DINETTE
Every day after school, I had five things on my to-do list:
Walk Delilah (sweet, scruffy, stinky rescue mutt, age ten).
Wait at bus stop for Hadley (bratty little sister, age six).
Do homework.
Practice trumpet.
Make dinner.
Well, that’s sort of an exaggeration. I didn’t “make” dinner; I heated it. Mom worked full-time—Dad had left years ago—so it was my job to turn on the oven and pop in one of the dishes she’d precooked and stuck in the freezer for the school week. Mom was always exhausted when she got home from office-managing (“totally wiped out” was her expression), but she always wanted to hear all the details about school while the three of us sat together around the little dinette table for dinner.
And she especially wanted to hear about friend stuff. Sometimes it felt like she was listening for something specific, although I could never tell what that was.
“So did Omi like her candy?” Mom asked that evening, as we finished up a pot of veggie chili.
“What candy?” Hadley demanded.
“For her birthday,” I said. “Yeah, she loved it—”
“Was it a Milky Way?”
“What?”
“Was it that dark chocolate kind? I hate that kind. But white chocolate is worse. It tastes like soap.”
“No, Hadley, it wasn’t a Milky Way. It was these chocolate pebbles—”
“Chocolate what?”
I sighed. “Just chocolate shaped like little pebbles, okay?”
“Why did you give her that?” Hadley scrunched up her face.
“Because Omi collects pebbles, and other stuff. Max’s mom got them at a fancy candy store. Never mind.” Seriously, Hadley was harder to talk to than Ms. Wardak. “Anyway, we gave them to her outside, during lunch. But then these stupid boys came over and ruined everything—”
“Boys?” Mom asked, wiping her mouth with her napkin.
“Just some basketball players. You don’t know them. In our grade.” Already I had the feeling that I’d said too much. Which was weird, because I hadn’t said anything, really. “Anyway, Omi loved the chocolate pebbles,” I added quickly.
“Mila, you know what I want for my birthday?” Hadley said. “Not pebbles.”
“Sure,” I said, smiling. “We’ll definitely get you not-pebbles. We’ll get you rocks and gravel and boulders—”
“I don’t want any gravel or boulders!”
“Sure you do. Giant ones made of white chocolate—”
Hadley squealed and slapped my arm. It didn’t hurt, but I yelled “Ow” anyway.
“Mila, no teasing,” Mom scolded. Her voice was sharper than I expected. Even Hadley looked surprised.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “But tell Hadley not to slap!”
“No slapping,” Mom agreed. “Hadley, tell Mila you’re sorry.”
“Sorry,” Hadley said. She crossed her arms and stuck out her tongue at me. “But I don’t want Mila to give me any white chocolate. Or boulders.”
“I’ll try my best to remember that.” I almost stuck out my tongue back at her. But I didn’t, because that would be babyish.
SWEATER
It’s funny how close friends can be totally different about certain things. Like when it came to clothes: Zara wore neon-colored tees with funny sayings, even in the most freezing weather. Max just always wore a faded navy hoodie with a droopy pocket in the front and baggy gray sweatpants. Of all of us, Omi was the one who paid the most attention to what she looked like; I knew (because she told me) that before school every morning, she spent a full hour choosing her outfit, doing her long dark hair. Omi wasn’t vain or stuck-up or anything like that, but she really cared how she looked. I mean, cared a lot.
As for me, I was somewhere in the middle. I didn’t just throw on a tee like Zara, but I didn’t fuss over my appearance either. My hair was easy, just a thick, medium-brown, medium-length ponytail—although, to be honest, lately I’d been more focused on my clothes. Because even though I was still pretty short, over the summer I’d had a sort of growth spurt or something, and now my jeans were getting snug around my hips. Also my tops were getting tight across my chest, digging into my armpits. But I didn’t want to ask Mom to take me shopping; the way she kept asking Hadley and me if we “really needed” our favorite breakfast cereals, or if we could “stretch our shampoo” for another week, I could tell money was kind of a problem for us these days.
So lately what I did was just keep wearing the fuzzy green sweater. Not only did it fit across my chest, but also it was long enough to cover the top of my jeans. Wearing the sweater, I didn’t wonder how I looked, because I knew: basically like a fuzzy green potato.
Also, the fuzz was comforting, like going to school covered in old teddy bear. Even if sometimes it felt a little too warm.
Of course Hadley gave me a hard time about it at breakfast. “Mila, why are you wearing that sweater again?”
“Because I like it,” I said as I poured some cardboard-tasting store-brand cereal into my bowl. All the kinds we had came in giant boxes with names that sounded like real cereals’ weird second cousins—Oaties. Krisp-o’s. Hunny Flakes. Korn Klusters. The trick was eating them fast, before you actually tasted them, and before they turned all slushy from milk.
Hadley didn’t even bother with milk. She ate her Oaties dry and cardboard-tasting, straight from the box. “But probally it’s really, really smelly by now. You want me to sniff it for you?”
She made a dog-sniff face.
“No thank you,” I said.
Mom looked up from her coffee. “Mila, seriously, though. I’m sure that sweater could use some washing. You’ve already worn it twice this week—”
“She wore it last week too,” Hadley pointed out.
“Thanks for keeping score.” I glared at her. “It’s fine, Mom. Anyhow, I’m using deodorant.”
“De-odor-ant,” Hadley repeated, giggling so hard she went sideways off her chair.
“Hadley, stop fooling and drink some milk,” Mom said. “Mila, no one’s saying that sweater smells.”
“Smells,” Hadley repeated, still giggling.
Mom ignored her. “But it can’t possibly be clean after all that wearing. And at your age, honey, you need to pay attention to hygiene. It’s important.”
I groaned loudly. “Fine, I’ll wash my sweater after school. Is everyone happy now?”
“Mila.” Mom sighed.
Work was stressful enough, I knew. She didn’t need an argument from me at breakfast.
“Sorry,” I said, suddenly feeling ashamed of myself.
Mom got up from the table and kissed my cheek. “It’s okay. Maybe this weekend we can take a shopping trip to Old Navy.”
“Really?”
“Me too.” Hadley crunched a mouthful of Oaties. “I want new pj’s with monkeys on them and snow boots and a pink down vest.”
“We’ll see,” Mom replied. “Don’t forget, baby, we’re on a budget.”