Unfriended, page 13
And then wham it got dark and cold, and I realized oh, wait, I am not the strong, right, popular winner anymore. I’m the one who was abandoned. The one the Populars didn’t want to be around. Some clowns started chasing me. They were laughing and pointing.
I ran hard, trying to get away. A herd of llamas watched me run past, staring with their huge cold eyes. “It was all a joke,” one of the llamas told me. And I knew it was true, even though it was a llama saying so: it was all a joke.
Those popular kids were never my friends. It was an experiment, a cruel trick. One of them had said to the rest, Hey, do you think we could take some Random and make her think she’s in with us? They picked me, and I fell for it.
Everybody knew. They never even liked me. Everybody was laughing at my obvious obliviousness the whole time.
Even the llamas.
Or maybe, I thought, in the dark noisiness of this freaky rodeo/carnival dream place, it was worse than that. I was in some kind of moral experiment, being tested for what kind of person I was. MORAL HAZARD, the sign above a carnival booth said, in bright flashing lights. It was a throw-darts-at-balloons booth called MORAL HAZARD. It was a test to see how I handled being wanted by people who had shunned me before.
A guy with very few teeth handed me a fistful of darts. I didn’t want to but I had to throw them. The first few darts didn’t even reach the wall of balloons. I had no chance of getting the big stuffed dog or the blow-up alien. What’s the point? Toothless guy wouldn’t let me quit. Throw and miss, he said. He opened his horrible mouth wide and laughed at me. Just like you missed every nuance, every inside joke, Toothless mocked. The next dart I threw hit Toothless in his chest. He started bleeding, gushing blood from his chest—but he kept laughing at me.
I dropped the final dart and started running, searching for an exit or a familiar face, but the lights started swirling and the music got all weird and disharmonic. I was crying and tripping over stuff, bumping into people, but I kept running until I heard my name.
It was coming over the loudspeaker. I stopped. Everybody stopped and listened. I was hoping it was my mom, that she still loved me and was looking for me and would save me, help me find a way out. But no.
The voice, unrecognizable, thundered: Gabriela Gonzales! You don’t deserve to be called Truly anymore, do you? How do you like it when you are the one who can’t keep up? Gets dumped? Where’s your righteous indignation and social Darwinist cool now, Butterfly?
What? What does that even mean?
That’s when I woke up in a cold sweat, terrified. I had slept through my alarm.
Just a dream, I told myself, rushing to get ready for school. But even the quick hot shower and rough apricot scrub Mom had bought me special couldn’t clean the clammy sweat and dream residue off me. I had to go to school still reeking of it.
BROOKE
“NATASHA’S MOM IS tracing the anonymous responses,” Lulu whispered.
“She can do that?” Evangeline asked.
Lulu nodded, leaning in closer. “Natasha was texting me until like two A.M. Her mom is ninety-nine percent sure it was Truly who posted all those mean things to Natasha.”
“Seriously?” Evangeline asked. “Yikes.” She blew out a mouthful of breath.
“I know it, right? Pretty sick,” Lulu said.
“If it’s true,” I said.
“Ninety-nine percent is pretty tight,” Lulu said. “And she’s obviously not the only person who thinks so. Did you see the things people were posting about Truly?”
“Yeah,” Evangeline and I both said.
Truly had posted a bunch of stuff like: Natasha, don’t listen to this nonsense—you are a good, kind, loving person and whoever wrote this is the loser not you!
Same as we’d all done.
But under some of Truly’s comments, some people we didn’t know (probably with fake accounts, I was guessing) wrote: Nice try Truly and then: Yeah, Truly. Nobody’s buying your innocent act anymore.
Evangeline nodded. “I saw that stuff. That was harsh. Do you think Natasha wrote that?”
Lulu shook her head. “I was texting with her when it was posted. I told her about it and she didn’t believe me at first. I had to tell her where to look.”
“So who posted it?” Evangeline asked. “Those were obviously fake names, plus a lot of anonymous posts.”
“Maybe somebody who knows that Truly really did post those nasty things about Natasha?” Lulu suggested.
I shrugged. “Like who?”
“Maybe Jack,” Lulu said.
“No way,” I said. “He loves her!”
“Maybe he did,” Lulu said. “But she’s supposedly been texting with Clay,” Lulu whispered. “A lot.”
“Really?’ I asked.
“Natasha said Truly’s been bragging about it.”
We all looked over to where Truly had been sitting alone. She wasn’t alone anymore. She and Clay were sitting together, completely flirting.
Evangeline and Lulu both tipped their heads at me, squinching up their mouths in sympathy.
“I don’t care!” I said.
“Truly knows you guys like each other,” Evangeline whispered gravely.
Lulu nodded. “She told me she thought you’re such a cute couple.”
“Same,” whispered Evangeline.
“You guys were talking about me?”
“She brought it up,” Lulu said.
“To me, too,” Evangeline said. “And now she’s after him? After using Jack? Not cool on so many levels.”
We all turned to see Clay leaning closer to Truly, whispering.
“Come on, let’s go in,” Evangeline said. “Everybody sucks.”
“Except us,” Lulu said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Because we’re so awesome.”
“Aren’t we?” Evangeline asked.
“Slut,” Lulu whispered toward Truly as we passed her flirting with Clay, who is fully just a friend and never will be anything more to me ever.
CLAY
WHEN I GOT to school this morning, all the girls were in a tight huddle, whispering. Including Brooke, who I really wanted to talk to about last night, about what she had said about I should just do my homework and what I did, after, because of it. But she was clearly dealing with some Lulu crisis so I went by. Catch her later, I figured.
Truly Gonzales was sitting by herself off to the side, chewing on her fingers. Huh. Jack and Dave and those guys weren’t around, so I went and sat down next to Truly. “I used to bite my nails,” I said.
“Me, too,” she said. I smiled. She pulled her fingers away from her mouth.
“You okay?” I asked her.
“Sure.”
“What’s wrong?”
She started to shrug but stopped. We sat there not talking for a while. I didn’t really know her that well and never actually had a conversation with her before so I wasn’t sure what to talk about. I’m the last one to make somebody talk if she doesn’t want to, so I figured we’d just sit there until the bell rang. I looked for Jack to say sorry I’d forgotten again to do the History Day thing, but he was nowhere.
The girl clump started walking. I looked up, thinking I’d catch Brooke’s attention, maybe walk in with her. But her eyes were straight ahead. She didn’t even notice me.
As they passed, Lulu muttered slut at me.
Great.
Natasha must’ve fed them more crap about what a terrible person I am. Funny my dad thinks my problem is that I am too charming. #thestruggle. Please. But still I wasn’t sure why Brooke would be ignoring me.
I guess Truly heard what Lulu called me because she whispered, “Someone once said, if you want a friend, get a dog.”
“That’s a good one,” I said. “At least I have my dog.”
“Harry Truman,” she said.
“Huh?” I was like, does she think my dog’s name is Harry Truman?
“Harry Truman,” she repeated. “I was . . . I know who said it, actually. Harry S. Truman. I’m a nerd. Now you know.”
“Okay.”
“He actually said, ‘If you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.’”
“Oh,” I said.
“Natasha says nobody likes a know-it-all so I’ve been trying to . . .”
“Be a know-nothing?”
“I guess.”
“Seems kinda . . . dumb, actually,” I said, to myself as much as to her. “As a goal. Seem stupider than you are. Even if you achieve your goal, you suck.”
“Yeah.” She shook her head, which made her ponytail sway. “Whatever, anyway, obviously that doesn’t work either, so I may as well own up. Harry S. Truman. Go ahead and hate me I don’t even care anymore.”
“I thought you were doing Benedict Arnold.”
“What?”
“For the, for History Day.”
“I am. We are. I was. I don’t know.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I like Harry Truman.”
“Nice.”
“What? You’re, what, a big, Roosevelt fan? Or Dewey?”
“Who?”
“Nothing. I just, I don’t know . . .” She took a deep breath. “I was just thinking about, you know, friends. I’m sorry. I had a bad dream last night.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Is why I’m in a weird mood.”
I didn’t want to say, Yeah, and also your friends were in a tight huddle and they kept looking over here at you, all suspicious. And now they walked into school without you. So instead I said, “We might be doing Harry S. Truman.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Him and his dog. And, maybe, his favorite foods. Jack might cook them. If—What were his favorite foods?”
“You’re making this up right now, right?” she asked.
“I have until fifth period,” I protested. “You’re pretty good at math, right?”
“I guess,” she said. She sounded kind of disappointed in herself about it. “Of course. You?”
“Did you know that algebra means ‘the reunion of broken parts’?”
“No,” she said, a small smile tipping her lips up. “Does it really?”
“Yeah,” I said. “From the Arabic words meaning ‘reunion’ and ‘broken parts.’”
“That’s actually awesome,” she said.
“Yeah. Well, that’s all I got, algebra-wise. Maybe I’ll put that down, see if I get some extra credit. I’ll need it.”
The bell rang. She stood up smiling. “‘The reunion of broken parts,’” she said. “I really like that. Ha. I’m a mess of broken parts, feels like. Could use a reunion.”
“Sorry,” I said. “You what?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Just, thanks. Maybe the answer’s in the algebra textbook.”
“There’s an answer key at the back,” I said. “And I did the homework for once, if you need the answers.”
She laughed. “Yeah right, if only those were the answers I needed. Thanks, Clay.”
“Sure,” I said. “Any time.”
JACK
“YOU LIKE HER?” I asked Clay. Point blank.
“Who?” he asked.
Who. Sure. “Truly.”
Clay shrugged. He and Brooke, all they do is shrug.
“Man up, man,” I said. “Yes or no.”
“No,” Clay said. “She’s nice. Strange but nice. A little sad, maybe, probably because of all the . . .”
“I like her,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. “I don’t. Not like . . . We were just talking. About algebra.”
“I know what all the girls are saying she did, what they’re saying she is. It’s not true, none of it. Are you. . . .”
“Am I . . . what?” Clay asked.
“Plotting something.” They’re always plotting something. The girls and Clay along with them. Clay is like one of the girls, he’s in so thick with them.
“Plotting?” Clay asked, like I was stupid, or kidding. He said plotting like it was pooping.
“Yeah,” I said. “Plotting. What.”
“Jack.” He smiled, punched my arm lightly. “Come on. Chill.”
I wasn’t letting him smile me out of being pissed at him, though, the way he does to the girls and even a lot of the teachers. No way. I leaned toward him, with my feet planted far enough apart that nobody could knock me over if he tried. “You do whatever Brooke tells you to, so—”
“Hey,” Clay interrupted.
“So I’m asking,” I told him. “Are you planning something against Truly?”
“Like what?” he asked, lowering the front of his head and giving me that snarky smile. “Some kind of terrorist . . . situation?”
“I’m serious,” I said, soft and slow. “She didn’t do those things.”
“What things?” he asked.
“Post mean stuff about Natasha. I know her. She wouldn’t do that. On my honor.”
“Okay,” Clay said. “On your . . . Sure.”
“Don’t do anything to her,” I warned him.
“I didn’t,” Clay said, looking down the hall toward smart kids’ math class, where he needed to go. Where he had class with Truly. “I wouldn’t,” he told me. “Chill, Jack. Seriously. Okay? We cool?”
I stared at him hard for a few more seconds without answering, then turned around and went in, already late to dumb kids’ math.
NATASHA
FAT LOT OF good all their sympathy does me if I’m still not invited to sit at their table at lunch. I didn’t even look over there. I had a way better plan for lunch anyway: I was heading straight to Marilicia.
I know I’m the one who kicked her out last year, but come on, that was a long time ago. I think it’s fair to say we all grew up a lot between seventh grade and eighth and, also, bygones.
If I joined up with Marilicia, we could start our own Popular Table. Maybe we could get Lulu to defect and come sit with us, and probably some of the guys. Maybe Dave Calderon, who I could totally flirt with and win over, probably. Maybe I could like him. Theo’s too goofy, but maybe Mike Shimizu could sit with us if he could detach from Jack’s heels. So what if Mike is short and serious? Some people probably like that. Why should he always have to be in Jack’s shadow? I could say that, maybe, flatter him. Maybe set him up with Marilicia. She’s on the shorter, more serious side, too.
“Hey Marilicia,” I said, catching her with one leg already over the bench.
“Hi, Natasha,” she said, and sat down.
I stood there. I wasn’t about to sit down at the freaks’ table. I should have caught up faster so she wouldn’t already be committed to it. But I wasn’t giving up. Anyway, too late. I was there.
“How’s it going?”
“Good,” she said.
Her weird friends were checking me out. These kids were not going to be invited to our new Popular Table. Sorry. One of them had dark black hair, pale skin, red lips, liquid eyeliner. Another had a tight-shaved Afro and silver rings on both thumbs—I’m pretty sure those were both girls. A boy, right across from Marilicia, had his longish hair in loose dreads, and his orange button-down shirt rolled up at the sleeves past his elbows. A dark-eyed boy with a crew cut and deep blue T-shirt, smiled up at me in a welcoming way, at least. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” I answered, smiling at him. Cute. Still not invited.
“You gonna sit down?” he asked.
“I was just talking to Marilicia.”
The dark-eyed boy nodded. “True.”
I hunched down next to Marilicia, too tall, facing away from the table, and whispered, “I just, I really wanted to, belatedly, apologize.”
Marilicia turned slowly and looked very intently at me but didn’t say anything. No that’s okay or water under the bridge or we both did things we could share blame for or anything. Just looked at me like she was looking in a mirror, checking for zits.
“For getting you, you know, kicked out of the Popular Table.”
She smiled a tiny bit, so I figured I was on the right track.
“I think, I can’t promise anything,” I said. “But I think I could probably get you, you know, reinstated or whatever. Back in. Or, even better, well . . .” I smiled at her. Big smile, really friendly. She smiled back. “Maybe we could, you know, take a walk, talk about it,” I suggested.
She laughed. A little chuckle at first, but it grew, slowly, until she was kind of honestly snorting and like almost coughing. Her freak friends all joined in, though a little less grossly, on Marilicia’s laugh riot. All except for the black hair red lips girl, who just kept that doll-like blank expression on her face while slowly chewing whatever gross thing she was eating with chopsticks from her little plastic box. Seriously, chopsticks. The girl wasn’t even Asian. At least not visibly Asian. So what point was she trying to make, chopsticks?
And what was she even wearing? It was like, weird. Made of scarves or something. Hello, nobody wears stuff like that.
“What?” I whispered. “What’s so funny?”
Marilicia got a hold of herself. “It’s just . . .”
She had to breathe a couple stray laughs out before she could explain her rude self. During that time I was realizing this plan completely sucked. Unfortunately, it was too late to escape.
“You come over here,” Marilicia whispered to me. “You come like you’re bringing me this, what? This, like, perfect fresh-picked strawberry. Or peach.” Her hands made a bowl shape. “A peach you just picked off a tree, the most perfect peach anybody has ever picked, and you carry it lovingly, carefully, across the cafeteria, across the fields, across God’s green earth to give it to me, just to me. Here’s this perfect peach, Marilicia, you say, and I am giving it . . . to you.”
