Let's Pretend We Never Met

by Melissa Walker

  There’s a part of me that wants to stare at the wall and not speak to my grandmother, but a bigger part just wants to hug her and bury my face in her soft sweater and smell her Shalimar perfume. So that’s what I do.

  “Shhh, shhh,” says Maeve, and even though I’m not crying I like her calming me down this way. We sit like that for a few minutes, and I stare out the double-paned window. I’ve always liked the way the thick glass makes the blue sky look wobbly, like it’s got extra energy pulsing through it. Like maybe that’s where fairies and wizards and magic live, in the wavy part of the sky that only looks this way through these windows on the third floor of my grandmother’s home.

  I think about how if I said all that out loud, Agnes would get it. Agnes would understand all of this, why it’s hard for Maeve to be leaving her house. And then I back up on the bed and look at my grandmother.

  “This isn’t all about me moving, is it?” asks Maeve in her soft, lilting voice.

  I shake my head.

  “Change is hard,” says Maeve. “And new friends . . . they can be confusing, can’t they?”

  I nod. I’m a little old for her to be talking to me like this—I’ll be twelve in June—but I like her knowing, somehow, without me having to say anything.

  “Moving like you did, right in the middle of the year . . . that would make anyone feel out of sorts,” she says.

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “You’re not yourself, you make strange choices, things feel like they don’t quite fit for a moment,” she says. “But it’s temporary, Honeypie. You are steadfast.”

  I shake my head. “No, I’m not.” My voice is small.

  Then it all floods out in a big rush, right there in the little bedroom with the crystal doorknob: how I love playing with Agnes but maybe I’m too old for it, and how she acts so weird out in public and at school—shouting and walking funny and answering everything in a know-it-all way that no one likes—and how she’s gentle and quiet sometimes, like with Billie, and how she was okay just being my after-school friend . . . until I was mean to her.

  I was mean to her.

  There’s no avoiding it, and I don’t want to look Maeve in the eye.

  But she puts her hand under my chin and makes that happen anyway.

  A tear slides down my cheek, and I hear the wail of a siren outside on the street.

  “Mattie, you have all the answers already, you know,” she says.

  “I do?”

  “You just laid it out, like a road map of your own heart. That’s a pretty special thing to be able to do.”

  I think back on what I told her. About all the parts of Agnes and the parts of me that fit and don’t fit.

  “Why is Agnes the way she is?” I ask.

  Maeve smiles and looks up at the ceiling, like she’s thinking hard about what to say.

  “Agnes is special,” she says. “She’s extraordinary. And it takes a special person to be her friend. Someone who knows that kindness creates confidence.”

  “But what if my other friends don’t see her extraordinariness?”

  “Any friend you deem worthy will see the way Agnes shines,” says Maeve. “It may take a while, but there’s no friend worth having who won’t warm up to that lightning bug eventually.”

  I sigh. This is the kind of advice my parents give, about how real friends are supposed to act. But I don’t think kids in sixth grade know that.

  “I haven’t been a good friend,” I tell Maeve. And I thought it would be awful to hear out loud, but it actually feels kind of better once I say it.

  “It’s not too late to start,” says Maeve. “She’ll give you another chance. Believe me when I say that as soon as Agnes saw you, she knew you were one of her treasures.”

  Then she winks.

  I never thought of a person as a treasure before, but when I recall my own—the twine ring, the MASH game, the fool’s gold—I realize that they’re not much by themselves. Other people, people who don’t know their stories, don’t always see my treasures the same way I do. Because the thing about them is that they’re all attached to moments, and people, that I want to remember.

  I nod at my grandmother, and a lightness comes over me, like I’ve put down a heavy bag of stuff. And now that Maeve’s given me some wisdom, I need to help her too.

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me you were moving?” I ask, fingering a black string that’s coming off the edge of the comforter. And she knows that I’m really asking her why she didn’t tell me.

  “I needed some time,” she says. “The truth is that you’re right, I didn’t want to go at first. Part of me still doesn’t. But I need to.” She gestures at the tray. “Even getting this up the stairs was hard on my knees.”

  I look down guiltily.

  “The new place is lovely,” she says. “I’ll have two bedrooms, so you can come and stay, and there’s a dining room in my building that’s like a fancy restaurant—linen napkins and all. We can wear our gloves.”

  She’s smiling at me so much that I can tell she’s faking it a little bit.

  “It sounds nice,” I say, faking it a little bit too.

  “It will be.” She touches my nose lightly with her finger. “It’s a transition, which isn’t a bad thing. You know when life stops changing?”

  “When?”

  “When you’re dead!” Maeve smiles at me, a real one, and I grin back. “Now all I need is someone to help me sort my things, figure out what’s important . . . what should stay and what should go. Someone who knows me and can identify my true treasures.”

  “Where will you find a person like that?” I ask, teasing her.

  She leans in and hugs me. “Oh, Mattie,” she says. “You’re wonderful.”

  I hug her back. I don’t feel totally wonderful, but it sounds nice in Maeve’s voice. And it makes me want to be that way.

  At home that night, Mama and Daddy are both at the dinner table again. Daddy made dinner—his special SpaghettiO Surprise, which is basically canned pasta with some ground turkey and peas mixed in. Mama looks at it like it’s a perfect steak, though, and I see them smile at each other.

  “She had a good day,” says Daddy, and I know he means Maeve. She was all herself today, and she didn’t call me Elodie.

  “Did she say anything about the move to you, Mattie?” asks Mama while I blow on my steaming-hot forkful of SpaghettiOs.

  “Yes,” I say. And then, because I assume there’ll be a follow-up, I add, “It was between us.”

  “That’s fair,” says Daddy.

  “But I feel better about it,” I say, because I should let them know that things are starting to be more okay.

  “I think we all feel better,” says Mama, and I notice she’s still smiling at Daddy.

  Maybe this whole thing—the move up here, new school, new jobs, helping Maeve transition—was making everyone unhappy. I think about Mama’s chipped nails and Daddy working so much. But then I remember them swaying in the living room and whispering softly, and it makes me feel warm inside.

  “We’ve been out of sorts,” I say, and Daddy chuckles.

  “That’s right, Mathilda Maeve.” He knows I’m using one of my grandmother’s lines.

  I go to bed early, feeling good. Because of family stuff, but also because I’m thinking about how I’m going to fix things with Agnes. And I can’t wait to get started.

  Chapter 25

  I wake up the next morning with a mission, and I go to the bathroom to splash some water on my face.

  Back in my room, I sit at my corner desk and outline a plan:

  1. Apologize to Agnes.

  2. Hang out with Agnes over break.

  Activity ideas:

  Billie art

  decorate A’s door for Easter

  paint swirls on my walls

  3. Find a way to make all my friends like each other

  ????

  That last one makes me the most anxious. But I’m not worried about Agnes anymore. She is the w
ay she is. I worry about me, whether I’ll be brave enough to be her friend. Whether I’m as wonderful as Maeve says I am. I want to be.

  I walk out into the hall to knock on Agnes’s door before I even change out of my pajamas.

  I do a loud rat-a-tat-tat knock. Things are going to be okay. I can feel it.

  I hear the padding of Agnes’s feet. I know they’re hers because they’re moving crazy fast. But then they stop. I imagine she’s on her tiptoes to look through the peephole.

  I give her my best Mattie Maeve Markham megawatt smile, and I wave at the door.

  Nothing.

  “Agnes?” I call.

  “No one’s home!” she says, and I hear her scurry away.

  My shoulders slump, but just for a moment. I straighten up and go back to my apartment, discouraged but not defeated. Mama makes oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar, and I take my time eating it at the table while I flip through a science magazine.

  I’m regrouping.

  “What should we do today?” Mama asks.

  Suddenly, I realize that she’s not at her shift at the bakery. “You don’t have work?” I ask hesitantly.

  She shakes her head. “This is one of my shifts that got cut,” she says. “I’ve still got a job, but only part-time until business picks up.”

  “Is that okay?”

  “It has to be,” she says. She doesn’t seem too upset, but I wonder if she’s putting on a strong face and she and Daddy are going to start being snippy with each other again. I hope not.

  “So, Mattie,” Mama tries again. “Do you want to do something together today?”

  “I’m busy,” I tell her. I’m not being rude or dismissive, just focused.

  “Okay, holler if you need anything,” she says. “I’ll be in the shower.”

  I sit for a bit longer, and then I walk to the kitchen and rinse out my oatmeal bowl. While I’m wringing the suds from the sponge, it comes to me: an Agnes-worthy idea.

  I start by cutting some leftover colored poster board into two crude shapes that sort of look like girls in dresses. Then I add a few more: hearts, stars, a tiny bird. Mama has a big spotlight that she uses when she takes photos for her baking blog, and she says I can borrow it if I’m careful. So I create a scene right on the glass of the spotlight. I use scotch tape that will come off easily, and I make sure each shape is perfectly placed. When I’m done, the girls in dresses are holding on to the bird together, surrounded by hearts and stars.

  “Mattie, that’s lovely,” says Mama. “Is it for a school project?”

  “Kind of,” I tell her. I don’t want to explain that Agnes gives me light signals on our wall—that’s our secret. “It’s a picture of friendship.”

  “I can tell.” Mama ruffles my hair and goes to sit at the computer.

  Now all I have to do is wait.

  The sun moves really slowly when you’re wanting it to go down. Especially if you start watching it at eleven a.m. As it creeps across the sky, I do lots of things to entertain myself: games on Mama’s phone, a few chapters of the book I got from the school library about an enchanted circus (Agnes would love this one), and an experiment in baking mini red velvet cupcakes with cherries in the middle. Mama mostly did that, but I helped shape the cream cheese frosting into little swirls to top the cupcakes when they were finished. I even finally sharpen the Tar Heel pencil that Finn got for me, and I consider writing him a note for our first day back at school after break, but then I remember that things were weird between us last week, so I don’t. I’m focusing on fixing one thing at a time.

  And still the sun is up. It’s getting to be that golden time, though, when the sky looks yellow pink and any patch of light that gets in through the windows really heats up the room. I lie back in a sun spot on the floor in my bedroom, hands under my head in that universal relaxed stance, and I watch tiny dust particles float around in the sunbeam. Then my brain starts churning.

  What am I doing? What if my spotlight plan works and I get Agnes out into the hallway with my signal? Then what? What was I going to say if she opened the door this morning?

  I’m not sure. I just know that I want to be face-to-face with her. But maybe I should add more details to my plan.

  Mama’s in the living room, so I start to practice out loud, but quietly . . . things I might say to Agnes.

  “Maybe you could go to more therapy for your weirdness.”

  “If you acted a little more normal at school it would be easier for people to be friends with you.”

  “You act weird sometimes, but I still like you and I hope we can hang out.”

  Nothing sounds right. So I go simpler.

  “You’re weird, but it’s okay with me and I want to be friends again.”

  Then I shorten it even more.

  “I want to be friends again.”

  “I miss you.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  The shorter I go, the more trouble I have saying the words, even alone in my own room. Why is it that the simplest sentences are the hardest to say out loud?

  “What are you doing, sweets?” Mama’s in the doorway.

  “Practicing,” I tell her.

  She smiles. “That last one sounded good.”

  Mama knows things.

  I hear the front door open.

  “Daddy’s home,” she says. “Come have dinner.”

  We sit down to eat, and Mama and Daddy talk about his day at work and her red velvet experiment. He tells her he’s proud that even when she has a day off she’s working on the blog and getting things going. “I try,” she says, and he looks at her with heart eyes. I see them. They start to talk about adult-life stuff then, which isn’t so interesting and is maybe even a little scary, but while they do it they open up a bottle of wine and clink glasses. I raise my apple juice into the mix because I like the sound. I like the tone of their voices too, easy and bright. But I don’t really listen to the details of their conversation—I’m distracted. Because all the while it’s getting darker and darker.

  Finally, after I watch a cooking competition show and change into pajamas and brush my teeth, I’m ready. I take the spotlight into my room and close the door.

  I position the light in my window and plug it in. Immediately, the friendship scene I created—the girls, the bird, the hearts and stars—lights up the brick wall outside. The sharp lines of the shadows look even better than I thought they would. . . . There’s no missing this signal. As I stare at the scene, I think about how much has happened since I moved here just a few months ago.

  My own heartbeat sounds louder than usual. I’m nervous. I have no way of knowing if Agnes’s shades are up or down, if she’s in her room or even home at all. I could bang on the wall, but I want to give it time. She’ll signal back, won’t she? If she sees it.

  I wait impatiently, more waiting, and after a few minutes I open my window. It’s chilly out, but not awful, and I want to see if I can hear anything from Agnes’s apartment. At first the only sound is the wind.

  And then I see it, right above my scene . . . Agnes’s shining star.

  It goes dark after a few seconds, but it was there.

  “Be right back!” I say to Mama and Daddy as I walk through the living room to get out the door. I hear Daddy say, “What?” but Mama shushes him. She knows things.

  Agnes is already in the hallway.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “Hey,” I say. And suddenly I wish I’d brought props like she did on New Year’s Eve, or at least some sparkling water to share. I don’t know what to do with my hands.

  Agnes sits down against the hallway wall, so I sit next to her.

  “I liked your signal,” she says. And I’m grateful. Because it feels like she’s already starting to forgive me.

  “I’m sorry about . . . ,” I start. But then I stop. Keep it simple. “I’m sorry.”

  Agnes smiles the kind of smile that comes right before you start crying, and when a
tear falls I’m not sure if she’s happy or sad. I begin to pull at the dark-blue carpet—there’s a tuft that’s coming undone under my fingers.

  “Are we friends?” asks Agnes. And it’s a question that makes sense to me, finally, because she’s not asking if we can go back to the way we were, as afternoon friends who don’t talk at school. She means are we friends for real—the type of friends who don’t have rules.

  “Yes,” I say. And I look her in the eye when I say it. She’s not looking back, not at first, but then she raises her head and her brown eyes meet mine. “We’re friends,” I say, to confirm it.

  “We’re just us, and we’re okay,” she says.

  “We’re just us,” I repeat. “And we’re friends.”

  I see her face soften, and then Agnes does something totally unexpected.

  She opens her arms, and it’s a quick one, all bony arms and weird angles, but it’s unmistakable. It’s a hug.

  Chapter 26

  Mrs. Davis came over for dinner last night, and she and Agnes told us that Mr. Davis is staying in Boston.

  “They’re getting divorced,” said Agnes, and that made Mama pause mid-potato pass.

  But Mrs. Davis smiled at Agnes and said, “Thanks for saying it for me.”

  And Agnes said, “Mom has trouble with the D word, but my therapist, Lisa, says it’s good to talk about it.”

  “Lisa’s right,” says Mrs. Davis. Then she shares a glance with my mom. “Agnes is way ahead of me on this one . . . and lots of other things.”

  I watch Mama give her soft eyes that understand. I want to practice that look in the mirror. I also want to know more about this therapist now that it’s out in the open.

  “Do you like Lisa?” I ask Agnes. She did bring it up, after all.

  “Yeah,” she says. “She’s helping me cope with my anxiety.”

  I nod and smile, trying to do Mama’s soft-eyed look. I think I get it pretty well because Agnes meets my eyes and smiles back.

  Mrs. Davis doesn’t say anything that makes me feel weird, like that I’m more important than Agnes’s therapist, and later, after we offer to clear the dishes, I tell Agnes that I’m sorry about the divorce.