You First (5 page)

Later that night, just as Gigi and her mom sat down to a yummy chopped barbecue chicken salad that was a favorite of Gigi's dad, the phone rang. The caller ID voice announced Finley's house line, but Gigi didn't move.

“Aren't you going to beg me to get that?” her mom asked.

“No.”

Gigi liked preparing her father's favorite dishes when he was gone, because it helped her feel like he wasn't quite so absent. She stabbed the perfect bite of salad—romaine lettuce, grilled chicken, red onion, fresh nectarine, and homemade barbecue dressing—and continued to eat. The phone rang three more times before going to voice mail. Her mother simply stared at her.

When Gigi realized her mom wasn't going to let this go, she put down her fork and said, “Finn acted like a
jerk today at practice. She apologized, but . . .”

“What happened?”

Gigi told her mom all of the humiliating details. But her mother, being her mother, focused on all the wrong things.

“Do you feel like your coach is being too hard on you? Because I can call the school and—”

“No!” Gigi said sharply. “She was just being Coach, okay?”

They ate without speaking. Quiet dinners weren't the norm in the Prince household. Her mother, a big believer in families eating together, insisted on leisurely meals filled with conversation.

Thankfully, her mother broke through the unnatural silence. “Oh!” she said. “I almost forgot. The Chinese American Community Center offers youth fencing classes. The next session doesn't start for a few weeks, but they're holding a sample class this Sunday. I signed you up—hope that's okay.”

“Seriously?” Gigi said. “That's so excellent! Mama, you are the
best
.” She jumped up from the table to give her mom a hug. “So,” Gigi said, after returning to her seat, “did you book any other classes for me?”

“Nope,” her mom said. “After all, it's
your
list. You need to put in the work yourself.”

After doing the dinner dishes, Gigi went up to her room and set up shop at her desk. She had some geography homework to tackle, but before she dove into that, she figured she better make some progress on her list.

It didn't take long for her to find what she needed. A quick Google search revealed that the Brandywine Hundred Library offered Purl Jam, a weekly knitting club, on Thursday nights. She didn't bother to look any further because between that, soccer practice, cooking class, and the fencing thing, Gigi figured her week was already overloaded. Plus, she still had a cupcake bake-off to prepare for, and tryouts for the spring musical were fast approaching. Gigi was eager to get started on her audition piece, but her drama teacher, Mrs. Dempsey, had yet to announce this year's show.

Gigi had just cracked open her geography text when there was a knock on the door. It was her mom, offering her the phone. “Someone wants to speak to you,” she said.

Finn.
Gigi scowled but took the receiver. “Hey,” she said flatly.

“How's my favorite girl?” her dad asked, his voice as rich as a double-fudge chocolate brownie.

“Daddy!” she cried. “You have
no idea
how much I miss you.”

“I think I do,” he said. “But go on and tell me anyway.”

They chatted for the next ten minutes or so. Gigi filled her father in on the good-parts version of her life. She'd gotten to speak to him so infrequently lately that she didn't want to waste precious minutes dwelling on the not-so-hot stuff. For instance, she told him about making friends with Miranda but decided not to share Coach's annoying nickname for her.

She tired of talking about herself rather quickly. “Tell me about Italy,” Gigi begged her father. “Don't leave out a single fabulous detail.”

She grilled him about the food, the fashion, the art. He gave her a play-by-play of his hotel and told her the pasta he'd had so far was “pretty tasty.”

“Seriously?” she said. “That's all you're going to give me?”

Her dad chuckled. “You do realize I'm here on business, right?”

Gigi started to protest, but her father let out an enormous yawn. “Sorry, honey,” he said. “It's a little late here. I'm totes exhausted.” She'd forgotten about the six-hour time difference; a quick glance at the clock
revealed that, for her dad, it was almost one in the morning.

“Don't say ‘totes,'” Gigi said.

“Ah, okay.”

She sighed. “I really do miss you, Daddy. Come home soon, okay?” Then she added, “And for the love of Mario Batali, will you go eat something decent?”

Gigi was still tackling her homework when the doorbell rang. She went to see who it was and had just made it to the top of the steps when her mom opened the door, revealing three fourths of the Stewart family: Finn, Ms. Marian, and Logan.

“Hi, Ms. Nancy,” Finley said to Gigi's mom. “I tried to call earlier. I think I left my geography book in your car.” She smiled up at Gigi and offered a little wave. Gigi halfheartedly waved back.

“Go take a look.” Gigi's mom took her keys off the sunflower hook by the door and handed them over to Finn. “Don't forget to lock it.”

“Sure,” she said, darting over to the side door that led to the garage. “Thanks!”

“She told me as we were leaving ShopRite,” Ms. Marian explained. “With a cart full of dairy and frozen
vegetables. Sorry for the hit-and-run.”

Gigi's mom waved her off. “Not a problem.” Then she looked towards the upstairs landing. “Gee, what are you doing? Come down and say hi.”

Gigi obliged just as Finn emerged from the garage, triumphantly holding her textbook. “Found it!”

“Great. Let's go, kiddos.”

Even though things were still technically weird with Finn, Gigi piped up, “I'm working on geography too. Do you want to do our homework together?”

Finn looked surprised for a second. Then she nodded vigorously. Both girls flashed puppy-dog eyes at their mothers.

“I can bring her home later,” Gigi's mom offered.

Ms. Marian nodded. “Be home by eight, okay?”

Finn started for the stairs before Gigi's mom headed her off. “Dining room,” she said. “Gigi, go get your stuff.”

Eff and Gee rolled their eyes at each other, but Gigi obliged.

They set up camp at the table.

“Hey, Gee?” Finn said.

“Yeah?”

“I feel really awful about what happened at practice.”

“It's okay,” Gigi said, wanting, very much, to mean it.

“No,” Finley said. “It's really
not
okay. And I am really, really sorry.”

Gigi could hear the sincerity in Finn's words. She smiled at her BFF. “Already forgotten,” she said. “Besides, I know it was Fred's fault anyway.”

“Fred?”

“Fred the Freckle,” Gigi said. “He always was getting you into trouble.”

Finley burst out into laughter. “I must not be feeding him enough.”

“Well, let's get on it!”

They grabbed some snacks in the kitchen, then worked side by side on their assignment—drawing and labeling a map of ancient Greece. They finished it in about twenty minutes. This left them plenty of time before Finn needed to be at home.

“What do you want to do?” Finley asked.

“Party planning?”

“We're doing that Saturday,” she said. “I need the extra time to percolate.”

“Cupcakes?” Gigi offered.

“Yes!” Finn squealed. “You have to win that bake-off. What kind are you thinking?”

“I want to make one that tastes like a cannoli.
Doesn't that sound yum?”

“I'm drooling just thinking about it,” Finn said. “Okay. Let's do this.”

Gigi's idea was to adapt her mom's signature hot-milk cake recipe by swapping in ricotta cheese for the milk and adding some orange zest. She pulled the ingredients from their well-stocked fridge and pantry.

“Wet or dry?” she asked Finn.

“Dry.”

So while Gigi was whisking eggs, ricotta, and vanilla, Finn was measuring out flour, sugar, and baking powder and sifting them into a big bowl. Gigi looked up at her friend, who sported the identical look of steely determination that she did whenever she was driving a ball down the soccer pitch. Her lips were puffed out and everything.

Next, Gigi added the wet ingredients into the dry ones. She stirred. Man, that batter was thick!

“Here, let me,” Finn offered. As she stirred, Gigi could see, for once, a practical benefit to all of Finn's workouts. “What made you want to make a cannoli cupcake anyway?” Finn asked as she grunted through her task.

“My dad.”

“He likes cannolis?”

“I don't know,” Gigi said. “I guess I should ask him. He's in Italy—that's what made me think of it.”

Finn stopped mixing. “Italy? I thought he was in Germany.”

“That was two countries ago,” Gigi said. “After Munich he went to Prague, and now he's in Milan.”

“Oh.”

After another minute of mixing, Finn threw up her hands. “I give up!” she said. “Can't we use the mixer?”

Gigi peered into the bowl. Serious thickness—like wet concrete. It was going to make for cake that was way too dense. “What if we add some liquid to loosen it up? Maybe a tablespoon of vinegar? Chef Angela says that a little acid can lighten a batter.”

“On it.”

Finn grabbed the bottle of white vinegar from under the sink, and Gigi went to retrieve the cupcake liners from the walk-in pantry. While she was trying to decide which ones to use, Finn cried out, “Gigi, come quick!”

She dropped the liners on the pantry floor and raced out just in time to see foaming batter streaming over the sides of the bowl. Finley was trying to squash
the foam with paper towels, but it was growing too quickly.

“What happened?” Gigi said.

“I don't know!” Finn unwound more paper towels from the roll. “Make it stop! Make it stop!”

Just then, Gigi's mother materialized out of nowhere. “What in the—”

“Mama!” Gigi exclaimed. “Help!”

In a few swift movements, Gigi's mother scooped up the goopy bowl and deposited it into the sink.

“Smart,” Eff and Gee said in unison. Then they looked at each other and started to laugh.

Gigi's mother took some fresh paper towels and patted some of the wayward goop from her shirt. “Girls, what did you
do
?”

“Must've been the vinegar,” Finn explained.

“Vinegar?” Gigi's mother echoed.

“Yeah,” Gigi said. “We added a tablespoon to lighten up the batter.”

“No,” Finn said. “We added a cup.”

Gigi did a double take. “A cup?”

“I thought that's what you told me!”

“Either way,” Gigi continued, “I don't understand why it went Vesuvius on us. I mean, vinegar only does
that when it's combined with—”

“Baking soda,” Finn finished for her. “There's baking soda in the recipe.”

“No,” Gigi said. “There's baking
powder
.”

Finn shrugged. “You got baking soda from the pantry, so that's what I put in.”

Gigi picked up the orange box on the countertop. Yep, baking soda. How could she have made such a rookie mistake?

The three of them stared at the bowl. It was
still
spewing a little foamy goop over the sides.

“Well then,” Gigi said. “I declare this a certified batter disaster.”

She and Finn broke out into peals of laughter. Gigi's mother, on the other hand, wasn't laughing.

“It's all fun and games until someone has to clean the kitchen,” she said. “Guess what? It's not going to be me.”

Despite her proclamation, Gigi's mother helped the girls mop up the remnants of the batter disaster. Three sets of hands made light of the work, and the kitchen was spotless in no time.

“I'm going to get changed,” Gigi's mom said. “Then
I think we need to take Finn home—it's almost eight o'clock.”

“I'm glad you came over,” Gigi said as Finley gathered up her things.

“Me too,” Finn said. “And even though it ended up a ‘disaster,' it was fun baking with you. I'm going to miss it.”

It took Gigi a few seconds to register what Finn was saying. “So you
are
dropping our cooking class. Like, definitely.”

Finn nodded slowly. “Are you mad?”

“More like sad,” Gigi said. “But I guess I kind of knew you'd pick the soccer thing.”

And that you'd pick Lauren,
the annoying little voice in her brain added.

“It's just that it's—”

“A really great opportunity,” Gigi finished for her. “I know.”

“Don't be mad,” Finn pleaded.

“I'm not,” Gigi assured her.

And she really wasn't mad, not like she had been at practice. No, Gigi really
was
sad. Even though she wouldn't dream of dropping the cooking class herself, and even though she'd had a great time getting to know Miranda, something about knowing that Finn
would never come back with her to Chef Angela's again felt . . .
wrong
. Like she and Finn were taking another backwards step away from each other.

Gigi's mom reentered the kitchen. “You girls ready?”

Nope,
Gigi thought.
I am not ready for any of this—not at all.

At school, Finn and Gigi had an unspoken agreement—pretend as if nothing weird was happening between them. They were so good at pretending that, within a day, Gigi had practically forgotten that anything
had
happened.

Until their next soccer practice.

Gigi trudged onto the field with grim determination. She wondered if Finn would get all up in her face again. She wasn't sure, but she did know this: if the tables had been reversed, and Coach had been giving Finn a hard time, Gigi would have stepped in to defend her BFF.

Gigi steeled herself for a showdown, but it never came. Finn was uncharacteristically passive at practice. There were no showy moves, no great displays of technical skill. No displays of anything, really. Finley kept her head down and her mouth shut.

And Gigi hated every minute of it.

As Coach divided the girls for scrimmage, Gigi pulled Finn aside. “What do you think you're doing?” she asked her.

Finn shrugged. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Sure you do,” Gigi said. “This? Isn't you.”

“You don't like it when I'm me at practice,” Finn said softly.

Gigi rolled her eyes. “That's not true. I just don't like it when you make fun of me at practice. I mean, you called me
Princess
.”

“But . . . so what? I mean, you actually own more than one tiara!” Finn cried.

“That's different, and you know it.”

Coach blew her whistle. “Stewart! Princess! Quit your gossiping—we've got work to do.”

“Hey, Coach,” Finn called out, her eyes still locked with Gigi's. “Can you maybe not call my best friend Princess? She, like, really hates it.”

“If I promise not to call her Princess,” Coach said, “will she promise to break a sweat?”

“Deal!” Gigi called over to her.

Now it was Coach's turn to roll her eyes. She blew her whistle again and yelled, “Come on, ladies, let's move those feet!”

Afterwards, as they headed back to the locker room to change, Gigi said, “See? Was that so hard?”

“It was excruciating,” Finn joked. “Almost as bad as cleaning up the big batter disaster.”

And just like that, Gigi felt the seesaw tip in the other direction. Like maybe—just maybe—Eff and Gee were back again.

It was Ms. Marian's turn to drive the girls home, and the atmosphere in her Jeep was completely different from the one in Gigi's mom's car just two days before. The girls chatted over each other, trying to cram two days of real conversation into the six-minute ride. It wasn't enough time, so Finn called Gigi the minute she hit the house, and they continued talking until Ms. Marian told Finley it was time for dinner.

“I gotta go,” Finn said. “But . . . Gee?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm really glad we're not fighting anymore.”

“Yeah,” Gigi said. “Me too.”

It was true. Gigi's heart felt a thousand pounds lighter. It wasn't like she and Finn had never disagreed before. They'd had their fair share of arguments. After nearly twelve years of best friendship, it would be hard not to.

But this had been the first time that Gigi had wondered if their best friendship was forever.

So many things were changing, and so quickly. Sometimes Gigi wished she could hit the pause button on her life.

Not forever—just long enough that she had time to catch up.

After school the next day, Gigi's mother took her to the craft store to pick up some tools she'd need for her first Purl Jam at the library. Gigi selected a fat pair of shiny pink knitting needles and a package of yarn (a skein, her mom called it) in dark teal. It was thin and supersoft and had little fluffy bits coming off it.

“You sure this is what you want?” her mom asked. “Because we could ask a salesperson for some advice. . . .”

“That's okay,” Gigi said. “I'm happy with these.”

That night, Gigi's mother dropped her off at the library. “I'm heading over to Yoga U,” she told her. “It's hot yoga night!”

Why her mother voluntarily chose to sweat was beyond Gigi, but who was she to judge?

As she walked into the library, Gigi felt an unfamiliar shyness creep over her. She wasn't used to walking into strange
situations alone. Her stomach fluttered as she walked up to the front desk, clutching a plastic bag with her new needles and yarn.

“Excuse me,” she said to a college student checking returned books back in. “Can you please tell me where I can find Purl Jam?”

The girl pointed in the general direction of the library's music collection. “Try over there.”

“Um, I'm looking for the knitting club?” Gigi explained. “It meets here on Thursday nights?”

“Oh, duh,” the girl said. “I totally forgot they call themselves that. Trying to bring in a younger crowd, I guess.” She put the stack of books she was working with down on the counter. “Follow me. I'll show you.”

As she trailed behind College Girl, clutching her grocery bag tightly with both hands, Gigi's stomach flutters intensified. What exactly had she gotten herself into? Finn was probably sitting at home, just doing her homework or staring at her computer. Why hadn't Gigi invited her along?

Because
not
inviting her is the whole point,
she reminded herself.

The Purl Jammers' meeting room was gray and bland. And speaking of gray, so were the knitters who formed the group. College Girl had said they were trying
to entice younger members, and Gigi was younger
by far
. All but two members had silver hair. Of the other two, one looked to be about her mother's age (though unlike Gigi's mom,
this
woman sported several visible tattoos and two nose rings).

The last Purl Jammer wasn't a woman at all, but a man from Gigi's school: her tall, lanky math teacher, Mr. Baker. Just seeing him in the room made Gigi's cheeks flame hotly. In her head, Gigi tried to calculate the odds of escaping before Mr. Baker saw her, except that his eyes widened in recognition before she could even finish putting together the equation.

“Why, hello there, Gigi!” Mr. Baker said. “Come, come—let me introduce you.” He waved her over.

Mr. Baker made a big deal out of making sure that everyone knew that Gigi was one of the top students in his class.

“Rock on,” said Malissa, the nose-ringed woman, offering Gigi a fist bump. She liked Malissa, who kind of reminded her of Miranda—like a preview of the kind of adult Miranda might be. Without the pigtails, of course.

The group's leader, Mrs. Broderick, welcomed Gigi warmly as the others took their seats. “It's always so nice to see young people take an interest in knitting. What are you working on, dear?”

Gigi swallowed hard. “I'm not sure,” she said. “I mean, I haven't actually started anything yet. I have yarn, though.” She showed her and Mr. Baker the pretty teal stuff she'd gotten at the craft store.

“Oh,” Mrs. Broderick said. “That's lovely. I have to say, I find eyelash yarn a bit tricky to work with. Have you used it before?”

Gigi shook her head no. “I've never actually knitted before. I was hoping that I would, you know, be able to learn. Here.”

Mrs. Broderick and Mr. Baker exchanged a look that made Gigi's face turn even redder. A quick glance around the room told Gigi everything she needed to know: none of the Jammers was working on, say, a simple scarf. No, they were clickety-clacking their way through poufy berets, lacy shawls, and sweaters with complicated patterns.

“Let's have a look at your needles, shall we?” Mr. Baker said in his bright, cheerful way.

Gigi slowly pulled out the pretty pink pair she'd picked out earlier.

“Oh my,” Mrs. Broderick said. “Those are . . .”

“Rather large,” Mr. Baker finished for her.

“Especially for such a delicate yarn,” Mrs. Broderick agreed.

Gigi sighed. First the batter disaster, and now this? Her judgment was proving to be anything but reliable lately.

“Pattern?” Mr. Baker asked.

Gigi blinked at him in response.

“Well, we can work with what we have,” Mr. Baker said. “Now, let's wipe away that frown, Miss Prince. After all, there's no crying in knitting.”

Except, there
was
a lot of crying in knitting—especially where Gigi was concerned. Crying on the inside, at least. For the life of her, she couldn't figure out why Julia Roberts claimed this was such a relaxing hobby. Casting the yarn on to the needle wasn't so bad. But beyond that? Everything had to be absolutely perfect. It wasn't like a stir-fry, where you could adjust the seasonings or add a new ingredient. In knitting, if you missed one wrong stitch, you could conceivably have to rip out entire rows just to fix it.

Gigi was grateful for Mr. Baker's patience. No matter how many errors she made, or questions she had, he never once got annoyed with her. Or if he did, he hid it very well.

“You're an awesome teacher, Mr. B,” Gigi told him. “Thank you.”

“That's very kind of you,” he said. Then he leaned
in and stage-whispered, “Students like you make it all worthwhile.”

Because of this, Gigi forced herself to smile through the pain. She felt like she owed Mr. Baker that much.

As she wrestled with the wretched eyelash yarn—which, by the way, was shedding all over the delicate beaded top she'd unfortunately chosen to wear—Mr. Baker explained to her how knitting incorporated mathematical concepts. He showed her the project that he was working on for his wife. It was one of those infinity scarves, only Mr. Baker called it a Möbius strip. He pulled out a picture of what the finished scarf would look like. “It looks like a continuous loop,” he said, “but see that twist in the loop? That's what makes the Möbius strip so interesting. Despite its appearance, it's actually a one-sided surface!

“If you were to make a model out of paper, and tried to cut the strip down the center, you wouldn't end up with two Möbius strips,” he continued. “No, you would end up with one much larger Möbius strip. You should try it! Or maybe we'll make one in class.”

After ninety minutes, with Mr. Baker helping her every step of the way, Gigi somehow managed to get through four complete rows of something fairly narrow (a skinny scarf, maybe?). Because of the size of her
needles and the slimness of the yarn, the result was something that had lots of loops and holes. In fact, it looked like several moths had used it for a buffet.

As the Jammers began to pack up their projects, Mr. Baker asked Gigi, “Will I see you back here next week?”

Gigi was nearly one hundred percent certain that she was not destined to become a true Purl Jammer, but Mr. Baker looked so eager for her to say yes that she couldn't bring herself to let him down. She settled on “Maybe.”

“Thanks again for all your help, Mr. B. I'm really sorry I sucked up all of your time.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “It was my pleasure.”

Gigi found her mother in the checkout line, clutching half a dozen books. “How did it go?” her mom asked.

Gigi shrugged. “It went.”

“That bad?”

Gigi pulled out her holey project and held it up as evidence.

“It's . . .
unusual
,” her mother said. “In fact, if you'd told me you'd crocheted it, I would say it looked rather advanced.”

“I think we can both agree that I am not a Purl Jammer,” Gigi sighed. “Knitting is way too stressful.”

At home, in her room, Gigi shoved her knitting “project” and yarn deep into the bottom drawer of her desk. Then she took the yarn back out and looked at the angry lion poised like a regal king on the label. It made her chuckle. Such a fierce expression for such a frilly, delicate product!

With a small, pointy pair of scissors, Gigi carefully cut into the label and around the oval logo. This, she decided, needed to go on the Wall.

But as soon as she had that thought, it was replaced by another:
I can't put it there all by myself.

In the nearly eight years that the massive collage had been in the making, Gigi had never actually pasted anything up on her own. The Wall was an Eff and Gee production, and every single item on it represented something that the two of them had done or thought or said
together
.

Even so, Gigi felt her massive knitting fail deserved to be memorialized in some way. And the Wall was in
her
room, not Finley's. She shouldn't feel guilty about wanting to add something to it. Should she?

She approached the wall, tape in hand. She raised the lion up and . . .

No,
she thought,
the criteria for new Wall items that
Finn and I have followed since birth just doesn't apply here.

She had no desire to proclaim a long life to knitting. Plus, where was she going to put the label? The Wall had been unofficially sectioned off into zones—birthdays, Halloween costumes, celebrities they were crushing on, LOL kitties . . . there wasn't a place designated for “Things I Will Likely Never Do Again.”

Gigi lowered her hand. The logo would have to stay off the Wall . . . for now.

She tucked the cutout under her pencil cup for safekeeping, turned out the lights, and went to bed.