BFF Breakup (8 page)

“Serious.”

“Maybe you can switch,” Susanna said. “You're two halls over from Madeline, right?” Brooke nodded yes and shoveled another bite of her chili in before the bell rang. “So ask whoever is below Madeline and whoever is below you, and see if one of them will swap. No one will ever know. It's not like they do checks.”

I was already nodding my head. It was a perfect idea. Score one for Susanna!

“We should totally do that,” I said, turning to Brooke. “I don't know who has the locker below me, but I'll find out. Who has the locker below yours?”

“Chris Meyers.”

There was a beat of silence at the table, and then we all burst out laughing. Really, how random was that?

“Well, I'm sure he'll be happy to move for us,” I said, because a guy as dorky as Chris Meyers would probably do anything for two decent-looking (if I do say so) girls like us.

Brooke gave us all a funny look. But then she said to me, “Disco.”

“What does that mean?” Susanna asked.

Brooke took another bite and said, “Nothing.”

Natalie said, “We really gotta go,” and stood up with her tray.

“See you around, Brooke,” Julia said.

Brooke worked double time to shovel in the rest of her food. It was kind of gross, actually.

Once she finished and we left the caf, we finally got to talk alone, even if we did have to walk kind of fast.

“So?” I asked her, bumping her shoulder and sending a little smile to her face.

“Ugh,” she responded.

“That bad?”

“Meh.”

“Are you going to say any real words?”

She looked at me and said, “You know exactly what I'm saying.” And I did. I knew just what she meant.

“I'm sorry you're having a bad day.”

“That's a good idea, swapping lockers,” she said. “Let's do that.”

“I can't believe Chris Meyers is by your locker.”

“Excuse me, it's Christopher now,” she said.

“Oh, well pardon,” I said, and we starting laughing—together—for the first time that day.

F
INALLY MY FIRST WEEK OF JUNIOR HIGH WAS
over. By Friday I pretty much had the paths to each of my classes down and my locker combo memorized. I did the locker switch with Madeline's neighbor—I ended up with a bottom after all, but it was still a good trade. Even though I hadn't made any new friends in my classes, a couple of people seemed not so horrible. Lily, the squeaky girl in my Foods class even said something to me on Thursday, although she was so quiet I couldn't understand her. I just smiled back.

So I survived after all! A mutiny of ninth graders didn't rise up and give me an atomic wedgie. I had to admit, it wasn't all that bad. Don't get me wrong—it was bad. It was
school
, after all. Even though I placed in one (count it, ONE!) advanced placement class (English), which by some standards means I'm somewhat smart, there was no need to go thinking that school wasn't
not
horrible. (See how smart I am? Double negative! Ms. Hendricks would be thrilled.)

To celebrate surviving our first week—and escaping any head-in-the-toilet debacles (and praising the end of those stupid jokes)—Madeline and I decided to have our first official sleepover as junior high students.

We usually stayed at her house. Frankly, it's a lot nicer than ours. It's part of a new development that my parents refuse to sellout to because, for some reason, they like our shack. I didn't mind having sleepovers at our house—my mom was known for making homemade goodies at a moment's notice—but Madeline's house just had more stuff. Bigger TVs, better food, a pool. It just became natural, I guess, to go there.

But Friday afternoon at our lockers she asked if we could go to my house instead of hers.

“How come?” I asked.

“My
mother,
” she said, with hearty of dash of ick.

“What's up with her?”

“She's always in a bad mood, which puts my dad in a bad mood, which of course puts all of us in a rotten mood. Like, just because she hates her promotion doesn't mean she has to make the rest of us miserable. I don't even want to be there when she gets home,” Madeline said. “I think they might split up.”

The look in her eyes said it all, that she was afraid of what might happen, but that things were miserable the way they were now. I felt awful for my friend.

“I'm sure it'll be okay,” I said, because what else could I say? The truth was, her parents probably would split eventually, but that didn't mean it wasn't terrible for her at home, living with that tension. Maybe things would be better if they split, more peaceful. “We'll stay at my house. Mom will have a heart attack of excitement when she gets to make us cookies and set out craft projects like we're still nine.”

That got a small smile from her, which was something at least.

After school, we ran up to Madeline's room, threw some things in her bag, then raced out the back door even though Madeline said, “It's not like she gets home before dinner, like, ever.” She'd called her dad from her cell on the drive home. He told her to have fun and they'd see her tomorrow.

In my room, I couldn't help but be happy to have her to myself for what felt like the first time all week. I was glad she'd made new friends, but I wasn't sure they were the type of girls I'd hang out with, which seemed weird. If Madeline liked them, and I liked Madeline, why wouldn't I like the people she liked? Something about them, especially Susanna, rubbed me the wrong way. Although, actually, I knew exactly what it was about Susanna: the way she teased me. It was getting old quick, and Madeline never seemed to notice.

But at the end of the day, just like always and just like it should be, it was me and Madeline. Just the two of us, 'cause that's how we rolled.

She dropped her bag on the floor and plopped onto my bed, upsetting the delicate balance of my stuffed animals. “So what should we do?” she asked.

I sat in the chair at my desk. “Gimme Mr. Keating.” She tossed me the hard-stuffed penguin.

“When are you going to retire that old guy?” she asked.

“Never! How dare you!” I covered his penguin ears so he couldn't hear her evil words.

“He's old! And so are you. It's a little freaky.”

I held him tightly and said, “No one needs to know about our love.” I looked at him with the most serious face I could manage and said, “They don't understand us, Mr. K.”

I made Mr. Keating dance on my thighs for a moment, then said, “You want to watch a movie? Or go to one? I might be able to swindle some cash from Mom.”

Madeline was staring at the wall and it took her a moment to focus after I had spoken. In answer, she shrugged her shoulders.

“Meh?” I asked.

“Meh,” she answered.

“TV?”

She wrinkled her nose.

“Prank calls?” She seemed to consider this. “We have lots of fresh meat with our new student directory.” I was the best at prank calls because I knew that the more serious you were about it, the funnier it was. Madeline always ruined it by laughing, even though that was funny too. “It'll be good study for your drama class.”

“Doubtful.”

“Well, then, what do you want to do?” If we were at her house we could have played with her brother's video games, hit the pool, or sat in the hot tub. There was nothing to do at my house.

Finally she said, “Cookies.”

“Cookies?”

“Yeah. Let's bake them. Aren't you the expert cook now?” She swung her legs off the side of my bed, and the
life came back into her eyes. I guess cookies will do that to a girl.

“You know, if we start, Mom is just going to butt in and make them, like, super chocolate fudge chunk or something.”

“God, Brooke, there are worse things than having your mom bake you cookies.” She stood up. “It's like you're living inside a family sitcom and you don't even realize it.”

I watched, stunned, as she stomped out my bedroom. I waited a moment for her to come back and tell me she was joking, but she didn't. I got up and went to find her.

She was in the kitchen with my mom, opening cabinets and pulling out flour, sugar, baking powder, and measuring spoons.

Mom clapped her hands and looked around the kitchen. “What do you girls think? I know we have chocolate chips and I think there's some M&M's in here too. . . .”

“Mom,”
I said, suddenly embarrassed that she was so . . . present. It made me feel like a baby. “Do you mind? We got it.”

She turned from the cabinet to look at me, and said, “Fine, fine.” She set down the chocolate chips and left the kitchen. I started helping Madeline get the rest of the ingredients out of the cabinets and refrigerator.

“You didn't have to be so mean,” she said.

I practically dropped the eggs on the table and said, “Mean to who?”

“Your mother,” she said. “She was just trying to help.”

“We don't need her,” I said. “Besides, I am the one who is a semiprofessional cook now that I am taking Foods for Living. This will be like extra credit for me.”

I knew she was upset about her parents; I was just trying to liven things up. She didn't seem to want it, though. My dad always tells Abbey and me that we could choose to be in a good mood, even on early Saturday mornings when he wants us to help rake leaves. “It's a choice you can make,” he always said, tapping his temple, “up here.”

Madeline didn't say anything, and we silently started making the cookies. She mixed the dry ingredients while I mixed the wet; then, Madeline gently doled in the dry ingredients while I worked the mixer. Before we added the chocolate chips, I handed her a spoon and said, “Dig in.” Madeline loved chocolate chip cookie batter without the chocolate chips. It's one of the weird things about her that I loved. She liked the chips in her baked cookies, but when it came to noshing on the batter, she liked it smooth and creamy and chipless.

But for the first time in history, she shook her head no at the spoon I held before her.

“If you tell me you're dieting or something equally heinous, we're just going to have to stop being friends right now.”

“Please,” she said, getting the cookie sheet and bringing it to the table near the mixer. Then she let out a big, deep sigh.

“Okay, then seriously. What is wrong with you? You're so Bummersville.”

“I'm thinking of buying property there,” she said, sliding the tray on the table.

“Oceanfront.”

“Yeah, and maybe I'll come see you sometime in Oblivious Town.”

I laughed. Madeline didn't. She moved the cookie sheet on the table, like she couldn't go on without it being perfectly straight.

I'm sure her comment was about her mom and parents in general, but I hesitated asking more about it. As she had so helpfully pointed out, I lived inside a family sitcom.

That night, Mom made a place for me on the floor of my room like she always did, and I let Madeline have my bed.

Lying on layers of blankets and an old sleeping bag, I felt strange, like something—me, Madeline, school—wasn't right. Maybe I just needed to adjust to the new
school year or something; or maybe the eggs we put in the cookies were rotten. Whatever it was, I fell asleep hoping Madeline and I never had another sleepover like that again.

I
T'S LIKE, SHE TOTALLY DOESN'T GET IT.
Not even remotely.”

Susanna and I were at my locker on Monday morning. She had asked how my weekend was and I told her about the lame sleepover at Brooke's. I realized I was feeling more and more comfortable telling Susanna stuff that Brooke just couldn't understand.

“It's kind of not her fault,” Susanna said, “having a perfect family and all.”