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A Little Friendly Advice
Siobhan Vivian
If you can't trust your friends, who CAN you trust?Ruby's turning sixteen but the day doesn't turn out as sweet as it's supposed to…Her long-lost father shows up, and Ruby doesn't want anything to do with him. She wants to hang out and eat cake with her friends – loyal Beth, dangerous Katherine, and gossipy Maria. They always have plenty of advice for her, and they have A LOT to say about her dad's return. But Ruby's not sure what to think or feel.Especially when a cute new boy named Charlie comes into the picture… and Ruby discovers not all of her friends are as truthful as they say they are.
SIOBHAN VIVIAN is the acclaimed author of The List, Same Difference, and A Little Friendly Advice. She currently lives in Pittsburgh. You can find her at www.siobhanvivian.com (http://www.siobhanvivian.com).
To Brenna, my little sister extraordinaire
Contents
Cover (#u0792a05e-681e-5c15-a714-bc66c4bd6a7e)
Title Page (#ud7034b36-6f6e-5b87-9934-dda43c9fa193)
About the Author (#ulink_1713297a-eb3d-5ce0-8a30-60179b1280cf)
Dedication (#u9a66ce1b-b5c4-539b-a0e1-8d8f53fedccf)
ONE (#ulink_98988bb4-fcb5-5aff-bd69-903547d576e1)
TWO (#ulink_2c3e2b51-f0a3-5622-93ef-9a3734b0a206)
THREE (#ulink_59b0eb01-a1fa-5377-9c36-078b1f51782c)
FOUR (#ulink_07fee1c9-f284-5553-82ef-8e5ff6dc1d10)
FIVE (#ulink_a5ac6e2c-0be6-5b07-b93c-07bc4386a165)
SIX (#ulink_73483a6e-5140-5748-8892-feca0cd52cb4)
SEVEN (#ulink_7fbbd699-3e42-59a5-a333-31d1e49c6973)
EIGHT (#ulink_f469e14d-bb2e-5458-ae58-316eafbe0d8c)
NINE (#ulink_6d2d15e6-e549-518a-84c8-a28baea1880e)
TEN (#ulink_a834076d-5307-595c-851e-bd8e566c80b6)
ELEVEN (#ulink_98a2cf62-6386-5354-b672-b2ad8cb8f714)
TWELVE (#ulink_b0214201-7e1a-561c-a7e3-d9fa39264846)
THIRTEEN (#ulink_1d78d219-10d0-554b-8f94-99f830bde10f)
FOURTEEN (#ulink_f51bbf2e-7f58-5ec4-83fa-f55801dc9586)
FIFTEEN (#ulink_0c4b4bf6-68d2-5de4-83dd-ef35707944d0)
SIXTEEN (#ulink_7383ce7e-1f3a-53e6-be6b-31a2e117054d)
SEVENTEEN (#ulink_89b41b33-38e6-5bf6-b451-ea9d597fd75a)
EIGHTEEN (#ulink_7fc8978b-cd56-57be-b16d-d273025200d6)
NINETEEN (#ulink_60270b67-4ba9-5136-9c34-d80da3ac4160)
TWENTY (#ulink_5c3af66c-e10e-59e0-b648-d92d22ad774b)
TWENTY-ONE (#ulink_82f0534a-cc8a-532e-99df-2565d09a76d1)
TWENTY-TWO (#ulink_aa29cc26-80c8-570d-86e8-50f28ab88020)
TWENTY-THREE (#ulink_4f41eb0e-f42e-5887-a343-0e31c36d945f)
TWENTY-FOUR (#ulink_48c8fb14-649f-5bb1-bd66-2334de3a6812)
TWENTY-FIVE (#ulink_d5579c10-0f8d-5a4c-86b1-28c13f4c2346)
TWENTY-SIX (#ulink_910c4f77-fbdb-5aa9-9cba-7f803c53f852)
TWENTY-SEVEN (#ulink_196ae6e4-c346-5763-a320-58f5f64984f3)
TWENTY-EIGHT (#ulink_f55b1349-6e2b-5f24-9399-af736ab014f3)
TWENTY-NINE (#ulink_0793e84d-8359-5bab-8a79-0a30ac0d4f1e)
THIRTY (#ulink_5d2c08f3-5d86-560a-a591-f494eb40d214)
THIRTY-ONE (#ulink_80a8b707-271a-51d5-9a86-31b9f48209dc)
THIRTY-TWO (#ulink_65886240-f2c0-5dd9-9316-dce3b22ce490)
THIRTY-THREE (#ulink_b98186c8-caf6-5c3d-afb4-8aca31915bea)
THIRTY-FOUR (#ulink_c88e45c8-6cd6-5fd9-a421-dfb4009b11d8)
THIRTY-FIVE (#ulink_69f82d4d-c13c-5bd1-a3a4-e16c7073ce1a)
THIRTY-SIX (#ulink_ad2199a3-0c93-506b-87b5-f2fd2a9086a2)
THIRTY-SEVEN (#ulink_795dac77-e9ce-5e2c-92f7-80bb850a55e6)
THIRTY-EIGHT (#ulink_a0c1e413-133d-51bd-a04b-6bdb0eb2898f)
Acknowledgements (#ulink_b49b1455-8a71-5726-9c81-8d04a876c8a1)
Copyright (#ulink_89fd410f-a601-54a3-8716-1b30b557a00f)
ONE (#ulink_afe204cd-2803-54e3-b513-44a0557b361a)
The wrapping paper on my birthday present is impenetrable. Mom must have used half a roll of tape to secure the sharp folds, creases, and delicate trimmings just so. She wants my Sweet Sixteen to be special — more special than me wearing a Hanes undershirt, Levi’s, and my dirty pair of Converse in our cramped mustard-yellow kitchen.
“I bet you can’t even fit into that pretty sundress I bought you in August!” Mom taunted when she realized I was dead serious about not dressing up for dinner. “You’ve shot up at least three more inches since then.”
It was endearingly pathetic. So I put on a foil party crown.
Mom cooked her homemade ziti, got me a whale-shaped ice-cream cake with chocolate crunchies from the Carvel across town, and invited my friends over at nine to help me blow out the candles. Once we’re all tweaked out on sugar, we’re going to bail on Mom for some suburban debauchery in my honor. Even though it’s Thursday, I’m allowed out until midnight.
“Dinner was awesome,” I say, and watch Mom’s lean body shake with elbow grease as she scrubs hardened noodles off a Pyrex dish. A chocolate-brown ponytail swishes across her shoulder blades and a few gray hairs catch the light from overhead. They seem to sparkle.
“The trick is, I cut all the ingredients in half . . . except for the cheese,” Mom tells me over the sound of running sink water. She is a pro at halving family-sized recipes. The anti–Betty Crocker.
I shake her present next to my ear. It doesn’t make a sound. “Can’t you do the dishes later?”
“All this buildup. The suspense must be killing you!” When she turns around, her grin is wide. She flings a damp dish towel over her shoulder and plops into the seat across from me. “Happy birthday, Ruby.”
I tear into the package, prepared to give an Oscar-worthy performance of Best Reaction to a Bad Present. Historically, Mom has exploited gift-buying opportunities as chances to make me more girly. A baby-blue eyelet blouse with cap sleeves to soften my angular boyish figure. A palette of sparkly eye shadows to brighten my strikingly plain face. Some dangly earrings that get swallowed up by my dark, thick hair. I never begrudge her thinly veiled makeover attempts. It just seems stupid to keep things I’m never going to use. So I trade the goods for credit at the thrift store and get presents more my style. Like old camp T-shirts from summers before I was born, jeans so worn you could trace the white outline of the pocket where the previous owner’s wallet was kept, or those striped socks that have little sections for each of your toes.
But Mom promised this year would be different. That I was going to “absolutely die” when I saw her present. She’s been all goofy over finally cracking the code to her daughter’s weirdness, a proud moment for a single parent whose kid turned out to be nothing like her. I only hope I can act my way out of disappointing her. After all, she’s trying. And trying should count for something.
“Read the card! The card!” Mom says, rescuing it from the shreds of wrapping paper I’ve tossed aside. But I’m already inside the box. When I unfold the flaps of tissue, my mouth drops open and I swallow the whole roomful of air in surprise.
My hands hold an old Polaroid camera. It’s tan and black, with three retro racing stripes of red, yellow, and blue darting down the front. There’s a tower of four flashcubes, like miniature disco balls stacked on top of each other. A nylon lariat threads through a loop of plastic on the back. I slip it over my head and the cord digs into the back of my neck. It feels wonderfully clunky.
“I found it at the camera shop on West Market. I wanted to splurge on one of those digital cameras, but once I spotted this on a shelf behind the register, I knew you’d get a real kick out of it. The man said it’s in perfect condition, though it took me half a roll of paper towels to wipe away all the dust.” She reaches underneath the tissue and hands me two boxes of film, which she explains are standard and still available at CVS.
It takes a few tries, but I figure out how to load the film into the front hatch. Then I frame Mom’s face in the viewfinder and pull the orange trigger. The room flashes and the camera roars. Seconds later, it spits out a foggy white square.
I’ve never owned a real camera before. Just those cheap disposables you can buy at the drugstore. I didn’t even know I wanted one. It’s not like many moments in my life are picture worthy. But now that I do, well . . . it couldn’t be a more perfect present.
“Mom,” I say, but she cuts me off with a shhh before I can get sappy. We are very anti-sap.
“Here. You’re supposed to at least pretend like you’re interested in this.” Mom replaces the photo in my hand with an envelope. She’s not annoyed or anything. I can tell by the way she’s grinning.
The card is her plain cream-colored stationery, folded once along the middle. There’s no flowery Hallmarkian poem with twirly golden script about how I’m now a real woman and blah-blah-barf. I am so thankful that hormone-soaked sentiment is not our relationship. It just makes things uncomfortable. Especially with a history like ours.
I crack it open.
Ruby,
Make wonderful memories.
Love, Mom
I look up at her and smile, but she’s already returned to dish duty. Her photograph lies on the table. Even partially developed, my mom is so pretty — a stark contrast from the peeling linoleum of our kitchen floor, a stark contrast from me.
The doorbell rings. Three times, rapid fire.
“Now, who on earth could that be?” Mom asks in a sugary way. She peers over her shoulder and winks, because we both already know.
I run out of the kitchen, hurdle the living room coffee table, and position myself steps away from our front door. Raising the camera to my eye, I fight to keep the laughter inside my mouth. “It’s open!”
Beth is wearing a green mohair cardigan over a gray tank top, dark skinny jeans, and pointy brown leather flats. The sides of her wavy auburn hair are pinned back with a few bobby pins and her face is tinged pink from her brisk walk around the block. She steps into my house but freezes in action pose as the flash pops.
“Surprise!” I shout, before she can wish me a happy birthday for the fiftieth time today. Beth was the first to call me, at exactly 12:01 A.M. She bought me a birthday egg-and-cheese bagel and delivered it to my homeroom. She covered my locker with pictures of birthday cakes from an old cookbook, threw two fists of three-hole-punch confetti on me at the lunch table, and forced me to tie a helium balloon to the strap of my book bag and keep it there for the entire day.
“Ruby!” she screams and lunges with wiggling peach-polished fingers. I am seven inches taller than Beth, so I hold the photo over my head, comically out of her reach. But she’s not afraid to exploit my weakness. She jabs a finger into my armpit and I recoil in a fit of laughter.
I hustle backward to the kitchen and Beth makes chase. We circle the table and both of us are screaming and laughing so hard the windows shake in their frames. Beth slows down only to kiss my mom hello on the cheek.
I am way out of breath, so I stop. Beth throws her arms around my neck and sinks us to the floor. We stare at the photo in my hands. As our panting subsides, her face emerges from the mist of the film. Her hazel eyes are wide open and her mouth is a perfect O.
“Ha! I look like you!” she says, because I’m notorious for making stupid faces in pictures while everyone else around me smiles like normal.
“No, you don’t,” I say, pointing to the gap in my front teeth. A genetic gift from my dad that I absolutely hate. It’s wide enough to slide a nickel through, like I’m a human slot machine. Beth’s teeth are naturally perfect. She’s never had braces or even any cavities. They’re all tiny and straight and white, like Chiclets. I stick my tongue out at her.
“I like your little space,” she says. “It’s cute.”
I roll my eyes. “You think everything is cute. Even dog poop.”
“Shut up! Dog poop can be cute,” she says, matter-of-factly. “But not as cute as rabbit poop.” We both laugh and my mom calls us crazy.
The doorbell rings.
“Ooh! That’s Katherine!” Beth says, glancing at the clock over the sink. “Her mom was going to drop her off after her basketball game.”
She wants us to surprise Katherine with another guerrilla picture, but suddenly I’m worried about conserving my film. That, and Katherine gets on my nerves. But Beth is so excited, hopping up and down like a little kid who has to pee, I shrug and follow her lead.
Beth readies her hand on the brass knob and I crouch down near the recliner. The bell rings again, this time long and impatient. As Beth swings the door open, I spring up like a jack-in-the-box. We both scream our heads off.
The flash pops, but Katherine doesn’t even blink. Instead, she leans against the door frame in her yellow track pants and navy Akron High School varsity basketball sweatshirt. Her chapped lips wrinkle around a brown filter, and she takes the last deep drag of her cigarette before casting it off into my neighbor’s bushes.
“I could seriously kill my parents,” she says. A combination of smoke and her hot breath in the cold air clouds her face.
The three of us head into the kitchen while Katherine rambles off a crazy recap of her parents fighting in the bleachers over who will keep which half of their sectional sofa. Beth gets her a glass of water. I quietly watch the picture develop in my hands. With her stick-straight blonde hair and icy blue eyes, Katherine is too pretty to be a smoker.
Beth taps Katherine on the shoulder to scoot in her chair because she wants to help my mom push the candles into my cake. It’s a tight squeeze past the sink, and Katherine moves in, but not nearly enough for Beth to pass. Rather than ask again, Beth goes around the other way. I don’t think Katherine even notices. She just looks around the room in wide-eyed wonder.
“Wow, this is like the smallest kitchen I’ve ever seen.”
Oh, right. The new girl’s never been in my house before.
“Yeah, well . . .” I say, but decide not to get into it. Anyhow, she’s right. The kitchen is tiny. We have to keep the refrigerator in the pantry and our oven filled with pots and pans. When I want an English muffin or a frozen waffle, I have to move the block of knives over to the table so there’s room for the toaster on the tiny spread of countertop. It’s nowhere near the size of the kitchen in our old house. But Katherine wouldn’t know that.
Katherine’s only been hanging out with us for a few weeks, since Beth found her crying on the windowsill in the girls’ bathroom during fourth period. She said that none of her friends understood what she was going through, now that her dad had officially decided to move out. Apparently, Katherine tried to have a heart-to-heart with a few of her teammates on the way to a basketball game. The girls half listened to her sad story, between joking with each other and waving to the cars passing by the team bus. When Katherine was finished, they reminded her that, as both captain and their strongest player, she had to concentrate on the court if Akron High was going to squeak out a victory against Barberton. So Katherine pushed everything out of her mind and played her best game of the season. Her teammates congratulated her on the win, then boarded the bus, put on their headphones, and rode back without another word. No one cared about her family problems, so long as she made her free throws. And that’s when she decided that she needed some new friends.
That day, at fifth period lunch, Beth told us the story. I found it weird that Katherine would admit all that to a relative stranger, but whatever. Beth said that we couldn’t turn our backs on her, even if Katherine wasn’t quite a perfect fit with our established group dynamic.
“Says who?” I had taunted in my best wise-ass voice when Beth had brought it up. Maria had laughed at that. And even Beth had cracked a smile. After all, it wasn’t like we were looking to increase our numbers. The addition of Maria to our twosome last year, when the principal assigned Beth to be her shadow, caused me enough stress. Sure, it all turned out fine in the end. Maria was into the same kind of things we were — thrift stores, rock music, and rolling our eyes over how dumb the popular kids were. But I still had growing pains and all the other awkward stuff that comes with getting used to someone new. Katherine was a different story altogether. We had nothing in common with her. She was a senior, and we were all sophomores. She was popular (or at least she used to be), athletic, and pretty wild. We were, well, not. I just had a feeling that Katherine wouldn’t be worth the trouble.
