Serena Says Page 10

  What if I could?

  20

  The Way the Cookies Crumble

  THE NEXT FRIDAY, MOM got off early to take Fallon and me to the dentist. While waiting for the hygienist to finish polishing my molars with bubblegum-flavored tooth polish—so nasty—Mom and Fallon wandered through the little Arden Station Mall next door, which had a kitchen store, art gallery, and antique shop.

  From the antique shop, Mom bought a massive rhinestone ring, which I knew was for my grandmother, Bibi—who had one of those weird pairs of ceramic hands on her dresser with all the fingers wearing bling. (Our grandfather, Poppy, said Bibi was really a magpie in human form.) Instead of shopping for holiday presents like Mom, Fallon bought herself a pair of costume glasses with plain glass lenses. They were, Fallon said, Superman glasses, though the heavy black plastic frames didn’t seem to give Fallon the urge to fly off to Krypton.

  Unfortunately.

  “I love these. I look even smarter than I am,” Fallon said, preening in the car’s mirror. She angled her camera for a selfie.

  I leaned into the shot and bared my teeth, rubbing my tongue over their weirdly slick, freshly cleaned surfaces. “They’re too big. Your red cat-eyed glasses were better.”

  “They were cute before the arm broke, weren’t they?” Fallon said thoughtfully. “I’ll have to do something with them for my WinterFest basket. Maybe I’ll glue them to something. Do you think they’d make a cute magnet? Or maybe a pin?”

  I slumped, suddenly not as excited by my teeth anymore. Magnets. WinterFest. UGH. Three weeks, twenty-one days away, and STILL no project. This was the WORST year ever.

  The whole of eighth grade had chosen a single theme—Red Hot Winter—for their charity baskets. Everything they added could be anything red, anything hot—or anything wintry. This gave them TONS of stuff to choose. Red Hots. Furry white mittens and red-and-white fleece quilts. Sriracha sauce. Spicy nuts. Every time I thought about it, I got annoyed all over again. Fallon’s basket was going to be super easy! Whose feather-headed idea was it for 6A to do birds?

  “You’d better call Mr. Gerardo and tell him you need to start on the birdbath,” Fallon said, as if she were reading my mind.

  “I told you, I’m not doing a birdbath,” I reminded her. “I haven’t picked a project yet.”

  “You’d better pick something,” my sister warned. “We have to write down what we’re donating before Thanksgiving break.”

  “Jeez, I know,” I said, waving my hand to shush her. “I’ve got three weeks left, all right?” I was getting tired of how everyone wanted to solve my project problem for me. Even Mom was giving me hints every day now, leaving pages torn out of magazines on my bed, or showing me articles on her phone. If people would just leave me alone, I’d come up with something. Eventually.

  “How’s that social studies project coming?” Mom asked, and I sighed loudly, wishing I could shush her too.

  “Excuse me, but how come you never ask Fallon about her projects?”

  “’Cause I’m so fabulous, no one needs to worry about me.” Fallon patted her own back, and I wondered if people really could break their arms doing that, like Poppy always said.

  “Social studies class isn’t the problem,” I said. “It’s Cameron. If he doesn’t stop playing on the internet in the library when we’re supposed to be looking up our Egypt facts, he’s going to make our whole group lose points.”

  “I remember my sixth-grade group project,” said Fallon gloomily. “We got a B-minus because Mindy Norton forgot to bring the cover she was working on, so we didn’t turn it in on time.”

  “La-la-la, don’t tell me,” I sang, putting my hands over my ears as we turned into the parking lot of Lunardi’s Market. “I don’t want to hear all the ways this could get even worse. I’m the group leader, and this is going to WORK.”

  “That’s the right attitude,” Mom said, smiling. “Okay, girls. Do we need any lunch things? Bread? More almond butter? I’m just going in to pick up some oatmeal and salad stuff.”

  “Dill pickles for me,” Fallon said, adding, “please.”

  “I’ll go in with you,” I volunteered, and hopped out of the car. “We need cookies.”

  My mother rolled her eyes. “Nice try, Rena. Didn’t you hear what the hygienist said?”

  “Whatever, I’ll floss more. I just want one bag of gingersnaps,” I pleaded, following her across the parking lot. “Or we could get those lemon ices you like? Or—” I stopped, briefly distracted from begging by a huge display of pie pumpkins, squashes, gourds, and colorful dried corn outside the grocery store.

  “I don’t know why anyone likes those,” I said, regarding the lumpy vegetables. “They look diseased.”

  “Mmm,” Mom said, eyeing a pair of potted mums decorated with burlap ribbon.

  “I mean, people buy them every year. They get all gross . . . but if you buy us cookies, we’ll use those right away,” I added, picking up a crook-necked gourd and turning it sideways. “This looks like a bird.”

  Mom decided on the mums and picked them up. She flicked me a glance. “Mmm,” she said again. “Did you want to make a turkey or something for your raffle basket with that?”

  “Uh, no,” I said, putting it down. “How would I do that?”

  “I don’t know,” Mom said, going into the store. “You girls are the artsy ones. I just buy the glue.”

  After she picked up what she’d come for, Mom surprised me by stopping in the baking aisle and searching through the packaged baking tools until she found what she was looking for. “There,” she said, pointing at a metal cookie cutter. “You could make some decorated bird sugar cookies and be done with the whole thing.”

  “Mother,” I began, teeth gritted—then stopped. No, I didn’t know what I wanted to do for my project, and there were only three weeks left. Yes, I should pick something soon. Yes, even bird cookies would do. But my stubbornness clung like ropes of cement, hardening around my feet. I tried to get unstuck from the feelings by reminding myself that Mom was just trying to help, but it wasn’t working.

  “Rena-B?” Mom said patiently. “Let’s get it over with, okay?”

  “Fine.” The f hissed out like a leaking tire. “I’ll make sugar cookies.”

  “There,” Mom said, picking up two of the vaguely bird-shaped cutters. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? And we’ve got all kinds of food coloring and flour and sugar at home. Now just pick a day to do it, and you’re good. One less thing to worry about.”

  I jerked my shoulders in a shrug. Great. Except it wasn’t Mom’s project to worry about.

  I slumped down in the back seat on the way home, looking out the window at the lines of cars driving past. For the first time this school year, Fallon and I didn’t have to stay with our neighbor, Mrs. Kaur, or do Homework Club. With Fallon in eighth grade, Mom had decided to let us be home alone, as long as we were responsible, didn’t invite anyone over, and got our homework done. Homework Club at school cost money, and if Mom didn’t have to pay for it, she didn’t want to.

  I knew it was really, really important to Mom that we did our homework and didn’t mess up, just because an adult wasn’t there to watch us. I knew I had to do my project, and turn it in on time, or we might have to go back to afterschool care. Mom would be disappointed, and Fallon would basically kill me. But it was still really, really important to do my project my way.

  Which meant that there was NO way I was making any stupid sugar cookies.

  SERENA|SAYS

  What’s up, World? It’s your girl Serena. Welcome back to my vlog!

  Serena Says is BOOKISH! Books are the one thing in the world to pick up when your brain needs a break from . . . basically everything. Bibi signed me up for a book subscription box last Christmas, which was probably the best gift I got. This month, I got New Kid by Jerry Craft, and I LOVE, love, love it.

  Okay, so first of all, New Kid by Jerry Craft is a graphic novel about Jordan Banks, a seventh grader who is a really
good cartoonist, and his parents think that’s nice and all, but what they’re really excited about is how smart he is so they send him to a really fancy private school.

  Jordan wants to go to art school. That’s all he’s EVER wanted. Unfortunately, Riverdale Academy Day School is NOT an art school, and it is full of people who are kind of rude, in racial ways, if you know what I mean. Teachers call him the wrong names, because they get him mixed up with other black boys. And when people talk about minorities, or slavery, or anything about the civil rights movement or black history or black people at all? Everyone stares at him. Also, everyone thinks he can play sports because that’s a stereotype about black people.

  So, anyway, there are some good things at Jordan’s school, like the food and some of the teachers, and Jordan eventually makes two really good friends, but he still has weird days sometimes, and weird conversations with other kids, and teachers that make him feel . . . basically weird . . . and uncomfortable, and sometimes mad. His friends from his old school aren’t sure he likes them anymore, and sometimes he isn’t sure how to be friends with both his old friends and his new ones. It turns out that being the new kid isn’t the problem—being quiet about it is the problem. Jordan has to start, like, taking chances and saying what’s wrong and what’s bothering him, before things get better.

  So what about you? Have you ever felt weird at school because of something someone assumed about you? Have you ever assumed something about someone . . . and then maybe told people? What do you do if you can’t solve a problem with your friends? Remember, even if it’s not in a book, your story is important too. Serena says your whole life can change if you take chances and speak up about the things that matter to you.

  That’s MY story, and I’m out . . .

  This vlog was AMAZING. I really need to start uploading these pretty soon.

  21

  Diva Drama

  “MOM! MOM!” I RACED into the kitchen, my heart pounding so hard I felt sick. “JC’s back in the hospital!”

  We’d spent Mom’s weekend off prepping the house for the season, including raking the leaves from our postage-stamp backyard, batting down cobwebs, and washing all the windows. Mom always says, “Family time is offline,” so even though I’d finally gotten to upload a vlog to Fallon’s channel, I hadn’t gotten time to look at texts or check email until way late Sunday night, and then I’d been too sleepy to look—and now, Monday morning. Disaster.

  “Is she?” Mom looked startled, putting down the banana she was breaking into her smoothie. “When did that happen?”

  “Eliana forwarded a text Sunita got from Lani last night,” I panted, showing Mom the phone. “It says right here, ‘Just heard JC’s in the hospital with a viral infection.’”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” Mom said sympathetically. “When immune-suppressing drugs do their job, the body doesn’t reject the transplant, but it’s left susceptible to every virus and—”

  I was worried and upset, and Mom wanted to teach me how immune drugs worked now? “I know all that,” I blurted. “But if JC’s in the hospital, why didn’t anyone call me?”

  “Oh,” Mom said, sounding less sure of herself. “Well, that I don’t know.”

  I didn’t know either, and the more I thought about it, the harder I freaked. The messages scrolled by: JC had been fine on Friday. Lani had been over Friday night. JC felt retchy on Saturday. JC had had a fever Saturday night. JC had told Lani she wasn’t going to the ER, so she hadn’t told her parents. JC had woken up her parents at 3:00 a.m., and they’d had to take her immediately; because she was so weak, she had fainted and fallen on the floor.

  Almost everyone who had forwarded texts—or who had been part of Sunita’s original group text—had something to add, and I found myself sitting on my bed, looking at people’s Pegasus posts on 6A’s message board instead of unbraiding my hair. I had to get to school and find out the latest.

  I bolted to my feet, hair one half fuzzy, the other half smoothed. I clutched my comb. It was 7:15. I was running behind for the early bus. I needed to hurry.

  Rushed, I darted into the kitchen and made my slice of toast and scrambled eggs into an open-faced sandwich. I ate it standing over the sink, getting crumbs everywhere.

  “Watch it, Jelly-Beana,” Fallon exclaimed, as racing away, I bumped the table, almost knocking over her hot chocolate.

  “Don’t call me Beana, Flea,” I yelled over my shoulder.

  “Well, then don’t knock over the table, Beana,” Fallon shot back, sounding cranky.

  “Girls, stop bickering. Serena, where’s the fire?” Mom asked as I rushed down the hall to flick off the crumbs and brush my teeth.

  “I’m trying to catch the early bus.” I galloped into my room and hopped on one foot, pulling on my tennis shoe.

  “I can take you to school, I don’t have to go in today,” Mom said. As I ran back to the bathroom to tie up my hair and put on some lip gloss, my mother followed, frowning slightly.

  “Rena, slow down. If you’re worried about JC, why don’t we just call the house?”

  “I—no, no,” I shook my head. I hadn’t talked to JC since our dinner at her house, which had been forever ago. “I can’t just ask now.”

  “I can call,” Mom offered. “They don’t have to know it’s you.”

  I scowled and shook my head, zipping up my hoodie. I ducked around her to grab my backpack. “You don’t understand.”

  “Serena.” Mom slowed my roll through the hallway by standing directly in front of me with crossed arms. I bounced off of her and stumbled over my own feet.

  “Mom!”

  Mom’s whip-sharp voice smacked against my ears. “Serena Estelle. If there’s something I don’t understand, then you use your words and help me understand, thank you. There is entirely too much racing around going on, and not enough explanation. Where are you running off to like a chicken with its head cut off? And why can’t you wait on your sister and me?”

  I sucked in a huge breath, tears stinging my eyes. “They didn’t tell me, okay? I’ve been JC’s best friend since fourth grade, and she’s back in the hospital and no one told me, Mom. I’m the last person to know.”

  “I didn’t know,” Fallon yelled from the kitchen.

  “The last person who matters,” I shouted back, fists clenched.

  “So they didn’t tell you.” Mom’s quiet voice pulled my attention back to her. “So what? That means you have to go to school early and do what? Find out more? Listen to more gossip when you could get the news from the source? What? What are you doing, Serena mine?”

  “I don’t know, okay? I’m just doing whatever!” I almost burst with frustration. “I just want to see if anyone else knows anything. I don’t need my mom in my face trying to fix it!”

  At each shrieked word, my mother’s eyes narrowed further, and for a moment, she squinted hard at me, as if studying someone unfamiliar. Then she stalked off, shaking her head.

  As soon as she was gone, all my urgency evaporated into confusion. Was she taking me to school, or was she too mad now? Was I in trouble? Had I hurt her feelings? Dropping my bag on the floor, I walked gingerly down the hall and tapped on the wall next to her open bedroom door. “Mama?”

  “What, Serena?”

  Her voice was as mommish as ever: flat, calm, and uninflected. Braver, I inched through the doorway. Mom was sitting on her bed, holding her phone. She raised her eyebrows, questioning. “What now?”

  “Are you calling?” I asked, suddenly breathless.

  My mother rolled her eyes, then straightened. “Hello, Sita? Oh, Julia! My goodness, you sound just like your auntie! This is Nova St. John, Fallon and Serena’s mom. Uh-huh. Yes, we just wanted to check in and see if you all needed anything, and to see how JC’s doing this morning. Okay. Uh-huh, she is? That’s good to hear. Oof. I’ll bet. Yeah, that sometimes happens. Organ transplants are no joke. Okay, I’ll check back later this morning when your auntie Teresita is home. Uh-huh. Okay. You too, Julia.
Have a good day.”

  By the time Mom was finished speaking, I was sitting next to her on the bed, straining to hear the other side of the conversation. When she swiped her phone to end the call and tucked it into her back pocket, I waited for information. Instead, my mother picked up a nail file off of her bedside table. She started filing her nails. The slow, gritty sound of her manicure dug down into my nerves.

  “Mom.”

  “Mmm?”

  “Mom!” I threw up my hands. “What did she say?”

  Wide-eyed, my mother put her hand to her chest and reared back, faking surprise. “Oh! Well, Serena mine, I don’t know if I can just tell you. That might put your mom in your face, ‘fixing’ something for you, and you’re just too grown up for that now, aren’t you?”

  I squirmed, shame making me uncomfortable and warm. “I’m sorry I was rude, Mom,” I apologized. “I didn’t mean what I said. Thank you for calling. I just feel stupid that nobody told me. It’s like everyone knows about JC’s life now, but I’m the only one she’s not talking to.”

  Mom bumped my shoulder with hers. “If it helps, she’s probably not talking to anyone right now. Her cousin says JC’s pretty angry that she’s been admitted to the hospital. I think she thought she was all done with that.”

  I wilted against Mom’s side. “I thought she was done with that too. Last time, she was there for almost a month.”

  Mom tucked me under her arm. “It takes as long as it takes, Rena-Beana-Belle. She’s going to be on IV medications for a while until that virus is under control. The best thing JC can do for herself is to take her meds and take it easy. You only get in trouble when you forget you’re not invincible.”

  “Well, I’m strong and I’m invincible too,” Fallon announced from the doorway. “I’m also going to be late for homeroom. Are you driving us, Mom?”

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” Mom grumped good-naturedly. “Keep your wig on, Sis.”