“Juliet,” her mother says, a little bit louder, “please say hello to your cousin.”
Juliet makes a fuss of getting up, dragging a stuffed-animal horse by the mane. We’re face-to-face, but she still doesn’t move to hug me. She doesn’t even smile.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” she says.
“Can I play with you?” I ask.
“I’m finished.”
How can Juliet be finished playing? We used to play for hours. Outside, inside. In my house, her house, Rob’s house. In our driveways, in our living rooms.
“Jules,” I try, “let’s play.” She turns her head and doesn’t look at me. “Joo Joo?” Still nothing. Then I think of it: She’s mad at me. The problem is, I don’t know what I did wrong.
I’m starving by the time Juliet’s father comes home, and my stomach is making loud growling noises when we all sit down to dinner. No one is really talking. I leave my sweater on because it’s freezing in their house. As cold as it is in the ice cream section of the grocery store.
After dinner my dad says we should open one present tonight. It’s a tradition at our house. One present Christmas Eve, the rest on Christmas.
My mom starts to say we shouldn’t, because we’re driving back tonight and we can do it at home, but my dad convinces her. “Come on,” he says. “Just one.”
Juliet gets to pick hers from under the tree. She chooses a gigantic one. A box so big it takes up the entire left side of the tree. Then my mom hands me my own, and from the way she’s smiling I know she knew we were going to open it here all along. It’s a small, long box, and the wrapping paper is sparkling in the white Christmas lights. I take it from my mom, gently, and turn it over.
Juliet is already tearing at her paper, ripping and yanking. Inside is a dollhouse. It’s beautiful, like a tiny copy of the house we are in. Even the white columns are the same. I’m so enthralled with it, I almost forget to open my own gift. Juliet, however, doesn’t seem remotely impressed. She takes one look at the dollhouse andputs her hands on her hips. “Where’s my American Girl?” she wants to know.
“You already have all of them,” I say.
“Not the newest one,” she says. She looks at me like I smell weird.
“Your turn,” my father whispers to me. I brush some hair out of my face and focus on the present in my hands. I fold down the corners the way my mom does, careful not to tear anything. She always saves the wrapping paper for later.
“Hurry up,” Juliet whines. She still has her hands on her hips, and her eyebrows are knit together.
When I finally see what’s inside, my mouth hangs open. It’s exactly what I hoped it would be: Beach Barbie. The new version. The kind everyone at school has been talking about. The kind you can’t just walk into any old toy store and pick up. The kind you have to order special.
I start screaming and rip open the box. My dad puts his arm around my mom.
Juliet doesnotlook pleased. She’s peering at the Barbie in my hands, leaning so far forward she’s balancing on one foot.
“Let me see,” she says firmly.
I’m cradling the doll in my arms, and I don’t want to give her up, but I also want Juliet to like me again. I want her to take me up to her new room and show me all her things. I want us to playon her floor the way we used to. I want to be best friends, just like we were. And since the reindeer sweater didn’t do the trick, Barbie might be my only option.
“Okay,” I say. “Just be careful.” It’s what my mom always says when she hands me something she really cares about. Like the good dishes to set the table or the brush with the porcelain handle she keeps on her dresser.
Juliet takes the doll and looks her over. Then, with one swift motion, she snaps her head off. It happens so fast, I’m not even sure if I should be upset. She just takes the doll, looks at her, and cracks her in two.
Everyone starts to talk at once. My dad is yelling, and my mom is mumbling something, and Juliet’s mother is talking over everyone, saying that she thinks it can be fixed. I don’t say anything. I don’t cry or try to snatch the doll away. I don’t even look at Barbie, or what’s left of her. Instead, I look at Juliet. She’s staring at me like she’s just won a game of tag. Like she’s beat me. Then she tosses the two halves down onto the ground and marches out of the room.
Juliet’s father follows her out, but not before he turns to my dad and says a bunch of things, all of which end with a word I’ve never heard before—traitor.
We drive back to San Bellaro that night. I pretend to sleep in the car but I can’t. All I can see is Juliet’s face before shewalked out of the room. Determined. Angry. Like I had taken something from her, not the other way around. I left the broken Barbie on the floor where Juliet threw her. My parents offer to get me another one, but I refuse. I don’t want her anymore.
Scene Two
Rob might be here anyminute to pick me up for dinner, and I’m feeling ill. I’m sure some of it has to do with the gobs ofquesoI inhaled after school, but mostly it’s about the fact that at any minute my best friend is going to take me on a date. That might end in us kissing. Rob. Kissing. I need to sit down on the bed just to keep my head from exploding.
I wanted to ask my parents about Juliet. I even brought the newspaper home to show them, but they aren’t here. My dad sometimes teaches night classes, and my mom’s yoga schedule is impossible to keep up with, but it’s fine. I have enough to think about with Rob.
