Unfriended, page 4
Well, but. The fact is, Natasha used to say that critical stuff to me anytime I didn’t want to play exactly what she wanted me to play. I had my suspicions I was not the one who was acting spoiled. According to Mom, Natasha was definitely the one who was spoiled when she made me cry so often in early elementary. But then again, Mom only heard my side of the story. And she was not used to dealing with friendship traumas because Henry is more of a keep-to-himself kind of kid.
I read some books about highly sensitive kids, and it’s true I can’t stand tags in my clothes or sudden noises and tragedies, so maybe Natasha wasn’t completely wrong. Or Hazel either.
It’s funny they hate each other when they have some important points of agreement over my faults. Or they used to. Natasha and I have made up now. Which feels really good. For almost two years I’d watch her in the halls and know she was going to pretend not to see me. I spent so much time, and so many fallen eyelashes and birthday candles, wishing it would not feel so awful between us anymore.
I went over to her house yesterday and it was such fun. We danced around in her room and took silly pictures of ourselves. The two of us dressed up in some of her dresses. She made me try on the pink and white one she wore to her aunt’s wedding last spring. She stuffed socks in to make me look all filled out like her. It was hilarious. She asked me if I like Jack. Jack? I told her I’ve never had one conversation with him. She said she caught him smiling at me a few times today. “No way!” I shrieked, and we laughed about how silly Jack and I would look as a couple, him so tall and strong and me looking like a baby. We put on lipstick, full eyeliner, and tons of mascara and pretended to be seventeen, heading out to clubs, sticking out our tongues at the camera, pressing our faces cheek to cheek, pouting our lips. It was like a replay of being little kids playing dress-up, but the teen version.
“If you posted any of those,” I told her, “my mom would kill me.”
Natasha laughed and kissed my cheek. “No worries. Show me your sexiest pose!”
I tried.
“You are too pretty!” she yelled. “Why are you so photogenic? It’s disgusting! I hate you!” But she was totally smiling and kidding. It felt really good, like my life was finally back on its track.
So today, I kept reminding myself of all those nice things Natasha said yesterday and told myself Stop being oversensitive! I have to toughen up if I want to chill with Natasha and those guys. Suck it up, Evangeline says, if anybody whines about a grade or catches a ball funny and jams her finger on the playground: suck it up and deal.
So I was telling myself Suck it up! after Natasha asked me “Talk much?” as we were leaving social studies this morning.
I had raised my hand in class a bunch and got called on three times. Maybe that’s too much talking for an eighth grader, even if the topic was the Civil War and I love the Civil War. Henry and I watched the whole Ken Burns documentary on it more than once over the summer. But, okay, shut the heck up, I was realizing, too late. Was I acting like Hermione in the first Harry Potter book, before she got cool and popular? Because that would be bad. You don’t want to be Book One Hermione. Books Five to Seven, yes. Not Book One.
I swallowed hard and didn’t say anything back to Natasha. Instead I sucked it up and dealt.
“Don’t let her bother you,” Brooke whispered to me right then. “She’s mad because Clay keeps staring at you.”
“Oh, my goodness,” I whispered back, both because, wow, really? Clay Everett was staring at me? Why? But also, yikes, she startled me, appearing suddenly beside me and whispering at me while being Brooke. I still wasn’t fully used to being somebody Brooke would whisper to.
“Not that that excuses what a hair ball she’s being, but . . .”
“No, it’s fine,” I said.
“Natasha is just—you know.”
I didn’t know. I mean I did, of course, but I wasn’t sure I should be gossiping about her with Brooke. “Should I apologize, you think? Or . . .”
“For what?”
“For, you know. Clay?”
“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Brooke said. “Sorry your ex keeps staring at me. That would be good.”
It’s not always easy for me to tell whether Brooke is just joking around. I’m still not completely fluent in the rhythm. But I tried teasing back. “How about if instead I said, Sorry you’re being such a hair ball?”
Brooke laughed. “Perfect,” she said.
HAZEL
TRULY SAT WITH those people again at lunch yesterday. It’s becoming a bad habit. Something had to be done, and I was the girl to do it.
So first thing this morning, I waited at the cluster of lockers right near the center pole in the eighth-grade hall. That’s where all those people have their lockers, bunched together. They smiled quizzically at me. I smiled back. Undeterred. I sat down in front of Brooke’s locker cross-legged and waited.
When she finally showed up, I said, “Hi, how’s it going, Brooke?”
“Great,” she said. “You?” But she was looking at boy-wonder Clay, not at me. Maybe she was hoping he’d remember my name and mouth it to her.
“Great, thanks Brooke,” I said, and then I asked her if she wanted to come over sometime.
All those people stopped breathing. It was a thing of beauty.
“Oh, uh, thanks,” Brooke said. “That sounds great—but I’m really busy.”
Every day from now on forever? I didn’t ask.
I stood up and smiled again. As if I didn’t get it, that I could not ask Brooke to come over. In what possible world could a middle-school nobody with a hunched-over, but still I do believe grand manner, just haul off and ask the number one most popular girl in the entire school to come over sometime?
Not the one we all live in.
Here in this world I cannot really even say hello to her. But to ask, Hey Brooke, how’s it going. Do you want to come over sometime? Hahahaha! I might as plausibly have walked sideways across the lockers and spoken in Elvish.
But I did it. I asked her to come over sometime. Yup. Forced her to look all awkward. Brooke Armstrong, fidgeting. I did that.
“That’s okay, Brooke,” I told her, like I was used to just calling her by name, aloud, any old time. Three times so far.
Their mouths were hanging open, those people, their eyes darting between Brooke and me. Seeing me. If they’d noticed me at all, before, I probably only registered in their minds as that mild-mannered mildly depressed zero with the green hair. But now I was on their radar as that superweird girl who asked Brooke to come over to her house.
Good to meet you all.
“No worries, Brooke,” I added. Four. I smiled at her. “Maybe sometime next week?”
“Sure,” Brooke said. “That would be great.”
“Yes,” I said, “it will be,” and walked away with all of them still watching.
BROOKE
ALL I KNEW about the girl who showed up at my locker today was she had green hair and she’s in my math class. I couldn’t even remember her name. Opal or Thelma or something. But she asked me over, and since I couldn’t think of a good no, I said okay, sure, sometime.
All my friends were like what?
To be fair, she is one of those girls who stomps around in her heavy-soled boots and tights with holes, moody and awkward, and probably writes poetry in her notebooks during class about how nobody understands her. Not my usual pal. But my mom says, You don’t have to be friends with everybody, you just can’t be unkind to anybody.
So, whatever. Probably it’ll never happen anyway.
First, though, everybody was coming over to my house, and how was I going to explain why both my parents were home? I really did not need to be explaining my family’s private business to the whole world. Or even just my closest friends.
And no way this crew would not ask a lot of questions.
TRULY
THIS AFTERNOON a bunch of us went over to Brooke’s house. Just “the girls”—Brooke (of course), Natasha, Evangeline, Lulu, and me. We went right to the kitchen because we were baking cookies for the eighth-grade bake sale tomorrow. Her parents were both home and they were so friendly and nice, just like Brooke. Happy to see a whole crew of us, but then they didn’t hang around nervously helping get stuff out for us the way my parents do. They hadn’t even prepared anything for us. Just, anything we wanted to get or do was fine. Then her mom went to drive Brooke’s gorgeous older sister to ballet, and their dad and little brother went off somewhere on bikes. Everyone in Brooke’s whole family has big happy smiles and dimples in their cheeks. They’re all perfect.
After her parents left, we talked about science projects. We all complimented Lulu, whose presentation was today. She jumped around a little, she was so happy we all thought her bubbles went over well. She’s very enthusiastic.
They all went gross! when I said my report was on dust mite feces. In a nice way, though. I sucked it up and dealt. I think it went pretty well. Might just take more practice, to be smooth and not feel lurchy in the face of their attention and joking. But I think I am improving. Instead of deciding to come up with a completely new science project tonight because mine is obviously too horrible, I said, “I know, gross, right? But sort of interesting? Maybe? I don’t know. We’ll see how many people puke when I give it tomorrow.”
“I might puke now!” Lulu said. “Seriously? There’s bug crap in dust? Ew!”
“Yes,” I said.
“Okay, I fully have to stop eating dust as a snack,” Brooke said.
We all laughed.
“But seriously, Truly,” Lulu said. “I’m sure you’ll do really good.” Lulu is almost as small as me but much sturdier, with her shiny black hair all yanked back tight in a ponytail. Every time she talks I have to smile because she sounds like she sucked helium from a balloon.
“Thanks, Lulu,” I said.
“You will,” Evangeline agreed. “You’re really good at oral reports. You make anything interesting.”
“You’re stressing me out!” I said. They noticed me? Before?
They laughed some more. Phew. Though I wasn’t actually kidding. When I first saw Evangeline in sixth grade, I thought she was a teacher. She just seems so grown-up and in charge. She never talked to me directly until I started sitting at the Popular Table except one time in gym, when she yelled, “Get out of the way.” Every time she talks to me now I flinch. But she only ever says super kind things to me. Still, she seems so sure of herself. And so tall.
“You’ll do great,” Brooke said. “How can you miss with bug turds and dust?”
“You’ll probably get an A,” Natasha said. “You always do.”
“Hair flip,” Evangeline said, and then demonstrated. Like a starlet deflecting compliments, she swished her braids off her face. I imitated her.
Brooke laughed.
We all flipped our hair like humble superstars a couple of times, then moved on and I was like, hallelujah. We talked about each person’s science topic, made fun of it a little but then complimented the person. Then we talked a bit about our History Day project. Everybody liked my idea of Benedict Arnold. “Maybe we could do like a skit about what he did,” I suggested.
“That could be really cool,” Lulu said.
“Definitely,” Brooke agreed. “Write a short play, and we’d all have parts?”
“That’s sick!” Evangeline said.
“Oh,” I said, dying instantly on the spot. “I mean, no. Of course. I didn’t—”
“No, I meant that sounds awesome,” Evangeline said. “Sick like great!”
“Oh,” I said. “Right. Of course.” I did a hair flip.
Brooke laughed.
“A play could be really fun,” Lulu said.
“True,” Brooke said. “Practicing it and all that. Great. Lulu, hand me the cookie sheet?”
“Yeah!” Lulu said. “Here. So what exactly happened with Benedict Arnold? In history? Revolutionary War, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “The thing that I think is cool about the story is that Benedict was a great soldier, but he wasn’t good at getting along with people. The only one who really liked him was George Washington. And then Benedict betrayed him.”
“Way to win friends,” Natasha said.
“Well, from what I’ve read, I mean . . .” I didn’t want to sound like a know-it-all, like Natasha used to accuse me of being. “I don’t know.”
“No, what do you think?” Brooke asked, leaning forward.
I took a deep breath. “I think Benedict thought if he turned over West Point to the British, he could end the war. The war wasn’t so popular right then—so many soldiers who were basically only teenagers dying, you know. He could bring peace, and be a hero.”
“Huh,” Lulu said, banging flour through the sifter into the big metal bowl beneath. “I thought he was just a traitor.”
“That’s what . . .” Am I talking too much? “I mean, most people think that, but . . .”
“We could show the other side?” Brooke asked.
I shrugged.
“I love it,” Brooke said.
I felt my face heating up.
“Plus it’s Colonial,” said Evangeline. “So we can just wear sweats and hike the elastic part up to our knees, and do long socks. Right?”
“Yeah!” said Lulu.
“I have a dress,” Natasha said. “From my aunt’s wedding in the spring. I was a bridesmaid.”
“It’s really pretty,” I said.
“So you automatically get to be the girl?” Evangeline asked Natasha. Then she turned to me. “Is there even a girl? History sucks, leaving women out so much.”
“Peggy,” I said. “Peggy Shippen. Benedict Arnold’s wife. Natasha could be Peggy. Shippen.” Ugh. Too much! I shrugged, like, or maybe that’s not her name! Just saying random names because why would I know that Benedict Arnold’s wife’s name is Peggy Shippen? That’s weird! Hahaha! Oh help.
“I don’t think you’d fit into the dress,” Natasha said to Evangeline. “You can try if you want but . . .”
“Youch,” Lulu squeaked.
“I didn’t mean anything . . .” Natasha said quickly.
“So wait—there’s George Washington, Benedict, Peggy—that’s only three,” Brooke said.
I considered telling her the other parts that could be possibilities but decided to hold back. “There have to be others,” I said. “I’ll work on it.”
“We should split up the research,” Evangeline said.
“Definitely,” Lulu agreed.
“Cool,” Brooke said. “Evangeline, is that butter blended yet?”
“Yeah,” Evangeline said. “Here.”
“Dump in that flour stuff?” Brooke told Lulu. Then she turned back to me. “That sounds really good. The untold story. Friendship and betrayal. Awesome.”
“Yeah,” Natasha agreed, bumping me with her hip. “What could be better than friendship and betrayal, right?”
“Right,” I said. “Sure.”
NATASHA
“WHAT COULD BE better than friendship and betrayal,” I joked. “Right?”
“Right,” Truly answered nervously. “Sure.”
“Yo, Brooke,” Evangeline said, giving up momentarily fighting me on who should get to wear my dress in the History Day play Truly was fully going to write for us, thanks to me. “How small are those cookies?”
“How small are your cookies?” Brooke answered without looking up.
Lulu laughed. “How small is your face?”
“How face is your small?” I said. Lulu flashed me a smile. We love random disses. Poor Truly was looking a bit frantic. She wasn’t used to us yet.
“Your face is small cookies,” Evangeline said.
“Your cookies are small faces, what!” Brooke said. “I was thinking we should make a lot of smallies for the bake sale, no?”
“Yeah, good idea,” Lulu said. “Maybe three in a bag for a buck?”
“Or four,” I said. “So they’ll sell out first. We don’t want to be the losers whose stuff doesn’t sell.”
“That would be sad,” Lulu said.
“Like when I was in first grade?” I said. “My dad burned the cookies and he made me bring them in anyway. Remember that, Truly?”
“Vaguely,” Truly said. A lie. I know she remembered. She brought cupcakes. They were perfect.
“I’ll never forget it,” I said, rolling my eyes. “We had to stand there in front of our stuff and mine were these hard lumps of coal, and nobody bought them.”
Everybody went awww. This is what’s so good about being older, and having good friends. The humiliating stories aren’t shameful anymore—they’re funny, and good for bonding. Also, sympathy. I’m such a loser is code for cool.
I pouted out my bottom lip. I have nice lips, Mom once said. “Ms. Berger bought five dollars’ worth at the end.”
“She was so nice,” Truly agreed. “Ms. Berrrrgerrrrr.”
“I threw out the rest,” I said. “Of course my mom was sure I ate them all. As if.”
Brooke shook her head at that. “Ugh,” she said. She knows my mom is not the easiest person to deal with, and she’s pretty supportive about it. I mean, I know it’s way worse that Lulu’s mom died, but we’re not in some sort of pity competition. It’s hard to have a difficult mom, too. But Evangeline flashed me that look like shut up about mothers in front of Lulu.
As if suddenly I am such an insensitive clod I would forget that.
“These cookies?” Evangeline said, tasting some batter. “No way people will pass these babies up. Three in a bag’s probably fine. Yum.”
