Unfriended, page 15
I resharpened some pencils. Don’t check the computer again; there’s just no point. I poked the pointy tip of one pencil deep into the central swirl of the fingerprint on my left pointer. I watched it bounce back, almost completely. But it left a tiny mark, a hint of indent. A secret wound. I tried the middle finger, then the ring finger. Tiny, secret scars.
My phone was off, squished between my mattress and box spring. Don’t check it. But I knew I’d take it out soon. Not just because I’d need to bring it to school in the morning so I could text Mom when I was on my way home and answer “no” when she asked if I was hanging around with my friends. She didn’t know how that word, friends, didn’t apply to me anymore except as a negative—or a weapon.
Tiny, secret scars. Guess I’ll have a lot of character.
I flopped down on my bed to stop myself from running to Mom to tell her everything, talk it through, make a plan. It just wouldn’t be fair. She has so much to deal with, as it is—her job, of course, but also Henry and Molly. Their problems are so much more real and important.
Me? I’m having trouble with my friends? Boo freaking hoo.
I’m supposed to be the easy one. I’m not brilliant like Henry or hilarious like Molly. I’m easy. That’s my whole thing. I don’t even write in an interesting color ink. I’m just regular. Normal. Easy.
So what am I supposed to do, when I’m none of that?
Cope.
I flipped off the bed to check my phone one last time. Mistake. Big mistake. I threw the phone against my door.
“Ow!” Henry said, out in the hall.
“Are you eavesdropping on me?”
“Yes,” he said.
I heard him start to walk away. I ran to my door and opened it. “Want to come in?” I asked him.
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Want to play a game? I could download—”
“No,” I said. “Just, maybe, hang out?”
“Okay,” he said. He came in and sat on my desk chair. I sat on my bed. We both looked at our feet.
“I’m not so good at just hanging out,” Henry said.
“Yeah, apparently I’m not either.”
“Yes you are,” he said.
I shook my head and tried not to cry. It didn’t work. Oh, great. Another sob attack. I went and closed my door and then sat back down on my bed, still sobbing. When I looked up at Henry, he was just watching me. Sometimes he’s hard to be around, but right then he was the best person in the world.
“You’re so lucky, Henry,” I said.
“At what?” he said.
“Do you, I mean, do you have . . .” I wiped my nose and started over. I didn’t want to insult him at all, but I was curious. And Henry doesn’t get insulted easily, I reminded myself. Some things bug him a lot but not the things that would hurt most people’s feelings. “How’s the friend thing going for you this year?”
“Um,” Henry said. “There’s a kid in my math class who asked me for help on trig.”
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Andy,” Henry said. “Or maybe Randy. No, Danny. I think.”
“Does it bother you?” I asked him. “Not having, like, a group of friends?”
“I don’t know,” Henry said. “A little, but not very much.”
“That’s what I mean, you’re lucky.”
“Oh. I’m not sure that’s how I would use the word luck.”
“Not wanting what you can’t have?” I said. “Sounds lucky.”
“Luck has to do with chance. I’m not sure you mean lucky.”
“Okay.” I closed my sore eyes. “My friends hate me.”
“Then they aren’t your friends,” Henry said. “By definition.”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe you should just forget,” Henry said.
“Forget?”
“Forget to think about them. Your ex-friends.”
“Yeah?” I asked. “Teach me how I should forget to think.”
Henry pondered that for a minute. “It might be like when I tried to teach Mom how to program the TV to record the tennis last year,” he finally said. “The gulf between what she understood and where I could start explaining was too wide so I had to just do it for her.”
“Oh, well,” I said. “Unfortunately that won’t work this time so never mind.”
We sat there for another few minutes. I blew my nose and resisted checking my phone, which was having fits over by my door.
“I should just drown that thing in the toilet,” I said, more to myself than to Henry.
“In the Watergate scandal,” Henry said, “the chief of the burglars was named G. Gordon Liddy.”
“Awesome,” I said. I knew I should try to be nice despite what everybody clearly thought of me, but I was worn-out. And maybe they were right. Maybe I was just a nasty waste of good oxygen. “Henry, I’m kind of in the middle of a whole lot of—”
“I’m telling you something,” Henry said, with the little growl in his voice he sometimes gets. He hates being interrupted.
I flopped back on my bed. “Okay,” I surrendered. “The Watergate . . .”
“When Nixon cheated and lied and spied and wrecked his presidency. 1971 to 1973.”
I closed my eyes.
“G. Gordon Liddy organized and directed the burglaries at the Watergate. Five of his operatives were arrested inside the Democrats’ office there, and the investigation led back to him.”
“To G. Gordon,” I said, my eyes still closed. Henry didn’t require a lot of interaction from the person he was telling his facts to, but his coach had taught him to pause and wait for the other person to say something, every few sentences.
“Yes,” Henry said. “To G. Gordon Liddy. But when they questioned him, he wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t tell any information. They threatened him all kinds of ways, and tried to make deals with him, but he was unwilling to talk. ‘I’m not subject to intimidation,’ he told them.”
“Cool,” I said. “So, Henry, I actually have stuff to—”
“I’m helping you,” Henry grunted.
“Okay.” Sometimes it’s quicker to just let Henry’s stories play out.
“G. Gordon Liddy went to jail for fifty-two months instead of talking. He had this party trick he used to do for people,” Henry said. “He’d ask for a lighter. A cigarette lighter. He’d light it and hold the flame steady, with his hand right over it, his palm touching the flame. People would be all freaked-out, saying he was burning his own flesh. Which he was. People would have to grab the lighter away to make him stop. And they’d ask him, ‘How do you do that? What’s the trick?’”
I sat up. “And?” I asked. “What was the trick?”
“The trick is not minding,” Henry said. “That’s what he told them.”
“Not minding that you’re burning your own skin off?” I asked.
Henry nodded. “G. Gordon Liddy worked on that trick for a long time. He’d been a scared kid. But he practiced and forced himself to not be scared anymore. Or at least not to mind pain anymore.”
“That’s sick.”
“Yes,” Henry said. “And his politics were even sicker. Still, I thought that might be good advice for you, in your present situation.”
“Burn myself up?” I asked.
“No,” Henry said, unsmiling. “Try not minding so much.”
He watched me until I nodded. “That’s good advice.”
He stood up and went to my door, stood beside my buzzing phone. “Technically I think you can’t drown a phone, because it’s inanimate. But I could be wrong about that.”
“Thanks, Henry,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” he said and closed my door quietly behind him.
BROOKE
WE MET UP at the wall before school to figure out what to do next. Lulu was scared the principal might get involved, because pretty much the whole school was buzzing about Truly and what had she done and whether everybody should hate her. Rumors were flying that she was a flirt, a fake, a teachers’ pet, a liar, and a slut.
She had stopped responding to what people were posting about her online, stopped even untagging herself. I thought that was probably the wise thing. Natasha thought it was practically an admission that it was all true. “Wouldn’t you say no, otherwise?” she asked.
We weren’t sure.
“Maybe her parents took away her computer,” I said. “As a punishment or to protect her. You said they’re really strict.”
“They are,” Natasha agreed.
“I thought it was all mostly just kidding around,” Evangeline said. “When did it shift into this mess?”
I looked away from my friends toward the traffic circle. Hazel was getting out of the backseat of a big shiny black car. She slammed the door shut behind her and didn’t say good-bye to whoever was driving her. With her head tipped down toward her pile of books, she skulked toward the front door of school, which was a straight line past us. Her hair was dyed blue now, and she had a ring on every single finger, including thumbs.
I reached out and poked Hazel in the back. When she turned around, I crossed my eyes at her, like I had in the selfie I’d sent her. “Hey,” I said. “That would be fun.”
“What would?”
I could feel Natasha beside me, her hands on her hips, scowling. “What you said,” I told Hazel. “Hang out without death or funerals, sometime.”
“Would it be fun, though?” Hazel asked. “Really?”
“Good point.” I laughed. “How about minimal death and funerals?”
She smiled. I think it was the first time I’ve seen her fully smile. Her face actually lit up. I grabbed my bag. “Come on,” I said to Hazel. She tilted her head sideways at me, like she was weighing the offer, and then sighed. We walked into the building together.
“You’re way weirder than anybody gives you credit for,” Hazel said to me as we got to the door. “Including yourself.”
“You’re probably right,” I said. “I need to own it.”
“Takes courage,” Hazel said.
“Oh, no,” I said. “Courage? Forget it.” We were passing my locker but I kept walking with her toward the creepy C stairway, where her locker is.
“Speaking of which,” Hazel said. “Did you see the stuff online about Truly?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Hard to know what to think.”
“She’s actually really nice,” Hazel said.
“Didn’t she basically dump you to be friends with me?” I had to ask.
“She did,” Hazel said. “That stung.”
“But you’re defending her?”
“I’ve discovered some things about people,” Hazel said. “Some difficult truths. My grandmother is dying.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said.
“Whoops, we were going for less death,” Hazel said. “Whoops.”
I laughed a little, but then apologized again.
“No, it’s fine,” she said and flashed a small smile. “My point was, although I love her, my grandmother is a loathsome woman.”
“Oh.” None of my friends would ever use the word loathsome.
“I can see her flaws, I’ve realized, and yet have some compassion for her nevertheless.”
I nodded. “And, same with Truly?”
“Yes. More, in fact.” We stopped walking. Hazel leaned against a locker at the end of the row. “She said a weird thing the other night. Not Truly. My horrid Grandee. In between criticizing nurses and torturing other patients, she told me she wanted to give me some advice.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Exactly. She said I should always try to act a little nicer than I feel.”
I nodded.
“Good advice, right?”
“Yeah, actually,” I said. “It is.”
“Of course when I asked Grandee why she didn’t follow her own advice, she insisted she did. Which means I guess she feels even less nice than she acts. Which is almost impressive.”
I laughed. “She sounds awesome.”
“They’ll all say kids these days, you know.”
“Who?”
“The parents, teachers, all of them. The principal.”
“When your, sorry, when your grandmother dies?”
“No,” she said. “Actually I suspect she’ll live forever, out of spite.”
“Oh.”
“I mean about the online bullying of Truly. Also of Natasha.”
She unlocked her lock with the tiny key on her shoelace necklace.
“They’ll all be like, ‘Kids should stop texting and being online. Get them off this horrible site or the other horrible site and everything will be fine.’”
“‘They should go outside and play,’” I agreed. “‘Wholesome stuff, like when we were kids and everything was good!’”
“Exactly.” Hazel dumped all her books into her locker. “But it’s not about the social media. It’s us. We all suck.”
“We do,” I agreed.
“My grandmother is a bully about how my mother dresses. My mom is a bully about how my father chews. My dad is impossible about my hair. We didn’t invent it. Is my point.”
Over at our lockers, my friends were shooting me quizzical looks. What was I doing by C stairs?
“I just thought maybe we were better than that,” Hazel said.
“Better than . . . ?”
“Than being nasty to each other about nothing nonsense, just from habit. Or boredom.”
“Yeah,” I agreed.
“Testing our power,” Hazel said. “We think we’re being righteous, but . . .”
“Exactly!” I said. “You try to do the right thing, but maybe you end up making the situation worse.”
“You didn’t,” Hazel said. “It’s not your fault, what happened after you kicked Natasha out of your lunch table. You were right to do it. That e-mail she sent Truly was cruel.”
“How . . . wait, how did you know . . .”
“I’d rather not say for now, if you don’t mind,” she said. “I’ll tell you eventually, I swear on Sweet Pea’s memory. But for today let’s just say a lot of this is my fault.”
“Yours?” I asked. “No way. You’re completely an innocent bystander, here.”
“No,” she said. “Far from. But, if I could ask one favor of you?”
“Sure,” I said. “What do you need?” My mind was spinning.
“Get everybody to ease up on Truly. She doesn’t deserve the pummeling she’s getting. Well, nobody does. Probably not even Natasha, though I’d steer clear of her for sure. But the rumors about Truly flirting with the boys? Including Clay? All lies. I swear. And she never posted one mean thing about Natasha.”
I nodded. “I believe you. I’m not sure what I can do, but—”
“Golda Meir once said, ‘Don’t be humble; you’re not that great.’”
“I like that.”
“You have power around here, Brooke. Don’t deny it. You can tip the dynamic a little toward kindness.”
“Follow your grandmother’s advice?”
She nodded. “Especially if you wear a scarf.”
What? “Um, okay.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean, I’ll try.”
“I know.”
“Hey, Hazel?”
“Yes?”
“Did Sweet Pea ever come to you in a dream, to fly?”
“Not yet,” Hazel said, flashing that full-face-illuminating smile again, for a millisecond. “But hope, like my grandmother, springs eternal.”
CLAY
I WALKED OUT of math first period hating myself. I had done all the homework, for real. I didn’t look up the answers until after, and then worked through why I got them wrong until I understood them. In a movie of my life, I’d rock the quiz today, right? After the montage of me sitting at the kitchen counter and at my desk, on my bed, on my floor, frigging wrestling algebra to the mat? I wasn’t distracted by the Internet even once. It’s true. My parents made sure of that. But still, I didn’t give up. I didn’t decide, Screw them, if they think taking away my stuff will make me get better grades I’ll show them the opposite is true. Well, I considered that. But I went the other way. I worked my butt off. But still when I turned over the paper on my desk for the math test this morning? Bzzz. None of it looked even familiar. Thanks for playing.
So I wasn’t looking where I was going, is why I almost bumped into Brooke. She grabbed me by the sweatshirt sleeve and dragged me toward the C stairwell. “What’s wrong?” I asked her. “Besides basically every answer I just . . .”
She was yanking me up the stairs toward the locked door of the third floor, where we’re completely not allowed to go.
“Hey,” I said. “You okay?” She was breathing fast, her chest going up and down. I forced my eyes away because I didn’t want to be a goon, but man, it was not easy because, seriously, she was making me feel all kinds of weird.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Did you . . .” Brooke leaned against the wall. “Have you seen Truly?”
“Sure,” I said. “Wasn’t she in math just now?”
“Yes. Did you see how pale she looked, and, like, haunted? Everybody needs to take a step back, don’t you think? Ease up on her? Stop spreading lies about her?”
“Jack told me about that,” I said. “He said it was all lies, too.”
“I know it is,” she said. “Are you not online at all?”
“They took away my phone,” I admitted. So humiliating. “And my computer.”
“So you weren’t texting with Truly last night?”
