Free The Best of Enemies by Jen Lancaster Page A

off of your walk.”
    Before we can fill out our forms, the doorbell rings.
    “Got it,” I say, running down the long hall in my stocking feet. I pull open the huge double doors (large enough to drive a John Deere tractor–lawn mower through, but don’t ask us how we learned this) to find Sars’s mom.
    “Hi, Mrs. Martin! What’s up?”
    “Hey, sweetie, how are you?” Mrs. Martin places a warm palm on my cheek and it’s all I can do not to lean into it like Mikita does when we pet her. She’s almost more like a grandma because she’s older. The Martins call Sars their miracle baby because they were both well into their forties when she was born.
    Mrs. Martin is like one of those sitcom moms we watch on Nick at Nite. Her graying hair’s always brushed really nice and she smells like roses. She knows how to make a million different kinds of food and she’s always trying new recipes at dinner. She loves to throw dinner parties and on my birthday, she cooks something she calls “Coquilles Saint Jack” in my honor. It’s this crunchy, creamy, fishy casserole. Sounds gross, but it’s the best stuff I ever tasted. Around here, we know only how to make hot dogs, spaghetti, steak, and reservations. John says he can cook omelets, but won’t show us how.
    Sometimes when I go to Sars’s house for supper, I envy her being an only child and the center of her parents’ universe. Then I see all the empty chairs at their dinner table (which is never covered by an ongoing game of Risk) and I remember you can’t be lonely in a house like mine.
    Mrs. Martin asks, “Can you please send Sars home, sweetie? I could use her help getting the house ready for the party. I wasn’t quite as prepared as I hoped!”
    “You need an extra hand?” I volunteer.
    When she smiles, her eyes get all crinkly and I feel calm and safe whenever she’s near. She was once a nurse, so she’s really good at making everyone around her feel at ease. “You’re such a doll, but, no. The party won’t take too long, so don’t worry about it. But swing by later—I’m making Peanut Butter Wonder Bars. See you in a bit, sweetie!”
    I return to the kitchen where Sars has scooted closer to Teddy. She’s pressed against his shoulder, and . . . did she just surreptitiously smell his hair?
Blech.
She jumps when I approach.
    “Great news! Your mom’s making Peanut Butter Wonder Bars later!”
    “She came over to tell you that?” Sars replies, puzzled. “Weird.”
    “Are those the chewy sort-of-a-cookie, sort-of-a-candy deals?” Bobby asks, suddenly very attentive again.
    I nod. “Roger that. Hey, Sars, your mom says you’ve gotta go home. She needs party help or something.”
    Sars deflates. “Oh. Okay.”
    “Doesn’t sound like it’ll take long. I’m coming over for Wonder Bars later, so no worries. We’ll get this figured out before the deadline.”
    She grabs her stuff from the counter and begins to walk backward toward the door. “Um, yeah, so, like, see you later, alligators! Ha! Maybe we can all go to the movies or something later? As a group?
Mrs. Doubtfire
looks really funny.” Except when she extends this invitation, it seems as though it’s directed more to Teddy than the rest of us.
    When we hear the click of the front door, Bobby turns to Teddy and says, “Someone has a big crush on you, bro.”
    “Impossible. You guys are her
family
.”
    “That’s a negative, Ghost Rider. She was practically drooling over your boy here,” Bobby replies.
    “Wait,
you
?” I say, sitting back down on my barstool, swinging around to Ted. “I mean, no offense, but really? You? Does she like you? I just figured she had a fever or something.”
    Teddy shrugs. “Used to it. High school chicks dig college guys.” To Bobby, he says, “One more semester at USC and even you’ll get laid, loser. Then you can finally give Rosie Palm and her five sisters a break.” He turns back toward me. “I don’t date high school chicks, but