by Barbara Dee
Which was why I did it, I told myself. I mean, obviously.
I also finally took Olivia’s picture. It was at dismissal, and she didn’t even know I was taking it, because I stood in the doorway and used the zoom while she was chatting on the steps with Hanna.
The strange thing was, until I looked at Olivia through the zoom lens, I never realized how much she fluttered her hands when she spoke. I wondered if she even knew that she fluttered her hands. Maybe when I showed her these pictures, she’d say, Finley, that isn’t me; that isn’t what I look like at all.
Maybe she thought of herself sucking in her cheeks like a supermodel. Or hideous with hidden zits. It was funny to think how people thought of themselves as much uglier than they were. Or more glamorous. The truth was, most people were somewhere in the middle. Besides, what you saw through the zoom wasn’t the ugly/glamorous stuff, but the what-did-she-eat-for-breakfast stuff, the droopy ungeneric sunflower stuff. At least that was what I was looking for.
I took three photos, then watched Hanna run off to her mom’s car and Olivia join Chloe and her entourage. Eighth grade was so predictable, I thought, like we’d all memorized a dance that we’d perform every day from now until the end of June. And we knew our steps so well we didn’t need a mnemonic.
Even me, I admitted, as I started the walk home. That day the snow had thawed into a sort of slushie consistency, just wet enough to seep into your shoes and cold enough to freeze your toes. A school bus passed, spraying the snow slushie up on the sidewalk. And out of the open windows fifth-grade Tadpoles were screaming: “You drink pus, you eat snot, you farted in the bathtub, smells like rot!”
“Seriously?” I muttered. I am sooo ready for high school.
And all of a sudden I heard someone shouting: “Fiiiiin, Finneeee, waaait.”
I spun around. Maya was racing toward me, her red scarf flying. When she caught up, we gave each other a long, swaying hug.
“Why aren’t you degumming desks?” I asked, surprised. “Did you escape?”
She laughed. “No, I just told Fisher-Greenglass that I’d learned my lesson about respecting Mr.—I mean Señor—Hansen, and she took pity on me. Seriously, Fin, I was going mental in there. Where were you?”
I explained about the family chaos this morning, and how I’d tried visiting her twice, including at lunch. She crossed her arms while I was talking, like she didn’t believe me, although possibly she was just cold. Then she asked me what she’d missed.
“Not much.” I paused. “Oh, right. Actually, I’m going to Chloe’s party with Zachary.”
“WHAT?” Maya shouted.
“I asked him at lunch. Today.”
“Omigosh. Finley. I cannot believe that.”
“Don’t shout,” I complained. “Why can’t you believe that?”
“Because you never do things like that. What happened?”
I told her about the library, leaving out how he’d almost seen the Life Cycle chart. The whole time I was talking, Maya was shaking her head in disbelief, like I was saying, UNICORN! LOCH NESS MONSTER! I WON THE LOTTERY!
It kind of annoyed me, to tell you the truth.
Jokingly, I said, “Hey, come on. It’s not that crazy, okay?”
“Are you serious?” She laughed. “It’s the Total Opposite of You.”
By then we were in front of her house. We faced each other.
“What do you mean?” I said, not laughing. “The Total Opposite of Me?”
“Oh, you know. Relating to a boy as an actual person. Not just calling him an imposter hologram, or some kind of amphibian on that stupid chart. It’s major progress; I’m really proud of you, Finley.”
“Proud of me?”
“Is something wrong?” Maya asked, frowning.
I swallowed hard. It felt as if there were a grapefruit stuck in my throat. “You know what, Maya? If you don’t want to do the Life Cycle anymore, if you think it’s dumb or immature, or whatever, that’s totally fine with me. Really. But please don’t act like you never did it too, and please don’t insult me about it either.”
Her eyes grew wide. “How am I insulting you?”
“You’re congratulating me for not being boy-illiterate anymore. Except I wasn’t in the first place.”
“Okay, that’s really unfair,” she said, taking a step back. “I never called you that, Finley, ever.”
“No, Maya, you basically did.” The words were tumbling out; I couldn’t stop them. “I’m not saying I know everything about boy behavior, because I don’t, and neither do you. Although I do know some things; I’m a student of character. So you shouldn’t act superior all the time, like you are in charge of everyone.”
“Oh,” she said. Her mouth dropped open. “Oh. You think I act like that?”
“Sometimes yes,” I said. “You can be. You keep deciding things for people without asking first. And yes, I still think there’s plenty of weirdness about Zachary; I haven’t made my mind up about him yet. But we talked, I know him a little better now, so I asked him about the stupid party. Although it’s not a date, so please don’t tease me about it, okay?”
“Fine,” she snapped. “I won’t even mention it. Can I say I’m happy for you?”
“Sure,” I said. “I guess.”
“Great. Then I’m happy! No, not happy—ecstatic!”
I watched my best friend stomp into her house and slam her door.
• • •
Mom put down her Wiggles mug as I walked into the kitchen. “You’re late, Fin honey,” she said. “Everything okay?”
“Oh sure, definitely,” I replied, sounding not okay at all.
She got up from her laptop to hug me, and for a few seconds I rested my head on her shoulder. Mom smelled like a combination of talcum powder and the fresh-baked oatmeal cookies that were cooling on the counter. And maybe it was because of what had just happened with Maya, but the sweet, safe smells, plus the hug, plus the warmth of the oven, made me wish I could stay like that, in the kitchen, forever.
Finally Mom broke the silence. “Problem with Spanish?” she murmured into my hair.
“No, just the usual,” I said.
“Boy weirdness?”
I blinked. “What?”
“This morning, in the car. You were talking about tails, boys losing tails, tails coming back—”
“Oh, right. Actually, today was more girl-weird.”
“Was it,” Mom said gently. She paused. “Everything good with Maya?”
That was when I broke out of the hug. “Why are you asking that? Who said anything about Maya?”
“Calm down, honey. You said ‘girl-weird,’ and she’s your best friend, so—”
“Maya is fine,” I said. “She’s ecstatic. You want me to stay downstairs with Max and Addie? So you can work?”
Mom studied my face for a few seconds. Then she nodded. “Actually, thank you, Finny, that would be wonderful. I’ve got this podcast—”
“Hey, podcast away!”
I grabbed an oatmeal cookie and fled into the TV room, where the twins were sitting together on the sofa, sucking their thumbs and staring at Elmo. Without even thinking, I plopped beside them and opened my science binder to the back. Today there was plenty to update, but a lot of it was tricky—Ben Santino had held a door open in math (borderline Frog, except then he let the door slam); Trey Gunderson had done a burp-and-blush (Tadpole with Croaker tendencies? Hmm); Drew Looper had teased Dahlia about her new glasses (Croaker, but the humor was totally Tadpole). It almost seemed as if these boys were a messy jumble of ages—not simply one age, then graduation to the next age, in a neat, perfectly straight line.
Plus there was the library business with Zachary. The more I thought about our conversation today, the less sure I felt about how it belonged in the Amphibian Life Cycle. I mean, okay: the food offering was combination Croaker-Froggy, the awkward conversation parts were definitely Croaker, but calling robots a hobby was Tadpole; there couldn’t be any different interpre
tation. And some of the other stuff I couldn’t decide on. For example: Zachary used mnemonics—did I consider that Froggy only because I used mnemonics too? What about liking movies he knew were bad? (The bad-movie thing was Croaker, even Tadpole, but if you knew the movies were bad, did that make it Froggy?) Also, worshipping his teenage stepbrother—wasn’t that Tadpole behavior, really? Croaker at the absolute most, but not Froggy. Definitely not Froggy.
Suddenly the whole Life Cycle seemed hopeless to me. Hopeless and also utterly pointless. Because it seemed like everybody’s cycles were speeding out of control. Overlapping with each other, and all of it turning into a blur.
Plus, without Maya, it wasn’t even any fun. I hadn’t wanted to admit this before, but it was true. Unfun and pointless, so why was I bothering? I couldn’t come up with a single reason.
And it was strange to think this, but I thought it anyway: Maybe I’d outgrown the Life Cycle too.
I closed my binder, cuddled up to the twins, and watched Sesame Street.
• • •
That night I read this post on Mom’s blog:
When you’re the mommy of two-year-old twins, it’s so hard sometimes to look up from all the chaos. Today I happened to look up and I noticed that Awesome Daughter had become a teenager.
This is exciting. It’s also very scary, because I remember the drama of being thirteen. Will she be okay? Will she tell me if she isn’t okay? How will I know things if she doesn’t tell me? This morning in the car she began to open up—but the ride was short, and the conversation ended. Today when she came home from school she gave me a hug that was full of emotion—but shut down when I tried to probe.
With toddlers, you may not always understand what’s in their little brains, but you’re always able to clean up their messes (literally and figuratively). With a teen, you can’t solve everything (heck, they won’t even let you help drill Spanish verbs!)—but you can listen. Sometimes that’s enough. So I’m hoping Awesome Daughter knows I’m available to listen, whenever she wants to talk.
Do you have similar experiences with your older kids? Any tips for encouraging communication? Comments below!
Xox,
Jen
CHAPTER 15
The first thing I did when I woke up that Friday morning was turn on my laptop to see if anyone had commented on the topic of How to Get Finley to Communicate with Mom. But the post was down. In its place was this:
Any feedback on Aunt Amy’s All-Natural Bubble Bath? I tried some on Max and Addie during bath time, and I have to say, while I appreciated the chemical-free formula, I didn’t love the bubble quality as much as . . .
Blahblahblah. It went on like this for seven paragraphs, and already there were five comments, plus Mom’s responses.
This was definitely weird. I mean, not to brag or anything, but the post about me and how I wasn’t communicating with Mom was a gazillion times more interesting. So I couldn’t imagine why Mom had replaced it with this boringness about bubble bath. Maybe she’d gotten a lot of crazy-mom comments overnight.
Anyhow, it wasn’t like I could ask her, because that morning she was having a late sleep-in. Dad made pancakes (apple cinnamon, which I could barely eat because I had zero appetite), we read to the Potty People (Madeline for Addie, Green Eggs and Ham for Max), and then, once Mom staggered into the kitchen, Dad drove me to school.
“Everything okay, Finster?” he asked casually, as we pulled up to the front door.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” I snapped. “Why does everyone keep assuming I’m hiding information?”
“Maybe because you aren’t sharing very much these days. Anyhow, we’re here.”
I sighed. “Yes, I know that Dad, and I’m really grateful. To you and Mom both.”
“No,” Dad said, smiling a little. “I mean, we’re here at school.”
“Oh, right.” I glanced out the window; a bunch of Croakers were shoving each other into a dirty snowbank. “Well, thanks for the ride.”
“No problem. And you know, we’re here the other way too.” He winked, as if we were sharing a joke. “TGIF,” he called as he drove off.
I took a deep breath and headed straight to Maya’s locker. Not to apologize, I told myself, just to talk. About anything—the weather, Spanish verbs, the yearbook photo, which we still hadn’t done.
But she wasn’t there. Although for a second I wasn’t even sure I was at the right locker, because for the first time in six weeks it was completely bare, all my birthday decorations—the orange and pink paper, the rainbow ribbons, the collage I’d made with photos of NYC, puppies, the Olympic rings, ice cream, fireworks—taken down, tossed into the recycling bin over by the exit.
The pancakes flipped inside my stomach.
I went straight to homeroom. Maya was sitting with Olivia; their hands were covering their mouths, which was kind of like putting a DO NOT DISTURB sign on their conversation.
Okay, I told myself. They want privacy. I can handle privacy.
But as soon as the bell rang, they both slipped out the door before I could catch up.
My heart banged as I walked into science. Maya and Olivia were talking to Mr. Coffee—or rather, Maya was doing the talking, Olivia was nodding, and Mr. Coffee was sipping his mug, caffeinating. I took my seat and watched him beckon to Sabrina, informing her she was switching lab stations with Maya.
“But how come?” Sabrina protested. “Why do I have to move my seat?”
“We’re just making a few changes today,” Mr. Coffee replied, as if that were a scientific answer.
So now Maya was deserting my lab station. She’d asked for a new seat because she didn’t want to be best friends anymore. There was no other explanation.
My eyes burned as I took out my science binder, opened to a blank page, and wrote today’s date.
“What’s going on?” Zachary asked as he dumped his backpack on his chair.
“Not sure,” I mumbled. Writing.
“I heard you and Maya had a big fight,” Sabrina announced as she took Maya’s seat. “Olivia told me.”
Oh, fabulous, now we’d made the Official Gossip. “Whatever you heard, Sabrina, it’s personal,” I said. Still writing.
“Hey, don’t get huffy with me. I think it’s great you finally told off Maya.”
“You did? About what?” Zachary demanded.
Holograms and amphibians. You. Although more than you. “Nothing,” I said, flipping a page in my binder. “And can we please drop the subject? I’m kind of writing something here.”
“You’re always writing something.” Sabrina smirked. “What’s it now—an apology to Maya?”
“No.”
“I bet it is. Can I read it?”
“No.”
“Oh, come on, Finley. Pretty please?”
I didn’t even answer that. I just kept writing: Lalala, here I am sitting in science, ROY G BIV, PEMDAS, HOMES.
And then: ERRRRRRRRRRR.
The sound vibrated through my bones. It made my hair hurt. We’d all heard that sound every few months for the last eight years, but even so, I’d never, ever get used to it.
“Fire drill, people,” Mr. Coffee called out. “Leave all notebooks and backpacks at your lab stations, and proceed to the football field. You all know the drill. So to speak.”
I stumbled down the steps and out of the building into the frosty air. In the corner of my eye I could see Maya huddling with a bunch of girls from our class, so I stayed on the other end of the field listening to Drew Looper brag to Zachary about how he beat some boring video game in one sitting.
Finally the end-of-drill bell rang, and before Maya could slip inside the building, I ran over to her.
“Can we please talk?” I said breathlessly.
Maya looked up at me. “What about?”
“Your seat in science.”
“There’s nothing really to talk about,” she said. “I just think separate lab stations are better right now. For both of us.” She bit her
chapped lower lip. “And to be honest with you, Finley, I really can’t deal with this right now.”
“Okay, so when?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from squeaking. “When should we deal with this?”
“I’m not sure.”
“We could meet here at lunch. I still need to take your picture for the yearbook, remember?”
“Oh, riiiight,” she said slowly. “You know what? Let’s forget about the picture.”
“Seriously? Because I know how much you hated that zit photo. Not that it was a zit photo.”
She shrugged. “I don’t even care about it anymore. Plus I’m pretty sure the yearbook deadline was today. And anyhow, it’s not your problem.”
My throat ached. Of everything she’d said to me up to that point, this hurt the most. Her problems were supposed to be my problems; if you looked up “best friendship” in the dictionary, that’s what it would say. And I couldn’t believe she didn’t care about the zit photo. I mean, just a few days ago, the nose zit was all she talked about.
I blurted out: “Maya, listen, okay? I’m really sorry about yesterday.”
“What are you sorry about?”
“Everything. That I hurt your feelings.”
“But you’re not taking back what you said.” Before I could answer, she held up her hand like a crossing guard. “Look, I just think we need a little break from each other. I don’t know, Finley. Doesn’t it feel like lately all we do is argue?”
“Yeah, sort of,” I admitted. “That’s why I think if we could meet today at lunch—”
“We’d just keep fighting.” Maya’s eyes met mine. “Be honest. Wouldn’t we?”
I wanted to shout, we won’t fight, I swear. Except how can you argue that you won’t argue? It made no sense.
By then we were the last people outside besides Mr. Coffee, and my eyes were beginning to sting. So I just mumbled, “All right, well, see you later,” and went inside.
• • •
The instant I stepped back into science lab, I knew something had happened.
But it took me an extra two seconds to process these facts:
Mr. Coffee wasn’t in the room.
