Unfriended (18 page)

TRULY

NOBODY WAS TALKING
to me.

What did I do? Okay, a lot. I know. But not the stuff people were saying online that I did.

I walked the halls between periods. Everybody just watched me until I passed, then turned to whisper behind their hands, behind my back.

If I were brave I'd have gone up the C Stairwell and hid there during lunch. What's the worst they could do to me if I was caught? Suspend me? Please, please, suspend me. Send me home and don't let me come back.

But I was scared, so I sat in the hall, pretending to read until Natasha fake-tripped over me, just to literally kick me while I was down, and then walked away muttering.

I learned nothing. I spent every class doing the math of how many minutes until the end of school when I could go home. I counted backward, ticking off the time during class. 173 minutes. Still 173 minutes. Don't look at the clock again. Ugh, still 173.

172 minutes to go.

172.

Time was stuck. Me, too.

HAZEL

MY PERFECT REVENGE
fantasy was coming true: Truly, wandering the halls alone, her huge gray eyes wide and sad. She deserved this, I reminded myself.

Karma.

I even got my smaller, bonus wish of Natasha on the outs, still not back at the Popular Table, though not completely scorned by them anymore either. So, purgatory. I watched her try to get in with Marilicia's group at lunch, but Marilicia clearly said no. Maybe it was partly retribution, which I understand as a powerful primal force and also personally, but I like to think it was also an aesthetic rejection. Natasha was far too ordinary and strivey for Marilicia and her friends. Those kids are
actually
cool.

If I were a world dominator type bad-guy, I'd be laughing my evil cackle, enjoying myself fully because my every wish of misery on my past tormentors was coming true. Just exactly as if I had asked a newly freed genie to do it for me. As if it were all my doing.

But much to my own surprise, I couldn't enjoy it. Couldn't even cackle.

I briefly wondered if maybe I am godlike—able to seek righteous revenge for wrongs done to me but then unable to rejoice at the suffering of my enemies. But no. Sadly, I'm not. If I were, I would have gone over to Truly when she sat all tight in a ball in the hallway during lunch. I didn't. I kept my distance.

Failure of empathy? No. Even worse.

Just a failure of courage on my part.

Honestly? I didn't want to risk being rejected again.

Self-protection.

I spent the rest of the afternoon trying not to notice anybody.

When I got home, my house was empty. My mother had left a note that she and my dad were out for a walk together. Not sure what is going on with them lately. After all these months of fighting, hating each other, and heading, I was absolutely sure, toward a divorce, suddenly they, what? Went back in time and became a high school couple in love again? Can you actually fall back in love with somebody? After you've been really legit mean to each other?

Plus it was like I didn't even exist anymore.

I went out back to sit at the gravesite of my bird for a while to collect my thoughts, and looked again at the photo Brooke had texted me the other day. It was of herself making a silly face.

I hadn't figured out how to respond until right then, at Sweet Pea's gravesite.

I took a photo of myself looking very serious. Over it I wrote:
You shd come over again maybe this time nobody will die.

After I sent it to Brooke, I started worrying that maybe she wouldn't understand that I was being funny. Or she might think funny weird instead of funny ha-ha. I waited, watching my phone do nothing for a while. I rebooted it a couple times in case it was frozen. Nope. She didn't reply.

I started to text Truly. I knew I should explain what was really going on and my part in it. I should tell her what I'd done and what Natasha had done, including the rumors Natasha was spreading that it was Truly who posted the mean stuff about her. Hard to believe anybody fell for that. So not Truly's style at all. Nobody would believe that about Truly, so she should just stop looking so sad and hurt.

Please stop looking so sad and hurt,
I texted her.

But then I deleted it. Soon, I promised myself. I'll text her soon. I'll admit everything and beg her forgiveness. And maybe she'll beg for mine, too.

Maybe I'd even call on the phone, despite my deep phonophobia.

Not quite yet, but soon.

Truly just needs a little time to herself, first, I bargained internally. A person sometimes needs a little time to herself, my dad used to say when I was having a meltdown, time to collect herself, have a little think on things.

Which is exactly what I was doing. With good reason: my parents are acting deeply odd and love-drunk; my best friend dumped me; my other friends bore me. Honestly. There I've said it, they are nice but mostly it's like parallel play punctuated by the occasional
Congratulations on making all-county orchestra—oh thank you so much congratulations on coming in seventh in the chess tournament
oh sweet Jesus kill me now. My dear detested grandmother was just moved to a nursing home, presumably to live forever torturing the nurses there; and my beloved bird was decomposing, buried two feet below where I was sitting alone and ignored in the backyard. Along with the symbols of my earnest and then ironic childhood dreams.

I am way too old to believe that bad things happen precisely
because
I wished a curse onto someone I love. Maybe that's why I can't cackle now.

I'm not sure.

All I know is, all day I kept noticing Truly's attempts at bravery: sad smiles, head held high, hard swallows before giving answers in class. And each time it broke my heart a little.

NATASHA

EVERYBODY DOES IT.

Most of us won't admit it but it's true: each of us wants to be on top, most popular, most powerful, and screw anybody who stands in my way. Some of us do it by blunt force intimidation, like Jack all big and strong, his feet far apart and his arms crossed over his big chest, his posture practically screaming,
don't mess with me.
Some of us do it like Brooke, all Zen calm and accepting, unruffled, like she has plenty of friends already even when she's alone so she doesn't need
you.
Evangeline has her tough-girl scowl and her lightning-fast comebacks, and Lulu has her bubbly nature and solid sense of what's right, plus her tragic family stuff. Clay's got those happy-sad eyes of his, all lost and sweet and needing help.

Marilicia pretends she's not in the game, just like Truly's friend what's-her-face with the green hair—their camouflage is:
It doesn't matter if nobody likes me, I'm so weird I don't care because I'm too busy being artsy-fartsy, making ironic comments about people who are way cooler than I could ever hope to be. But I'm obviously a brilliant special snowflake because I have a crap black manicure and look like I got dressed in the dark and brushed my hair with the stick blender.

And then there's Truly. Innocent, sweet Truly, who never even liked me at all, probably. In elementary school, she made me depend on her and then she acted like I was her charity case because my life was less perfect than hers. And then when the tables were turned and I had some power, she couldn't stand that one bit, could she? So she got her revenge. Congrats. She's the most ruthless of us all.

But will any of those people ever admit they're jealous of everybody else? That they spend time every day measuring themselves against every other kid in our grade and falling short, over and over?

No. They won't.

Maybe their parents all coddle them too much. Maybe they all actually believe all the stuff we've been told since we were toddlers about everybody's special and everybody in the class is your friend.

Yeah, right.

You're ordinary. And most of them hate you.

My mom may be a raging bee-yotch to me, but at least she's honest. I can count on her for one thing: she tells it like it is. So? I'm not as smart, not as pretty, not as smooth socially, not ever going to have a shot at being a scientist, not as popular, not as spoiled, not as loved. We don't have a closet full of excess paper goods. So what? At least I know it.

That counts for something.

So when I post stuff about Truly from all my anonymous accounts that take like five seconds each to create, do I feel guilty? Ha. Why should I? My own mom helps me plan out what to say. When I get that twinge in my stomach, I just remind myself, or Mom reminds me, that Truly and her mom would do the same to me in one hot heartbeat. Any of them would. It's all a game. Welcome to the real world.

Stop crying you whiny little wimp,
I remind myself,
or you'll be the one on the receiving end. Toughen up and fend for yourself.

Then I post some more stuff, wacky stuff like a few photos I took of her weeks ago, where she was trying to look all sexy and pretty, with my socks stuffed in the dress I wore to my aunt's wedding. She looks like such a wannabe slut in those, with lipstick smeared across her mouth and her hair flipped over her shoulder. She begged me at the time never to post them or her mom would have a fit. Tough. Bet her mom won't be the only one grossed out by them, either. I'll get that party started in fact.

TRULY

SO MUCH FOR
home being a break. All day I counted the minutes, the seconds, until I could come home. But for what? There's no getting away. There's no way to disconnect, not really, not ever. You can decide not to look, but still the vortex spins and catches your life in it, sucks you under, whether you see it happening or not.

You can't break free, ever. That's why they call it the Web, I guess.

I closed my computer. Unplugged it. Didn't work. I was still staring at it.

Just one look,
I thought. Let me check one more time. Maybe somebody came to my defense. Or said
lol jk
. One person. One good rope, thrown for me to grab onto and pull myself out of the drowning?

Nope. No rope.

More of the same. More photos barely disguised Natasha put up on sites to rate how ugly I am, how hot or not. Maybe she posted most of the stuff, or maybe other people did a lot too. No way to tell. It hardly mattered anymore, especially with all the strangers and even some kids I definitely knew from school but didn't realize had opinions about me jumping in and judging, rating, criticizing. Looking.

Saying how awful I am, what a terrible person, bad friend, nobody likes me. Why do I bat my eyelashes like such a freak, do I really think boys actually like that? Get over myself. Why do I even come to school when I just annoy everybody by being there all sad-faced and slutty.

On every site. On every app. Faster than I could untag myself.

I didn't even know I knew so many people. Kids I didn't really know were joining in the hate-fest. Cracking jokes, making judgments. A bunch of kids from all-county orchestra think I'm stuck up and not as pretty as I act. A few ninth grade girls think every picture of me deserves a LOL or a SMH. Some boy who doesn't go to school with us and looks sixteen thinks I'm hot. Ew, ew, ew. I couldn't delete myself fast enough, couldn't keep up. I closed my computer, giving up.

I sat down at my desk in front of the stack of History Day scripts I had printed out. I stapled them and neatened the pile. I had already proofread them so many times, I had the whole script memorized, all the parts.
Don't check the phone.
I proofread the script again. Well researched. No mistakes.

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.