Best Friend Next Door Page 2

  I set down my sandwich. I don’t want to tell my moms that their paint choices are hideous. Or that the girl next door hated me the instant she met me. It’s not my fault we have the same birthday and I was wearing my tie-dye shirt! I decide not to respond because then they’ll start in on how I’m being glass-half-empty.

  Honestly, at the moment, it’s hard to find a drip of anything in the glass. The glass is bone-dry.

  The next morning, it’s raining hard out. Mom C comes into my room early to give me a kiss good-bye. I rub my eyes. It’s weird to see her dressed in a charcoal-colored suit, her hair blown straight. I’m used to the stay-at-home Mom C—ponytail, jeans, T-shirts.

  When I get downstairs, Mom J makes me yogurt and toast, jots a few things on the grocery list, then disappears down the hall with a crate of papers in her arms. Back in Captiva (here I go again), Mom J used to cover parenting issues for the local paper. Now she’s going to write articles for magazines. I’ve told her that, since I’m almost eleven, I’m not sure I want her writing about me. When I was little, she’d publish articles like “Potty-Training Emme and Other Disasters.” At least my classmates couldn’t read at that point or I would have been the laughingstock of preschool.

  “Want to see a movie this afternoon?” Mom J calls from her office. She’s clunking around in there, setting things up. “It looks like it’s going to rain all day.”

  I bet it’s sunny on Captiva Island. School has already started down there, but I bet my friends Olivia and Lucy are going to the beach later this afternoon.

  “Okay,” I say, spreading jam on my toast. I wish Hannah seemed nicer because it would be fun having a friend right next door. I doubt that’s going to happen, though, especially with the way she slammed her door on me that first day. I’ve spotted her on her side porch a few times since then, but we haven’t talked.

  I take a bite of toast, swirl around my yogurt with my spoon, and watch the raindrops sliding down the window. I guess I’ll work on my shell drawings. On the drive up from Captiva, I drew pictures of shells from my collecting bag. My plan is to arrange the sketches on a piece of tagboard and glue real shells around the border. I’m going to send it to my cousin, Leesa, at her dorm. She’s in tenth grade at a boarding school in Connecticut and she’s artistic like me. Ever since last year, we’ve been mailing pieces of tagboard back and forth and adding on to each other’s until we have a complete collage. We’re already on our third back-and-forth collage.

  As I carry my bowl to the sink, I glance at the food in Butterball’s dish. The rule in our family is that whoever gets up first has to fork in a (disgusting) can of Oceanfish and Tuna. Otherwise, Butterball will wail and nip at our ankles. The vet says we need to get him to lose weight, but it’ll never happen with the way he bugs us for his meals.

  Butterball usually gulps down his food in eight seconds, but today he hasn’t touched it. I try to remember the last time I saw him. When I was falling asleep last night, he was stretched around my head on the pillow.

  “Mom J!” I shout, hurrying into her office. I’m not supposed to interrupt her when she’s writing, but this is feeling like an emergency situation.

  “Did you feed Butterball this morning?” I ask. “Or did Mom C? Because his food is still in his dish.”

  Mom J shakes her head. “I fed him around six thirty when I was making coffee.” She turns back to her computer. “Come to think of it, he wasn’t there. I just put the food in and assumed he was still in your room.”

  “Well, he wasn’t!”

  “Did you look in the backyard?” Mom J asks. “Try shaking the cat treats.”

  We still haven’t unpacked my raincoat, but I hurry into the mudroom to put on my boots. Back in Captiva (okay, that’s my last one), we definitely didn’t have a mudroom.

  Outside, the rain is still coming down. There are bloated pink worms writhing on the gravel path. I stand in the yard, rattling a container of Friskies Party Mix and calling, “Butterball! Here, kitty, kitty, kitty! Butterbaaaaall!”

  But no Butterball. I wait at least ten minutes. By the time I come back inside, I’m drenched.

  I’m kicking off my boots when I remember that yesterday, as I was brushing Butterball, I took off his collar. It’s a yellow collar with a bell and two tags. One tag is from the vet in Florida and the other has Mom C’s phone number. I dash into the living room, hoping one of my moms buckled his collar back on last night. But there it is, curled on the floor by Butterball’s scratching post.

  I burst back into Mom J’s office. I feel a sob choking my throat. “Butterball didn’t come when I called and I took off his collar yesterday and now, if he’s lost, no one will know how to contact us.”

  “He’s probably just exploring the neighborhood,” Mom J says. “Put on some dry clothes. You’re soaking wet.”

  “So is Butterball, wherever he is.” I lean against Mom J’s desk and start crying. One thing about me is that I cry easily. I can’t help it. The tears come and there’s nothing I can do to stop them. “If he’s gone it’s all my fault.”

  Mom J pushes out of her chair and wraps me in a hug. “He’ll come back, Em. But how about we go to an early movie and then get lunch out? That’ll keep your mind off things.”

  “No pizza,” I say, wiping my eyes. Pizza grosses me out. If I’m even at the same table as someone eating pizza, I have to look away. Nobody believes me when I say that, which is why it was so weird that the girl next door specifically asked if I hated pizza.

  “Of course not,” Mom J says. “Never pizza.”

  After I change, we drive to the mall. They have a six-screen theater connected to an arcade. I generally love movies, but I can barely concentrate. I tap my feet all through the show and keep asking Mom J if she thinks Butterball will be there when we get home.

  “Hopefully,” Mom J whispers. “Let’s think on the bright side.”

  I nod weakly. The problem is, I just said good-bye to my friends and Captiva Island. I can’t handle losing my cat as well.

  When the movie is over, Mom J squeezes my hand. “Maybe we’ll have lunch at home instead. That way we can check for Butterball.”

  But when we walk into the kitchen, Butterball’s food is still in his dish. It’s dry and crusty and starting to reek. As Mom J scrapes it into the trash, my eyes prickle with tears.

  “Did you tell Mom C?” I ask.

  Mom J nods. “I texted her before.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said he’s probably out exploring.”

  But when Mom C gets home from work, it’s still raining and Butterball is still missing. Mom J makes my favorite dinner, spicy peanut noodles. I can barely eat it. Mom C and I go outside and call for Butterball. No luck. I try to read but I can’t get through a page. I go outside and call for Butterball for another ten minutes. This time I get soaking wet and my moms make me take a shower even though I’m totally not in the mood.

  Mom J comes in to kiss me good night. “He’ll come back,” she says.

  I clutch Butterball’s bib under my pillow and wipe back tears. “Did you know that doom spelled backward is mood? That’s what I’m in right now. A doom mood. That’s a palindrome.”

  “Uh-huh,” Mom J says, yawning. “Why don’t you try getting some sleep? It’s been a long day.”

  All night I hear the rain against my window. I try not to picture Butterball wet and scared and alone in this brand-new town.

  As soon as I wake up, I check the whole house for Butterball. Nothing. At least the rain has stopped. I wonder if he attempted to walk back to Captiva. I’ve read about heroic cats who follow their families for thousands of miles. But Butterball is so fat I can’t imagine him waddling even one mile.

  Even his empty litter box makes me sad. Okay, that’s gross.

  I peek into Mom J’s office. “Can you help me make missing posters for Butterball?”

  “Sure,” she says. “Mom C drove around looking for him before work, and I just checked the
neighborhood, too. Making posters is another great idea.”

  We spend the next few minutes designing a sign on the computer. It says:

  MISSING

  Large orange cat named “Butterball.”

  Purrs when you hold him in your arms.

  Beneath Mom J’s phone number, we insert a picture of me holding Butterball. It’s back in Captiva, and we’re in the beanbag chair on our porch.

  Mom J prints out fifteen copies and I grab a roll of packing tape. I can see out the window that the sidewalks are muddy. I slide into my Crocs and we walk around the neighborhood, putting up signs on poles and lampposts.

  When we get home, I keep checking Mom J’s phone to see if anyone has called or texted. Nothing yet. But I feel better knowing we did something to help find Butterball.

  My feet got dirty while we were out, so I go upstairs and soak them in the tub. Then I get nail polish remover and a cotton ball and wipe the chipped shades of blue off my toes. I always have multicolored toenails. Today I’m going to paint them burgundy and silver, alternating toes, because I’ve heard those are the Greeley Elementary School colors. No one can say I’m not trying.

  A half hour later, my newly polished toenails are dry. I’m just coming down to the kitchen for juice when I hear a meow at the cat door.

  “Butterball!” I squeal, scrambling across the room and lifting him up. “Mom J! He’s home!”

  Mom J rushes in and we dance around the kitchen. I can’t believe it. Butterball is home. Or at least as home as we can be in Greeley.

  I bury my face in his thick fur, but then jerk back in surprise.

  Butterball is wearing a new blue collar around his neck.

  “We knew he’d come home,” Mom J says, grinning. “See, it all worked out!”

  I smile at her. For some reason I decide not to show her the blue collar. As soon as she leaves to take down the MISSING signs, I remove the new collar and fasten on Butterball’s regular yellow one. Then I shove the blue collar behind the cat food, far out of sight.

  Two days later, Mom J and I are walking to the farmers’ market. Greeley has one every Thursday and Sunday. Mom J has been talking about it all morning. You’d think she’s never eaten fresh vegetables before. I keep that thought to myself, though. Ever since Butterball returned home, I’m trying to be an optimist again.

  We’re right in front of the post office when I freeze. “Look!” I say.

  “What?” Mom J asks.

  I point to the nearest lamppost, where a sign says:

  MISSING

  Large orange cat. Answers to the name “Radar.”

  Likes to be scratched under the neck.

  We only had him for a few days, but he’s a sweetie.

  We miss him like crazy.

  On the bottom is a phone number and a photo of that girl next door. Hannah! In her lap, she’s holding a fat orange cat.

  “That’s not Radar,” I say. “It’s Butterball! He was with the girl next door. She must have put that collar on him.”

  “What collar?” Mom J asks.

  I flush. Now it seems silly that I didn’t tell her. “Nothing … it’s just that Butterball came home with a new blue collar on. I took it off.”

  Mom J grins. “That must have been where he went. Old Butterball. He didn’t make it very far.”

  Mom J pulls her phone out of her tote bag and taps the screen. While it’s ringing, she hands it to me.

  “Hello?” a woman’s voice asks.

  “I’m calling about the cat in the sign,” I say. “Umm, Radar?”

  “Oh!” the woman chirps. “I’m Margo. Let me grab my daughter, Hannah. She’s the one who found him. She’s been so upset since he took off.”

  As I wait, I stare at the picture of Hannah smiling as she cuddles Butterball. When I met her the other day, she seemed pretty unfriendly. Maybe I got it wrong, though.

  After a moment, Hannah comes on. “Hello?”

  “Hi, this is Emme Hoffman-Shields.” I pause. “I’m the one who just moved in next door, with the same birth—”

  “I know who you are,” she says.

  Or maybe I got it right after all.

  I clear my throat. “I saw your sign about my cat.”

  “Your cat?”

  “Yeah,” I say. I pause and glance at Mom J. “The cat isn’t a stray. He’s my cat. He ran away for a couple days and now he’s home.”

  “Oh,” Hannah says.

  “Yeah. I just wanted to tell you that.”

  After a second, Hannah says, “Okay, well … thanks.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I say. “Bye.”

  I hang up and hand the phone to Mom J.

  “What’d she say?” Mom J asks.

  “Not much. I mean, Butterball is my cat. What can she say?”

  “So it was Hannah who had him?”

  I nod. “She doesn’t seem very nice.”

  Mom J links arms with me and we cross the street to the farmers’ market. “Maybe she’s going through a hard time,” she says after a minute.

  I have to admit the farmers’ market is cool. Two men are playing banjo and there are free samples everywhere. Mom J buys turnips (ugh) and chard (okay) and beets (double ugh) and piles them into her tote. She gets me a peach (healthy) and an apple-cider donut (crusted in sugar) for a snack. I go for the donut first.

  As we’re walking home again, I start thinking about Hannah. Even though she only had Butterball for a short time, maybe she feels as bad as I felt when he ran away.

  “Mom J?” I ask, wiping my fingers on my shorts. “Do you still have that girl Hannah’s number?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can I call her again?”

  Mom J hands me her phone. This time, when the woman answers, I say, “Is Hannah there?”

  “May I tell her who’s calling?” Hannah’s mom asks. I think she said her name was Margo.

  “It’s Emme again … with the cat.”

  When Hannah comes on, I quickly say, “His name is Butterball, but you can call him Radar if you want. It’s a palindrome, after all.”

  Hannah doesn’t say anything, so I continue talking.

  “And we already have the same birthday and the same shirt, so if you want to share my cat …” I pause. “That’s okay with me.”

  “Are you serious?” Hannah asks. Her voice is practically a whisper. “You’d share Radar with me?”

  “Butterball,” I say. “Or Radarball. Whatever. You can come and pet him anytime, and he can even sleep at your house now and then. I mean, we’re right next door.”

  I glance at Mom J. She’s walking a little ahead, swinging her tote bag.

  “I actually have some things that my stepmom bought for him,” Hannah says. “A catnip mouse and a string toy. Catnip makes him crazy.”

  “I know!” I say, giggling. Hang on, did Hannah say stepmom? I suddenly want to ask her a million questions. Like how come she has a stepmom? Are her parents divorced? And who lived in my house before we moved in? And does she like swimming? And who’s her fifth-grade teacher? Mom J and I went by the school yesterday to drop off forms and found out I have Ms. Linhart.

  We turn onto Centennial. I see Hannah’s house and my house in the distance.

  “I know this sounds strange,” I say, “but I’m obsessed with palindromes. Whenever I hear a new one, I—”

  “Am I loco, Lima?” Hannah asks, cutting me off.

  “Yes!” I shriek so loudly that Mom J turns around and raises one eyebrow. I wave my hand like It’s cool, and she keeps walking. “Or Ma has a ham.”

  “Oh, great palindrome,” Hannah says, “even though I hate ham.”

  “Me too!” I scream. This time, Mom J raises both eyebrows.

  Hannah giggles. “Why am I not surprised?”

  Maybe I’m being an optimist, but I can’t help blurting out, “Hannah? It feels like we have to become friends.”

  At that exact second, Hannah opens her front door and steps onto her porch. She puts down
the phone and waves at me. I wave back at her.

  It’s almost like she knew I was coming.

  Okay, I’ll admit it. Things are getting a little better. School started and it’s not terrible. I might even like it. Fifth grade means we get to walk to the cafeteria and recess by ourselves. And I like volleyball in gym. It’s fun to bump the ball over the net and I’m getting good at serving. Everyone says it helps that I’m tall.

  It’s a sunny Saturday morning. On Saturdays my dad usually cooks hash browns. But all this week Margo has been complaining that onions make her want to puke. She says it’s morning sickness except it lasts all day long. And it’s not just onions. She runs from the kitchen, covering her mouth if she smells broccoli or—yep—peanut butter.

  Which is only my favorite thing on the planet. I’m trying not to take that personally.

  My dad makes multigrain waffles for breakfast instead. As we sit at the table I don’t join their conversation about how whole grains are good for a growing baby. Snore.

  I clear my plate and head up to my room. My dad, Margo, and I have a big, scary, possibly exciting appointment this afternoon. The appointment is so big and scary and possibly exciting that I can’t think about it or I’ll throw up just like Margo. And so, to get my mind off the two hours and seventeen minutes until we leave for the appointment, I grab a sheet of paper and sit at my desk.

  I draw a dark gray line down the center of the paper. On one side I write Things that are good. On the other side of the line, I write Things that stink.

  I look out my window. I can see Emme in her backyard with her tall mom, Claire. Claire is the one who is a lawyer and goes to work every day. Sophie’s family hardly ever used the backyard but Emme and her moms are out there all the time. They’re always weeding the garden or reading in lawn chairs. Sometimes I go over and hang out with them. Ever since I found Emme’s cat, things have gotten better between us. One time Emme’s other mom, Julia, made us pear slices with peanut butter and we ate them on a picnic blanket in her yard. Another time we helped Julia hang a wooden glider on the swing set. It’s cool that Emme and I are becoming friends. I feel bad that I wasn’t very nice to her when she moved in, but she caught me at the worst possible moment.