PEBBLES
Every day that September, the four of us escaped outdoors. The weather was warm (a little too warm for fall, if you thought about it), and the cafeteria smelled gross, like melted cheddar cheese and disinfectant. So when the bell rang for lunch, we each grabbed something fast—a container of yogurt, a bag of chips, an apple—and ran out to the blacktop, where you could play basketball or run around, or just talk with your friends and breathe actual oxygen for thirty minutes.
Today was Omi’s twelfth birthday, and we’d planned a surprise. While Max distracted her inside the cafeteria, Zara and I would run out to the blacktop and make a giant O out of pebbles. The O was my idea: her actual name was Naomi-Jacinta Duarte Chavez, but we called her Omi for short.
And the thing about Omi was that she collected things from nature—seashells, bird feathers, stones in weird shapes and colors. So first we’d give Omi a birthday hug inside the O, and then we’d give her a little red pouch of chocolate pebbles—basically M&M’s, but each one a different pebbly shape and color. It wouldn’t be some generic babyish birthday celebration, with cupcakes for the whole class, like you did in elementary school. Just something personal and private, for our friends.
But what happened was, the exact second Zara and I stepped outside, Ms. Wardak, the lunch aide, blocked us. Usually she ignored us, and we ignored her back. Although not today, for some reason.
“Why are you girls out here?” she demanded. “You’re supposed to go get lunch first.”
“We know, but it’s our friend’s birthday,” Zara said. “And we wanted to make her name out of pebbles.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Ms. Wardak’s whistle bounced on her chest.
“Just her first initial,” I said.
“Out of pebbles?” Ms. Wardak asked. “That’s a birthday present?”
Suddenly I was feeling a little sticky inside my fuzzy green sweater. We didn’t have time for this conversation. And we definitely didn’t have time to explain seventh graders, if Ms. Wardak didn’t understand things.
“It’s not the whole present,” I said quickly. “Just one little thing we wanted to do. And please, we really do need to hurry. Because our friend is coming out here any second, so.”
Ms. Wardak sighed, like she didn’t have the energy to argue that normal humans liked their presents pebble-free, and in boxes. “Fine. Just be sure you clean up the mess afterward, girls. I don’t want any basketball players to trip.”
“Oh, we won’t be anywhere near the basketball hoop,” Zara promised. “That’s kind of the opposite of where we’ll be. We’re usually over where it’s more private—”
I tugged her sleeve. Sometimes Zara didn’t keep track of time very well. And anyway, I couldn’t see a reason to share our lunchtime habits with Ms. Wardak.
We ran over to the far edge of the blacktop, where a strip of pebbles divided the ground into School and Not-School. Often during lunch my friends and I hung out here and just talked. Or sang (mostly that was Zara, who world-premiered her own compositions). Or pebble-hunted (mostly that was Omi, although sometimes me, too). One time Max and I joined a game called untag on the blacktop—not elementary school tag, but a whole different version, with crazy-complicated rules. Although usually we hung out just the four of us, because I had band right after lunch, and we wouldn’t be together the rest of the afternoon.
“Hey, Mila, look at this one—it’s literally purple!” Zara shouted at me as she crouched over the pebbles. “And ooh, this one sort of looks like an arrowhead! Or Oklahoma!”
“We don’t have time to pick individually.” I scooped up a handful of pebbles and started laying them out on the blacktop. “Come on, Zara, just help make the O.”
“All right, all right,” she pretend-grumbled. “How big?”
“I don’t know, big enough for the four of us to stand in, so it’s like an O for Omi. And also a Circle of Friendship.” I’d thought of that just now; although I couldn’t decide if it was cute or stupid.
Zara loved it. “Circle of Friendship! Oooh, that’s perfect, Mila!” She began singing. “Cir-cle of Friennndshhhii—”
“Eek, hurry! I see them coming!”
Max and Omi were scurrying toward us, dodging a basketball. I hadn’t seen it happen, but somehow, over the past minute, a game had started on the other end of the blacktop. The usual boys—Callum, Leo, Dante, and Tobias—crashing into each other. Banging the ball against the blacktop: thwump, thwump. Shouting, laughing, cheering, arguing.
“Over here!” I could hear Callum shouting at the others. His voice was always the one that reached my ears. “Here! Throw it to me!”
We finished the O just as our friends arrived.
“HAPPPYYY BIIIRRTHDAAAY!” Zara shouted, opening her arms wide. “Look, Omi, we made you an O! For your initial, and also a literal Circle of Friendship! Which was Mila’s idea,” she added, catching my eye.
Omi clapped her hands and laughed. “I love it, you guys—it’s beautiful! Thank you! I’ll treasure it always!”
“Well, maybe not always,” I said, grinning. “It’s just a temporary work of art.”
“Yeah, you know, like a sand sculpture,” Max said. His big blue eyes were shining. “Or have you ever seen a Buddhist sand mandala? They use these different colors of sand—it’s incredibly cool—and then they destroy it. On purpose.” Max’s mom was a Buddhist, so he knew all sorts of things like that.
“Huh,” Zara said. “Fascinating, Max, but a little off topic.” She pulled Omi inside the O. “Birthday hug! Everyone in!”
The four of us crowded into the O and threw our arms around each other. Because I was shorter than everyone else, I found myself in the middle of the hug, staring straight into Zara’s collarbone. I’d never noticed it before, but she had a tiny snail-shaped freckle on her neck, two shades darker than her light brown skin.
“Okay, this is great, but promise you won’t sing ‘Happy Birthday’!” Omi was giggling.
“Sorry, Omi, it’s required by headquarters,” Zara replied.
She began singing in her strong, clear alto. Still hugging, Max and I joined in, a bit off-key, but so what. We were just up to “Happy birthday, dear Oooo-mi” when something brushed my shoulders. A hand.
Suddenly we were surrounded by the basketball boys—Callum, Leo, Dante, and Tobias. They’d locked arms around us and were singing along. Well, sort of singing.
“Happy birthday to yooouuu,” Callum shouted into my hair. His breath on my neck made me shiver.
Now the song was over, but the hug was still happening, Callum’s hand clamping the fuzz of my green sweater. The basketball boys smelled like boy sweat and pizza. I told myself to breathe slowly, through my teeth.
“What are you doing, Leo?” Zara laughed, a bit too loudly. Or maybe it just felt loud because she was so close. “Who said you could join the hug?”
“Don’t be nasty—we just wanted to say happy birthday,” Leo said. “Not to you, Zara. To Omi.”