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  “Thank you.”

  “It made me hate you a little.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “Ethan thought you sang like Katy Perry.”

  “Ha!” I snort.

  “You did,” Ethan says, shrugging. “Looked like her, too.”

  I try not to snort again, but it just slips out.

  “Just take the compliment,” Dani mutters. “God.”

  I look at her, wondering if she’s jealous, because that is how she sounds. Which makes me want to laugh. Am I cool enough to be friends with you now? I think about asking Dani this question—how much it would annoy her—but then I decide it’s not worth it.

  “You seem different, you know?” she says quietly.

  “How’s that?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m not the one who changed,” I remind her. “I didn’t become a cheerleader. You’re a queen bee now. I’m still just a drone.”

  “Oh, Anna.” She sighs. “This isn’t Animal Planet.” Now she just sounds patronizing. “Cheerleading isn’t all glitz and glamour, you know. It’s hard work.”

  I open my mouth, full of sarcastic comebacks, but before I can pick one she says, “You seem … happy. I mean, not that you were miserable before, but you seem to be having more fun … with your new friends.”

  “So you’re saying you did me a favor,” I say, trying not to smile, “by dumping me?”

  “No.” Dani sounds slightly miffed and also slightly embarrassed. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Okay.”

  “I miss you sometimes,” she says quietly. “That’s all.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah.”

  Anyone can surprise you, I guess, if you wait long enough. You can even surprise yourself. “I miss you sometimes, too.”

  Ethan groans. “You girls give me the shits. Drama, drama, drama.”

  I’m pretty sure he means this as an insult, but I don’t take it that way. I laugh. He looks at me, surprised. When he smiles, I swear his eyes change color.

  Maybe Ethan Zane is a witch … or whatever the male equivalent is … a warlock? The thought makes me laugh again, under my breath. I can’t wait to tell Nicole and Chloe.

  * * *

  “Try this one,” Marnie says. I am sitting at the kitchen counter after school, surrounded by muffins. “It’s pumpkin spice.”

  “Mmm,” I say with my mouth full.

  “I know, right?” Marnie says. Then, to Jane, who is sitting in her high chair, playing with a spoon, “Pumpkin is full of antioxidants, Janie. Can you say an-ti-ox-i-dants?”

  Jane blows a raspberry like she thinks Marnie is full of crap.

  “That’s right, antioxidants.”

  Marnie still bugs me with her baby talk, but it’s hard to be annoyed with her for long. She is so fired up about this Marnie’s Muffins thing. It’s sort of contagious. The other night, when I came in after my big talk with my dad, and I told her congratulations—not for being pregnant, but for starting a baking business—she said, “I have you to thank, Anna.”

  “You have Cupcake Wars to thank,” I said.

  “No.” She shook her head. “You made the kale cupcakes comment. That’s what got me thinking.”

  “I was mocking you a little. Sorry.”

  “I know you were mocking me. And I forgive you. Because you’re also the one who suggested I go back to work, which is what made me decide to do this.”

  “I am?”

  “On the plane, remember? On our way home from Atlanta.”

  “Well,” I said, “glad to be of service.”

  One of these days, I may have to tell her that “Marnie’s Muffins” is a stupid name for a business, and I think she can come up with something better. But I won’t say it now. She is too jazzed about these pumpkin spice minimuffins.

  I pick up another. “I think,” I say, “that you should call this one the Clemson Tiger. Because it’s such a lovely shade of orange.”

  “Oh, Anna.”

  “Am I right?”

  “You are so right.”

  CHAPTER

  24

  MARNIE IS COOKING for Thanksgiving, and I am a little afraid. Not just about the food, but about the cast of characters. Besides my dad, Jane, and me, Marnie has invited Shawna and her mom, Regina and my mom, and Mr. Pfaff.

  No, I am not kidding.

  Yes, I am gobsmacked.

  Marnie and my mother have only been in the same room twice. Once after Jane was born, when my mom brought me to the hospital to meet her. And once when my mom dropped me off at my dad’s one Saturday morning and Marnie asked if she wanted to come in for a cup of tea. Both times, it was so awkward I wanted to run away screaming. But does that stop Marnie from inviting my mother for Thanksgiving? No.

  Marnie and I are in Whole Foods, doing the big shop. This will not be your typical American Thanksgiving with stuffing and candied yams. Oh no. This will be what Marnie calls a “historically accurate, authentic Pilgrim feast.” We’re talking wildfowl. We’re talking corn porridge. We’re talking chestnuts, venison, shellfish. Last weekend, my father even built a fire pit in the backyard, so the meat can be “spit roasted” before it goes into the oven.

  Marnie’s cart is already loaded up with organic, locally grown onions, beans, lettuce, spinach, cabbage, and carrots. I have the list and I’m checking things off as we go.

  “We only want fruits indigenous to the region,” Marnie announces, grabbing a carton of blueberries off a shelf. “Plums.” She throws a few in the cart. “Cranberries.” She grabs a bag. “So … what do you think about this friend of your mother’s? Peter, is it?”

  “You mean Mr. Pfaff, my teacher? How can this possibly be good?”

  Marnie smiles. “Maybe you’ll get an easy A.”

  “Oh, please!” I say. I think about all the blank papers I’ve handed in. Then, “I can’t believe she asked if she could invite him.”

  “It’s Thanksgiving.” Marnie throws some grapes in the cart. “The more the merrier. Who knows … maybe they’ll hit it off.”

  “They’re just friends,” I say firmly. “They knew each other a million years ago.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” Marnie says. “Your father and I barely knew each other at all. We fell in love in two hours. He asked me to marry him after six weeks.”

  I groan. That’s just what I need, my mother falling in love with Mr. Pfaff. Instead of watching TV together, we’ll be reading the dictionary aloud every night.

  “No one should be alone on Thanksgiving,” Marnie says. She looks around. “Now, where are the gooseberries?”

  Gooseberries. Elderberries. Mussels. Marnie will be cooking all day to get ready for tomorrow. I’ve offered to help, but she says she wants to do it all herself.

  Have I mentioned that this will be an authentic Pilgrim feast? Have I mentioned the fire pit? Have I mentioned that I’m nervous?

  * * *

  Shawna and her mom are the first to arrive. They are both wearing dresses, and Shawna, for the first time since I’ve known her, has drawn her eyebrows where eyebrows actually grow. Instead of daggers, they are gentle arches. Instead of black, they are brown.

  “Oh my God,” I say. “You look—”

  “Shut up,” she says, poking me with a serving spoon.

  “I was going to say pretty.”

  “Isn’t she?” Shawna’s mom smiles at me. She looks like Shawna, with nice crinkles around her eyes and a big ceramic bowl in her arms. “Where can I put this fruit salad?”

  I point her in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Thanks for inviting us,” Shawna says, giving my shoulder a punch. She tells me about the latest drama: her dad wanted her for half the day today, but her mom said no because he gets her on Christmas, so they had a screaming fight on the phone, and he threatened to take Shawna’s mother to court all over again.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  Shawna
shrugs. “What’re ya gonna do?”

  “Mocktail?” I say, handing her one of the drinks I made for us in the kitchen: cranberry juice and seltzer with little paper umbrellas sticking out the top.

  “Fancy,” Shawna says.

  “Only the best for this awkward gathering.”

  “It may not be so awkward.”

  I give her a look. “Do I really need to spell this out?… There’s my father and his twenty-four-year-old wife, who, by the way, is cooking venison out in the fire pit … there’s his bipolar ex-wife, and her old friend, my English teacher … there’s a screaming baby and there’s Regina’s big mouth. No, this won’t be awkward at all.”

  Shawna nods. “Point taken.”

  A few minutes later, Regina arrives, carrying wine and meatballs. “Anna Banana! I’d hug you if I had a free arm!” She’s followed by my mom, who’s wearing a blue dress I’ve never seen before. It nips in at the waist and hugs her hips just right.

  “You look good, Mom,” I say.

  “Thanks, honey.”

  When she gives me a kiss I smell cigarettes, which kind of bums me out. I want to say, Really, Mom? But I guess her being here is enough. That and the look on Mr. Pfaff’s face when he walks up the front path. He takes one look at that blue dress and stops, bug-eyed, the flowers in his hand wavering a little.

  “Hi, Peter,” she says, smiling.

  “Fran. Wow.”

  “Hi, Mr. Pfaff,” I say.

  “Anna.” He drags his eyes away from my mom long enough to hand me one of the bouquets. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Thank you,” I say. The flowers are pretty, all autumn colors.

  There’s an awkward moment in the foyer, when Marnie and my dad and Shawna’s mom all come rushing to meet everyone. Shawna and I take this opportunity to sneak upstairs, thinking that if we wait until the adults have had some wine, maybe by the time we go down they will be nice and relaxed.

  We play Tiny Wings on our phones. We text Sarabeth, Chloe, Nicole, and Reese. We listen to music. We are just about to put on “Crazy Dreams,” when we hear a voice from downstairs. A single voice, at first. It sounds like Marnie yelling, Crap! Crap! Crap! Now there’s shrieking. Jane, I think.

  There’s a lot of commotion. A door banging, a pot slamming, and then laughter. My mother? I know that laugh. Oh, God, what has she done this time?

  I look at Shawna and we both start running down the stairs. We run into the kitchen just as the smoke alarm goes off. Marnie is swearing, my mother is laughing, and the wildfowl is sitting in the middle of the floor.

  “What the—” I come to a screeching halt.

  “It’s a comedy of errors!” Regina yells over the noise.

  My dad is jabbing the smoke detector with a broom handle. Mr. Pfaff is holding a shrieking Jane. Shawna’s mom is opening windows. My mother and Marnie are now squatting over the wildfowl, attempting to lift it with the tiny woven potholders I made in third grade.

  Shawna’s mouth gapes open. “How did—”

  “Dropped on the transfer!” Regina yells. “Rookie mistake!”

  The smoke alarm goes silent. Marnie and my mother heave the wildfowl up and onto a platter. They’re both flushed and splattered with grease. My mother gives a whoop of triumph. Jane stops crying long enough to hiccup. Marnie looks dazed, a clump of hair stuck to her face.

  “It’s ruined,” she says softly.

  “It’s not ruined,” my mother says.

  “I killed the bird.”

  “I’m pretty sure it was already dead,” Regina says.

  My mother gives Regina a pointed look. “It’s fine.”

  “It’s dirty,” Marnie says.

  My mom puts an arm around her, which just about stuns me. I feel like I am witnessing a miracle right here in my father’s kitchen. It doesn’t seem that long ago that she could barely look at Marnie. Now she’s hugging her and telling her that the wildfowl is still edible.

  “A little dirt never hurt,” Shawna’s mother pipes in.

  And Mr. Pfaff adds, “Good for the immune system.” He looks strangely comfortable holding a baby. He keeps tickling Jane’s belly and she keeps tipping her head back and giggling.

  Marnie shakes her head. “I wanted this dinner to be perfect.”

  “Perfection is overrated,” my mother says firmly. Then, to my dad, “Remember, David, our first Thanksgiving? I forgot to put the turkey in a pan?”

  “Oh yes,” my dad says.

  Marnie sort of smiles. “How could you forget a pan?”

  “I don’t know,” my mom says. “I’d never cooked a turkey before. I just stuck it in the oven.”

  “She started a grease fire,” my dad says. “The fire department came.”

  Marnie’s eyes widen. “The fire department came?”

  “It did.” My dad smiles.

  “Did you eat the turkey?”

  “Inedible. Charred beyond recognition.”

  “Will you eat this one?”

  “Yes,” he says, simply. Nothing else. And then they kiss.

  “Okay, okay,” Regina says. “Are we gonna carve this dirty bird or what?”

  * * *

  After dinner, we sit around the fire pit in the backyard. The air is cold and crisp. Marnie passes around sweatshirts for everyone. Shawna and her mom huddle together under a blanket. Mr. Pfaff and my dad take turns stoking the fire like a couple of cavemen. Regina lounges on a beach chair with Jane in her lap, drinking a beer.

  “All we need is sticks!” Marnie says, holding up a bag of marshmallows. This is her one concession to an otherwise authentic Pilgrim feast: marshmallows. She says it was a tradition in her family when she was young. They always roasted marshmallows on Thanksgiving.

  “Come on.” My mom gives my sleeve a tug. “Anna and I are going on a stick hunt.”

  So we walk into the woods. We need to find eight marshmallow sticks. The leaves crackle under our feet. My mom slips a little in her dress shoes. We stop in front of a big dead branch with lots of long skinny branches attached. We each break one off.

  “So how are you, Anna?” my mother says quietly. “Tell me how you’re feeling these days.” She stands there in one of my dad’s old sweatshirts, half lit by the moon.

  “Tell me how you’re feeling these days.”

  “I’m feeling…” She breaks a few twiggy pieces off her branch. “Okay. Pretty good, actually.”

  I wonder how much of “pretty good” is the medication and how much is her telling me what I want to hear. I wonder how long “pretty good” will last. I could ask, but I know she won’t be able to promise anything. And anyway, I don’t want to ruin the night. The mood is too good.

  I can see the fire through the trees. Crackling and sparking, lighting up everyone’s face. Maybe we can have a campout here, in the spring. Me, Shawna, Sarabeth, Chloe, Nicole, and Reese. If I’m still living here—or even if I’m not. Who knows where you’ll find me in the next six months? Maybe my mom will stay on her meds. Maybe she won’t. Maybe my dad will get custody. Maybe I’ll get a beanbag couch. Maybe Marnie’s Muffins will take off. Maybe she’ll get pregnant. I don’t know. But I have to believe that whatever smacks me in the face next, I can handle. Maybe I’ll even smack it back. Meanwhile, there are marshmallows to roast.

  “Come on,” I say.

  We gather our sticks. When my mom stumbles a little on a root, I catch her arm. We loop our elbows together and walk out of the woods.

  RESOURCES

  IF YOU THINK YOUR PARENT might be clinically depressed, begin by talking to a trusted adult—a relative, a teacher, or a school counselor—about what’s been going on.

  If you’re worried that your parent is suicidal, call one of these twenty-four-hour, totally confidential telephone hotlines:

  National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

  1-800-273-TALK (8255)

  1-800-784-2433

  Covenant House Nineline

  1-800-999-9999

  Boys Town Hotlin
e

  1-800-448-3000

  Remember, depression and other types of mental illness are treatable. This is not about blame. This is not about being a “bad parent.” The sooner you ask for help, the sooner your mom or dad can get treatment.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  THANKS AND HUGS TO:

  My remarkable editor, Joy Peskin, whose well of positive feedback never runs dry, and who has assured me that, if all else fails, I will have a bright future naming pharmaceutical drugs.

  My extremely patient literary agent, Rebecca Sherman, for waiting ten years.

  The Clemson sorority girls in my Intro to Rhetoric and Argument class, for bringing Marnie to life.

  The nuns of Nonneberg Abbey, especially Sister Berthe, Sister Sophia, and Sister Stein, who kept me laughing—and harmonizing—during the final stages of this book.

  Everyone I ever dragged into one of my talent show acts, for being awesome.

  Julie, my neighbor and dear friend, for appreciating the pillbox hat.

  My dad, for the brooms he sold to buy me that orange typewriter.

  My husband, the business guru, for “paradigm shift,” “benchmarking,” and “value added,” and for his unwavering support.

  Jack, Ben, and Emma, for lighting the way.

  My mom, for being the strongest person I know. I love you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Natasha Friend—wearer of silly hats, lover of press-on mustaches, admirer of Gloria Steinem, devotee of well-named nail polish shades—is also an author. When she is not writing books, you will find her playing Wiffle ball, turning cartwheels, making chocolate-chip pancakes, singing, dancing, and wishing she was in a talent show. Natasha lives in Connecticut with her husband, three kids, and dog. Where You’ll Find Me is her sixth novel. You can sign up for email updates here.

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