Lily and Dunkin

“Hey, sweetheart,” Mom says, pulling Dare into the foyer and giving her a big squeeze.

But while Mom is hugging Dare, Dare is glaring at me, saying how deeply disappointed she is with her eyes.

“You ready for the first day of eighth grade?” Mom asks.

“I am,” Dare says, making a dig only I understand.

“Well, let me take a photo of you two.” Mom runs off to get her camera.

Dare slaps a hand on her hip and looks at me.

“I know,” I say, feeling like a failure.

Dad glances up from his newspaper and gives Dare a quick wave.

Mom returns, fiddling with the camera. “Come on,” she says, signaling us to move closer. “Pretend you’ve been, you know, best friends since preschool.”

Which we have, ever since Ms. Christy’s class at Klever Kids. It would have been clever if they spelled it correctly.

I first met Dare while she was reading a Berenstain Bears book. I plopped down next to her and watched as she ran her finger under the sentences and listened as she quietly read the story “Too Much TV.” The rest of that day and many days following, Dare and I played Berenstain Bears together. We pretended Ms. Christy was Mama Bear and Papa Bear was off to work. Dare was perfect as Brother Bear, and I, of course, was Sister Bear.

Now I slide closer to Dare so we can get this whole paparazzi thing over with.

Dare, I notice, does not move one millimeter closer. In fact, she leans a tiny bit in the other direction. It makes my heart ache.

“Smile,” Mom says.

I force a tight-lipped, lopsided excuse for a smile.

Dare doesn’t even bother.

“Wait,” Mom says, and runs off again.

Dare shakes her head. At Mom? At me?

“Stop looking at me in that tone of voice,” I whisper, hoping it will crack through Dare’s anger, but she doesn’t respond.

“Here,” Mom says. “Hold this.”

Mom hands us a sign she made. It reads: Lily and Dare—1st day of 8th grade.

This—finally—makes Dare smile.

I smile, too. A real smile. Last year’s sign read: Tim and Dare—1st day of 7th grade. And each year before that was the same, except for the grade. I guess the sign changed because Mom changed. She’s really embracing the new me. The true me.

Love you, Mom, I mouth. It feels like she wrapped my raw heart in a tender hug.

“You’re too cool, Mrs. McGrother,” Dare says, and gives my mom a fist bump.

When Mom takes the photo, I know I look genuinely happy, because that’s how I feel. I peek over, and Dare looks happy, too. Maybe she’s even done being disappointed in me for dressing like a boy.

Dad looks up and nods. “Have a good first day.”

“Thanks, Mr. McGrother,” Dare says.

“Bye, Dad.”

Mom puts her camera down and shoos us out the door, only I can tell she wants us to leave because she’s getting misty-eyed and probably doesn’t want to blubber all over us.

Dare pushes open the screen door and I follow.

As I walk down the path away from our house, Dare bumps her hip into mine. I act like I’m going to do the same, really hard, but instead I nudge my shoulder into hers.

I peek back to see if Mom’s watching. She’s standing outside the door, one hand over her heart. The other is holding the sign.