by Abby Sher
“Zoe!” I begged. “What does this have to do with anything?”
“Right,” Zoe continued giddily. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, this is when we get to the part with you, which I hope…”
Here she paused to take a deep inhale, forcing out a smile as bright as a billboard. When she breathed out, I felt a cloud of her sugar-free-Bubblemint breath shimmering around me. “Hank, he wants to represent the Pussycat Warriors!”
“The whocat whats?” I asked.
“That’s us!” she yipped.
“Huh?”
I was so bewildered and tense. I was not looking forward to Zoe’s explanation.
“I mean, I had to come up with a name right there on the spot so I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but I feel like this is what we always talked about doing, right?”
“I don’t know what it is we’re doing,” I admitted. “Please, just start from the beginning again.”
“A very good place to staaaaaart,” sang Zoe. She waited for me to recognize the tune or applaud, but I couldn’t muster either of those. So she jumped back into her account.
“First of all, he loved the video. Loved it. And then he said, ‘Do you have any other music?’ And I was like, ‘Well, I have this band…’ And then of course, Alli was like, ‘You do?’ And I said, ‘Yes, Mom. I do.’”
“What band?” I had to ask.
“Our band!” she said. “The Pussycat Warriors! See, this is what I’m trying to tell you! I think you’re so talented on the piano, Hank. I mean, you played at Carnegie Hall! Which I also told him—”
“No.”
“Yes! But here’s the thing. He was like, ‘Music is where it’s at right now. And this industry is moving fast. Especially teen bop.’”
“Teen bop?”
“Teen pop? I’m not sure exactly how he said it, but I told him we could make really teen-boppy stuff and we would show him one of our music videos this week.” She must’ve seen my face turn all kinds of angry because she stopped herself and said, “Or next week is fine.”
“How the hell are we gonna…?”
“Please???” Zoe took both my hands and pressed them to her chest. I could feel her heart thumping so frantically underneath. Like it was pleading.
“But…”
“I know,” said Zoe. “It’s the stupidest idea ever, but it can be really simple. Just piano and vocals, like a hip-hop ballot—”
“You mean ballad?”
“Exactly!” she said, raising herself up and down on her toes. She could literally never stand still. “Oh, thank you, Hank! Thank you thank you you’re the bestest ever.”
I had never said yes. But I also hadn’t said no. This was always how it went with Zoe. She was so brash and reckless. So close to euphoria or disaster at every turn. I could never catch up to where she was headed next or what wild vision she was following.
And yet I adored her. I couldn’t live without her. She really was my best and only friend at this point. Sad but true, I had let most of my other friendships fizzle out around third grade. I even told my sweet neighbor Maribeth that I “didn’t have time for other relationships” because Zoe and I were “serious BFFs” and I had to concentrate exclusively on her. Maribeth still lived just across the wooden fence around my backyard, but we hadn’t spoken in more than five years. I wondered what kind of smoke-inhalation damage I could get from burned bridges.
Zoe framed my face in her hands and shook me a little. “Hey, if you don’t want to do it, I get it,” she said in a hushed voice. “I know I’m kinda forcing you. But it’s only because I believe in us. You are an incredible musician, Hank. You know that, right?”
Now my heartbeat was the one battering away. The only things vaguely tethering me to earth were Zoe’s cool palms. If I’d thought it through, I would have realized she hadn’t heard me play piano in years. No one close to me had. But I wanted to trust her so badly.
“And who knows?” Zoe went on, petting my hair tenderly. “Maybe this agent can actually get us some money! Did I tell you the Meowsers video is already number three on CatLife.com and number eighteen on FelineFanatics?”
I really wanted to know who the other seventeen were ahead of her, but I resisted asking.
“Girls, it’s after ten thirty, and this is not the way to start your school year,” my mom called. I could hear her coming down the stairs and I knew she’d be pissed.
Zoe pulled me back in though. Her face so close, our noses were touching. “I mean, we have to, right?” she urged. “This is it! This is what we’ve been waiting for!”
Then she kissed me so tenderly just next to my ear and whispered, “Pleeeeaaaase,” before pulling open our back door and skipping out into the night.
“Make sure to look in your pocket!” she added as she ran down the deck stairs.
Somehow, someway—probably while she was wooing me with her musical compliments and cuddling—Zoe had slipped one of her little drawings into my hoodie pocket.
“Hannah—NOW,” growled Mom as I unfolded the scrap of lined paper.
It was two stick figures with bulbous eyeballs. One had a nest of corkscrew hair (me) and the other had a ponytail made of slashes (her). I locked the door and turned out the deck light. I could still see the blue glow of Zoe’s phone fading into our backyard. I tried to refold the note and was tucking it away again when I noticed the scrawled heart on the other side.
In ballpoint pen beneath, Zoe had written, H, you are my FPOE. xoxo, Z.
There was no moon to help me find her out there now. The backyard was a pool of empty dark.
FPOE? I texted.
Favorite. Pussy. On. Earth, she wrote back.
Best Friends Forever and Ever to Infinity
**Addendum**
When in the course of not-so-friendly-yet-human events, it becomes necessary for one friend to dissolve the suffocating bands that have connected her with the other, she shall do so. Preferably in private and not with a captive audience. Plus, some warning would be nice.
Heretofore and forthwith, We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all people are created equal— fat, thin, short, tall, round, skinny, obnoxiously pretty. At least that’s what they tell me. What’s clear is that we all have feelings. And we all know how to hurt—each other and ourselves.
So we the people declare this friendship null and void.
CHAPTER 7
commuter’s paradise
“Is that a crack in your windshield or are you just happy to see me?” Gus said as we waited outside Zoe’s house the next morning.
“Ferreals?! HOT RIC, what happened?”
It was pretty minuscule, up in the far-right corner and tripping downward in five small tentacles. Still, between the parking lot misdemeanor yesterday and this glinting fissure, it felt like my stint at car ownership was not going well so far.
“What do you do for a crack?” I asked.
Gus laughed. “You really want me to answer that?”
I’d forgotten how sweet my little brother’s smile was, especially since he’d gotten his braces off last summer.
“What?” he said now, scowling at me a little. I guess I was staring—or really, squinting—at his face. There was a small tide of pink bumps along his upper lip this morning. I’d seen a disposable razor on the shelf in our shower but hadn’t thought about why it was there.
“Hey, did you do that because of what happened yesterday?” I asked. I really hoped Zoe hadn’t made him feel compelled to shave.
“Do what?”
“Ya know…” I pointed below my own nose to explain. Gus just stared at me blankly.
So I tried to make a conversation detour, turning it back on myself. “I mean, I should do something about this ’stache sitch, huh?” I twirled some imaginary handlebars for comedic effect. “I did bleach at the beginning of the summer, but it feels like I need to invest in some longer-lasting procedures. Like, maybe they have a special turtle wax that I can use on both the car and my body…
”
“Huh,” was all Gus said.
“Gettin’ a little Schmekel-y, I’d say,” I tried.
At least that got a semi-chuckle out of him.
Gus used to find me hilarious. Or at least that’s how I like to remember us. Even before Dad died and Mom retreated into her coat, Gus and I took care of each other. We made each other laugh. We constructed huge couch forts and put on elaborate shows that involved way too many costume changes. My favorite one being Rebbe Schmekel and His Burning Bush.
I was Rebbe Schmekel, with a long gray beard that dangled in straggly tufts. It fit around my head with a rubber band and a chip clip for sizing and somehow smelled like wet dog, but I loved it. I stooped forward just like our real rabbi and proclaimed, “I am the rabbi. I come from Mount Sinai. Let us praaaay.”
Then Gus jumped out from behind our brown corduroy couch and yelled, “A burning bush!” which launched us into Gus’s song:
A burning bush ooh ooh
It is so hot hot hot
It is so burning burning burning
Where did it come from? Nobody knows!
But it’s still burning whoa whoa!
Gus’s dancing was truly the highlight—he was born knowing how to do impossible things like the worm and a slithering spin. Mom and Dad always went berserk, clapping and hooting when we were done.
Rebbe Schmekel stuck around for a good year or so. Whenever I had playdates from grade school, I’d ask if we could play dress up. If anyone was willing, I showed them my purple tutu and Wonder Woman shield, my Jedi mask and drippy fake jewels. Then, at the last minute, I reached under my dresser and unfolded the special empty pillowcase where I kept my Schmekel beard. I tried to always say something flippant like, “Huh? Where’d this come from?” before sliding the elastic over my head and assuming my slouched posture. It was a good friend-vetting process—Zoe was the only one who ever asked for more of “the Schmekel guy.” She put on one of my dad’s humongous cardigans and pretended to be Schmekel’s best friend, Syd. Her Jewish accent was horrible though.
We never formally retired the Schmekel routine. It was more that once I saw our real rabbi giving my dad’s eulogy and then slumping away from the open grave, I didn’t see anything fun or funny about him anymore. I was furious that this stooped, withered geezer was still hobbling around, blessing the birds and the bees, life and death and the mystery of it all, while my dad lay lifeless in a box underground.
Also, the sad truth is, I abandoned Schmekel. And Gus, for that matter. Whenever he asked me to rehearse or even put on my disheveled beard, I told him I had other stuff to do. Like baking pink cupcakes with Zoe or planning my sleepover outfits with Zoe or finishing my homework so I could go over to Zoe’s house.
I didn’t do it intentionally. But I did it nonetheless. And now I had to admit that my little brother was growing up. With or without me.
* * *
At 7:47, he leaned his head out the open window and shouted at Zoe’s house, “Helloooooo? Anybody home? First bell’s gonna ring in just a few!”
“Is it?” I asked.
Not that I was actually surprised. I’d been watching the clock just as closely as Gus, but I thought maybe if I acted like it was no biggie, he could take it less seriously too. It was obvious from the empty driveway and the darkened windows that Zoe and her mom were not home. We’d been idling there for close to fifteen minutes now. I’d already texted and called Zoe multiple times. No response.
“Could we maybe just wait two more minutes before giving up?” I asked Gus.
He grunted something that resembled agreement, then busied himself with rechecking his backpack for the right textbooks and school supplies.
Yes, my brother was a little fanatical about being prepared and on time to everything. Or really, five minutes early, which I found somewhat endearing. Only, with Zoe ten minutes late to everything, I often felt pulled into two different time zones.
Zoe wasn’t late, exactly. It was more that she crammed five thousand activities into each hour. Case in point—this morning. My phone started chiming now. First it was a post from Alli—a picture of her and Zoe at the gym with some man who looked like he was made entirely of tendons. Below it read:
Thank you @RealBodyBernardo for humbling me with his Booty Camp Challenge. My badass teen came too! #betterthanever #mommydaughterbadassery #totestwinsies
Then I got a picture from @Mr.Meowsersz that was his face surrounded by a flock of flushed women and Soul Trainer bikes.
Meowowow! was his caption.
And under it, @RealBodyBernardo weighed in with, Help! I’m surrounded by the hottest ladies on earth!
Luckily, Gus didn’t see any of these updates. If he did, I knew he’d have some choice words about the fact that Zoe was making us late so she could get in a predawn workout. Really, they were the same words that I was wrestling with in my brain. Only I was too wimpy to admit it.
“You know, she just has a lot going on right now. With her parents and—wait, did I tell you that she and I got representation?”
“Who and what are you talking about?” Gus said.
“Zoe. And me! Starting a band.”
“Okay … and what does that mean?”
“Good question! Yeah, I’m not totally sure, but it’s exciting, right? We’re supposed to make a music video and you’re welcome to sing or dance in it. And apparently this agent really wants to see our stuff like, in the next week.”
“That’s great,” Gus said in a dull monotone.
“Yeah, it’s…”
Gus’s watch announced that we were now officially late for the first bell. I could feel his frustration smoldering. I just didn’t know how to bail on Zoe without her being mad too.
“Okay!” I said with forced brightness. “Let’s get going, shall we?” I gritted my teeth and texted Zoe an overcomplicated explanation of how my brother was struggling with this transition to high school and I needed to get him there immediately but if she still needed a ride I could loop back around and skip first period and how maybe in the future we should check in with each other’s schedules the night before so there could be clearer communication about morning transportation routines.
Zoe texted back instantly:
No worries hott mama! Luv u madly!
No apology or justification. Only poor spelling and an emoji of a cat blowing kisses.
“Yes! Yes! Seven minutes till the second bell. We can do this, yo!” I gunned the motor and heard HOT RIC’s gears scrape and whine.
“Hank, I think you’re in neutral,” Gus said.
“Of course I am. I knew that. Just testing you. Gotta be ready for your permit. When do you sign up for Driver’s Ed anyway? I should take you for a test drive!” My babbling couldn’t distract either of us from the fact that we made it precisely a block and a half before getting sucked into the daily parade of minivans that dropped off at the train station.
“Seriously?” Gus fumed.
Our town was “a commuter’s paradise” according to all the real estate agents and news anchors in the tristate area. Which sounded like an oxymoron to me, but I guess it kept our property values high and meant that on most weekday mornings we had a line of cars wrapping around the park.
Again, I attempted to redirect Gus’s attention though I picked the absolute worst topic for conversation.
“So that lockdown thing. Is that still bothering you?”
“Nah,” answered Gus.
“I mean, cuz you said you asked Mr. Teller about procedures…”
“Yeah, I just wanted some clarity.”
“Okay, well, if you ever want to talk about it. Or … yeah.”
We sank back into silence as the knot of traffic around us kept expanding.
“How about any fun people in your classes?” I asked.
“I guess.”
“Some mildly inspiring teachers?”
“Sure.” Gus wasn’t making this any easier. I could tell by the way his feet were j
ittering that he was losing his cool.
“Hey. Gus.”
“Yeah?”
“No, you’re supposed to say, Hay is for horses,” I instructed.
“I am?”
“Yeah. Remember, Dad taught us that.”
“Oh … yeah.” I couldn’t tell whether he actually remembered or was just humoring me so I’d shut up. Either way, it made me feel even crankier. I didn’t understand how Gus could forget vital information like this and I had no idea how to shove these memories back into his brain.
“Forget it. How about this weekend, while Mom’s on her wilderness adventure, we watch the entire Star Wars series again?”
The last I checked, Gus still had five Star Wars posters in his room, and last year he’d written an English paper on the symbolism of Yoda’s grammar. I always admired how passionate he felt about this alternate universe and defending Darth Vader’s inner turmoil.
“Um, well, I kinda thought you were hanging out with Zoe, so I made some plans.”
“Oh right. Uncle Ricky. I’m sure he’d be fine if you canceled.”
“No, I’m also doing something with some friends.”
“That’s awesome! What friends?” I didn’t intend it to sound that loud and condescending, but Gus obviously heard it that way.
“Just … from choir,” he muttered.
I was determined to get him back and show him how truly happy I was for him. Since I obviously wasn’t finding the right words to express it, I turned on the Star Wars theme music and sang along in a strong vibrato. (Of course, there are no lyrics to the Star Wars theme music, so I used the word balls.)
Gus flashed me an I’m-more-irked-than-amused grin, but at least it was something. I started my Star Wars playlist again and tried drawing Gus in to our game of favorite quotes:
