the floor, spreading out my fingers and pushing into the rough texture of the LEGOs.

  “Willa?” Dad calls out. “Are you coming? We’re ready to eat.”

  I stand up slowly, touch the nose of the golden retriever in my poster, and walk out to join them at the table.

  It’s not Taco Bowl Wednesday but I have to admit the food is good. Dad cut up chunks of cheddar with slices of baguette, which he knows I love, and he got pitless kalamata olives, which I also love. I won’t eat anything with pits or seeds in it because I hate being surprised while I’m chewing. Everyone else is eating chicken but Dad got sesame-crusted tofu for me.

  “When did you become a vegetarian, Willa?” Ruby’s mom asks, dabbing her napkin against her lips.

  “When I was five,” I tell her. I pluck at a rubber band around my wrist, twisting it around my finger and then rolling it off.

  “What made you become a vegetarian?” she asks. “I know your dad loves his steak and burgers. Is your mom a vegetarian too?”

  I glance worriedly at Dad. Ruby’s mom has met my mom at various classroom potlucks this year, and Ruby and I have always been excited to yank our moms into conversation. But now that Ruby’s mom is with my dad—my mom’s ex-husband—it makes me feel nervous to talk about my mom.

  “Ellen eats chicken and fish,” Dad says, sipping his wine. “Willa is the only vegetarian in the family.”

  “I just don’t like meat,” I say, which isn’t the whole truth. I don’t want to go into the details about how, when I was five, I looked at a hamburger and could picture the cow the moment it got slaughtered and how it must have fallen dead onto the ground. Once when I was younger I tried to explain this to my mom. She looked so horrified that I decided it’s better just to tell people I don’t like meat.

  “Want to do best part worst part?” Ruby’s mom asks everyone. “Ruby told me how you taught it to her, and we’ve even added a new part that we do—”

  “No!” I shout. I don’t mean to be so loud, but there’s no way I can play my mom’s and my game right now, with my dad and his new girlfriend. Maybe that sounds harsh but it’s the truth.

  Dad clears his throat. Ruby’s mom quickly launches into a story about something that happened at work. Benji shares some fact about Frida Kahlo and her husband, another Mexican painter named Diego Rivera. Ruby quietly picks at her chicken.

  When dinner is over, we’re carrying our plates to the counter when Ruby’s mom announces, “I have a treat for everyone. I brought ice cream and sorbet and a bag of gummy bears to celebrate Ruby getting her palate expander off.”

  “Yes!” Benji exclaims, pumping his fist in the air. “We never get sweet desserts on school nights!”

  Dad ruffles my brother’s hair. “Tonight we do.”

  I make a face at Dad. This is something he’s really strict about—no sugar before bed. I don’t like how he’s suddenly acting like sweets at night are no big deal.

  “Greg and Ruby and Benji,” Ruby’s mom says, “go out to the living room and wait for us. Willa and I will bring out dessert.”

  As they disappear into the living room, I lean against the counter, rolling my ankles inward. I can hear Benji doing ninja kicks on the trampoline and Dad asking Ruby about her soccer teams. Then he makes a crack about how Cinderella was dropped from the soccer team because she kept running away from the ball, and Ruby laughs like it’s hilarious. I want to stomp in there and tell her: Do NOT laugh at his Dad Jokes. Seriously. Don’t encourage him.

  “Willa,” Ruby’s mom says, opening the door to the freezer, “want to get out the spoons?”

  Now I can hear Ruby hopping onto the trampoline. Benji is telling her a riddle and Dad and Ruby are both laughing. Ruby was so quiet at dinner, but as soon as I’m gone it sounds like she’s having a blast. My arms and legs are pulsing with energy. I suddenly want to squeal or knock something over.

  Ruby’s mom takes out the ice cream and sorbet and then reaches into the cupboard for the bowls. I don’t like how she knows where our bowls are, but it’s not like I can tell her that. I walk slowly to the silverware drawer, slide it open, and start counting one, two, three—

  “I wanted to check in and see how you’re doing with everything going on,” Ruby’s mom says. “I know you were upset that day at I Scream.”

  I squeeze the spoons tightly in my fist. “I’m fine.”

  “That’s good. I know it’s a lot to take in.”

  As I start counting spoons again, Ruby’s mom sets her hand on my shoulder and says, “Also, please call me Sandhya. I’m not just Ruby’s mom to you now.”

  I open my hand and the spoons crash with a loud clatter onto the floor.

  “Everything okay in there?” Dad calls from the living room.

  “Yes,” Ruby’s mom says. “Just fine.”

  I sink onto my knees and sweep together the spoons. I can hear Ruby and Benji jumping together on the trampoline now. If I were out there I’d crawl under the trampoline and let the center part press down on my back. Except I couldn’t do that because it’s weird and Ruby is here and I only do weird things like that in private. The problem is, my private world and the rest of the world are colliding, and there’s no place I can be myself.

  For the whole weekend, all I can think about is Puppapalooza. It’s a dog festival taking place this Sunday at Union Square. As soon as I saw a sign for it at a bus stop I told my parents that I absolutely had to go, so they switched around the days we’re at Mom’s. Mom and Bill drove us to Tomsville on Friday night and Dad is picking us up Sunday morning.

  Knowing that Puppapalooza is happening, I’m amped all weekend. I can’t stop wiggling at lunch on Saturday, and Mom has to keep reminding me to put my knees down. She tries to trim my toenails but I shriek and kick her away. That afternoon, when Benji is reading a book on flags that Bill bought for him, I get into his face with Woofers, my stuffed dog, and start barking. I thought it would be funny but Benji shouts for me to leave him alone. That’s when Mom tells me to get my sneakers and sweatshirt because we’re going for a walk.

  Usually I like walking with my mom. We do a loop from her house, around a park, past a few shops, and back into her neighborhood. But the problem today is that all she wants to talk about is if I’m feeling better about my dad and Ruby’s mom and whether it helped settle my body to see Maureen this week.

  “I don’t know,” I keep saying.

  The more she talks about it, the more I want to run away and roll around in nearby lawns. I settle for skipping and kicking my heels into my butt. We’ve been walking for about fifteen minutes when Mom pauses in fro
nt of a low brick building with a bunch of windows and a parking lot on the side. There’s a sign near the street that says TOMSVILLE MIDDLE SCHOOL.

  “It’s a great school,” she says. She pushes up her glasses on her nose and squints like she’s thinking hard. “Our neighbors’ kids go there. And get this—all you have to do is show up. No testing, no application process.”

  I glance at the building. I’m sure we’ve driven by it before but I’ve never really noticed.

  “The Children’s School sent an email to the parents saying that your middle school letters are going out this week,” Mom says.

  I nod. “Everyone at school is freaking out.”

  “Are you?”

  “I wish I could stay at The Children’s School,” I say. “I wish they went up through eighth grade or even high school.”

  Mom takes off her glasses, rubs a smudge off the lenses, and puts them on again. “Willa, I know that change is hard for you, and I’m sorry so much of it is happening at once. I want you to understand that I would only bring this up if I really thought it was important. Daddy and I have been talking about it, and we were thinking that coming here for middle school could be an option. That would give you some space from Daddy’s new relationship. Also it could make sense because you have to change schools in the fall anyway.”

  It takes me a second to realize she’s pointing at Tomsville Middle School.

  “We were thinking you could move here from Monday through Friday,” she says. “It would be the reverse of what you’re doing now. You could live with Bill and me during the week, and go to school here, and then go to New York City on—”

  “I don’t call him Daddy anymore,” I say quickly. “I haven’t for a long time.”

  I push off with my feet and run ahead of her. I run until my lungs are cold and I’m doubled over panting. When Mom catches up with me she takes my hand and squeezes it. We don’t talk about Dad or Ruby’s mom or Tomsville Middle School for the rest of the walk.

  When Dad arrives on Sunday morning to pick us up, I don’t tell him what Mom said about me moving to Tomsville. If he knows anything about it, he doesn’t let on, though I do notice him talking quietly to Mom as we’re buckling into the back seat.

  Dad hands us bagels to eat in the car on the way into the city. Benji wolfs down his sesame bagel with cream cheese, but I nibble around the edges of my cinnamon-raisin. I try not to breathe in the sour smell of cream cheese or think about how slimy it would feel slithering past my tongue. I honestly can’t believe people choose to eat cream cheese. It’s 100 percent gross to me.

  As we get closer to Manhattan I wrap my bagel in tinfoil, hand it forward to Dad, and ask for his phone so I can read about Puppapalooza.

  “Oh wow!” I say, scrolling down his screen.

  “What is it?” Benji leans over to look but I cradle the phone in my hands. The last thing I need is for him to get carsick and puke up his bagel and then we have to miss Puppapalooza.

  “It says there are six rescue places where we can sign up and even do preliminary interviews to make sure we’re a good family. We should get a rescue dog, right? That would be so cute. There’s a petting area with puppies who are looking for forever homes. There’s a stage with bands like Howl at the Moon and Dog Daze. There are even dog-themed treats for people to eat.”

  “Dog-themed treats?” Dad asks, glancing in the rearview mirror.

  “I’m not eating dog food,” Benji says, wrinkling his nose. “Those are definitely not going to be vegetarian, Willa.”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s people cookies in the shape of dog biscuits. And they’re selling kettle corn and calling it kibbles.”

  “Maybe we can drink water from a dish!” Benji offers.

  “Totally!” I say, laughing and pushing my body against my seat belt.

  A text appears on Dad’s screen.

  Sandhya: We decided to join at Puppapalooza after all! We are getting off the subway at 14th Street.

  I briefly consider deleting this text and pretending it never happened.

  “Did a text just come in?” Dad asks from the front seat.

  “Ruby’s mom,” I say. My voice suddenly feels hoarse. “She says they’re getting off the train at Fourteenth. Are they coming to Puppapalooza? Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Uhh … uhhhh,” Dad says, stuttering a little. “She said there was a cold going around her office and she and Ruby were going to stay home and rest. They must have changed their minds.”

  “Ruby’s coming?” Benji asks. “Does she even like dogs?”

  “Who doesn’t like dogs?” Dad says. “Willa, I would have told you if—”

  “But this was MY plan,” I say angrily. “You should have asked me if it was okay.”

  I don’t add that I feel a little weird about being around Ruby’s mom since she asked me to call her Sandhya last week and said that she’s no longer just Ruby’s mom to me now.

  “Isn’t Ruby your best friend?” Benji asks. “Why wouldn’t you want her to come?”

  “Can’t you shut up for a second?”

  “Willa!” Dad says. “We don’t say shut up in this family.”

  “It’s not like we don’t say it,” I grumble. “It’s that you don’t want us to say it but we still do.”

  “Good point,” Benji says.

  “Willa,” Dad warns, and I can tell by his tone that he’s about to start counting to three, and by three he’ll threaten to take something away. I pick at the edge of my seat and stare out the window.

  “I didn’t say anything about it because I didn’t think they were coming,” Dad says. “And I thought you’d be happy to have Ruby come along. I’m sorry if I misread things.”

  I sigh heavily and hand the phone back to Dad. “Do they have to come? I just want this to be a family thing. And please don’t start saying they are family now because they’re not.”

  “Willa,” Dad says. “I know you’re upset but … yes. They’re coming. It sounds like they’re actually already here.”

  I yank off my socks and toss them onto the floor of the car. “Fine,” I say, shrugging. “It’s all great. Yay.”

  Dad’s phone lights up with a bunch of texts and emojis. Dad is driving, so Benji leans over to look.

  “Ruby is texting you,” he says to Dad. “She’s saying, Tell Willa I’m excited to see her, and then she has a lot of dogs and hearts and flowers and a soccer ball.”

  “Since when did Ruby get your number?” I grumble.

  “Sandhya put it in her phone,” Dad says. “Emergency contact.”

  “Do you want to write back?” Benji asks.

  “Stop looking at Dad’s phone or it’ll make you puke,” I say. I don’t comment on the emergency contact part or the fact that Ruby is texting my dad. None of this is good. Not one little bit.

  Even though Ruby’s mom and my dad are holding hands and looking way too in love, it doesn’t ruin Puppapalooza. As soon as we arrive, Ruby, Benji, and I dart from booth to booth collecting flyers on rescue shelters and doggy camps and grooming salons. We wait in line to go into trucks with cages of rescue dogs that need to be adopted. We get free poop bags and paw-shaped key chains, and we take turns sitting on a beanbag chair and reading to a chocolate Lab. But the best part is the puppy playpen. Ruby and I spend forever nuzzling the puppies and letting them nibble our arms with their sharp teeth. Before we leave, Ruby gets out her phone and takes a bunch of pictures of me with a tiny black puppy. If I had a phone I’d totally be taking a million dog pictures now too.

  “I’ll text them to your dad,” Ruby says, tapping at her screen. “So you can have them.”

  “Uhh,” I say, burying my face in the puppy’s soft pink belly. Even though I really don’t like the idea of her texting with my dad, I would like the pictures to look at later and even share with my mom.

  Ruby looks up from her phone. “Are you mad or something?”

  I shake my head. “No, it’s all just weird.”

&nbs
p; “Good weird or bad weird?”

  I shrug. I don’t know how to answer that, so I scratch behind the puppy’s ears and say, “Thanks for texting the photos. I’m totally in love with this dog.”

  “If you got that dog,” Ruby says, scratching his ears with me, “it would definitely be Pepper.”

  “Or Midnight.”

  “Or Inky.”

  She grins at me and I grin at her and then we slip out of the puppy playpen and join our parents. Benji is already with them, hoisting himself onto nearby scaffolding and clinging tight with his hands, slowly pulling his chin up to meet the bar.

  “Can we please get our dog now?” I ask Dad as my brother drops from the scaffolding, landing with a hard smack on his feet. We all begin to walk to the concession area. “We could adopt that little black puppy. And it’s almost May. That’s only two months early.”

  Dad shakes his head. “We have to wait until school is out. You need to be around for a puppy. It’s not fair to leave it home alone all day.”

  I wiggle my bare toes. At first it felt good not to have socks on but now I’m feeling all the creases and bumps inside my sneakers.

  Ruby, Benji, and I run over to the food trucks. Dad buys us three bags of kibbles and bottles of water. Ruby’s mom and my dad get coffee, and we sit down at a table near the stage to listen to music and munch our popcorn.

  After a while, Ruby rests her head on her mom’s shoulder and rubs her eyes with the palms of her hands.

  “Tired?” her mom asks.

  Ruby coughs a little. “My head hurts. I don’t feel well.”

  Her cheeks are pink and I can see that she’s barely eaten anything.

  Ruby’s mom touches her forehead. “You feel hot, sweetie. Does your throat hurt?”

  Dad leans over and presses his palm against Ruby’s cheek. I look away quickly. I don’t want to see him acting like he’s Ruby’s dad all of a sudden.

  “You did say there’s something going around your office,” Dad says to Ruby’s mom.

  “I really don’t feel well,” Ruby says, coughing harder into her elbow. “I want to go home.”