Mango Delight

by Fracaswell Hyman

  As I walked down Brook’s block, which was shaded by huge Jacaranda trees, I began to wonder if I had done something wrong to make Brook act the way she had after practice. Could it be that my bestie was jealous just because I won one little race?

  To get to my neighborhood, I had to cross Martin Luther King Boulevard, the widest, busiest street in town. It separated Brook’s community, which only had single-family homes, from mine, where people lived in two-family brownstones or apartment buildings.

  The trees on my block were scrawny, planted in dusty squares at the curb of the sidewalk and braced with sticks and wire to keep them upright. The one in front of my building was the scrawniest of all, probably because it was the first pit stop for all the dogs in our apartment building when they went for a walk.

  As the elevator galumphed to a stop on my floor, groaning as the door slid into its pocket, I tried to shake the idea of Brook being jealous from my head. Brook was just having a bad day. Everybody has bad days, and everyone has the right to be cranky now and then. I mean—hello, I had my cranky days, too. I was sure that when I called Brook after my dinner and homework were finished, everything would be back to normal. On school nights, we’d always hang out on the phone watching our favorite TV shows together and gabbing for at least an hour or two. Imagining that I was to blame for Brook’s bad mood was giving my little once-in-a-lifetime GOT win way too much credit.

  Mom was in the middle of her Muscle Torture workout when I walked into our apartment. She doesn’t like to be interrupted when she’s working out, but I couldn’t resist.

  “Mom, guess what?”

  “What?” she gasped between sit-ups.

  “I won the four-hundred-meter sprint this afternoon.”

  Mom stopped mid-sit-up and turned to look at me. “You won?”

  “Yep!”

  As surprised as she looked, I was even more surprised when she paused the exercise DVD and opened her arms to give me a hug. “Baby, I’m so proud of you! I told you that you were just as good as those other girls.”

  “Well, it was only once …”

  “Don’t give me that. You do it once, you can do it again. Start a trend. Believe and achieve!”

  I laughed. She reached for the remote saying, “Let me get back to this before I cool down. Want to join me, champ?”

  “No way. I don’t know why you put yourself through this ‘torture’ anyway.”

  “I have to get back in shape.”

  “Dada says he likes you thicker.” I said, giggling about the way Dada flirted with Mom when she refused an extra helping of rice and peas or dessert.

  Mom blushed, “Oh please, I don’t pay him no mind. If I don’t get rid of this baby weight, my leg will never fit right again.”

  Right on cue, the toddler alarm came blasting on. Jasper, my baby brother, was awake. Mom sighed and started to get up from the floor.

  I stopped her, “Go on back to your torture; I’ll get him.” I spent the rest of the afternoon playing with the cuddliest, most fuzzy-wuzzy, Winnie the Pooh–looking baby brother on the planet. I took him for a long walk in his stroller while Mom did laundry. After dinner, I washed the dishes, did my homework—math, science, social studies—and read two chapters from my book about Anne Frank.

  I had a report on Anne Frank due in a few weeks, and I was right on track with finishing the book. I even left myself enough time to write a first draft and a rewrite to polish it before handing it in.

  About five minutes before our favorite sitcom, Cupcakers, came on, I dialed Brook’s number and settled in for a nice long chat. Her mother, Mrs. Minelli, answered and said, “Brooklyn’s not at home tonight. Her father drove her to the mall to do some shopping.”

  “Really? Brook didn’t say anything to me about shopping with Mr. Minelli.”

  “Well … Brooklyn”—Mrs. Minelli really stressed her daughter’s full name to let me know she disapproved of my chopping it in half—“doesn’t tell everyone every little detail about her life or plans, and neither should you, Mango.” Before I could apologize or even pretend it was nice speaking with her, Mrs. Minelli cut me off with a swift “I’ll let Brooklyn know you called” and hung up.

  By the next morning, I forgot all about the tension between Brook and me. It was a beautiful day, made even more gorgeous by the Jacarandas on Brook’s street, which were in full bloom with their lavender flowers. When a breeze blew, the blossoms floated down from the trees. It was like walking through a lavender snowstorm.

  When I walked up the path to Brook’s door, I didn’t even have time to ring the bell and wait the usual five minutes before she joined me. The door flew open immediately and Brook shouted, “Guess what? You’ll never guess! But guess what?”

  “What?” I squealed, because her excitement was like super-flu contagious.

  Brook turned her back to me, reached into her pocket, and turned back around holding it in the palm of her hand. “Ta-da! I got a cell phone!”

  And that was the beginning of the end of our forever friendship.

  CHAPTER 3

  Fornever

  Walking to school, I felt as though I was having an out-of-body experience, floating way up high in the sky and observing myself back down on Earth, acting like the biggest phony in the history of phonydom. Brook was skipping and twirling and squealing on and on about her new phone, and I skipped and squealed and twirled right along with her. Anyone watching would have thought I’d been given a phone, too. Yes, I could be a pretty convincing fake when I put my mind to it.

  Brook was breathless as she went on and on about how she managed to get a phone. “OMGZ, I was so surprised when my mother finally agreed with me that I should have a phone, too. I told her all about Hailey Joanne and her phone apps that help her run and warm up and cool down and all. And how I came in third in the race behind you and Hailey Joanne. That really showed Mother how unfair it is that I don’t have the same advantages you two have.”

  “I don’t have any advantages.”

  “Oh, you know what I mean. I mean, you really do. Your mom was a track star. So it’s in your blood. And she must give you running tips and everything. Right?”

  “Actually, she doesn’t like talking about running much since—”

  “Anyway,” Brook broke in without letting me finish my thought. “My mother had a talk with my father, and he finally agreed that I needed a phone if I’m going to keep up with everyone else. I mean, it’s only fair, right?”

  I said “Right” even though I didn’t mean it, and we both jumped up and down and twirled around together.

  All of a sudden I heard that awful tweet tweety tweet sound. I turned around thinking Hateful Jo was right behind us, but she wasn’t there. I looked to the left, to the right, up ahead, and I even looked up above into the trees, but no Hateful Jo. So when Brook held up her phone and read a text message from our super-enemy, I felt like I was being electrocuted, or at least what I imagined electrocution would feel like.

  “OMGZ, Hailey Joanne wants me to hurry so I can show the rest of the Cell-belles my phone before classes start.”

  “Hateful Jo? Since when are you and—” Brooklyn cut me off mid-sentence again.

  “I forgot to tell you. Before my father drove me to the mall last night, we stopped by the restaurant to, you know, make sure everything was running smoothly. I waved to your dad in the kitchen. Didn’t he mention it?” I opened my mouth to answer her question, but Brook bulldozed ahead, “Annnnnyway, guess who was at a table finishing her dessert? Hailey Joanne! FYI, just to recap yesterday morning so you don’t make the same mistake again, she despises being called Hailey Jo. She thinks it sounds immature and like a tomboy, which she certainly is not. So anyway, her father and my father got to talking, and my father told her father that we were going phone shopping. Hailey Joanne offered to go with us and help me pick out a really cool phone, and, well, the rest is Sis-story.”

  “Sis-story? Really?”

  “Seriously, Mango, Haile
y Joanne is a major coolsicle once you get to know her. She helped me pick out this bedazzled leopard-print phone case, which looks sooooo fabulous next to her bedazzled zebra-striped case. Then she showed me how all the gadgets on my phone work. And she helped me download the crispiest apps. The running apps, chat apps, emoji apps, fashion apps, selfie-filter apps, and music apps, too. We traded phone numbers and texted each other all the way home while my father was dropping her off.”

  “In the same car? You texted each other in the same car?”

  Brooklyn gave her lips a rest, stopped walking, flipped her hair back, and looked at me with her eyes wide and head cocked to the side, “Uh … yeah. Duh. You’ll understand when you get a phone, too. Now come on, the Cell-belles are waiting for us.”

  That two-letter word, us, was just the life preserver I needed. For a moment, I thought I had lost my best friend—that she had completely gone over to the dark side with the rest of the iPhonies. But she remembered to include me; we were still “us.” I was beginning to become a little bit cheerier. If Hateful Jo—I mean Hailey Jo—I mean Hailey Joanne was inviting Brooklyn into her crew, then she’d have to invite me, too, phone or no phone. Brook and I were besties forever.

  Unfortunately, it only took me three periods to realize that forever didn’t last as long as it used to.

  Our first class of the day was language arts. It was one of my favorites, because our teacher, Bob Levy, was so funny. He was a huge guy; really tall and wide with a shock of red hair that stood up on the top of his head like a cockatoo. Bob was always doing strange characters and making weird faces and beatbox sound effects. He was a human cartoon, so it was hard to not pay attention in his class.

  Bob also insisted we call him “Bob” which was extra crispy. It made us feel like adults. Bob made the other teachers seem like dinosaurs.

  Bob thought he was destined to be a playwright on Broadway. He was only teaching for a few years while he was in his twenties. Bob and Mr. Ramsey, our music teacher, collaborated on the yearly school musicals. The two of them are total opposites. Mr. Ramsey was a small man—the biggest things about him were his huge Afro and the goggle-like eyeglasses he wore. Bob was always joking and making the room laugh, as opposed to Mr. Ramsey, who was a little tightly wound, nervous, and formal. We actually saw him jump at the sight of his own shadow once in the schoolyard. Still, word around the lockers was that the two of them worked magic together when it came to writing the annual musicals for our school.

  This morning at the beginning of English class, Bob announced that on Thursday they would begin holding auditions for Yo, Romeo! the Levy & Ramsey musical retelling of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. I never read that play, but I knew it was a tragedy about young lovers who died in the end. Brook leaned over and said, “You should audition.”

  I snorted, “Yeah, right!” As if I would ever be able to sing in front of the entire student body, or anybody for that matter. I cringed at the memory of the talent show the school held just before Christmas vacation. The kids in the audience were brutal. They booed a boy to silence when he sang “Silent Night” off-key; they laughed at the girl who did a stiff interpretive dance (she was about as flexible as a number two pencil); and, worst of all, the poor soul who did a crummy magic act got hit square in the forehead with a chocolate pudding cup (he actually licked the pudding off his fingers after wiping it from his face). There was no way I was going to open myself up to that kind of ridicule. Besides, the Dramanerds (that’s what we called the kids who did any kind of theater stuff) rehearsed after school when they were preparing to put on a show, and I already had GOT after school four times a week, so it just wouldn’t work out.

  I was becoming a little paranoid because Brook had been so distant that morning in homeroom and in language arts. Her suggestion was the first time she had spoken to me since the bell rang. Was she trying to get me to audition so I’d drop out of GOT? Why would she do that? Just because I beat her in one measly race? I was no threat to her on the track. If I could turn back time, I would sing a slow Beyoncé song in my head and come in last place in that dumb race. That way my bestie wouldn’t be freezing me out, she wouldn’t have had an excuse to get a new phone, we’d have been cracking jokes about Hateful Jo on the way to school this morning, and everything would have been normal.

  Brooklyn and I didn’t have all the same classes. After language arts we went to math together, but Brook went to study hall and I went to an advanced-reading class with kids who read above their grade. Brooklyn didn’t mind, because she didn’t like to read books. She was way better than me in math, so it didn’t bother her that I was in a higher-level reading group. I had my reading class just before lunch, and Brook always waited for me by our lockers so we could walk to the lunchroom together.

  Today, she wasn’t at the lockers. At first I thought she was late or had to go to the bathroom or something.

  I’d been waiting almost ten minutes when the principal, Ms. Lipschultz, came down the hall on one of her patrols and squinted at me. “Mango, shouldn’t you be in the cafeteria now?”

  My mouth suddenly went all sandpapery. Ms. Lipschultz had the coldest gray eyes on the planet. Even if she were being nice, her eyes were like hailstones, and they’d freeze you on the spot, whether she meant to or not. I pried my tongue from the roof of my mouth and said, “I’m just waiting for Brook, Ms. Lipschultz.”

  “I saw her in the cafeteria. She was already seated. Hurry up before lunch period is over.”

  I said “Yes, ma’am” the way Dada trained me and headed to the cafeteria. I felt heat rising on the back of my neck. Why had Brook left me standing there? Was it because of that stupid phone? If she thought having a phone suddenly made her better than me, then, well … she had another think coming.

  I wasn’t surprised as I entered the cafeteria and saw Brook at the Cell-belle’s table with Hailey Jo—Joanne and her crew. None of them were looking at each other. All eyes were in their laps, where they were keeping their phones out of sight. There was a no-cell-phone-use rule in school, but clever girls like Hailey Joanne and her crew would find ways around those rules—in the restrooms, locker room, in between bookshelves in the media center, or under the bleachers behind the gymnasium. The teachers weren’t very strict about enforcing the rules against phone felons anyway, because they were always sneaking to check their phones, too. At the table, the girls’ thumbs were busy blazing across their keyboards. Brook was laughing at something on her screen when she saw me and waved me over.

  “Heeeeey, what took you so long?”

  “I was waiting for you by the lockers,” I said a little snootier than I intended.

  “Sorry,” Brook said. “I wanted to eat fast so I’d have time to hang out by the bleachers and mess around with my new phone.”

  Hailey Joanne lifted her pelican jaw and looked down her nose at me. “Don’t get an attitude just because you still communicate with smoke signals.”

  All of her crew laughed, including Brook. I took a deep breath, hoping a real cutting response would snap into my head. I wanted to put her down, put her in her place, and remind Brook of how we felt about Hateful Jo. But the only thing that came out of my mouth was, “Whatever.”

  Hailey Joanne made the kind of frowning face adults make at toddlers who hurt themselves and are about to cry, “Aw, poor Mange-gro Sprite is Full-er-herself just because she finally won a race yesterday.”

  All of the Cell-belles howled, and no one was louder than their newest member, Brooklyn Minelli, my ex-bestie. I didn’t want to cry in front of a table full of mean girls. I am definitely not the crying type. Boohooing now would be like throwing gasoline and a lit match on a pile of thirsty twigs, so I turned and ran out of the cafeteria. I know, how dramatic! But I couldn’t help myself. I had to hide before my heart fell out of my chest and broke into a million pieces on the floor, which the mean girls, no doubt, would take pleasure in kicking all around the cafeteria.

  I headed for the nurse’s
office to pretend I was sick and get a pass to go home. Unfortunately, as I turned a corner, I saw Ms. Lipschultz still on patrol, so I ducked into the girls’ bathroom and hid in a stall.

  I sat on the toilet, put my head between my legs, and took deep breaths. Even though I was all alone now, I still didn’t want to cry. I’m not one of those super-emotional types who cries whenever the wind blows. Once Dada told me that Mom’s sister, Aunt Zendaya, told him that Mom didn’t even cry when she found out she’d have to lose her leg. I wanted to be like Mom: strong and dry-eyed no matter what. So I sucked in a deep breath and concentrated on my recipe for tuna salad, which Dada says is the best he’s ever tasted. I use mayonnaise, Dijon mustard, boiled eggs, pickle relish, spring onions, chopped pimento, capers, and, of course, canned tuna in water. Then I add a dash of cayenne pepper (not enough to make it too spicy but just enough to give it a little kick) and a pinch or two of salt and pepper, and voilà, the best tuna salad in the world.

  My eyes were still dry when I heard the door to the bathroom open. From under the stall door, I saw two pairs of shoes: pink patent leather with a low heel, and lime-green running shoes. I recognized the shoes immediately. It was Brook and Hailey Joanne. I could hear the click click of their cell phones. They were texting.

  I slowly and quietly lifted my feet onto the toilet seat. I would die if they knew I was in there trying not to cry. I held my breath, hoping neither of them would open the door to the stall, because I’d forgotten to slide the latch and lock it.

  All of a sudden there was a huge burst of laughter, and Hailey Joanne spurted, “OMGZ, Brooklyn Minelli, you are the new Queen of Mean! I have to bow down!”