by Lisa Yee
“Nobody,” Emily said dully.
“Is it the cable TV man?” her mom inquired.
“I said, it’s nobody.”
“If it’s the cable TV man,” Alice told her, “tell him that HBO doesn’t work anymore but we still get Showtime.”
I could tell our phone conversation was going nowhere, and I was anxious to make my peace with Emily. With Mom sick, Maddie leaving, my poetry class ending, Stanford turning back into a doofus, and Dad unemployed, I needed at least one thing in my life to go right.
“Emily, please,” I begged, “can we at least meet and talk about this? I promise not to take more than ten minutes of your time.”
*
Emily and I rendezvoused near the food court at the mall. I had considered bringing a peace pipe, the truce symbol of the Native North Americans. However, since I did not have access to one and abhor smoking, I opted for a one-pound Jelly Belly assortment instead.
“No, thank you,” Emily said, pushing my offering away. “I’m on a diet.”
“But you’re not fat, “ I exclaimed. “And anyway, jelly beans are fat free.”
“I am on a diet,” she repeated firmly. I wondered if I could get my money back, or at least exchange it for chocolate.
“Well, I know that my being a genius can be off-putting,” I began, dispensing with small talk. I had rehearsed my speech to last exactly ten minutes. “But I am certain our friendship is strong enough to withstand the effects of my high intelligence.”
“Man,” Emily interrupted, “for someone who’s supposed to be so smart, you sure are dumb.”
“Pardon me?” The reconciliation was not going as I had planned.
“Millicent, this is not about your brain.” I tried to get her to lower her voice, but she was not cuing in on my subtle hand signals. “I’m mad at you because we were supposed to be best friends! But you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth. Instead, you just assumed I wouldn’t be able to handle it. There was this huge part of your life that you hid from me, even after I told you all about my fear of cats and that if I laugh too hard I wet my pants!”
“I can’t believe you called me dumb!” I was stunned. “Et tu, Brutè.” (For dramatic effect I pulled an invisible knife from my back.)
“But Millie,” Emily said gently, “you do act really dumb sometimes, like you’re clueless.”
I stopped to ponder the implications of her words. “So …?” I challenged her.
“So nothing,” she said. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
“Really?”
“I don’t care if you’re smart or dumb, as long as you’re a true friend.”
I fiddled with the Jelly Bellies. Admittedly, being called dumb did not sit well with me. “Emily,” I finally concluded, “I’m sorry if I misrepresented myself in any manner. For you see, I had sorely misjudged the dynamics of our relationship …”
“Millie, you didn’t just misjudge our relationship, you misjudged me,” she cut me short. “Can’t you just shut up and say you’re sorry you lied without making up a bunch of hooey?”
I stopped my James Joycean stream-of-consciousness rhetoric. “Hooey,” was that what she said? Hooey? Was she implying that I was making up nonsense, possibly as a screen to mask my true feelings? And “shut up”? How disrespectful.
I thought about how Emily never made fun of me at volleyball, or for not having other friends, or even when she thought I needed a tutor to get through middle school. It’s possible she had a point. Perhaps I had misjudged her. In my frantic efforts to keep her as a friend, I was not a true friend to her. I hoped it was not too late.
“I am sorry I lied to you, Emily.” I really was. There, I said it. Now it was up to her to decide if I was worthy of her friendship.
When Emily didn’t react right away, I braced myself for a solitary life with cryptarithms to fill my days and only academic awards to befriend me. It had been so hard to say that I was sorry, and now that I had, a feeling of relief came over me. I felt as though I had just taken a test and there was nothing I could do but wait for the results. Only this time I was afraid I hadn’t passed. I looked at Emily. She was all choked up. I turned to walk away.
“Hey!” she called after me, tugging on my shirt. “Where do you think you’re going?” I stopped and turned around. She was right there with me. “I really missed you,” Emily said. She gave me a big hug, and when I returned it twofold, we both pretended that we weren’t crying.
“I always knew you were strange,” she admitted, taking the Jelly Bellies from me and fishing around for the black ones. “But I could never figure out why. Now I think I know …” I waited for her to tell me it was because I was a genius and that could be isolating. “It’s because you’re an only child, isn’t it? Alice thinks that because I don’t have brothers or sisters it has affected …” I just grinned as she went on and on.
It is so wonderful to have Emily back.
Last night Emily got the call she had been waiting for all summer. We were in her room alphabetizing her CDs (my idea) and had gotten up to Mongo Bongo’s Greatest Hits when the phone began to ring. Though it was right next to Emily, she ignored it. My dad does that too and it drives my mom nuts. I was about to pick it up when Emily said offhandedly, “Oh, just let it ring. Alice will get it.” I couldn’t stand the incessant ringing, so I held my breath and was about to turn blue when all of a sudden … silence.
After a couple of minutes, Alice knocked on the door and opened it slowly. “Emily,” she said. Her eyes were all red, like she had been crying. “There’s a call for you. It’s your father.” Then she backed away and shut the door quietly.
Emily’s face lit up as she dove for her phone. “Hi, Daddy!” she squealed. She kept pointing to the phone and mouthing, “My father.” Emily’s phone is translucent purple and you can see all the wires. My dad would love it. “Yes, uh-huh. Uh-huh,” Emily turned to face the wall. “Okay. Sure! Yes! No problem! I love you too. Okay, good-bye!”
She kept her back to me for the longest time, and I couldn’t tell whether she was happy or sad. That is, until she started bawling like a baby, making it pretty obvious.
Alice must have been standing right outside because in a nanosecond she was in the room hugging Emily. “It’s not your fault, it’s not your fault,” Alice kept murmuring. I pretended I was mending a half–Be-Dazzled blouse I picked up off the floor.
“What did he say?” her mother asked. She brushed Emily’s hair from her eyes. Emily just took big gulps of air and motioned for her to leave. I could tell that Alice was distraught, but she left us alone. She gave me a really sad look before she went away.
“Are you okay?” I asked. I wasn’t sure if Emily knew I was still there, she was crying so hard.
Finally, she reached for the Be-Dazzled blouse and blew her nose on the sleeve. I was horrified, but calmed myself by rationalizing that it would wash out. “I thought he called to tell me he was coming back,” Emily wailed. “That he wanted to say he had made a mistake. But nooooooo, Daddy just called because he wants me to stop using the credit card so much.” She began to cry again.
I was at a loss over what to do, so I just sat there and handed her tissue after tissue until we had used up what was left of Emily’s 150-count box of Puffs.
Realizing that my best friend needed cheering up fast, I resorted to desperate measures. “Say Em, why don’t you do that makeover on me you’ve always wanted to do?”
Emily gasped and looked up through her tears. “Really?” she said, blinking wildly.
“Uh, sure,” I said, hoping my voice would not betray my uncertainty.
I could not believe I had offered to let her do a makeover on me. But it was too late to back out. Emily was already up and gathering bottles and tubes and jars of makeup and whatnot.
“Sit here,” she said, stifling her sniffles. “You are going to look so fabulous when I am done with you.”
“
Okay,” I said obediently.
After what seemed like hours of being poked and plucked and painted, I stood in front of the mirror with my eyes shut.
“One, two, three!” Emily yelled.
I stared ahead, not knowing what to say. My hair was all poofed up on the top of my head, my lips were bright red and I had on green eye shadow. My cheeks were pink, and for some reason I had a purple rhinestone near my jawbone.
“Well …?” Emily held her breath.
“Well,” I began, still staring. “I look so different.”
Emily let go a sigh and grinned. “I was so afraid you’d hate it,” she confessed. “But I think it’s the real you!”
“I’m not so sure about that,” I told her. I was determined to be honest with Emily from here on out. “But it does show a side of me I’ve never seen before.”
Just then Alice came by to see if Emily was all right. “I’m fine, Mom, okay?” Emily said.
“Just checking,” Alice said quietly. I didn’t think Emily needed to be so mean.
Alice looked me over and said, “Hmmm … interesting.”
“Alice, please,” Emily said, shaking her head.
“That’s okay,” I assured both of them. “Besides, it’s not how you look that’s important, it’s how you feel. And I feel great.”
“It’s not how you look …” Alice murmured as she left.
Later I talked Emily into going to my house because she kept roaming around her room saying, “My father bought me that,” and pointing to a lamp. Or “I charged that on my father’s credit card,” and pointing to a poster. It got to be pretty boring after a while, and eventually I got Emily to laugh by asking her to show me what her father didn’t pay for.
As Emily packed her bag for a sleepover, I wandered into the living room. I didn’t recognize the lady sitting on the couch at first. Alice was wearing a gray velour warm-up suit and Nikes. She tried to hide the Nacho Doritos and supermarket tabloid when she saw me gawking at her. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m sure as a journalist you have to read everything.”
Alice looked relieved. “That much is true, Millicent,” she said, offering me some chips. I took a handful. Except for the crunching, we sat side by side in silence.
“I like your outfit,” I finally said.
Alice scrutinized her clothes. “It’s what I am most comfortable in,” she said. “That carefree bohemian look is such hard work. Besides, as you said, ‘It’s not how you look, but how you feel.’ And I feel most like myself in this.”
I couldn’t believe she was quoting me. We continued munching on the Doritos as we sat side by side, waiting for Emily.
After a powdery-cheese pause, I said, “So, I’m a genius.”
“I know,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Did Emily tell you?”
“Nope, figured it out on my own.” Alice put down the Doritos. “You’re quite an enigma, Millicent. A lot of things you said didn’t add up. So I did a little sleuthing on the Internet. Remember, I write investigative pieces for a living.”
“Why didn’t you tell Emily?” I asked.
“It was clear to me you wanted to keep it a secret, so I decided to play along. Though it sure was fun giving you Ramona the Pest. You should have seen your face!”
“Actually,” I admitted, “I really did like the book.”
“I thought you would,” Alice said, looking at her hands. The Doritos had turned them orange. “Millie, please feel free to borrow any of my books you’d like.”
“Really???!!!” I squeaked. I started making a mental list of the books I wanted to take first.
Just then Emily came out of her room dragging her big duffel bag. “You okay, Emily?” Alice asked.
“I’m fine, Mom,” Emily said, eyeing Alice’s outfit. She went over to her and kissed her cheek. “Are you okay?” It was the first time I had seen Emily show any concern for her mother.
“I will be,” Alice said.
“Me too,” said Emily.
My parents always look forward to the Labor Day Fiesta at the Wild Acres theme park. On that day, all Rancho Rosetta residents get in for half price. Mom and Dad claim the Fiesta gives them a good excuse to act silly. I’d like to know what their excuses are for the other 364 days of the year.
Maddie and Grandpa used to go to the Fiesta every year too. Grandpa declared that the Tunnel of Love was created in their honor. “The day we stop going,” he proclaimed, “is the day they ought to shut it down.” This year Maddie bowed out of going to the Fiesta. She said she had a headache.
I have never found the Fiesta to be enjoyable. Too crowded, too noisy, too juvenile. Still, when Dad and Emily begged me to go, who was I to let them down? I am attempting to embrace (or at least accept) change and have resolved to try one different thing per day. Yesterday I brushed my top molars first. Today, I accompanied my parents and best friend to a theme park.
Within minutes of arriving, my father parted with twenty-five dollars to “win” a small stuffed teddy bear for Mom at the B-Ball Bushel Throw. Do you know how many sheets of good graph paper twenty-five dollars can get you? Dad was proud of himself, though, and Mom was so thrilled that she didn’t even flinch when I reminded her that you can buy a better-made bear for less than five dollars at the mall.
After wandering around the games and watching in horror as people lobbed Ping-Pong balls at innocent goldfish (does the ASPCA know about this?), we gravitated toward the aroma of deep-fried funnel cakes and roasted peanuts.
Mom immediately ordered a bratwurst with sauerkraut and peppers, even though we had just eaten lunch at home. My father opted for the homemade vanilla ice cream smothered with fresh strawberries. And Emily and I found ourselves in front of the cotton candy booth.
Every color of the rainbow was on display and I watched as the lady expertly twirled the pink sugar from the kettle onto a white paper cone. “They’re four dollars each,” she told Dad as he took out his wallet.
“Why, that’s outrageous,” I croaked. “Cotton candy is nothing more than spun sugar. I’ll bet there’s no more than one or two tablespoons of sugar on that entire cone. And how much does sugar cost? Not more than a few pennies!”
The cotton candy lady threw poison darts at me with her eyes. Her aim was perfect. “You’re holding up the line, missy,” she said through a tight smile.
“Do you want one or not?” Dad asked, handing Emily what looked like a soft pink beehive on a stick.
“Okay,” I conceded. I didn’t want Emily to have to eat alone, though I resolved not to enjoy it too much since it was so expensive. Oh, but boy did it taste good. It was fun letting it dissolve on my tongue. Emily liked to tear off big chunks of hers, smash them up really small, like marbles, and then pop them into her mouth.
“You know,” I said as we headed to the midway, “those games are rigged.” I tried not to lick my fingers so that the cotton candy wouldn’t get me all sticky. “Like the milk bottle throw. The bottles are weighted.”
“Really?” Dad sounded genuinely surprised. He is so trusting. Mom just laughed and cradled her teddy bear as if it were a baby.
“I know they’re rigged,” Emily said, trying to get the cotton candy out of her hair and only succeeding in getting some stuck on her arm. “But it doesn’t matter because they’re fun.”
Perhaps Emily had a point. The people playing the games did look like they were having a lot of fun. Despite every effort not to, I caught myself having fun too.
By the time we made our way to the rides, all that was left of the cotton candy was our sticky fingers and a pink glob the size of a yo-yo in Emily’s hair. Luckily, I had the foresight to pack premoistened towelettes in my briefcase. But even that didn’t help, so Mom had to pour water over Emily’s head to get the cotton candy out.
As we neared the famed Monstroso Roller Coaster of Death, the four of us tilted our heads back and took it in as it zoomed around and around. The ride
rs screamed like lunatics. It seemed so undignified.
“Wow!” Emily said reverently.
“I’ll say,” seconded Dad.
“Has it grown bigger since last year?” Mom asked. “I don’t recall it being so big.”
“C’mon, what are we waiting for?” Emily shouted, running to get in line.
I held back. “It’s okay, Millie, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” Dad whispered. I know we were thinking the same thing.
I get dizzy easily. When I was three my father put me on Binky, a carousel horse. I didn’t want to go and screamed so loudly they had to stop the merry-go-round. My father rode Binky the rest of the way by himself.
Perhaps I have vertigo, like Jimmy Stewart in the movie of the same name. In it, his fear of heights causes him to get dizzy whenever he is up high and looks down. And if that’s not annoying enough, he has the hardest time sorting out reality and illusion, sort of like Maddie when she eats too many Moon Pies.
Emily kept waving at me. “C’mon, Millie, hurry!”
I turned to my mother. She was studying the warning sign. “Aren’t you going?” I asked. Mom usually loves roller coasters.
“No, honey,” she said wistfully. “I think I’ll sit this one out this time. But you go right ahead.” She paused and then gave me a gentle nudge. “Go on.”
I looked over at Dad who had joined Emily. He was staring up at the top of the roller coaster. His jaw was slack. Every year he has talked of conquering Monstroso by holding his hands up in the air during the entire ride, just to show it who’s boss. He had yet to do it.
Emily was still waving frantically. “Hurry!” she shouted. She looked funny jumping up and down, like one of the targets at the shooting gallery.
To go or not to go. That was the question. Just then I saw some boys from Stanford’s basketball team. They were looking my way, and the carrot-topped one started doing a pitiful imitation of a chicken.
What if Stanford were here, I wondered. What if he were watching? I’d never hear the end of this. The carrot-topped boy began to squawk louder. Something about him made me feel uneasy. “Coming!” I shouted to Emily. “Wait up!”
