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Heather Clark

Holy Mackelle! Why are you standing on my porch holding
my mom’s special brownies with my best friend?
I shift my feet, uncomfortable. The memory burns hotter
than the August sun.
And Hrishi . . . I’m not even going to think about him. That

can wait until he gets back from visiting his Nana and Nani in
Mumbai. And talking about it can wait until approximately never.
Ten fresh coats of industrial-grade paint wouldn’t be enough to

gloss over the awkwardness between us since Morgan’s Stupidest
Decision Ever.
To think I did it to keep my best friends together.
“How’s it going?” Keilani tosses her thick, dark braid over
her shoulder. She, of all people, should know how it’s going. But

I’ve only seen her a few times since Mom died.
“I’m fine,” I bellow the lie through the force field.
“Good to see you.”

Good to see you? She sounds like somebody’s grandma.
I should be glad she still wants to talk at all. I’ll be extra
glad next week when I’m wandering the halls of junior high,
desperate for a friend to say, “How’s it going?” and, “Good to
see you.” But with Keilani, small talk hurts worse than silence.

“Lani!” Mackelle waves Keilani over to partner up for a one-
touch passing drill.
She shouldn’t call her Lani. Keilani’s proud of her name.

Her dad says it means “royal one.”
But “Lani” shrugs, teeth clenched in an apologetic smile,
then runs off to join Mackelle.

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