Not If I Can Help It

by Carolyn Mackler

  I can feel Dad standing above me for a long moment before he sighs heavily and heads into the living room.

  What Dad doesn’t understand is that I have no idea what I’d say to Ruby on the phone. Whenever I think about our parents getting married, how they’re going to be sleeping in the same bed and Ruby’s going to be living in our apartment, I feel wiggly and terrible, like I can hardly stand being in my own body. Even though the temperature has been cool this week, I haven’t been able to wear jeans or leggings for even a millisecond. As soon as I pull them on, I immediately yelp and shiver and kick them off my legs.

  So that’s why, when Ruby walks into the classroom on Wednesday morning, I feel so nervous I practically slip out of my chair. The only reason I don’t is because I can feel Avery watching me. But just as I’m kicking my legs and jiggling my wrists and wondering how I’m going to hold still enough to stay out of the Think Chair today, Ruby heads right over to me and hands me a large yellow envelope. Her hair is back in a ponytail and she’s wearing her Manchester United soccer shirt. She’s biting her bottom lip and she looks pretty nervous.

  “For me?” I ask.

  Ruby nods tentatively.

  “Should I open it now?”

  Ruby’s tongue flicks to where her palate expander used to be. “If you want to.”

  I glance around the classroom. Avery is still watching us. I turn my back so she can’t spy and then rip at the envelope, pulling out the paper inside. As soon as I see it, I can’t help smiling. Ruby has drawn me a dog picture with pugs and retrievers and even what looks like a massive Bernese mountain dog.

  “I went to a website to figure out how to draw that one,” she says, pointing to the mountain dog. “I hope it doesn’t look like a poop explosion. Also, I wrote you a note on the other side.”

  “I could tell right away it’s a Bernese mountain dog,” I say. “Definitely not a poop explosion.”

  I’m still smiling when I turn over the paper.

  Dear Willa,

  I know it’s weird that my mom and your dad are getting married, but I just wanted to say that we will be friends no matter what.

  Your BFF and soon-to-be stepsister,

  Rubes

  “Did your mom tell you to do this to break the ice?” I ask Ruby.

  “No,” Ruby says, looking down at her hands. “I just wanted to … my mom said that …”

  Just then, Avery wanders over. I quickly shove the paper back into the envelope.

  “Hey, Ruby,” Avery says. “Did you know we have a reading response due today? Also, do you want to copy my notes from Monday and Tuesday so you don’t fall behind? I doubt you can read Willa’s messy handwriting.”

  I glare at Avery. It’s not my fault I have messy handwriting! I could barely hold a pencil until I was six.

  “That’s okay,” Ruby says. “I’ll ask Ms. Lacey for the notes.”

  But instead of talking to the teacher, Ruby grabs the bathroom pass and hurries out the door. As soon as she’s gone, Avery stares down at my bare shins. “Shorts again?” she asks. “And why do you have so many bruises on your legs?”

  “None of your business!” I snap.

  I open my book and refuse to look up until eventually Avery drifts back to her seat. After a few minutes, Ruby returns to the classroom and slides into her table spot. I tear a piece of paper out of my notebook, tuck it inside my book, and pluck a pencil from the jar on the shelf.

  Dear Ruby,

  Thank you for the drawing. I love it. I’m sorry I said that about breaking the ice.

  Your BFF,

  Willa

  PS I’m sorry again. I guess I’m feeling a little confused about everything.

  I don’t write anything about the marriage or soon-to-be stepsisters. Instead I draw a soccer ball and goals and I even write Manchester United rocks on the bottom before folding the paper and pushing it across the table to Ruby. She smiles as she reads it. I smile back at her. I hope things are okay again. Maybe not forever okay because I know that’s not going to happen. But okay for now would be fine with me.

  In the cafeteria a few hours later, I unzip my lunch only to find Benji’s ham sandwich and a container of leftover meatballs. Ugh. The only vegetarian thing in his lunch is a slimy yogurt squeeze that I wouldn’t eat in a million years.

  I groan loudly and rest my head on the sticky table. It smells like a queasy mix of applesauce and antibacterial spray.

  “What’s wrong?” Ruby asks. She’s got a bagel with peanut butter, a bag of pretzels, a box of animal crackers, dried mango strips, and a KIND bar. Ruby’s mom makes the best lunches, full of packaged foods that my dad doesn’t let us eat. I wonder whether Ruby’s mom will pack my lunches when they’re married. Then I push that thought far from my head.

  “My dad put Benji’s containers in my lunch,” I tell her.

  I don’t add that he was probably too distracted being in love with Ruby’s mom and texting her every single second to put my containers in my lunch.

  “Can’t you go upstairs and trade lunches with Benji? I’m sure if you told the cafeteria monitors they’d let you go.”

  I glance at the clock. “The second graders had lunch an hour ago. Benji’s probably eaten it all.”

  I tug at my bracelets. Maureen let me pick out two blue ones on Monday. I stretch them hard and snap them onto my wrist. I’m starving and when I’m starving I become hangry. That’s what my mom calls it. Hungry and angry mixed together. Bad combination.

  “Here,” Ruby says, offering me half her bagel. “You can have this.”

  I glance down at the bagel in her hand. It’s cinnamon-raisin, my favorite. “Really?”

  “Definitely,” Ruby says. “No need for you to get hangry. That’s what my mom calls it when I’m hungry and angry.”

  “Mine says the same thing!” I say, grinning.

  We smile at each other and I suddenly remember why Ruby and I became friends. Even though there are so many ways we’re different, there are a lot of ways we click too. I’ve been forgetting that these past few weeks.

  “You pick,” Ruby says, holding up her animal crackers and the pretzels. “I’ll have one and you have the other. And we can split the dried mango and the KIND bar.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask, checking out the flavor on the KIND bar. Salted caramel. Yum. “You can have some of Benji’s food if you want. He has a ham sandwich and meatballs.”

  “That’s okay,” Ruby says. “I have plenty. My mom always sends too much.”

  I pull open the pretzels and lick the salt off a few pieces and then eat the bagel half and help myself to a mango slice.

  “I have to admit something to you,” Ruby says after a few minutes. “My mom actually did tell me to break the ice. She used those exact words. That’s why I made you that picture.”

  “My dad said the same thing,” I say quietly. “Break the ice.”

  “They must have talked.”

  “Only twenty times a day!” I say.

  “More like fifty! My mom stayed home with me on Monday, and they were calling and texting constantly.”

  “It’s so gross,” I say.

  “Okay, I’ll admit that the constant texting and talking is getting a little gross,” Ruby says. “And agreeing to tell us the same things, like to ‘break the ice.’ We’ll have to be sure to call them on it when they do things like that. But can you admit it’s ten percent cute?”

  “No way. One hundred percent gross.”

  I’m about to tell Ruby what I’ve been thinking about these past few days, about how if she had sided with me against our parents’ relationship then maybe they wouldn’t have decided to get engaged. But as I nibble another mango slice I wonder if maybe she actually wants them to be together, if she likes it. It sort of feels like she does. And if I want to be a good friend to her right now—just like how she’s being a good friend by sharing her lunch—then I should hush up for a minute about how much I hate the whole situation.

  “
Ready?” I ask Ruby as everyone starts packing up their lunches and heading toward the doors that lead to the recess yard.

  “Yeah.” But then she glances nervously at the cafeteria monitors before adding, “Except I really have to—”

  “Pee?” I ask.

  “How did you know?”

  I smile. “We’re best friends, remember?”

  “I just hate how the monitors always yell at the people who go to the bathroom and tell them to hurry up.”

  “Come on,” I say, standing up and offering Ruby my hand. “I’ll go with you. Let them yell at me.”

  Ruby clutches her lunch in one hand and my hand in the other, and we walk across the cafeteria and into the bathroom.

  As soon as I get home that afternoon, I run into my room and call my mom. I’m totally freaking out. I just checked the mail and my middle school letter arrived!

  “Hey, Willa,” Mom says. “I’m walking into a class. Is everything okay?”

  “I got into Maya Angelou!” I shout.

  “Honey, that’s wonderful!” Mom says. “Wow! Have you told Dad yet?”

  “No, I called you first.”

  If I could write a manual for divorced parents, I would explain that they should never ask their kids that question, because no matter what it’s going to make the kid feel guilty, like they’re being forced to admit they picked one parent over the other.

  “Wow,” Mom says again. “That’s amazing. Maya A. is one of the best middle schools in the city.”

  “I’m nervous,” I say, gathering my hair into a ponytail. “It’s supposed to be really hard. Tons of homework.”

  “I know you can handle it,” Mom says. “Maya A. only lets in kids who they think are up to the challenge.”

  I drag my hands through my LEGO bin, picking up fistfuls and letting them waterfall down my arms. Maybe Mom is right, but it’s still scary. Last fall, we toured middle schools and we ranked my choices and I took the entrance test. Everything seemed to be about getting into a good school. Until this moment it never felt real that I’d actually have to go somewhere new.

  “I’m proud of you,” Mom says. “It’s a huge accomplishment.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Have you thought any more about what we talked about last weekend? About the possibility of you coming up here for middle school? Because even though you got into Maya A., that is still on the table as well.”

  My ponytail suddenly feels too tight. I hook my finger inside the rubber band and attempt to wriggle it off, but it gets stuck and I have to rip it out, pulling a bunch of hair with it.

  “Dad agrees it could be a good idea,” Mom continues, “a chance for you to spend time with me and also to have less of the sensory input of—”

  “I have to tell Dad about Maya A.,” I say, cutting her off. “Bye! Talk to you later.” I hang up and then hit my dad’s name.

  “I got into Maya Angelou!” I announce as soon as he answers.

  “Honey, that’s wonderful,” Dad says. “They said the letters were coming this week. Congratulations!”

  “I told Mom already,” I tell him so he doesn’t ask.

  “I can’t believe you’re going to middle school,” he says.

  I donkey kick my feet behind me. “Do you know if Ruby got her letter?”

  “Not yet,” Dad says. “Sandhya’s at work and Ruby’s still at afterschool.”

  Of course Dad would know about Ruby’s letter because he and Ruby’s mom have probably been texting every time they have a bite of food or a sip of water.

  “I just wanted you to know,” I say. “I’ve got to go.”

  For the second time in five minutes I push END as quickly as I possibly can.

  “I’m so proud of you,” Dad says when he gets home that night.

  Joshua comes out of the kitchen, where he’s been mashing guacamole and steaming rice. Often my dad will text him when he’s on the way home and ask him to start dinner. “It’s amazing news about Willa, right?” Joshua says.

  I hold up the letter so Dad can see MAYA ANGELOU MIDDLE SCHOOL right there on the paper.

  “Dad!” Benji shouts, running across the apartment and pummeling into my dad. “I have to show you the new Pokémon cards I got! Joshua took me to that dollar store on Broadway.”

  My dad hangs his bag over a doorknob and leans down to unlace his shoes. “First let me take off my shoes and wash my hands. Then we’ll do some looking and reading.”

  Joshua sets a timer for the rice and waves good-bye. We all shout that we’ll see him tomorrow. I like that about Joshua. We’ve had sitters who linger and chat when my dad gets home, but Joshua leaves right away. It’s not that I don’t like Joshua being here, because I do. But he also understands that we want our dad to ourselves now.

  Once we’re on the couch, Benji on one side and me on the other, Dad reads my middle school letter and admires Benji’s Pokémon cards, and then he wraps us both into a hug. These are the moments I love, Dad and Benji and me together and no one else around.

  “By the way,” I say, wrinkling my nose at my dad, “thanks for giving me Benji’s lunch today. Ham sandwich and meatballs. Yuck. And by thanks I mean no thanks.”

  “Oh no!” Dad slaps his forehead with his palm. “I’m so sorry, Willa.”

  “Don’t yuck my yum,” Benji says. Then he laughs and adds, “But I have to admit your peanut butter and honey sandwich was yummy. So were the apple slices sprinkled with cinnamon. Can I have that tomorrow, Dad?”

  “Thanks a lot for eating my lunch,” I grumble.

  Dad apologizes again and explains how he got an important call as he was making our lunches last night. I wonder if the important call was from Ruby’s mom.

  “So what did you do for lunch?” he asks. “Were you able to get school lunch?”

  I make a face. I can’t believe Dad doesn’t know by now that school lunch is inedible. Seriously, it’s like they scoop up rotten compost and dump it onto a tray.

  “Ruby gave me half her bagel,” I say, “and a bag of pretzels. And some of her salted caramel KIND bar.”

  “Lucky!” Benji calls out. My dad never buys those for us because he says they have too much sugar. “And also that’s not fair.”

  “You think it’s fair that you ate my lunch? The least I could do was have half a KIND bar.”

  “Speaking of Ruby,” Dad says to me, “Sandhya called a few minutes ago. Ruby got into Maya Angelou as well!”

  I wonder if Ruby’s mom called as Dad was walking from the subway or even riding the elevator up to our apartment. I wonder if they said I love you as they were hanging up. Yuck. No yum whatsoever.

  “That’s great about Ruby,” I finally say.

  Maya A. was Ruby’s top choice too. This whole year we’ve been saying how we want to go to middle school together. Even a few weeks ago, that seemed like the most important thing in the world, to be together with Ruby all day long.

  “Our smart girls,” Dad says, pulling me into another hug.

  “We’re not our,” I say, wriggling away from him and hopping onto the trampoline. “We’re yours and hers.”

  “Technically,” Benji says, “since Dad and Sandhya are engaged, then yours and hers make ours.”

  I roll my eyes at my brother. Dad’s phone dings in his pocket. He pulls it out and glances at the screen.

  “It’s a text from Mom,” he says to me. “She’s out of her class and wants to see if you want to do best part worst part.”

  I shake my head. “You can tell her that my best part and worst part are the same thing. Finding out about middle school.”

  I leap off the trampoline and go into my room, slamming the door behind me. I slam it so hard that my golden retriever poster falls off the wall. I stick it back up and then dive face-first onto my bed.

  The next morning at school, it’s total chaos. Ms. Lacey doesn’t even try to quiet everyone down. The arrival of the middle school letters is all people are talking about. Elijah got into Maya
A. and so did a few other girls in our class and some of the LEGO-trading boys. The Robbins twins wanted The Tech School, but they got into Upper West Secondary, and they’re fine with it because they’ll be together. And Avery got into the performing arts school in Midtown that she auditioned for and has been talking about nonstop since September.

  “Congratulations,” I say to her. And I mean it. It’s also congratulations to me because this will be the first time since preschool that I don’t have to see Avery on a daily basis.

  “Thanks, Willa.” Avery flips her long hair over her shoulder. “And congrats on getting into Maya A. My dad is taking me to buy a phone after school today. He promised to get me a phone if I got accepted, because I’ll have to take the bus there by myself.”

  “That’s great,” I say, smiling.

  This is probably the first semi-normal conversation Avery and I have had in the eight years we’ve known each other.

  “You don’t have a phone yet, do you?” Avery asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Probably because you lost your backpack three times in second grade,” she concludes. “And how many times have you lost your water bottle this year? You have a new one every few weeks.”

  I glare at Avery. I can’t believe I thought we were having a normal conversation! I’m about to tell her that I hope she drops her new phone in the toilet when Ms. Lacey rings the bell for us to gather on the rug.

  Later that day, I ditch my backpack on the living room floor and start jumping on the trampoline. Joshua arrives with Benji from his climbing class and makes us cinnamon toast. I nibble half of it and then go into my room to build LEGOs. I can’t stop thinking about what Maureen said yesterday when I told her about the possibility of me going to middle school in Tomsville. I thought Maureen would agree that it’s a bad idea because I hate change and also because I never want to give up doing occupational therapy with her, but instead she told me that she believes I can handle more than I think. She also told me she sees patients in her gym on Saturdays, so I could have my appointment on the weekend instead.

  “So if I lived with my mom from Monday to Friday, I wouldn’t have to stop coming to you?” I asked.