Serena Says Page 11

  “This glory is too magnificent for a mere wig,” Fallon said, gesturing at her crown of braids. “I call shotgun!” she added.

  I rolled my eyes. “Why, God?” I groaned, picking up my backpack. “Why did I get this sister? Didn’t you have any others?”

  “And why did I get both the Drama Divas?” Mom added toward the sky as we got into the car. “Didn’t you have any other girls on the shelf that week, God?”

  “You wouldn’t have me any other way,” Fallon said, flouncing into her seat belt.

  “Drama Diva?” I scowled. “I’m not dramatic.”

  Mom turned and gave me a disbelieving stare. Then she burst out laughing. It was kind of annoying. She kept looking at me and snickering all the way to school.

  Sometimes she is so wrong.

  22

  Fear of Friending

  “MOM, PROMISE ME. WE’RE only staying five minutes, okay? Mom?”

  The pediatric unit of Arden Hospital had yellow and green paint and contrasting floor tiles in swirls of blue, pink, and cream. It was meant to be cheerful. All it did was make me queasy. Here we were—Fallon, reading her phone, Mom carrying the gift bag with the helium balloon bobbing above her in short jerks, and me, dragging my feet behind them as we made our way to the nurses’ station. I knew I was pouting, but right now it felt necessary. Mom needed to understand that I was almost twelve. I didn’t need anyone to make me a playdate—especially not with an ex–best friend who might not even want to see me.

  Mom’s smile was professional strength. “Hello, we’re looking for Gerardo, Room 348?”

  “Down to your left,” the nurse said, pointing helpfully down the hallway. “See the door with the cart in front of it? It’s a couple rooms down after that.”

  Fallon slowed down so she could look at the scowling birds on the nurse’s scrubs, then glared down at me as I pulled on her arm, hurrying her down the hallway. “Stop grabbing me, Beana,” she hissed, digging in her heels and coming to a halt. “What is wrong with you?”

  “Girls! Get a move on!” Mom whispered from farther down the hall.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I muttered, crossing my arms. “I just want to get this over with. Mom should have come by herself.”

  “That’s stupid,” Fallon argued, walking quickly. “You and JC have been friends since you were, what, seven? Just because you’re not best friends anymore doesn’t mean you act like you don’t know her when she’s sick.”

  “I know that,” I grumbled. “I’m not acting like I don’t know her.”

  “Really? Then maybe try being less of a pill. Don’t be a jerk because you’re scared.”

  I gaped at her, outraged. “I am not scared!”

  Fallon rolled her eyes and went back to her phone. “Whatever, Serena.”

  I stalked on in silence, glaring at the stupid tile. My chest felt tight, and there was a prickly feeling in my throat. Every step closer to where my mother waited impatiently was like walking through glue. My feet slowed, and it got harder and harder to breathe.

  Somewhere in my brain a great big gong rang when I hit on the truth. All those panicky, angry feelings I had about this wasn’t because I was mad at Mom for making me a playdate like I was a Little or something. This was something else.

  Like Fallon said, I was scared of going to see my ex–best friend.

  I was scared that JC would look toward the door, expecting someone she liked, like Lani, and be disappointed.

  I was scared that JC would ask why I was there.

  I was scared that nothing I wanted to tell her—that I was almost ready to upload my first vlog, that Mom had let me get temporary purple hair color at the mall—was going to be interesting to her.

  I was scared that all the mean things I had thought about JC were things she’d thought about me.

  By the time I got to Mom, my mouth was dry, and I felt like I was choking.

  “Listen, you two, whatever’s started this round of squabbling, both of you put a lid on it now,” Mom ordered in an undertone. Then she put her smile on again and knocked on the door. “Sita? JC? Anyone home?”

  “Nova! Girls! Oh, so nice that you came all this way,” Mrs. Gerardo said, standing from a chair beside the bed as we gathered in the doorway. Seated around the bed were relatives of Mrs. Gerardo’s I’d met once before, a sharp-chinned older woman with a rosary and a cane, and a middle-aged man with a priest’s collar. They greeted us politely, and I remembered the respectful way JC had pressed her forehead to the older woman’s hand.

  “Nothing is too far for friends,” Mom was saying as she gave Mrs. Gerardo a squeeze. “Is there anything I can do for you while I’m here?”

  “Oh, we’re fine, we’re fine,” Mrs. Gerardo began, gesturing toward the door. “Girls, are you hungry? There are butter cookies in that box right there. Jojo, Mommy’s going to walk Tiya Rosalia to the elevator, all right?”

  “I’ll give you ladies a moment to talk to your friend,” the priest said kindly, and bent over the bed for a moment to lay what looked like a playing card on the bed next to JC’s hand.

  “Thank you for coming, Father Efren,” Mrs. Gerardo said as he turned toward her.

  As Mom and Mrs. Gerardo stepped outside, probably so Mrs. G could dish about JC without her hearing, I cleared my throat and looked around the room. There were plastic containers of food, teddy bears, and flowers everywhere. On the wall was taped a larger version of JC’s prayer card, with a long-haired Jesus holding out his hands. A red heart glowed on his chest like a tiny sun. JC lay in a ball on her side, turned away from all of us. She wasn’t sleeping, though; I saw her shoulders rise and fall on a big sigh.

  “You awake, JC?” Fallon asked, poking her foot.

  “Nope,” JC the smart aleck said.

  Fallon raised her eyebrows. When I didn’t say anything, she tucked her hands in her armpits and flapped them. Chicken, she mouthed.

  “Hey, JC, we brought you something,” I blurted, trying not to sound nervous.

  “Thanks,” JC said, but she still didn’t turn over.

  I looked at Fallon, who shrugged. I shrugged back. Was this why Mom said we needed to cheer her up? I suddenly remembered something and moved closer to the bed. “Ooh, ooh, ooh—JC, did you hear, Mr. Van and Mr. Hutton are adopting a little girl from Ukraine or somewhere?”

  JC turned her head a little. “What? No. When did you hear that?”

  “Erik called a class meeting and told us we’re having a baby shower. Mrs. Bowers told him about the new baby this morning, and said if we were having a shower, she’d help. It’s supposed to be a surprise, and we’re getting them a gift card from Stork Affair.”

  “Nice,” JC said, blinking slowly. She rubbed her face, leaning back against her pillows.

  “Is anything . . . um, hurting you?” I asked, carefully not looking at the tape in the bend of her arm, which was holding down a Y-shaped tube that led to a couple of clear medical bags that hung from a metal T-shaped hanger above the bed. I rubbed my arms to keep down the goose bumps. The fat plastic tube was connected to an invisible needle just stuck right there in her arm. Yeesh.

  JC shrugged again and pulled up her knees. “I’m fine.”

  Fallon tucked her phone away and leaned toward JC’s bed. “Not that it’s any of my business, but what happened?” she asked in her usual nosy way. “Why are you back here if you’re fine? Did something infect the kidney or what?”

  JC sighed and turned over again. “The kidney’s okay. I . . . don’t want to talk about it.”

  Fallon shrugged. “Fair enough,” she said, and plopped down on the window seat. She drummed her fingers on her knee, then pulled her phone out again.

  I sighed. Well, that was all the help I was going to get from Fallon. I wracked my brain for a topic, wondering why it was so hard. What would I normally say, if JC weren’t acting so weird?

  “It’s a nice room,” I said, looking around. “It’s tiny, but at least you don’t have to share.” Made up
of a counter along the wall, a bathroom tucked into a corner, a wide window and window seat beneath it, the room was small but bright. Even though the view through the big window was over the parking lot, there was a pretty evergreen tree fluttering with tiny, busy birds to watch.

  “I hate it,” JC muttered, her voice filled with loathing.

  She was finally looking at me, her usually smooth tan skin looking pale and dry. JC spoke in a loud whisper. “I hate this room. I hate this place. I hate everything. I want to go home, but Mom and the doctor are making me stay here.”

  I pointed to the IV stand, my own voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t you kind of have to stay here? I mean . . .”

  JC made an impatient noise. “No, and it’s stupid. I was fine, but I hate how this one pill makes me feel, so I kind of skipped it sometimes. Not all the time, but just . . . some. When they did my bloodwork when I wasn’t feeling well, the doctor asked me if I’d skipped anything, and . . . I didn’t lie, because she already knew, but Mom dropped a brick. And now she won’t let—”

  “Wait—what? You stopped taking your meds? You’re lucky you didn’t die, JC!”

  JC glowered. “It’s not a big deal. It wasn’t all my meds, it was one pill, sometimes. You don’t always have to follow every single rule.”

  Wide-eyed, I stared back, my whisper entirely gone. “Uh, excuse me, when they cut open practically your whole body and take something out, yeah, you do! This is totally a big deal! What if something bad happened to the kidney because of that? Then what?” I rubbed my arms, my eyes straying to the bandages on JC’s. “I can’t believe you!”

  JC sighed. “I know,” she muttered. “Everybody’s already yelled at me.”

  “I’m not yelling,” I said immediately, dropping my voice to make sure. “It’s just . . .” I picked my words carefully. “You were my best friend for a long time, and I’ve known you since forever. It’s not like I don’t care what happens to you still.”

  JC looked away, seeming to feel awkward, and my eyes burned. What I’d said—that we weren’t best friends anymore—sounded final, and she didn’t say anything.

  She didn’t say I was wrong.

  “Oh, that’s really sweet, Rena,” JC said, her voice wavering. She paused. “I wish—”

  “Are you just about ready, girls?” Mom asked, poking her head back into the room. “Mrs. Gerardo is getting another cup of coffee, but then we need to wrap this up, all right? Don’t you have a math quiz this week, Serena?”

  Frustration screamed from inside of me. I looked from Mom to JC, my heart pounding. What do you wish? What do you wish? TELL ME, I wanted to insist, but the moment was gone. JC just fake-smiled, saying, “Thanks for coming,” in a polite and completely different voice.

  Disappointed, I could hardly smile back. “Don’t let your mom eat all your chocolate.”

  JC shrugged like she didn’t care, and I stared. The little peanutty chocolates were her thing. How could she not care about her mom eating all her chocolate? She must feel really terrible . . . but if she wouldn’t tell me about it, there wasn’t much I could do.

  I had almost reached the door when I heard, “I’m sorry.”

  Sorry for what? Not taking her meds? Not being friendlier? For not caring about chocolate? When I turned back, JC had pulled the covers up over her head and lay like a silent rock again.

  “I’m sorry too,” I said quietly. “I wish you felt better.”

  Inside, I wished a thousand other things too. But maybe it was too late for wishes.

  I closed the door.

  SERENA|SAYS

  What’s up, World? I’m Serena St. John, host of Serena Says, vlogging on Fal’s Fotography channel! Just FYI, Fal is my sister, and this is my first official vlog—and you’re my first official viewers! Welcome to Serena Says, and welcome to my DIY segment!

  Have you ever had a look through your art supplies and wondered what to do with the bottom half of a pair of jeans, an old metal hanger, or the two bird cookie cutters your mom just bought? Well, I hadn’t, either, until tonight! Aaaaand . . .

  Right, I know all this stuff isn’t all going to work for one project. I mean, obviously. I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do with these cookie cutters, but now that Mom’s bought them, even though they were only, like, three bucks, I kind of have to use them.

  I know, right? Sugar cookies? What was she even thinking? They always look so cool on the Artistly website, but sugar cookies never turn out like the pictures; frosting cookies is super messy. Or else I’m not a good enough artist. Which is probably why this DIY segment is kind of a bad idea . . . but anyway! At Serena Says, we’ll try anything once!

  The WinterFest theme is birds, except for owls, since somebody else called dibs. Maybe I could sew tiny bird pillows out of the jeans or something. Or little chickens, or . . . ooh, Three French Hens, like the song. I can totally cut out little chicken shapes, sew them together, stuff some tissue paper in them so they’re kind of fat, and sew a ribbon on the top, and—done. All I have to do is find some black fabric to make tiny little berets and then everyone will know they’re French! That’s so cute! French hens! I’m such a genius!

  [mad scientist giggling]

  Oh, wait, though. That doesn’t use the stupid cookie cutters. Dang it!

  Well, DIY is all about doing it yourselves, right? There’s no crying in crafting, people. We’ll just make something else! We’ll make . . . basically anything but sugar cookies.

  Sugar cookies! I cannot believe my mother. Did she forget the time in kindergarten we made gingerbread houses, and mine got all wet and kind of melted because I kept washing my hands? Did she forget that I hate frosting? It gets everywhere. If I could, like, paint the cookies, it’d be fine. Paint is not sticky. Well, not that sticky. If I could even just use food coloring to color the designs, that would be great. Maybe I could paint crackers? Or . . . hmm. Bibi let us paint cookies once . . . but they were salt dough. Those suckers were heavy, though, so if I make salt dough, I’m going to have to roll them super thin . . . oh, and, boom. I’ll use the cookie cutters! Maybe I can find some old rubber stamps to print designs on the birds or something so they’re not so boring. I’ll paint them. Without frosting, thankyouverymuch.

  Um . . . I guess I could use the wire to make them napkin holders or something? Can I glue wire onto dough, though? With a hot glue gun, I guess . . . or maybe I can just glue them to a ribbon or something? Or, ugh, if it came down to it, I guess I could make refrigerator magnets.

  Yeah, hard pass on THAT.

  Anyway! What about you? What would YOU do with these awesome cookie cutters? Do you like frosting cookies? What’s a DIY last-minute art project you’ve made out of random stuff around the house? I hope you liked this vlog. If you did, go to Fal’s Fotography and leave me a note on the Community tab and let me know. Don’t forget to subscribe to Fal’s Fotography if you want to hear more from me.

  Serena says let your genius flag fly! And have fun!

  That’s my story, and I’m out.

  Aaaand . . . that was okay. Not, like, exceptionally perfect, but okay.

  And I need to start taking chances at some point, sooo . . . So that’s it. I’m doing it. I’m uploading.

  Oh, this is so scary. But whatever, right? I’m doing it. . . . Ready, set . . . NOW.

  It’s loading . . . and . . . done.

  Now I want to bury the computer in a hole somewhere. AAAH!!!! I’m so nervous.

  23

  A Kitchen Witch

  “WHATCHA DOIN’?” FALLON’S VOICE was muffled where it found me, head and shoulders deep in the linen closet. Stretching for the top shelf, I stood on a box on top of a kitchen chair.

  “What’s it look like?” I muttered, wobbling as I turned.

  I’d been running around since I’d gotten home. Mr. Van had told us we only had fourteen school days left before Thanksgiving break, the discovery of which made me cranky and panicky all at once. After all my work on our Nile Cr
escent project, I’d fallen way behind on WinterFest—now only SIXTEEN days away—and I was starting to panic. It wasn’t like I would fail sixth grade if I didn’t bring something for a raffle basket. Citizenship grades weren’t exactly real grades, but the basket was also part of being in Brigid Ogan’s student body—about having school spirit. Especially now that I was kind of a group leader, I couldn’t let 6A down.

  “Pfft—I don’t actually care what you’re doing. I was just being polite because I have manners.” Fallon’s lofty tone made me roll my eyes. Then I narrowed them when I realized she was still standing behind me.

  “Wait, you don’t have manners. You want something, don’t you?” I frowned. “What?”

  Fallon bounced on her toes. “Serena, why can’t you—never mind. I just need to borrow, like, seven dollars until I get paid for babysitting the Weeks’ kid this weekend. And I know you still have last year’s birthday money from Bibi.”

  “Well, I have it because I’m saving it,” I reminded my sister.

  “I know, but I’ll pay you back on Saturday. Jeez, Serena, it’s two freaking days.”

  “Technically three,” I said, then shrugged at her expression. “What? On the Roman calendar, day starts at midnight, right? It’s not midnight Thursday yet.”

  Fallon’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Serena. Can I borrow ten bucks, or what?”

  “Wasn’t it seven?” I wondered, then held up my hands as she lunged. “Don’t kill me!” I squealed, ducking away, then screamed in earnest. I’d forgotten about my standing-on-a-chair-on-a-box thing.

  After more screaming, crashing against the wall, knocking off a picture, and landing on my sister—who, I admit, mostly tried to catch me—it was quiet. With a lot of jabbing elbows and knees, we got ourselves up. I rubbed my aching butt as Fallon set the chair upright again.

  “Sorry,” she said a little breathlessly. “I didn’t think you’d actually fall.”

  I flexed my shoulder. “Eh, it’s fine. I should have just gotten the stepstool.” I rubbed my backside again. “So what’s the ten bucks for?”