[deep breath]
Okay! This story is making me really, really sad, so let’s wrap it up.
Have you ever had an amazing friend like that? Have you ever BEEN one? Or have you ever danced in a parade—for Memorial Day or any other time? Serena says having a friend like that is the best—and being a friend like that is the bomb. But losing a friend like that . . .
Don’t let it happen, right?
[deep breath]
That’s my story, and I’m out.
9
Moodopoly
AN HOUR AGO, I had been so, so excited to spend the day with JC, just the two of us, for the first time since I’d gotten better. Now, I squeezed my eyes shut, so I wasn’t tempted to glare holes in my best friend’s head.
The website Mom read says transplant recipients are bored and emotional sometimes during recovery. She said that it’s my job to help JC by modeling an attitude that is positive and upbeat. Mom said she read somewhere that transplant patients need understanding from friends and family most of all.
Mom hasn’t tried playing Monopoly with JC Gerardo, is all I’m saying.
“JC, why are you taking money out of the bank again?”
“Uh, duh.” JC sounded snarky and bored. “You get money when you hit Free Parking.”
Now my eyes widened in disbelief. “Uh, no you don’t! Free Parking is not a thing. Nobody gets money just for hitting a square, unless it’s passing Go or somebody lands on their hotel. That’s what the rule book says; that’s how you play.”
Now JC was the one glaring, her face splotched with color. “I wouldn’t have gotten it from the bank, except nobody’s had to pay taxes. Once we pay taxes, we take it from the middle of the board.”
“What?”
JC sighed. “It’s only seventy-five dollars, Serena. Jeez.”
I threw up my hands. “But that’s NOT how you play! Taxes go to the BANK like they do IN REAL LIFE. Nobody, like, just gets everyone’s tax money because they land on a lucky parking spot.”
JC blinked. “Yeah, they do, maybe you’ve heard of the LOTTERY, Serena? Jeez, I don’t even know why I play with you!”
I blew out an angry breath and threw down my top hat. “We don’t have to play, JC.”
JC threw down the rubber duck—the best piece, which she always hogged—and glowered back. “Fine.”
“Fine.” I exhaled, trying hard to blow out my temper. JC was grumpy sometimes, and she said it was because of her period. But I had my period now—finally!—and I knew not everybody acted mean and snippy during their Lady Days. Sometimes I thought JC just felt like being mean.
I took three deep breaths. I reminded myself that JC probably wasn’t feeling good, and that she has been my best friend since the day she asked me to eat lunch with her in the fourth grade, and that best friends forgive each other . . . even when one of them is being completely ridiculous and making up rules like she’s the High Queen of board games.
After the last breath was blown out, I tried a quieter voice. “So, I’m over Monopoly. What do you want to do now, JC?”
Unfortunately, JC hadn’t blown out her temper. “I don’t know, Serena. Maybe I just want people to come to my house and play a stupid game with me without having a big stupid drama about it.”
My jaw dropped, and I sucked in a breath to yell—and remembered. Best friend. She’s my best friend, and she’s sick and bored and feels retchy, and best friends forgive each other. I swallowed hard, choking down my angry words. “Okay. Look, JC, I know—”
“NO, YOU DON’T, SERENA,” JC exploded. “You think you know. That’s your problem.”
What? “I—”
“And you think you know everything,” JC shrilled. “Even though I’m the one who gets poked with needles every day, I’m the one who has to have blood tests and all of these pills, all the time, for weeks and months and years. And I’m the one with the headaches and the back pain. I’m the one who has to be nice to all the nurses when I’m sick of needles and blood tests or else they’ll all think I’m a big baby. You only think you know what it’s like!”
I felt my shoulders hunching.
Every word JC said felt like she was a balloon blowing up bigger . . . and bigger. The more she yelled, the more room she took up, until there wasn’t any room left for me.
Mrs. Gerardo appeared in the doorway and looked at both of us, her forehead wrinkled.
JC kept going, her voice colder and louder. “But I’m the one who can’t go outside, or my nanay freaks and wants to make me wear a mask—even if I’m just walking in the YARD by MYSELF, and it’s not like the air is poisonous. I’m the one with the pill that makes my stomach hurt, and the other stupid pill that makes my hands shake, and—”
“Jolynne,” JC’s nanay said firmly, pronouncing it like Jo-leen. “Take a breath, anak. Take a breath.”
JC huffed out a breath and glared. Her dark-brown eyes were filled with tears, and, when I looked, her hands were shaking.
“Do you want me to go home?” I said. I was shocked at how shaky my voice was.
“No,” snarled JC, but I didn’t believe her.
“Jolynne, go get your coat,” Mrs. Gerardo said to her daughter. “You have cabin fever again. Your tatay will take you girls for a ride.” At JC’s eye roll, her mother clapped her hands sharply twice. “Go now. You’ll feel better, and you’ll maybe stop yelling at poor Serena.”
“I’m fine,” I said, even though rocks were packed tightly in my stomach, and every one of JC’s words had punched me where a rock was. Was I acting like a know-it-all? Just because I didn’t let JC change the rules to the game? Was I being mean, or was she not being fair?
“It’s not fine,” Mrs. Gerardo corrected me, “but you’re a good girl, Serena.”
I didn’t feel good.
Sometimes, like now, it was exhausting to be JC’s best friend.
It was a car full of silent, sulking people that JC’s tatay drove down Highway 24 to Fish Ranch Road. Mr. Gerardo took the back roads from there, playing calm music on the stereo. He hummed. We didn’t. We didn’t talk, or even look at each other. I looked out my window, and JC looked out hers. Lately, we were always looking two different directions. No wonder we couldn’t see a way to get along anymore.
Earlier, it had been cloudy, but the sky was clearing a bit, and against the leftover clouds we could see the lights all the way down Wildcat Canyon, and farther out, the Bay, and the lights of the bridge crisscrossing the water. Normally, people drive to the top of Wildcat Canyon to watch the sunset. JC and I always went up there, but afterward, we would drive to Mineral Springs Park to ride the train, or feed the ducks, but of course, JC couldn’t. Instead, Mr. Gerardo drove us down the winding roads into the little corner of Noe Avenue where there was a Mitchell’s Ice Cream, and he asked us what we wanted.
I ordered a vanilla twirl soft-serve cone.
“Borrrrrrring,” JC muttered as she always did. I shrugged, feeling the pinch the word always brought. I was not boring. I wasn’t! I just liked what I liked. There was nothing wrong with that. There was nothing wrong with me.
JC ordered haluhalo, which is a Filipino dessert made of a bunch of things: white beans, evaporated milk, shaved ice, coconut, jackfruit, colored gelatin, and caramel flan . . . and a purple yam ice cream called ube.
“I’ve never had beans for dessert.” I very carefully did not make a face. I wasn’t going to yuck her yum.
“They’re cooked in sugar,” JC defended her choice. “It’s good.”
The kind of beans in haluhalo were good in lots of things, and jackfruit and flan are really, really sweet. I was sure all the ingredients tasted good . . . separately. I wasn’t sure I’d like them together at all. White beans and purple yam ice cream? No, thank you very much.
Mr. Gerardo got a mix of what JC and I had—vanilla ice cream and ube, with mango . . . and tapioca. Both of us made a face at that. While she’s getting better, JC’s not really supposed to eat sugar very muc
h, but Mr. Gerardo’s not supposed to eat any sugar.
Mr. Gerardo smiled at us conspiratorially, his round cheeks dimpling as he handed back our yogurt cups at the pickup window. “We don’t need to tell Nanay about this, do we, Jojo?”
JC looked at me, rolling her eyes. I smiled at her, a tiny bit.
We stopped at the park down the street to eat. Mr. Gerardo held out his bowl so JC could take a bite of his ice cream, and because it seemed like a polite thing to do, I held out my cone toward Mr. Gerardo. He shook his head and said no thank you.
“What about you, JC? Want a taste?” I offered, holding up the cone.
JC grimaced. Even though she always called my vanilla twirl boring, she’d never actually tasted it. I pulled the cone back with a tight shrug.
“Wait, I want to,” JC said quickly. “Just let me use my spoon.”
I turned my ice cream so JC could dip her spoon in to a place where my mouth hadn’t touched. Her expression as she tasted moved from determined to confused to surprised. “It’s pretty good,” she said through a mouthful. “Plain vanilla is not as boring as I thought. You should try some of this ube, though.”
“Okay,” I said. Maybe I would be surprised too. I tried not to wince as JC scooped a spoonful of bright-purple ice cream onto my cone. I popped it into my mouth, and a super sweet gush of cold creamy flavor flooded my tongue. I swallowed, eyes widening as I nodded. It was good. Purple yam ice cream kind of went with vanilla. Who knew?
We dug into our treats in silence, until JC said, “Sooo, about . . . Monopoly . . . Sorry, but we really do get the money from taxes and put it into the Community Chest in the middle.”
“Oh. Well . . . sorry, that’s not how we play, but not everyone uses the rule book, probably,” I said, trying to be fair. “Mom says Fallon and I can’t even play anymore, because if Fallon’s the banker, she totally cheats.”
“Tatay does that too!” JC complained.
“What? Me?” Mr. Gerardo exclaimed, and both of us laughed.
And just like that, our fight was over. JC kept talking as we left the park, pointing out an old car from the fifties with cute taillights, and people with matching Great Danes crossing toward the park. As we were nearly home, JC’s phone chirped. She looked at the screen, her face lighting up with a smile.
“Hey, Lani can come over! Tatay, would you mind driving by Lani’s house?”
My stomach dropped. We’d been having so much fun, talking and laughing, just like we had before her surgery. Why did JC need someone else right now, when we were having a good time? And she was asking her dad if he’d mind her going to Leilani’s. What if I minded?
“Um, actually, JC,” I hesitated, “I can’t stay. Mom wanted me to finish my vocabulary homework before she got home. Mr. Gerardo, you can just drop me off at the next block—I can walk from there.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Serena,” Mr. Gerardo said, meeting my eyes in the front mirror. “Girls who keep up with their homework get dropped off right at the door, like movie stars on a red carpet.”
“Tataaaay,” JC whined. “Stop making me feel guilty. I’m going to do my homework. I just don’t feel good right now.”
“Probably because you’ve got an ube sugar rush,” I teased.
“Ube makes you do homework faster,” JC shot back. “Just wait—I’m gonna be quick like lightning. I’m just choosing my moment, you know?”
“Ha-ha. Right.” I climbed out of the car in front of my house, wishing JC looked even a little sad that I couldn’t hang out with her and Leilani all afternoon. “So . . . have fun, I guess.”
“Have fun writing out your vocab definitions,” JC said, making a disgusted face.
“Yeah, it’ll be a party,” I joked. “Call me later?”
“Yep,” JC promised, eyes already on her phone. “Yay, Lani’s brothers are home!”
“Yay,” I said, waving as the Gerardos’ car pulled off toward Leilani’s street. With her eyes bright and her back straight, JC looked better already.
As my eyes took in the difference in the way JC looked, the loneliness that I’d just banished snuck back and curled up behind my ribs again. I wished I’d said something to JC about how much I missed us being us . . . but it seemed like it was already too late.
10
Twin Day Traitor
THE GOOFY MUSIC THAT signaled morning announcements blared from the TV behind Mr. Van’s desk on Tuesday morning. I looked up from doodling in my notebook as our class president, Erik Peterson, bellowed, “Aaaand, we’re live at eight-o-five! Good morning, it’s Tuesday. Welcome to morning announcements.”
Erik was way, way too hyped, and it was only Tuesday.
Today, Erik was reading the announcements wearing a red shirt and suspenders. Because the sixth-grade class officers had declared a monthly Tuesday Twin Day, down the aisle from me, Cameron Jones was wearing the exact same thing, even down to his hair, except his was brown and not blond. He was snickering like a dork every time Erik messed up, and since Erik was blushing and snickering every time he messed up himself, they truly were actually identical idiots right then. It was kind of funny, but kind of not. I was a loner on Twin Day . . . which meant I wasn’t exactly showing class spirit. But what was I supposed to do? You can’t, like, just twin with someone at the last minute.
At least other people were twinned with kids in 6B, so it didn’t look so noticeable that nobody was wearing my exact same outfit.
The eighth-grade girl with Erik—wearing a bright-pink anime wig—wrapped up the announcements with the usual Brigid Ogan script. “And finally, don’t forget our motto, Brigid Ogan: Be respectful, be responsible, and be kinder than necessary ’cause you’re the bomb. We hope you enjoyed the show. Signing off, I’m Sheila Khoury.”
“And I’m Erik Peterson. Thanks for tuning in to Brigid Ogan Middle School morning announcements. Stay classy, Brigid Ogan.”
The music came up again, with a montage of today’s birthdays, pictures of the student of the week, and various teachers in goofy poses. Harrison’s name showed up next to the little dancing cupcake gif, which means that the boy mutant giant is exactly a month and a week older than JC, and ten months older than I am—I don’t turn twelve till almost summer.
That reminded me that JC was planning her party already—it was the week before WinterFest, which was seven weeks and two days away. I wondered how her parents were going to make their usual huge party work, when JC had to be careful of germs.
“Happy birthday, Harrison!” Mr. Van told him, and several of my classmates chimed in. I opened my mouth to say something nice—or snarky—to Harrison, but then stopped, breath freezing in my throat.
The last image on the screen after morning announcements is of JC . . . and Leilani Camacho, in JC’s bedroom. JC’s thick black hair was in a shiny, bouncy side pony, just like Leilani’s. Both of them were wearing pink lip gloss, blue overalls, and red T-shirts and caps, like the video game plumber, Mario. Both of them were smiling, and JC held a sign that said, “Happy Twin Day!”
My stomach felt like it was shrinking into a ball of ice and lightning, burning me from the inside out. For a moment, I couldn’t even breathe.
The picture faded, but it felt like it had been burned onto my retinas. It wasn’t just their outfits that looked alike—it was everything. JC’s smile was wide enough to make her eyes squinch, and show her one dimple, and her braces-bracketed teeth. Her clear brown skin, snub nose, and smiley dark eyes were almost a perfect match for Leilani’s. Even their expressions were identical—high cheekbones and rounded cheeks framing that same smug smile. Leilani and JC even had figures—shapes and curves—that my own straight and flat body did not.
Now the burning in my stomach had moved up to my eyes and nose.
Weren’t we still friends? Even though JC had hung out with Leilani, why wouldn’t she think to 2Face me about Twin Day outfits?
She’d taken off the cap, but the overall straps looped over Leilani’s shoulders like l
anky denim snakes. She and JC must have come up with their twin idea Sunday afternoon . . . after Mr. Gerardo dropped me off at home.
JC and Leilani must have been planning their Twin Day outfits for days—long enough for Leilani to see what JC had in her closet, at least. If I’d gone to Leilani’s house, would they have asked me to dress up with them? Could I have been a toad or a princess or something? Or was I so boring that JC would have said that three was too many for Twin Day, and just asked me to hold the camera?
Was JC planning her birthday party with Leilani now?
Mr. Van was standing at the board, writing something down. Around me, everyone else was getting out their notebooks, but I couldn’t move.
Mr. Van was opening a window at the front of the classroom when he caught sight of me in my puffy blue coat. “Serena? You’re cold? Do you think you’re coming down with something again?”
I shook my head. “I’m fine,” I said, my voice in almost a whisper. But the truth was, even though it was sunny out, I was freezing. I pulled my coat closer. It felt like I might never get warm again.
SERENA|SAYS
What’s up, World? It’s Wednesday, and that means Serena Says STORYTIME!
So, Twin Day . . . was AWFUL, but Halloween is coming, and hopefully I’ll have a better costume moment then. But before Halloween comes Red Ribbon Week, which, like everything else at Brigid Ogan Middle School, is an Event. As the most important person on the Red Ribbon subcommittee, I decided that this year’s theme is “Tomorrow, Today.”
I came up with that just now, which is as much work as I’ve done on the whole thing.
So, people—Red Ribbon Week is all about the substance-free life . . . but did I ever tell you that the time I went to the mountains with Bibi and Poppy. Was. Not. Substance. Free? I KNOW, right? Drama!
I was really good at math and reading, so at the end of second grade, my teacher had me doing a lot of extra tests to see if I should skip third grade. While I was testing, my sister’s class in fifth grade had a huge puppy party with the sheriff’s department drug-sniffer dogs and ice cream, and these Drug-Free T-shirts and stuff. I was super jealous when Fallon told me about it! But then my grandparents came up for a visit, and I mostly forgot about it.
Serena Says Page 4
