Miss You Love You Hate You Bye

by Abby Sher

  “Uh-huh,” I wheezed.

  “I really feel like this amazing little creature chose me,” she began. As she mused, I shut my eyes tight. Partly because they were burning and partly because I thought if I could just listen I’d hear my old friend. My sister-from-another-mother. My rock. Zoe’s voice was always so husky and clipped. She said what she meant and she meant what she said. She dared me to be bigger and wilder too. That’s why I’d admired and adored her for most of our lives.

  But even her voice sounded false now. It dipped and swirled as if she were following some melody I’d never heard before.

  “Pepe le Meowsers,” she serenaded. “In a world full of pain and uncertainty, will you be my pussyyyyy … cat?”

  Pepe loved this line. He meowed on cue.

  “Meeeooow!” Zoe chimed in, cackling with glee. The two of them sang over each other, louder and louder. As the cat licked Zoe’s mouth, her nostrils, her dark silky hair. The cat was perfectly in tune with her too. Something I could never pull off when we sang together.

  Which is why maybe I might have sort of fantasized about wrapping my itchy palms around that feline neck and squeezing until it all just stopped.

  Now it’s 9:55.

  (Cuz, of course, had to stop writing for

  “Morning Musings” Group.)

  Okay, maybe hate is too harsh a word.

  Despise? Abhor? Fiercely repelled by?

  (I know, a preposition at the end of the sentence is a no-no, right? You were always the greater grammarian, Hanky-Panky.)

  Speaking of your superior brain …

  Pop quiz!

  When did you decide to abandon me like that?

  a. Yesterday.

  b. Today, with a side of tomorrow.

  c. It’s been so long I don’t remember.

  d. I still love you more than life itself.

  e. Sorry, I think you have the wrong Hank.

  But seriously, betrayal takes a long time to plan. Was it a gradual realization or more of a sudden epiphany?

  Speaking of epiphanies, there are three girls on my floor here who blacked out from starvation. Lucky ducks.

  Coulda.

  Woulda.

  Shoulda.

  I know that sounds horrific to you, but the way they describe it sounds absolutely dreamy to me. They are pitifully small and covered in that malnourished-person body fur and here’s the honest truth (even though you don’t deserve truth from me): I’m so freaken jealous.

  They hit that glorious rock-bottom moment.

  That clear and definitive sign in the road that says

  DO NOT ENTER.

  That’s all I wanted, really. I just wanted to faint or qualify as a crisis in some way. I really still fantasize about all the lights going out and maybe some thick straps pinning me down by the wrists.

  Especially in the middle of a BodybyBernardo class.

  With all those ladies clucking and sweating around me. Alli would probably shit herself.

  Ha!

  But you couldn’t even let me have that moment, Hank.

  You just had to step in and “save the day,” huh?

  None of this is pretty, Hank.

  You are not pretty.

  I am not pretty.

  Fuck pretty.

  Even the word sounds airbrushed and unattainable. Isn’t it hilarious that right by the checkout counter with all the hangry impulse-buy candy bars, you can get those tabloids with the horrifying pictures of Lady Gaga’s boobs falling or some Moroccan princess caught on film in a bikini with stretch marks?

  Because it’s so scandalous and unacceptable to grow.

  I didn’t do all this to be pretty, by the way.

  It was never about being pretty.

  Well, then what was it about? you ask.

  A fine question, my fair ex-friend. And one that every doctor, nurse, and counselor keeps lining up to ask. If I ever have an answer, I’ll let you know.

  Actually, that’s another lie. I don’t feel like I’ll be telling you anything anytime soon.

  But if you have something to say to me—maybe something that rhymes with

  I’m florry, or

  I’m snorry…?

  Well, you know where I’ll be for the next eon.

  Seriously, they don’t even let us know how many pounds we have to gain or how many self-affirmations we have to chant before we can get out.

  This place SUCKS MY NOT-EVEN-THAT-SKINNY WHITE ASSSSSSS.

  Yours till the kitchen sinks!

  Xoxo,

  Zoe

  CHAPTER 2

  most blustiferous, indeed

  “Alli! Stop trashing his stuff!” Zoe bellowed, kicking open the back door. “You know you’re gonna regret it.” As I trailed behind her, she turned around and winked to make sure I was listening. Which I always was. There was something magnetic and terrifying about the way Zoe spoke to her mom. Always calling her by her first name and treating her like she was going to get detention. Alli looked thrilled to see us though.

  “Oh, hello, girls!” she sang. “Hello, hello! To the girls I love so!”

  Alli didn’t know how to just talk. She was constantly veering into a new tune or making sure her every word rhymed. She simply couldn’t help it—she’d been in musical theater for such a long time. That’s how she and Zoe’s dad had met—on some tour of the Midwest where she played Belle the Beauty and he was the baddest Beast in town. They fell in love the first day of rehearsals. Travis had a young wife back in Michigan, so it took a little while for him to disentangle from that. (Alli had told me a few times that she “refused to be the other woman.”) By closing night of their show together, Alli was pregnant with Zoe. She moved back to New Jersey to be near her parents and soon secured her Beast a job with her daddy’s insurance company. Travis put a ring on her finger exactly a week before Zoe popped out, and they all lived happily ever after.

  Sort of.

  Alli had a lot of bright memories of being on the road and hearing standing ovations that eclipsed her humdrum today. She often referenced an agent who wanted her to spread her wings and some trip to LA that was forever being postponed. She always ended that story with her favorite self-composed ditty:

  “Cuz I traded in my dreams for a minivaaaan.”

  Today she was filling up that minivan with what looked like the last decade of her life. Milk crates filled with vases and frames. An espresso machine that looked powerful enough to launch a rocket.

  “Oh, Hannah, what a mess, right? I mean, I cannot believe this, can you?”

  I actually did believe it. I had spent most of the past decade over at Zoe’s house. I knew when to stay in Zoe’s bedroom because Alli and Travis were clinking glasses and hooting in the den. I also knew when to get under Zoe’s bed and turn up her stereo because Alli and Travis were fighting about money and being responsible and the price of being a true artist. It was a little like going to the zoo—sickly fascinating and yet I always felt like they were both trapped in either an epic battle or a game of kissy-face tag. Over the years, I’d heard a few vicious phrases repeatedly, like:

  You’re pathetic.

  You act like you’re the only one sacrificing around here.

  And even:

  You think everything is a musical, don’t you?!

  Which seemed to be the biggest insult possible in their house.

  “I mean, you plan, and you dream, and you believe in looooove…,” Alli warbled now, though it devolved into more of a moan than a melody. She was stunning, even in distress. Her blond hair had been chopped into a defiant pixie style and she was decked out in a lavender Lycra workout ensemble that had lots of straps. The smudge of dirt on her brow looked possibly preplanned.

  “Hello?” Alli asked me and Zoe. We’d both been too busy looking at the packed-up belongings to give her the attention she needed. I felt a little embarrassed for her as she let two sparkling tears tip over the edge of her bottom lids without so much as a blink. I almost thought she
was daring me to wipe them away for her. When I didn’t, she opened her arms and pulled me into a dank hug.

  “I mean, I guess the silver lining is, it can’t get any worse, right?” Again, I knew silence would be the best response I could give. And five more sneezes, since her size-two stretch pants were coated in cat hairs.

  “Alli,” Zoe interrupted. “I need you to take Pepe inside. I don’t trust him all alone, and we need some fresh air. Hank’s allergic.”

  “No!” yelped Alli. “Is that true?” She broke away from me and searched my itchy eyes for an answer. It was pretty obvious that I wasn’t lying, so I just coughed.

  “It’s all good though,” Zoe assured her. “Looks like you could use a break. Plus, I need some one-on-one time with my girl and you have to feed this sweet little beast.” She mushed her nose into the kitten’s, ringed his face with kisses, and then slung him around her neck as if he were a calico stole.

  Alli made a grimace. “Please do not call him Beast,” she said in a woeful grumble.

  “Oops, sorry,” said Zoe, shoving the cat into her mom’s arms.

  Then, although she was only a few steps away, Zoe took a running start before hurtling herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck and dangling like a medallion. She’d always been ridiculously small and buoyant. I picked up her ropy legs and she locked them swiftly around my waist. I marveled at how Zoe could propel herself into my arms and know she’d be caught. Sometimes she came out of nowhere and I only knew to prepare as she appeared midair. I prided myself on the fact that I had only dropped her once. (We were in a bouncy house at the time.)

  “Hanky-Panky Puddin’ Pie!

  I love you so, and do you know why?”

  Zoe had come up with this routine probably in first grade, and even though I protested, she knew I still adored it.

  “Cuz you’re kind and you’re bright.

  You dance like a sprite.

  You’re musical. You have no fear.

  I especially love the freckle on the side of your ear!”

  She tried to switch up my winning attributes each time, punctuating every phrase with a smacky kiss on my lips.

  “Well, you are—” I began.

  But Zoe cut me off. “Hup!” She clamped a warm palm over my mouth to shut me up. “Just let me love you, pleeeeease?” Nestling her head onto my shoulder. I closed my eyes to imprint this moment into my memory-scape. I really had missed Zoe these past two months. Whenever she was in my arms and I could smell her hot, sugar-free-Bubblemint breath, the whole world felt easier to me.

  “You girls are too much,” I heard Alli say sadly. “I wish I had friends like that.”

  Zoe slid off me and spun around to face her mom. “Listen! Enough with the pity parade. You’re gorgeous. You’re vibrant. And you currently teach two very popular Pilates classes. Now, I haven’t seen Hank all summer, so give us some space, would you please?”

  “I’m sorry. You’re right,” Alli said with her head bowed. “But does that mean you’re going off and leaving me all alone?” she whined.

  “You’re a big girl,” Zoe replied. “And we’ll just be out here in the backyard. Now go play with Pepe so I can tell Hank how you and Dad ruined my life.”

  Alli gasped.

  “Kidding!” Zoe shouted. “Oh! And I posted the video to YouTube, Insta, and catlife dot whatever, but if you want to put it on Meowser’s account, go ahead.”

  Alli looked like she was going to tear up again. “I’m from the last century, remember? I don’t know how to download videos. Or is it upload? You see?” She turned to me for backup.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t know how to do most of that stuff either,” I told her.

  “Forget it. I’ll do it for you in a few minutes,” said Zoe, waving her mom away. “Just let me talk to Hank, will ya?”

  Zoe and I stayed facing each other—eyes locked—until we heard the screen door open and clatter shut.

  “Ladies and gentlepeople, that was the ever-daring, ever-emotive thespian Allison Sinclair!” Zoe griped. She spread her arms wide and faked the roar of a crowd. I started to laugh with her but got distracted by three more raw-looking scratches, these ones inside Zoe’s pasty biceps. Plus, now that we were standing without a cat between us, I could tell that those were definitely her polka-dotted short shorts from first grade. There was a chocolate stain on the edge from when we went out for peanut butter parfaits after the recital. And almost a decade later, she not only fit into them but her tiny legs looked like Popsicle sticks below.

  Zoe caught me staring and stuck her tongue out at me.

  “What are you looking at?” she asked.

  “You. What are you looking at?” I wanted to sound confident, but I knew I didn’t.

  “You.” She smirked. “Plus, the sun turning this ferocious pink-purple-orange rainbow-sherbet color. It’s like a crazy halo around your head, lighting you up like some magical Medusa. Only, it also makes me see how the days are getting shorter and the nights are getting longer, the summer is ending, and we’re never gonna be kids again even if we invented a time machine, which we can’t, so we won’t, so yeah. That’s what I’m looking at.”

  This was another reason I was in awe of Zoe. She could name and mash together all these images and emotions into one rollicking, run-on sentence. She was never at a loss for words or clogged up and confused like me. I often wished I’d thought to record Zoe’s random bits of poetry because she could never repeat them or even admit that what she said was in some way remarkable.

  In fact, by the time I repeated, “Magical Medusa?” she was scrambling up her old jungle gym. Of course I followed, though I had to fold myself like an accordion to get onto the pirate ship platform on top.

  “Aaaargh,” she growled. “’ Tis a blustery blustoon out there, matey.”

  “Most blustiferous, indeed, Captain,” I replied.

  “Yet fear not!” Zoe turned to me and took my face in her hands. “Though the waters may blust, we will prevail!”

  “Prevail we must!”

  “We must increase our blust!”

  She honked one of my boobs and slipped down the slide.

  “Did you get my letters?” I asked when she climbed up to the platform again.

  I had sent her five handwritten letters and a batch of homemade peanut butter cookies. Even though she had warned me that she probably wouldn’t write back—she hated writing, especially when we were out of school.

  “Aye, aye!” Zoe barked.

  “And did you get to go to the Crab Shanty?” That was her grandpa’s favorite spot for dinner, and every time I visited, we went there for fried clams.

  “But of course!” Zoe said. “Almost every night.”

  I sucked in a deep inhale before trying my not-so-subtle segue. “Did you … eat?” I asked. “Because you look super-skinnimous to me.”

  “Ugh, really?” Zoe snorted. Her eye roll was audible. I knew this was never the way to get an honest reaction from her, but I had to ask. Last year, while her parents were caught up in the cyclone known as themselves, Zoe had lost all this weight. She’d sworn to me repeatedly that she wouldn’t become one of those girls who only ate lettuce leaves and air. Sauntering by the public pool in their size-zero bikinis and snapping at each other hangrily. But this summer had obviously been a game changer.

  She looked like a pocket-size version of her former self.

  “Thanks a lot, Hank,” she said. “You know, this has been the absolute worst summer of my life and I need you to just be my BFF…”

  She lost track of where she was, so I picked it up. “AETI.”

  Which stood for Best Friends Forever And Ever To Infinity. We had a pact of BFFAETI-hood that we’d composed and decorated with smelly stickers soon after meeting. It was buried under the footpath leading to We Make Happy Dry Cleaners in town.

  “Yeah,” Zoe said. “Probably need to dumb it down for Miss Dumbass over here.”

  “You’re not dumb,”
I told her.

  “But I do have ADHD,” she replied. “The results are in! Alli made me go to another therapist out on the shore and they put me on some new attention-enhancing pill, which I swear makes me bloated, and I still can’t get through The Great Gatsby. So if you really think I’m skinnier, you need glasses.”

  Then she bugged her eyes out at me and started to nibble on my shoulder through my T-shirt sleeve.

  “Ow!” I blurted.

  “Really?” she said, before slipping down the slide again and kicking a deflated soccer ball.

  “Just … surprised me is all,” I said, scooting down the slide. I didn’t need glasses. I just needed my best friend back. I felt like my skin was stinging. Like everything about Zoe was too manic. It wasn’t just the whiskers and revealing outfit. It was the whole package. As if she’d rearranged her five nose freckles or taken out all her teeth and put in new, sharper ones. Even her cobalt eyeliner looked darker and more extreme.

  Zoe began scaling up the slide, vaulting herself onto a plastic swing, then dribbling the crushed soccer ball around the yard. It wouldn’t go very far though, so most of her kicks just made muddy pockmarks.

  “Good thing Alli’s calling in a landscaper, huh? You know, she wants to redo the kitchen and then sell this place for a bazillion dollars so we can move to LA and she can do a one-woman show about her wrecked marriage.”

  “Wait—what?”

  “Don’t worry. It’ll never happen.”

  “But why?”

  Zoe chuckled bitterly. Then she blew a bubble with her gum and chomped into it with a snap.

  “Well, children,” she said in a clipped tone. “When a husband and wife decide that they can no longer cohabitate, communicate, or stop screwing their creative headhunter Roxanne—”

  “Are you sure it was—”

  “They often proceed to a little place called Divorce Court. Divorce Court costs a lot of money. More money than even a new dolly. Isn’t that sad?” She paused just long enough to droop her face into an exaggerated frown before continuing. “It’s really sad. Especially because Roxanne has fake boobs and a whiny voice and Travis forgot to put his savings in the piggy bank. Which makes him the biggest dickwad in the history of dickwads.”