“These mosquitoes are so ridiculous. I can’t take it anymore.” She hopped up from the table, swatting around herself as she moved for the patio door. “I’m going inside.”
“You don’t want a s’more?” My voice had that strained, tinny quality to it again, like when I get called on to answer a question in class and everyone is suddenly listening and my public-speaking nerves kick in.
“I want to not be eaten alive.” Alex paused. “I guess you could bring one in for me.” Then she slipped inside. Through the sliding door, I could see her curled up on the couch in the darkness, her face illuminated by her phone. Whatever she was looking at on it made her smile. Perhaps for the first time all day.
“Okay,” I said quietly, even though she was already gone and couldn’t hear me. When I glanced back up at our families, everyone was acting totally normal, but I could sense that they were avoiding eye contact with me again.
It’s fine. Every single time we’ve had a fight, we’ve gotten over it. This is just a particularly bad fight. Like the time I accidentally spoiled the ending of The Westing Game. It took weeks for Alex to stop the silent treatment after that, even though I apologized a million and one times. The thing was, though, we hadn’t actually been fighting. Since registration, we’d had no contact, till this morning. And if anyone should be giving the silent treatment or waiting for an apology, it should’ve been me.
I made a truly perfect s’more for Alex. It could’ve won an award. I put the chocolate square on the graham cracker near the fire, where it would warm and soften the chocolate so it hovered between being a liquid and a solid—I think the science term is colloid. I roasted the marshmallow low and slow, so that it grew fatter and fatter but didn’t crumple and blacken on any sides. When it was about to ooze off the stick from its own weight, I pulled it away and plopped it on the cracker, quickly pressing the top piece down. The gooey marshmallow and jellylike chocolate immediately melded. I placed the s’more on a napkin and crossed the patio while cradling it in my palms. Maybe, once she tasted it, I could lure Alex back outside. To where we were all sitting around the fire, laughing and singing, licking sticky traces of marshmallow off our fingers. Yes, I had probably six new mosquito bites despite the repellant, the citronella candles, and my long pants. But if they were the price, it was well worth paying.
“Hey,” I said as I let myself into the living room, careful not to let out Tampoco (who strictly stays inside the cabin, to keep all the Northwoods songbirds safe). I stood awkwardly next to the couch. I wasn’t really sure what to say. It felt like approaching a stranger. Which is an awful way to feel around your best friend.
If she was still truly that.
“Hey.” She yawned and glanced warily at me. Alex seemed as uncomfortable being alone together as I was.
“I made you a s’more.” I held it out for her.
“Thanks.” She took it but just set it on the coffee table. I wanted to tell her she should eat it right away, while it was still warm from the fire, that it was better that way. But after the doughnuts…
“It’s really nice out there,” I said. “The stars are so pretty. I wonder if you can see Sirius.” In sixth grade, I did my TAG—talented and gifted—project on constellations. I remember almost all of them. Sirius, the Dog Star, is part of the constellation Canis Major. It’s also where we get the phrase “the dog days of summer,” because ancient astronomers noticed its rising with the sun marked the hottest days of the year. Summer isn’t the best time to see Sirius at night, but it is the brightest star, and the Northwoods sky is always so dark. “I could show you?”
“Maybe another time. I’m kind of tired.”
I glanced out the window at the silhouettes of our families enjoying the glow of the firepit. I longed to be out there, but not without Alex. I’d stay inside the whole week if that’s what it took for things with her to be right-side-up again. If I let myself actually think about how weird things had gotten between us, I felt sick. “I’m tired too. Should we go up to bed?”
We’ve always shared the “aerie,” the nickname for the sleeping loft that is the very top triangle of the A of the cabin’s frame. The aerie is a small space—at the edges, even a kid can’t stand up straight—and there’s only room for a full-size mattress on the floor. But it’s cozy, and it’s always been ours. Someday we’ll outgrow it, and then Nolan and Mateo will inherit it. Until then, each summer we’ve scratched our names and the year into the wooden beams of the ceiling, along with a single word or phrase that encapsulates what that week was like. One year, it was fox, when we found an orphaned baby fox underneath the patio and fed it with an eyedropper. Another year, endless rain, when five of the six days we had to spend inside playing cards and looking up random dictionary and encyclopedia entries because the weather was so bad.
I wondered what this summer’s word would be. So far, I could suggest: awkward.
Alex looked up at me. Her expression was hard to read. “Actually, I’m going to bunk with Lucy, I think.” Her eyes darted away from mine. “The aerie is kinda claustrophobic. Like being in a tomb or something.”
“Oh.” Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I willed myself not to let them slide out and roll down my cheeks. I didn’t want her to see. “Well, good night, I guess.” There was a telltale throatiness to my voice, so Alex must’ve known I was upset, but she only said a distracted “g’night” as I hurried to the stairs, snatching my bag from the luggage pile still untouched by the landing.
Up in the aerie, I dove onto the mattress. My mom had put on clean sheets, which I knew because I buried my face in them, and as I cried—silently, because the cabin’s walls are thin—I could smell fabric softener instead of musty cabin dust. A window facing the lake takes up one whole wall, and eventually I raised my head to look out at the first-night festivities below, still going strong. Mateo and Nolan were running around the yard catching fireflies. The fire’s embers glowed. Everyone was smiling. Watching all that golden-lit happiness below me only made me feel worse.
I unzipped my bag to pull out my favorite sweatshirt. Not just because it gets cold up in the aerie at night but because my sweatshirt is super comforting. I wear it whenever I’m nervous, or sad. I fell asleep before putting it on, hugging it to my chest like a security blanket. Babyish, maybe. That’s probably what Alex would think. But, after all, I was alone. There was no one else to see.
Alex
The Beginning of the End
It wasn’t my fault. It was the sweatshirt’s. If your best friend had been walking down the hallway wearing it, you would’ve reacted the exact same way as I did. Especially on registration day. And it’s not like I hadn’t tried to tell her before. But Jocelyn, for someone so smart, can be kinda dense about certain things. Like that stupid wolf sweatshirt.
So maybe it was actually Joss’s fault that I dumped her. Friend-dumped her. (I feel like that should have its own term. “Fumped her”? Or, “We froke up”?)
Anyway, it’s not like I planned for any of this to happen. I want to make that clear. And when I try to pinpoint when it all started, it wasn’t registration day. It’s like when you drop a tube of lip gloss and the clear plastic cover gets one long crack, but it still snaps on the base so everything’s fine. But then you drop the tube a few more times, and the cracks get worse—there’s not one but a bunch—and eventually one day the cover breaks apart, and unless it’s, like, a really special color, you have to throw away the tube, because without the cover, the gloss will get all over everything, and lint from your pocket or whatever junk is in the bottom of your bag will stick to it, which is disgusting. My point is, the first crack in our friendship formed way earlier. Maybe at the end-of-the-year dance.
Joss and I had never actually gone to a dance at Walden Middle School, despite the fact that there’s one each semester. The main reason was that we both were intimidated, me slightly and her super: of popular
girls like Laura Longbottom showing off their shiny new dresses, of boys attempting to break-dance with no regard for soda-spilling consequences. Of the potential for seeing our gym teacher “bust a move” (her words, not mine). But at some point, I decided that before we started eighth grade, Joss and I had to go to a dance. Because…I wanted to. I mean, what if dances were actually not scary and awkward, but fun? I didn’t admit this to Jocelyn, but I honestly hoped to dance with a boy. No one in particular, although Josh Haberman is kind of cute.
I couldn’t convince Jocelyn, so eventually I half-tricked her into a pinkie-swear that she’d go. She still resisted until the very last minute, trying to lure me into staying home with the promise of an evening full of rom-coms and the kind of ice-cream sandwiches that are made with big chocolate-chip cookies. Tempting. But as we walked into the gym that night, lights pulsing and music blaring, my heart swelled. I felt, like, part of something. I wasn’t watching a party scene in a movie but actually at one myself. I wanted to run right onto the dance floor. Except Jocelyn was frozen with one foot in the gym and one foot out.
“Whoa, Alex, there are so many people here.” Her eyes were wide like a Disney princess’s, out of fear. “It’s too hot. And way too loud.”
“It is kinda loud.” We had to shout to hear each other. My grin faded as I searched the dark, crowded corners of the gym for familiar faces. The shiny people pushed past us as they hurried through the door, almost knocking us over. I tugged at my skirt, which suddenly looked and felt all kinds of wrong. “C’mon,” I said after a deep breath. “We can’t just stand here. Let’s do this.”
Jocelyn still didn’t budge. “I don’t want to do this,” she said, shaking her head, right as a girl, teetering in heels, stumbled next to us and sloshed punch onto Jocelyn’s top. Well, actually it was my top—I’d picked an outfit for Jocelyn because clothes are not her thing. Joss’s face scrunched up, and I knew she was dangerously close to tears. So I steered her to the edge of the gym floor, pulled a wad of napkins out of my purse, and then started blotting while doing emotional damage control.
“You totally can do this. Come on—we’re in it together. Just give it an hour.” I kept dabbing at her/my shirt, dipping the napkin wad into her reusable water bottle, which was covered in stickers with environmental slogans. “Plus, I’m leaving tomorrow morning. This is our last night until after camp. I need to bank good memories—I’m gonna be stuck in the middle of nowhere for two weeks, remember? They don’t even let you bring real shampoo there. Because you have to wash your hair in a lake.” I shuddered, thinking of stinky weeds.
She cracked a smile. “That actually sounds awesome.”
I wasn’t surprised. Jocelyn really loves all that outdoorsy stuff.
I stepped back and studied the stain. You could hardly see the pink blob of punch. “All good now.” The music had switched to one of my favorite songs. I stared at the dance floor with something like longing. I glanced back at Joss. She didn’t look like she’d cry anymore, but she was hunched over with her arms crossed over her chest. “Can we try dancing?” I asked. “Please?” It just looked like so much fun.
She shook her head forcefully.
For a second I thought of grabbing her hand and yanking her to the floor. But I figured she would fight it like Tampoco did the time we had to give him a bath. And I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. I let out a sigh, which I don’t think she heard over the blaring music. “Okay. Then let’s get food.” I linked elbows with Joss and led us both over to the snack table.
We stood there awkwardly for a few minutes, assessing the cookie situation. That good song was still playing, so the only other person hanging around the table was this kid from our neighborhood whose all-encompassing obsession with sharks—seriously, I don’t think he owns a single item of clothing that doesn’t at least have a picture of a dorsal fin on it—had earned him the nickname Shark Boy. That night he had on a button-down covered in tiny chomping great whites.
“Cool shirt,” Joss said to him, and he grinned.
I scooted farther away and motioned for Joss to do the same. I didn’t want anyone to think we were there with him.
“Hey! I know. Let’s do a blind taste test of all the sodas.” Joss grabbed a few cups and started pouring. “Don’t look!” That is classic Jocelyn, Miss Talented and Gifted—turning a school dance into an impromptu science experiment.
But tasting drinks was better than just standing around, watching everyone else. Joss handed me a cup, and I took a sip. “Tastes like bubbles. Clear bubbles.” Another sip. “Licorice-y? And not in a good way.” I’m not the hugest soda fan.
Shark Boy, circling us, piped up, “I like licorice. That flavor’s called anise.”
I almost choked on my cookie while stifling a laugh. Next to me, I could feel Jocelyn shaking with held-back giggles. I knew if we made eye contact, we’d get hysterical, and I didn’t want to be mean.
Eventually, our friends Houa and Kate found us, and then we all danced in a tight circle on the farthest edge of the floor, even Jocelyn, although she mostly just swayed in a sorta self-conscious way and watched the second hand travel around the big clock on the wall. At one point, our gym teacher did bop by “busting a move” with her arms in the air, but I did not suffer death by cringe. Across the floor, in the middle of the gym, Josh Haberman danced next to Laura Longbottom, who was acting all cool and casual about it (but grinning at her friends like maybe she agreed with me about his cuteness).
At eight thirty, my mom picked Joss and me up and took us back to my house for one last pre-camp sleepover. As soon as we were in the car, Joss perked up like a flower after being watered. I felt kind of…I don’t know. Gloomy? Joss would know the right word. Disappointed, I guess, because the night hadn’t gone like I’d planned or hoped, even though it hadn’t been bad. As long as we were together, Joss and I could have fun. It’s just, we were going to be eighth-graders. Even if Joss wasn’t ready for fun in the form of dances and guys and stuff—maybe I was?
We clambered up to my room, our clicking heels on the stairs reminding me of the dance floor I hadn’t fully gotten to enjoy.
“Wanna watch a movie?” Joss chirped, scrolling through the choices on my computer.
“Sure, but something we can have on in the background. I haven’t packed.”
She shook her head at me. “Procrastinate much? Aren’t you leaving first thing in the morning?”
Jocelyn would’ve packed, like, a week ago. She’s so on top of things.
I flopped onto my bed. “Yup. I’m pretending that camp isn’t happening.” Then I rolled over and finally tugged my suitcase out from underneath my bed. “Time’s up, though. You know camping stuff better than I do. What do I need?”
“Same stuff you bring up north.” She hopped over to my closet and started pulling out my most boring T-shirts and shorts. “Where’s your swimsuit?”
“In there.” I pointed to my dresser. She pulled open the top drawer first, forgetting that it’s my junk drawer, full of Happy Meal toys and old birthday cards and intricately folded notes Joss had slipped me in the hallway at school. In the middle drawer was my turquoise racing swimsuit. Joss wadded it up and shoved it into the inside pouch of my suitcase, where I added my underwear and pajama shorts. When she wasn’t looking, I replaced some of her choices with cuter tops. I mean, it’s not like I was going to be alone in the woods.
“I’m so jealous,” I said, throwing a pack of stationery on the top of my now-overflowing suitcase. “You get to wake up tomorrow and start summer. I get a daylong bus ride to nowhere. All because my grades in Spanish were so bad.” I was sentenced to Tierra de los Lagos, a Spanish language-immersion camp, on the strong recommendation of my Spanish teacher. Unlike Jocelyn’s, my grades last year had not been fantástico. “I wish you were coming along. I’m not going to know anyone there.”
Her mouth twisted downward. “
Yeah, well, this year it was either camps or the cabin for us. According to the budget. And I wouldn’t miss the cabin for the world.” She let out a small sigh. “Maybe camp will be fun. Remember Echo Valley?”
Years ago, we’d done a weekend camping trip at this place called Echo Valley with our moms. The whole valley part of it became a problem during a huge rainstorm, when our tent flooded in the middle of the night. There was nothing we could do about it until morning, since we were a mile from the main building, so we loaded our stuff into garbage bags and pretended the tent was a Slip ’N Slide for the rest of the night, while our moms sleepily watched.
“Okay, now I’m having flashbacks to those sopping wet sleeping bags.”
“Won’t your cabin have beds?”
“Yeah, good point. I just hope the sheets aren’t scratchy.” I pushed down on the fabric top of my suitcase, trying to ease the zipper around the side. It was too full.
“Here.” Joss hopped through the obstacle course of stuff all over my floor. “Watch out.” She plopped her butt down on the suitcase, balancing with her knees pulled up to her chest. “Quick! Zip it!”
I wasn’t quick enough, though, because she toppled off the suitcase and onto my rug with a huge thump before I could get the zipper even a quarter of the way around. I dropped to the floor next to her, laughing hysterically. We stayed like that, giggling and talking, until we got too tired and abandoned the unzipped suitcase to get ready for bed.
“Don’t worry. It’ll go fast,” Jocelyn said, yawning as she lay back on her half of my bed.
“I know.” I switched off the light. “Then our real summer can start.”
It makes me weirdly sad to think about that moment now. I bet my math teacher could draw up some kind of equation to show how the two sides of any friendship breakup are related—like how if the Before friendship is particularly great, the After feels particularly terrible. And in terms of me and Joss, our Before was, well, the best.
Alone in the Woods Page 2
