My Last Best Friend (7 page)

"Here, Stacey!" Jenna says, tossing a ball to her.

Stacey misses and has to chase the ball down. She finally catches it when it bumps against my feet.

"Thanks for stopping it, Ida," Stacey says. "No problem," I reply.

"Do you want to stand up front with us?" Stacey asks.

"No," I say. "I prefer to stand in back and keep my teeth inside my head."

"Get back up here, Stacey!" Jenna yells.

Stacey picks up the ball and hurries back to the center line. She stands next to Jenna, shifting back and forth like there are thumbtacks in her sneakers.

Ms. Stein blows her whistle.

Stacey throws the ball as hard as she can. But it barely makes it across the center line. Randi snatches it up and chucks it back. It nails Stacey in the leg. She crumples to her knees.

"Gotcha, Stace!" Randi calls.

Ms. Stein blows her whistle and points to Stacey. "Benched!" she shouts.

Meanwhile, Jenna whips a ball at Jolene, knocking her out of the competition. "I thought you said you were good?" Jenna says to Stacey as she scoops up another ball.

Stacey just shrugs and limps to the sidelines. She sits down on the floor, looking relieved.

I'm so busy watching Stacey, I don't notice Quinn zeroing in on me. A ball slams into my shoulder, sending me into a death spin.

"Get off the floor before you trip someone!" Jenna yells at me.

"Aye, aye, Captain," I say, and crawl out of the game.

I sit next to Stacey. We watch the action for a few minutes, and then I hear her say, "Actually, I'm not that crazy about dodgeball."

"Actually, I'm not either," I reply.

"I'm better at individualized sports," she says. "Like dance."

"I'm better at civilized sports," I say back. "Like checkers."

It isn't long before the only people still playing are Zane and Jenna on our team and Randi on the other team.

Jenna throws a ball hard at Randi, but it whizzes past her.

Randi bullets a ball at Zane. It ricochets off his hip and hits Jenna square in the stomach. She goes down like a sack of flour.

"Gotcha!" Randi hollers. She does a little victory dance.

Ms. Stein blows her whistle. "The winners!" she shouts, pointing to Randi's team.

Jenna scrambles to her feet and gives Zane a shove.

"What was that for?" Zane asks.

"For losing the game," Jenna says, stomping off the floor.

Ms. Stein forces us to play three more games of dodgeball. For the last game, Jenna positions Stacey in back with me and moves the Dylans up front with her. Stacey doesn't seem to mind.

***

When I get home after school I read Stacey's note to George. "I wonder what her scary emergency is," I say. "And why she's friends with Jenna if she thinks she's mean."

I wait for George to comment. But he just stares at me with his big smile. "Maybe lying makes her feel better about the emergency," I say. "But I think she means it when she says she won't lie to me anymore."

I tuck the note away and get out my sketchbook.

I draw Stacey. And a big hairy monster with multiple eyes and large claws chasing her.

Then I draw me, pelting it with stones.

That night, when my dad is tucking me in, I say, "Dad? What are you scared of?"

My dad thinks for a minute. Then he says, "War. Tornadoes. Leather gloves."

"Leather gloves?"

My dad nods. "When I was your age, a bully at my school named Allen Bentley wore leather gloves every day of the year. He'd come up behind me on the playground, grab my neck, and squeeze until I choked. Then he'd say, 'Outta my way, May
flower
," and push me to the ground."

"What did you do? I mean, did you tell on Allen Bentley?"

"Nope," my dad says. "Not until today." He smiles at me. "Funny, but I suddenly feel better about leather gloves."

My dad pulls the covers up to my chin. "Is there anything you want to tell me about, Ida? Anything scary?"

I think of all the scary stuff I could tell him about. Elizabeth moving away. Jenna being mean. Stacey's secret emergency. But telling him about it feels scary, too.

"No," I say. "Not tonight."

My dad gives me half a smile. "All right, then. Good night, Ida. Sleep tight."

"Same to you," I reply.

After my dad leaves, I crawl out of bed. I turn on my desk lamp and find a piece of paper and a pencil.

Dear Anastasia,

I'm not exactly scared to tell you who I really am. It just feels safer to be Cordelia for now.

But I am scared of Jenna Drews. I'm afraid her big, bossy head will explode and all her sawdust brains will shoot out and block the sun and we will have three gears of endless winter.

Cordelia

P.S. If you think Jenna's so mean, why are you friends with her?

P.P.S. I'm sorry about your scary emergency. I'm glad you told me the truth about it, even if you didn't tell me what it is.

The next morning I don't mind waiting for the bus, or even sitting by myself on the way to school. I know that as soon as I get there, I will hide my note for Anastasia. Which I do.

And when recess comes and Jenna pulls Stacey, Meeka, Brooke, and Jolene off to the swings, leaving me behind, I don't feel so bad, because I know that Stacey will find a way to sneak off and that later in the day I will find another note in the secret stone from her.

Which I do.

Dear Cordelia,

I made up stories about myself because I wanted to make friends fast. But now I have to keep making up new stories because I'm afraid Jenna will be mean to me if she finds out that I'm not very interesting after all.

Here's a story I started last night:

Once upon a time, two girls were lost in a deep, dark forest. They walked for hours until they came to a little lake that was shaped like a spoon. There was a sign posted by the lake with a poem that read:

Spoon of the lake,
Spoon of the sea,
Carry me off
To afternoon tea.

So the girls said the poem together and then stepped onto the lake. They floated across it and they didn't even get wet.

I love making up stories like that, don't you? What do you think should happen next?

Anastasia

There isn't time for me to answer Stacey right away. Besides, I could never write something as good as she did on short notice. So I tuck the note in my pocket and head back to class.

Since it's Thursday, we have show-and-tell. This happens once a week and we are not required to bring anything if we don't want to. And guess what? I don't.

But Brooke walks to the front of the class and places a glittery crown on her head. "This is a genuine rhinestone tiara," she brags, pointing to her head. "I won it last summer at the statewide Little Miss Showstopper contest. It would be bigger, but I came in second place because I missed one of the questions during the contest quiz."

"What question did you miss?" Randi asks.

Brooke clears her throat and pretends to speak into a microphone. "Who was the second president of the United States?"

"Easy," Jenna says. "Everyone knows it was Abraham Lincoln."

"Wasn't he the sixteenth president?" Stacey asks.

Jenna gives Stacey a look. "No," she says. "Lincoln came in second."

"Just like me!" Brooke says, tilting her tiara to catch the light. "Now, as I was saying—"

"You're wrong, Jenna," Tom interrupts. Jenna whips around and stares Tom down.

Tom gulps, but then he continues. "John Adams was the second president. Followed by Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, James Monroe—"

"All right, all right," Jenna cuts Tom off. "Nobody likes a know-it-all."

"You can say that again," I mumble.

After Brooke demonstrates the talent she performed for the contest (whistling "The Star-Spangled Banner" while tap-dancing), she waltzes back to her desk.

Quinn gets up next and shows a bird skull. "I found it last weekend," he says.

"That's nothing," Jenna butts in. "When my family went camping last summer I found an entire deer skeleton."

"That's great, Jenna," Mr. Crow says patiently. "But right now it's Quinn's turn to speak."

Jenna clamps her mouth shut and slumps back in her chair.

When Quinn is done showing his bird skull, Mr. Crow says, "Anyone else?"

Stacey slowly raises her hand. She walks up front and pulls a piece of paper out of her pocket. "This is a poem I wrote last night," she says. She takes a deep breath and begins reading from the paper.

A friend is someone special.
A friend is someone true.
A friend can make you laugh,
When you're feeling blue.
A friend is always with you,
Every hour of every day.
A friend is still a friend,
Even when you're far away.

When Stacey is done reading, everyone applauds. "Well done, Stacey!" Mr. Crow says. "May I post your poem on the board?" Stacey nods, and gives the poem to him.

She sits back down. Jenna smiles at Stacey like she wrote the poem for her.

But Stacey glances away from Jenna. And smiles down at her desk instead.

After school, I take Anastasia's note home with me and write my reply.

Dear Anastasia,

You are a really good writer. I don't write much because I'm saving mg brain for middle school. But I do Like to draw. So here is a picture of what I think happens next in your story.

I think for a minute and then I draw a picture of two girls riding on the back of a cow. The cow is speckled with stars and it's walking through a field of yellow daisies. Then I draw a little cottage in the distance. It's covered with moss and vines and absolutely nothing hairy or slimy.

Now it's your turn to finish the story.

Cordelia

P.S. What do you Like to do when you aren't writing? Remember, you can't Lie.

The next morning, I leave the note in the secret stone. Later that afternoon, I get Anastasia's reply.

Dear Cordelia,

Your drawing is great! I'm going, to hang it up in my bedroom. I hope you don't mind.

Here's the rest of the story:

After the girls rode the enchanted cow to the cottage, they went inside and found a round table covered with a white lacy tablecloth. Hot tea and honey steamed in a china teapot on the table, and little plates of cookies and candies waited to be eaten. So they sat down and ate and laughed and drank tea together until evening came. Then they floated back across the spoon lake, leaving a trail of daisies behind so they could always find their way back. The End.

Don't you wish every day could be as perfect as that? I do.

Anastasia

P.S. Besides writing, I like to dance. Before I moved here I took ballet lessons. I can't take them now because everything is too messed up and my parents have to spend their money on other things. Still, I wish I could dance again.

P.P.S. What do you wish for, Cordelia?

All weekend, I think about my picture hanging in Stacey's bedroom. I also think about Elizabeth, because she used to hang my pictures up in her bedroom, too.

On Monday morning, I leave my answer to Anastasia in the secret stone.

Dear Anastasia,

I wish dodgeball would be outlawed. I wish all teachers were as nice as Mr. Crow. I wish a potato would sprout out of Jenna Drews's ear.

But mostly, I wish my best friend, Elizabeth, hadn't moved away.

Cordelia

P.S. I Like the ending of your story. Someday you should write books when you aren't busy dancing.

P.P.S. What else do you wish for?

She writes back:

Dear Cordelia,

I wish friends never had to move away.

Anastasia

P.S. Look in Bessie's branches!

When I push aside one of Bessie's branches, I see a little pink plastic cup. There is a note with it that says it's a magic cup, even though I know it's really just for Barbies. The note also says:

Fill me up with wishes,
Pour them over you.
Give them time to sink in,
Then they will come true!

I tuck the magic cup into my pocket. As I do, I feel my purple gel pen in there. Even though I like it a lot, I decide Stacey might like it, too. So I pull out the pen and a piece of paper and write:

Dear Anastasia,

Thank you for the magic cup. It's the first one I've ever had. There's something for you in Bessie's branches, too. It's not exactly magical, but I thought you might Like it anyway.

Cordelia

I slip the note into the secret stone. Then I hide the pen in Bessie's branches.

***

My dad has the afternoon off, so he picks me up after school and suggests we go to the park together. On the way there I say, "Dad? If you could make three wishes, what would they be?"

My dad glances at me. "Three wishes?" he says. "Let's see ... how about ... thirty-six hours in each day, a lifetime supply of cappuccino, and . . . three more wishes?" He concludes his wish list with a goofy grin.

"Longer days and more cappuccino?" I say. "That's the best you can do?"

My dad just shrugs and turns the car onto the street that leads to the park. "I guess I'm just happy with who I am and what I have right now," he says. "So, what about you, Ida? What do you wish for?"

I fidget a little in my seat. "I'm still working on that," I say.

When we get home from the park, I go to my room and set the magic cup by my bed. I stare at it for about three hours.

Then I make three wishes.

"I wish that I could be as smart as Tom
Sanders, as pretty as Brooke Morgan, and as good at sports as Randi Peterson."

But they are just practice wishes, which is a good thing because the cup just sits there.

It doesn't jiggle or glow.

No magic sparks.

No smoke.

No nothing.

Then I remember to pick up the cup and pour the wishes over my head. I feel kind of stupid doing it. But afterward, I feel better. Like maybe it's really working.