The Take-Over Friend

By Carol Dines

A really good story about the very complex world of trying to find out who you really are."-Judith Katz, author of The Escape Artist and Running Fiercely Toward A High Thin Sound.

On the second day of ninth grade, introverted Frances meets Sonja, a wildly funny newcomer from France, and the girls form a fast friendship. Frances adores Sonja's worldliness, and Sonja adores Frances's family, especially her older brother, Will. Frances and Sonja immediately declare themselves "The Poets" and rally their homeroom to enter the homecoming parade with a poetry-mobile built from Frances's father's old band bus. But respective family crises begin to escalate, and tensions come to a head when Sonja temporarily moves in with Frances's family - forcing each friend to decide how close is too close. Alternatingly funny and poignant, The Take-Over Friend is a smart page-turner that focuses on the importance of finding your own voice in relationships.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fitzroy Books
• Release date: Oct 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781646032907

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Praise for The Take-Over Friend

"Thank you for the pleasure of reading The Take-Over Friend! How many of us have fallen for that teenage friendship, alluring and dangerous all at once! The Take-Over Friend is engaging and heart stopping—wonderfully written about trusts broken and boundaries crossed…A really good story about the very complex world of trying to find out who you really are."

—Judith Katz, author of The Escape Artist and Running Fiercely Toward a High Thin Sound

"Carol Dines perfectly captures the intoxication and relief that can be found in an intense new friendship, along with the little warning signs that are easy to dismiss when all one wants is to be swept up in the thrill of that bond. Narrator Franny is both vulnerable and wise, self-doubting and self-aware, and her family, with its imperfections and unshakable love, will quickly become as real to readers as their own. When charismatic Sonja finds their fissures and uses them as points of entry, it’s hard not to worry for everybody and impossible to stop turning pages. The Take-Over Friend is a beautiful, layered novel about what can happen when we ignore our own inner wisdom. It will live inside readers long after they reach the last page."

—Ona Gritz, author of Present Imperfect and Tangerines and Tea and Starfish Summer

"Equal parts wry and heartbreaking, The Take-Over Friend deftly and seamlessly weaves a compelling story about the complex nature of adolescent friendship with a deep and thoughtful dive into the impact of mental illness on one family. In Sonja, Carol Dines has created an unforgettable character who is at once both delightful and infuriating and also utterly irresistible. A timely, moving, and thought-provoking novel."

—Gary Eldon Peter, author of Oranges and The Complicated Calculus (and Cows) of Carl Paulsen

The Take-Over Friend

Carol Dines

Fitzroy Books

Copyright © 2022 Carol Dines. All rights reserved.

Published by Fitzroy Books

An imprint of

Regal House Publishing, LLC

Raleigh, NC 27605

All rights reserved

https://fitzroybooks.com

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN -13 (paperback): 9781646032891

ISBN -13 (epub): 9781646032907

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021949157

All efforts were made to determine the copyright holders and obtain their permissions in any circumstance where copyrighted material was used. The publisher apologizes if any errors were made during this process, or if any omissions occurred. If noted, please contact the publisher and all efforts will be made to incorporate permissions in future editions.

Cover images © by C. B. Royal

Regal House Publishing, LLC

https://regalhousepublishing.com

The following is a work of fiction created by the author. All names, individuals, characters, places, items, brands, events, etc. were either the product of the author or were used fictitiously. Any name, place, event, person, brand, or item, current or past, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Regal House Publishing.

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

For Anya and (little) Jack

1

Maybe it only happens once. You meet someone who sees right into you. Sees the very things you’ve been waiting for someone to see.

Sonja was that person for me. Right from the moment we met, I recognized myself in her words. Recognized who I wanted to be.

You were in my dream last night, she said.

Me? I glanced at the girl standing next to me. It was only the second day of ninth grade, and I didn’t know her name yet. I recognized her from homeroom, and now, last hour, we were the only altos in chorus.

The dream had nothing to do with music, she told me. You were in my mother’s book group that was meeting at our house. You kept interrupting the discussion.

I stared at her. How do you know it was me?

Your hair. She nodded at my frizzy red curls. Definitely you. You kept asking questions that had nothing to do with the book they were reading. She smiled. I write down all my dreams.

You remember them all?

She nodded. I keep a notebook right next to my pillow. My grandfather was a psychiatrist. He said dreams are maps of our inner lives. She paused when Mr. Grady, the choir director, glared at us. But when he turned back and continued auditioning the boys, Sonja whispered, Grandfather’s forebears were bakers in Chicago. He grew up scorching hair off his arms so it wouldn’t fall onto the loaves of bread. If you ask me, that’s enough to make anyone become a shrink. Sonja breathed in. He died recently which is probably why I’m so prone to talking about him. He left me all his books. He also left me a note. Dear S.O.N.I.A. She spelled her name for me, the way her grandfather had written it, then glanced up. I’m Sonja, spelled with a J. My own grandfather didn’t know how to spell my name.

I smiled, finding her chattiness entertaining.

I’m Frances…Fran…or Franny.

I didn’t care what people called me or how they spelled my name.

I’ll call you Frances, she said and nodded decisively. Gender free names are the best.

My smile tightened. I was known in my family as the weirdo magnet because I had a history of attracting needy people into my life. No matter where I was—the library, shopping mall, or dentist’s office—complete strangers talked to me. Old ladies. Children. Foreigners. Especially foreigners. It had become a family joke ever since last summer when we were at the airport baggage claim, waiting for Gram to arrive from Florida, and a Japanese woman approached me and bowed. You know weather?

I’d bowed back, nodding at the windows streaked with rain. Rain, I think.

For weeks after, every time it rained, my brother would bow, You know weather? Weirdos have a sixth sense about who won’t reject them. It’s a fact that redheaded girls attract more weirdos than any other group. I read it online, he’d said. That’s when he began calling me a weirdo magnet.

I’d never seen eyeglasses like Sonja’s—instead of the normal arms curling behind each ear, these glasses had two arms that gripped the temples.

Sonja thought I was staring at her nose. I’m of French origin. Hence the aristocratic nose.

Hence?

Her eyebrows arched. It’s a conjunction.

My face warmed. I was having a hard time reading her tone—was she mocking me?

But I found her choice of words—hence, forebears—interesting, as if she’d been educated in another century.

I like your glasses. I nodded at the bright metallic blue. According to my brother, one way of detecting needy people was to compliment them, and if they got very uncomfortable and couldn’t make eye contact, it was a clear sign they were totally lacking in confidence and excessively needy. But she was quite beautiful, with an olive complexion and round gray eyes—which were particularly striking considering her long dark eyelashes and thick eyebrows. Her nose was narrow and slightly curved. Brown curls fell around her face, over her shoulders. Not needy looking. Not weirdo material.

My father bought them in Paris. He missed my birthday, and he thought he could buy my forgiveness, so he bought these frames. Sonja took off her glasses and handed them to me, passing the weirdo test with flying colors. They’re called parasites, made of titanium. They were developed for the military. They can’t be destroyed, not even if my head is blown up by shrapnel, which hopefully it won’t be. But if I am blown to bits… She reached for her glasses. The glasses will survive. The rescuers will sift through the debris and among my brains they’ll find my glasses, perfectly intact. Isn’t that comforting? She laughed, clearly enjoying herself. My father is a worse-case-scenario kind of person. So I’m stuck with my parasites forever, unless I can convince someone to steal them. She eyed me. You don’t steal, do you?

Weirdo magnet that I was, I laughed.

2

Chorus was our last class of the day, and Sonja caught up to me as I was leaving the building. She nodded in the direction of the lake. I think we’re heading in the same direction. Minneapolis has a chain of five lakes running through the city, and my family lived a block east of Bde Maka Ska, the largest lake in the city. Sonja told me her family moved over the summer to Kenwood, the neighborhood next to mine, known for its historic mansions around Lake of the Isles.

I love choral music, she told me. Ever since I attended the international choir festival in Vienna four years ago. My dad was at a business conference, and my mom had the flu, so I went by myself. Thirty-seven choirs competing from all over the world. The Kenyan choir was the best, but the Poles won. I think it was political.

I glanced sideways. How old were you?

Eleven.

You went by yourself?

She nodded.

It made me like her. It made me think she was a solid person inside and some of that solidness might rub off. My goal for this year was to be more myself. Growing up the youngest in my family, I’d learned to become whatever other people needed me to be. It wasn’t a choice. It was instinct. Like a plant that leans toward the light, I grew up in the space left over from other peoples’ lives. And this year, my first year of high school, I’d vowed to change, to be more forthright.

Are you in a hurry? Sonja glanced at the bench by the lake.

Not really.

We sat down. It was one of those perfect fall days—white capped waves, maple leaves just beginning to turn, wind filling the sails as the windsurfers flew across the water.

She dug into a paper bag and handed me a huge almond croissant. Just the way they make them in Paris with burnt bottoms. I always bring an extra, in case I meet someone interesting. She had an extra bottle of water for me too. After taking a huge bite of her croissant, she said, I’ve lived most of my life overseas, eleven cities.

Because of your parents’ work?

She nodded, swallowing another bite of her croissant. My father sells used medical equipment overseas. He’s been kidnapped twice.

Seriously? How did he get released?

Connections. She rubbed her thumb and forefinger. Very hush, hush.

He must be brave.

Total schmoozer.

What’s that?

Callouses from shaking hands so much. She smiled a small, tight smile. Some people belong to the whole world, and they don’t know how to do family. He’s one of those people.

What about your mom?

Their agreement was they’d settle in one place before I turned twelve. Dad kept postponing. She’s from here originally.

You’re lucky. You’ve seen the world. I’ve only lived in one house.

Any siblings?

Two. Older. My sister goes to Oberlin. My brother’s a senior.

That’s as good as eleven cities. Her eyebrows rose and fell as she talked, and she kept pushing her parasite glasses up her nose. Different cultures, older siblings, they level you, right? You have to keep figuring out who you are? Her eyebrows lifted. Does your brother introduce you to his friends?

No.

She peered at me. Is your family close?

Pretty close.

Sonja drained her water bottle and set it down between us. Tell me if I’m asking too many questions. My father says I wear people out.

Does he? I couldn’t imagine my father saying something like that. I like questions.

We watched a man jogging past us with a bag of trash. He kept stopping and picking up cigarette butts and straws. He’s a neighbor, I told her. Picks up trash every day. My mom calls him Saint of the Lakes.

Sonja wiped crumbs from her mouth. I picked up trash in Paris with my school at Parc de Choisy, and a syringe went into my hand. I had to be tested for a year. I can never give blood either.

That’s awful.

She shrugged, glancing sideways. So, who do you hang out with?

I hesitated. I didn’t want Sonja to think I was expendable, which is how Lindsay had made me feel. My best friend moved to the suburbs in June, I explained. Her grandma died, and they moved into her grandmother’s house on Lake Minnetonka.

Do you still get together?

No. After she moved, we lost touch. I shook my head, remembering Mom’s theory—that it was too painful for Lindsay to hold on to both lives. Mom had other theories too, theories she shared with me after Lindsay stopped returning my phone messages.

You are a wonderful person, Fran, Mom had told me. But you always take care of everyone else before yourself.

What’s wrong with that? I’d asked.

She’d looked at me, that careful look—soft eyes, furrowed brow. I don’t think she was as good a friend to you as you were to her.

We were best friends our whole lives.

She wasn’t always nice to you.

When? I’d asked.

Remember when you got your poem published in the newspaper? And she said they publish everyone’s? It wasn’t true. They had hundreds of entries. Mom had paused. Remember when you built the puppet theater for neighborhood kids? Everyone loved it, but she thought it was babyish. She ruined it for you.

It was babyish, I’d replied.

You two were like sisters. You grew up together. But you had very different interests. If she hadn’t moved, I think you two would have drifted apart in high school.

So what’s your point? I’d asked. What brilliant words of wisdom are you dying to tell me?

Maybe it’s better to find friends who share your interests.

Now, months later, I wondered if Sonja shared my interests. At least we both shared a love of music.

Well, Sonja said, brushing crumbs off her jeans. If you need a replacement, I’m available.

Sure, great. I smiled, embarrassed by Sonja’s directness. After Lindsay moved away last June, I’d spent my days as a pet-sitter—Frances’s Furry Friends—helping neighbors when they went on vacation. I walked dogs, fed birds, changed cat litters, cleaned gerbil cages. All summer I’d been convincing myself animals were much more interesting than people my age and that I liked being alone. Now, Sonja pierced my solitary bubble.

I finished off my water and stood up. Thanks for the snack. I should probably get home. I need to walk our dogs. My dad always forgets to let them out. Glancing up the hill, I nodded. This is where I turn off.

Sonja followed me. I’m not in any hurry.

As we neared our house, I warned her. My father’s home.

Is he sick?

No, he works at home.

I didn’t want to explain why my father almost never left the house anymore, except to pick me up from school. I wasn’t ashamed of him, not like my sister. When she called home from college on Sunday nights, she always asked, Are you dressed yet, Dad? Because I don’t talk to fathers who don’t get dressed or comb their hair.

I’m in my sweats, he answered, amused by her weekly interrogation.

Did you sleep in them? Ali would ask. When he didn’t answer, her voice grew loud. Self-care, Dad. Take a shower. Get dressed. Brush your teeth. Do it for Mom. Do it for us.

The difference between my sister and me is that she remembered Dad a different way. Before, she told me. When normal wasn’t up for debate.

We lived in a Victorian clapboard with a big front porch. Dad called our house a gem; Mom said it had potential. Mom dreamed of restoring it to its former glory once our college educations were paid for, while Dad said he preferred a house to feel lived in. As soon as we stepped inside, I heard loud music coming from over the garage.

Your brother’s home? Sonja said.

That’s my dad.

Inside the front hallway, the chandelier and windows vibrated. Dad only played his music this loud when the house was empty. Otherwise Mom did her spiel on hearing loss. Upstairs, in his studio above the garage, he wore his headphones. His raspy voice filled the house as he jammed on his electric guitar.

Your dad plays rock music?

He’s a songwriter. He used to run a music production company.

I led the way to our kitchen, poured us each a glass of juice, grabbed some oatmeal cookies, and then nodded for her to follow me.

As we headed up the stairs, Sonja tugged my arm. Maybe we shouldn’t disturb him.

"Actually, he needs to be disturbed. I’m supposed to check in when I get home. I pounded on the door at the end of the hallway. Dad!"

As we entered, I saw that he was still in his plaid pajamas, the guitar strap wrapped around his shoulder. He turned off the amp, removed his earplugs, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Home already?

It’s four.

Really? He squinted at the clock. His hair, which I’d inherited, rose in frizzy curls, still uncombed. He hadn’t shaved, so his cheeks and chin were scruffy. Even at fifty, he had more freckles than wrinkles.

I looked at Sonja. No sense of time.

Sonja extended her hand politely. I hope we’re not disturbing you. I’m Sonja Marcus.

Dad grinned at her formality and set down his guitar, shaking her hand. William. He glanced at me.