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We’re apologizing to each other, but it’s weird, Nbook. It feels like we’re arguing.

I realize I haven’t told her what I really wanted to say. “Maggie,” I say to her back, “I didn’t mean that comment about you wanting to be part of my family.”

Up until now, Maggie’s been looking out the window. Now she sits back. She looks at the floor.

“I don’t mean to be a pest.”

I tell her she’s welcome at my house any time. I admit I’ve been a total mess, all wrapped up in my own world. I describe my conversation with Isabel, and my dream.

She looks at me. Finally. Then she pulls a notebook out of her backpack, opens it, and holds it out.

It’s a poem.

The Great Divide

I’m looking for you ‘cross the wall that divides us,

A fortress of anger that totally hides us.

Alone in my world, safely apart,

The one sound I hear is the beat of my heart.

I send out a shout, but it’s lost in a cloud:

I’m selfish, I’m sorry, I’m jealous and proud.

I’m lonely and hurt, I’m afraid that I blew it.

Please let me prove I’m a friend, I can do it.

© Maggie Blume

I read it. I want to say something, but I can’t. No words come out, I’m so moved.

“It needs work,” Maggie says. “I’m not finished yet.” Like she needs to apologize. I’m a total basketcase. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever read. And I realize what an idiot I’ve been.

I’ve misread Maggie just as badly as I’d misread Brendan. And Isabel.

“It’s … great,” I say. “I love it, Maggie. I love you.”

That does it. We’re both crying now. Hugging each other in that backseat. I catch a glimpse of Reg’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and they’re smiling.

“I meant what I said, you know,” Maggie finally says. “About that job. You really should take it.”

“Look, if you want to protest that job, for whatever reason, I will too.”

“I just want to work at the animal shelter, that’s all. That’s the real reason I don’t want the movie job — not Dad. He isn’t that awful, you know. Especially if he’s not your dad.”

I smile. Honestly, Nbook, I think a movie job would be way cool.

We sit back and put our arms around each other’s shoulders. It feels great. Like old times.

After awhile [sic], I ask Maggie about those liquor bottles she threw out.

“Mom’s drinking has gotten worse,” she says softly. “I’m tossing away every bottle I find that belongs to the Blume family.”

I feel like such a jerk, Nbook. Here I’ve been so lost in my own problems, I’m not even thinking about hers.

I tell her I’m sorry, but it sounds so feeble.

Maggie nods and looks out the window again. “Dr. Fuentes says I need to come to terms with this. She thinks I need to talk to Mom.”

“Haven’t you already?”

“Sort of. If I even hint at her drinking, she just denies anything’s wrong and yells at me. Then she wobbles away and trips over the couch. I don’t know if I can really talk to her, Amalia.”

“I don’t know if you can afford not to. I would, if I were you.”

I cringe at my own words. I sound like Isabel.

“You don’t have an eating disorder,” Maggie says. “Or a dysfunctional family.”

“But Maggie — ”

“They both take a lot of energy. I don’t know if I have enough strength left over.”

I shut my big mouth.

I can’t solve her problems, Nbook. And I sure can’t solve her mom’s.

I can only be me. Me, who will listen and suggest and help. But mostly listen.

I guess there are some things Maggie and I will never understand about each other. And there are some answers we can never give.

But that’s as it should be, isn’t it?

It doesn’t mean we have to stop being friends.

Sunday, 6/13

Hey, Nbook. Remember me? Sorry. I’ve been busy.

I’m still busy.

Just checking in before the slaughter.

Finals tomorrow.

If I flunk, don’t mind the tears.

Monday, 6/14

Finals, Day 1.

Tuesday, 6/15

Only one final today. English.

Don’t ask.

(Oh. Spoke to Ducky. We’re set for Friday night. Dawn thinks he’s picking her up to go shopping for her trip. Instead we’ll drive to the beach.)

(Where I can contemplate another year of eighth grade.)

Wednesday, 6/16

Home

It’s over.

I’m sweating.

Maggie’s convinced she aced the math and English.

It’s a good thing we’re friends. Otherwise I would have clocked her for saying that.

On the positive side, Isabel says all the party supplies are safe and sound at Simon’s. (His pug, Schweppy, destroyed some of the plastic cutlery, but Simon bought more.) Mami and Papi don’t suspect a thing.

Thursday, 6/17

After school

Mami thinks I’m crazy to rip up my exams. I think I’d be crazy not to. You’re permanent, Nbook. And I want to remember this.

I’m a genius.

What can I tell you?

Friday, 6/18

9:01 P.M.

KIDNAPPED

A tale by Amalia Louis Stevenson

I have the best friends.

We swing by Dawn’s house. We’re in our bathing suits, with stupid birthday hats [sic] and noisemakers. We make a huge racket. She’s actually mad when she answers the door. But Ducky wraps her in a beach towel and says, “Take ‘er aboard, mateys!” She’s screaming and laughing all the way to the beach, and we’re singing “Happy Birthday” a hundred times at the top of our lungs. [sic]

Sunny has bought Dawn a bathing suit for her birthday [sic], so she changes at the beach. We’ve prepared a huge picnic, which Ducky has put in the trunk — but when he opens it the cake has fallen over and the icing is melted. It’s a total disaster but no one cares.

The day flies by — laughter and swimming and volleyball and boy-watching and all the good stuff. The beach is swarming with other kids.

And you’ll never guess what happens, Nbook.

I see one of the girls.

It’s not the one who spat, but it doesn’t matter. I still recognize her. She’s with a bunch of friends. I don’t know if she recognizes me at all. Our eyes don’t meet. (Frankly I don’t even know if she’d remember me even if she did spot me.)

For a moment, part of me wants to go up to her. I don’t want to spit, or punch her, or scream and yell. I have the urge to walk past her with my friends, call out “Buenos días!” in my most cheerful voice, and move on. That’s all.

But the moment passes. Honestly, I’m having too good a time to think about her.

Why spoil it, Nbook?

Why ever spoil it?

Saturday, 6/19

So, so late

My head is spinning. I have been DANCING DANCING DANCING. The party is still going on. I don’t think it will ever end.

Oh, Nbook, if you could just see them. Scrawny Hector has become the most handsome man in the world — and can he rhumba! Cristina is so-o-o perfect for him, so glamorous and warm and beautiful.

And guess what — she’s going to have a baby! (YEEAHH! Another cousin to play with Santos and Aurorita!) And Nelson brought his 12-string guitar and Tío Luis’s voice just gets better with age, and Abuela Aurora bought me the most amazing outfit. I’m wearing the skirt, can you feel this material? And o-o-o-oh, my little cousins are so cute but destructive.

Not to mention Isabel — dear Isabel.

**I love my sister**

Nbook, I solemnly promise I shall no longer mock her. (Well, at least for another week.) She arranged to get Mami and Papi out of the house. She forced Simon Big Tooth Lover Boy to bring the party goods here on time. While I designed the decor, she did most of the grunt work.

AND she remembered to invite Brendan, whom I hadn’t even thought of inviting because my head has been so screwed up over these last weeks.

Anyway, all the relatives arrived here just fine — the flight, the rental car, everything was perfect

— and I CAN’T BELIEVE THEY’RE HERE. I LOVE THEM SO MUCH! Am I making

sense? I’m not making sense.

WHO CARES?

Sorry, Nbook, I haven’t seen them in ages.

Dear Abuela, she can barely keep from crying. I know she speaks English, but she talks to me only in Spanish, telling me how proud she is of me, folding up a dollar bill in my hand — just the way she did when I was a little girl.

I try to fill her in on our move, the town, school. My Spanish is not great, but she listens patiently, stopping to ask questions. At one point she leans over to me and tells me I’m a good girl. I’ve never forgotten who I am.

I feel myself choking up. I throw my arms around her and start to cry. If she notices, she doesn’t make a big deal out of it. She just pats my back and says Ah, bueno.

I’m crying because she’s wrong. I have forgotten. Big time.

I forgot who I was on that Friday night outside the cineplex [sic]. After those girls got ahold

[sic] of me, I thought I was nothing.

It’s so easy to lose who you are, Nbook, and so hard to get it back. I guess you don’t question your identity until you have to. You figure, hey, you’re born with it so nothing can affect it.