Page 61 of The Beta Test

“There’s a casserole in the fridge you guys can heat up later. Call me or your dad if you need anything. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

After she leaves, I grab a mug of coffee, loaded with plenty of cream and sugar. I mosey into the living room and sit next to Hunter. For a few minutes we sit in companionable silence while his favorite cartoon splashes across the screen. My eyes drift to the mantle below the TV, where framed family photos catch the sunlight spilling in through the sliding door. Our smiling faces seem like a mockery of our lives now.

The show pauses.

“Avery, do you think they’ll get divorced?”

Hunter’s small feet stick out of the soft blanket he’s draped around himself, so I reach over and tug it over them. I take a sip of coffee, considering my answer. It would be a kindness to give him what I’ve always wished others would offer me: the truth. It won’t do him any good to pretend everything will be fine. Our family is changing, whether we want it to or not.

“I’m not sure. Maybe.”

His eyes hold mine for a moment, as if he’s weighing my statement. I must pass the test because he only nods and turns the show back on.

“Jenna’s coming over soon. We’ll be upstairs in my room for a while.”

“Is Jake coming too?”

My stomach swoops. Why does everyone assume I’m hanging out with Jake all the time these days?

“No,” I answer simply.

Hunter looks disappointed but shrugs. “K.”

A couple hours later the doorbell rings. Dread churns my stomach, but I square my shoulders and march to the door. Mr. Pi is right—nothing in my life will change unless I start taking steps. Isn’t that how I tackle schoolwork? I make checklists and to-do lists, accomplishing things one step at a time. This morning is simply step one in course-correcting my derailed life. I can do this.

The door opens and the crisp air of an almost-winter day in Southern California washes over me; the promise of warmth coming mid-day hangs in the air. Jenna stands looking uncertain, her bag slung over a shoulder. I offer a small smile and step aside, waving her inside.

“Thanks for coming.”

Jenna’s nose scrunches. “That’s what my parents say to clients who come to our house for a consultation. Avery,” her breath catches, “what happened to us?”

She lurches forward and throws her arms around me, tears and sobs spilling onto my shoulder as she bends to envelop me. My arms automatically wrap around her, and I hold on. She heaves that way, clinging to me, as we still stand in the entryway for what feels like several minutes. I don’t mind. It feels good to be this close to her.

Finally, she pulls back and sniffles while wiping her hand across her face. I grab the tissue box off the entryway side table and offer it to her. She blows her nose.

“I’m sorry,” she says, pausing again to wipe her nose. “I just can’t take it anymore, Avery James! You’ve totally ghosted me! ME! We’ve been friends since kindergarten. I can’t let you do this anymore. Whatever is going on, I demand you tell me. Right here, right now.”

I look at my oldest, dearest friend and my heart melts. Her skin is blotchy from the sobbing, and her eyes shine like brilliant aquamarines in contrast. Her sandy hair is disheveled like she's run her hands through it too many times. For the first time, I realize just how much Jake and Jenna look alike. And I love them both. They're both so genuine and feel everything so intensely. How could I have caused her this pain?

“But what if I told you I made snickerdoodles an hour ago, and I have a plate waiting for us in my room?”

She bites her lower lip and narrows her eyes at me—the internal battle between truth and cookies must be epic.

“Fine,” she sighs, “but we’re delaying this conversation for no more than five minutes, and ONLY because there’s cookies.” She points at me the way she does her teammates during volleyball matches when calling out a bad play.

I trace an X over my chest with a finger. “Five minutes, I promise.”

We grab milk from the fridge and briefly check in on Hunter. He’s moved on from cartoons to video games, and he’s so distracted he barely acknowledges us. I wouldn’t normally let him veg for hours in front of screens, but these issues with Jenna need attention. He’s still trying to process what went down at dinner last night. Sometimes he needs a little space.

We settle on my bed and load our plates up with an ungodly amount of cookies each. Jenna moans in appreciation as she eats the first one in a single bite.

“You’ve always made the best cookies, Av.”

“Yes, it’s amazing how things turn out when you follow the recipe.”

She takes the bait and throws a balled-up napkin at me, like I knew she would. It’s a friendly argument we’ve been having for years—I love and follow instructions, and Jenna is much more of a free spirit, which is why she can’t bake to save her life.