What?
TAM
Practice today.
But just before,
Kate sneaks away.
I do, too.
And we sit in the shade
surveying
the field,
the football players running around,
an airplane leaving a mark
across the sky.
It makes me sigh,
this quiet moment.
She doesn’t need to talk.
I don’t need to either.
We can just sit.
Side by side
and be . . .
together.
Kate
We’re too far away
for anyone to see
and I wish we could be
like this
all the time.
Our own spot.
Our own bubble.
It’s so quiet,
so calm,
like we hit pause
and this moment is just . . .
our own.
TAM
Kate
My sneaker.
Her sneaker.
Her falcon foot.
My falcon foot.
Side by side.
My elbow.
Her elbow.
Her elbow.
My elbow.
Side by side.
My hand.
Her hand.
Her hand.
My hand.
Side by side.
Leaning back,
Leaning back,
I feel the breeze.
The sun is warm.
The sun is warm.
I feel the breeze.
Everything
Everything
is quiet,
feels right,
feels right.
is quiet.
Side by side.
TAM
There’s a light in her eyes,
an ember
shining bright;
a tiny bit of heat
I always see,
always there,
and when I look too long
the ember
spreads the heat,
burns brighter
like a campfire,
a spark
electric arc
caught on a breeze.
Her ember eyes
take her burning light
making my own light
burn inside.
Kate
What if we were walking to class?
What if my hand bumped hers?
What if my pinkie brushed her pinkie?
What if her pinkie caught mine?
What if they linked together?
What if they swung back and forth?
What do you think would happen?
Would anyone see and laugh?
Would we both pretend it didn’t happen?
Would my heart threaten to explode?
Would the world end?
TAM
Her pinkie bumped my pinkie
as we walked to class.
Then it bumped again,
a little sideswipe,
a little grin.
And then once more,
a pinkie tap,
a little Morse code,
saying hello.
Then a third time,
a gentle crash;
but this time
my pinkie curled,
it clasped,
making a grab,
making a catch,
a trapeze artist
mid-air grasp,
and her pinkie clasped too,
and they caught together,
swinging,
monkey tails
in the zoo.
Tangled-up pinkies
curled up together,
swinging,
knowing exactly what to do.
Kate
What does holding hands even mean?
Maybe your hand is cold.
Maybe you’re lost.
Maybe it’s a game.
It could be anything.
I hold Dad’s hand.
(Well, not really anymore.
He’s gone all the time.)
I hold Mom’s hand.
(Well, not really anymore.
I’m too old.)
I could hold anyone’s hand if I wanted to,
but only if anyone’s hand was Tam’s hand
because that’s the only one I want to.
TAM
Energy force
invisible torch,
heating up the skin on my arm.
Her elbow buzzing close,
whispering hello
to my own elbow
without touching,
but somehow doing
so much more.
And Levi is talking,
saying something about class
but I can’t hear him,
the buzzing is too loud
elbow to elbow
I can only look down,
eyes fused
melted to
her arm
looking soft in the light.
And there’s a tilt in the world
as the buzz of her arm
connects with my arm
and my face flashes hot
and my eyes shoot up
and I wonder if the whole lunchroom just heard
the zippity zap pop
of electricity
that came from her.
Kate
Here’s the thing.
I am not a baby elephant.
I have never actually seen a baby elephant
in real life.
But I’ve watched videos.
Tons and tons of videos.
And a baby elephant does this thing
where it runs around to explore.
Then every few minutes
it runs back to its mom
and touches her trunk
or snuggles her leg
and then it runs off again
like its mom has given it energy,
like it can last a few more minutes
in the big
huge
gigantic world
because it just touched home
for a second.
Like I said,
I am not a baby elephant.
But when I see Tam in the halls,
or in the lunchroom,
and her eyes catch mine . . .
I feel like,
for the next few minutes,
the big
huge
gigantic world
is safe,
it’s mine.
TAM
I see her over there:
Kate’s friend,
Becca.
She points her yearbook camera at us.
The shutter
snaps
snaps
snaps
like exclamation points
hurled through the air.
After a minute,
the snaps stop.
The camera drops.
She watches us
blink
blink
blink
before she turns
and walks away.
Becca, with her perfect hair,
Becca, usually so chatty,
instead
stays quiet,
eyes drop to the floor
as she rounds the corner
and I wonder
what
what
what
is going on
in that shiny head of hers.
Alex
Alyx
Alexx
What’s cookin’?
Brownies, cakes, sweet treats!
Oh my!
Oh my!
Who’s cookin’?
Cheer squad!
Bake sale?
Bake sale!!!
But wait . . .
But wait . . .
But wait . . .
Is that . . .
A helper?
Oooh.
Sweet intrigue . . .
Surprise!
Extra treat?
TAM
Kate
You want me to bake today?
Oh, come on, silly,
it’s not that hard.
You mix eggs and sugar and flour
and ta da
you have a cake
or cookies
or whatever you want.
You are not familiar
with the destruction
of Birthday Cake’ 17.
You have not heard of the
Infamous Exploding Ham Incident
of ’15,
have you?
We could find marshmallows
and butter
and Rice Krispies
and make a bunch of treats.
Those don’t explode
unless you count
the snap crackle and pop
in your mouth
when the goo
hits your tongue.
I’m telling you,
me in a kitchen
is a recipe
for disaster,
my friend.
Come on, silly,
help me out.
The big bake sale needs us.
Plus, it’ll be fun.
Fun?
Sure.
There’s nothing more fun
than a house burning down!
Kate
I’m bringing Tam home
to help
with the bake sale,
my fingers type out
on my phone
until
they do a thing on their own,
tapping the backspace
erasing
the words.
Mom probably won’t be there;
it’s wine club night.
So does it even matter
anyway
if I say
who’s coming home with me
from school?
When Becca comes over
I never tell Mom,
so why would I tell her
with Tam?
I slide my phone back in my bag.
I wave my pinkie at Tam.
My stomach does a little leap,
like I’m being sneaky
or bad.
(But that’s crazy, right?
Why would Mom have a problem with this?
We’re baking for the squad.)
TAM
A museum
of The Perfect Life
with plenty of
Perfectly New Furniture and
Perfectly Clean Bedrooms.
A house where you
take off your shoes,
leave them neatly by the door,
where there’s a living room
no one goes in
and a dining room
just for show.
Your house is like a magazine,
I say,
kicking off my shoes.
Nah.
She straightens our shoes,
lines them up,
soldiers at the door.
You should see upstairs.
The remodel just started.
There are holes in the wall!
Like yours.
Like mine?
Her face turns pink,
she looks at the floor,
I mean, like in your room.
The hole you punched.
Uh.
I guess it’s not really like that at
all.
I watch her for a second,
shifting from foot to foot,
turning pinker and pinker,
then I laugh,
I guess your remodel guys
really want to win at volleyball, too.
She smiles,
back to her regular self.
Something like that.
Come on.
Let’s conquer the kitchen.
Oh, girl,
be careful what you wish for.
TAM
Oh!
Shazam!
Look what’s not here!
Two eggs?
Nope?
Looks like they’ve disappeared.
Looks like we’re gonna have to
pop by the store
and grab
some already-made stuff.
Looks like you’ve been saved
from my exploding history
from my giant puffs
of stinky smoke
that tell the whole neighborhood
oh hey look
Tam is once again
attempting to cook.
Kate
I can’t help but laugh at Tam,
so dramatic,
so not wanting to cook.
Ten feet tall in the kitchen,
able to reach any cabinet
in a single bound,
but missing the fact
that
the eggs
are right in front of her
on the counter
because I’d already pulled them out.
TAM
A poof.
A cloud.
A laugh.
She looks up from the bowl,
her eyebrows
powdered,
a revolutionary wig of
momentary confusion.
She sputters,
flour puffs from her lips.
I laugh again.
Not all at ONCE, Tam!
She laughs,
throws a pinch of flour,
flicks it
at my own brows.
Half-cups at a time, dummy!
Who are you calling dummy?
I throw a pinch of flour back,
and then
more poofs
more clouds
more laughs
more poofs
more clouds
more laughs.
A thought hits me
just like a poof of flour
exploding in my mind:
How is it that Kate makes me like
all the things I never have before?
Bracelets,
cooking,
and—
Girls!
Enough!
Uh-oh.
Kate’s mom.
Lips in a line,
cardboard box in her arms,
wine bottles peeking
at us.
Flour dust
catches in the air
in the light
like
it has frozen
with us.
TAM
I hear them
in the other room,
hushed whispers
that are somehow
also loud.
Something about
You didn’t think to ask?
and
Is this really the best friend
for you?
TAM
I want to explain.
My mom and I . . .
we have food fights all the time.
It’s messy and gross
and dumb and funny
and I just thought everyone . . .
But I can’t find the words, exactly,
and Kate’s mom stares at me
like she’s mad at me
for things I don’t even know about,
and maybe she has
some kind of special kitchen
that gets ruined if it’s messy.
I don’t know
though,
that would be a dumb
design.
If I could just find the words
maybe Kate wouldn’t be in trouble.
Maybe I could save her.