Unfriended (22 page)

HAZEL

“SO THAT ANSWERS
my first question,” I said to Truly when she got to the lockers this morning.

“What question?”

“You're still alive,” I said.

She looked at me solemnly. Her hair was shiny and hanging down, no ponytail today, just clipped back on one side. She had on a bit of mascara and no eyeliner, with clear lip gloss. She looked beautiful. Made me almost want to scrub my own face clean. She didn't say anything.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered. “As I said in my—you read the e-mails I sent you?”

She nodded.

“I had good reasons but still,” I said. “I shouldn't have hacked your accounts.”

“No,” Truly said. “You shouldn't have.”

At least she was talking to me. I held out my hand, open palm, to give her the lock I had bought her. A word lock. “It spells
friend,
” I told her.

She didn't take it.

“You can change the word if you want.”

“I'm sorry, too,” she said, her head bent. “I know I didn't—”

“No,” I said. “You didn't.”

We just stood there for a minute, the new lock on my hand like an unchosen hors d'oeuvre. “Maybe keep it as a spare,” I suggested after the early bell rang.

She lifted it from my hand.

“I like your bracelet,” I said.

Her cheeks pinked up. “Thanks.” She turned to her locker and spun her old combination. My plan had been to take her lock off and put the new one on as a surprise, but at the last second I decided against it, as maybe
too much
. She knelt and arranged her things.

“My parents are so upset,” she said, toward the inside of her locker.

“They probably hate me,” I said.

“They don't.” She shook her head. “They just think we all got a little out of hand. They're disappointed that I didn't tell them what was going on with me, and everything.”

“Why didn't you?”

“I guess I was trying to not be babyish.”

“Oh,” I said. “Yeah, but like even my grandmother has people she complains to, tons of them, and she's anything but babyish. She's ancient!”

“She's okay then?”

“She's horrible, but, you know, fine, thanks.” It felt so good to talk with Truly again. “My point is, you can be strong and independent but still have backup from people you trust.”

“Now you tell me. I'm grounded from going online for a month. They say it's just a cooling down period, take a breather after everything that happened. Not a punishment.”

“But that's how it feels?”

“A little,” she said. “Yeah.”

“As if being online is the problem.”

“Right?” She stood up and leaned against the locker beside hers. “Though I guess the online-ness of it did make it all worse.”

“And faster and more, like, public.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Exactly.”

“I'll ban myself for the month too,” I said. “From the whole Internet. Or all screens if you want.”

“You don't have to do that.”

“I want to,” I said. “In solidarity.”

She smiled a little. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Did you really throw your phone in Big Pond? People were saying.”

She nodded. “It's gonna take me until about tenth grade to earn enough to buy a new one.”

“I bet,” I said.

“Stupid, huh?”

“Nah,” I said. “Sometimes a person has to make the grand gesture.”

She looked up at me, warmly I think, and said, “Yeah.”

“Did it make a glorious splash?”

“Not really, no.”

“Well maybe in your memories the splash will grow,” I said.

I picked up my triptych presentation on the role of bananas in the rise of the Confederacy. “Did you know bananas played almost no role in the rise of the Confederacy?”

“I hadn't heard.”

“Spoiler alert,” I said.

She managed a small sympathy smile, then said, “You can go ahead.”

“Oh,” I said. “Okay.” Dismissed.

“Hazel?”

I turned around.

“See you down there,” she said. “Okay?”

“Good luck to us all,” I said. I picked up my triptych and headed toward the gym, trailing yellow and gold banana glitter behind me.

TRULY

I STOPPED IN
the girls' bathroom doorway, halfway in, halfway out. I was planning to take a moment alone before facing them. But no. They were all in there and now it was too late. They'd already seen me.

“Hi,” I said. I braced myself.
Whatever they say, I'm okay. I can deal
. That's what my mom told me to remember.
No matter what, I'm okay. Just breathe.

“Hi, Truly,” Brooke said.

I waited. I breathed. I was okay.

“Hey,” Brooke went on. “Did you see what happened with all those posts and stuff?”

I shook my head, happy suddenly to have the excuse. “My parents took away my computer for a month.”

“Oh,” Brooke said. “Sorry. We got most of that crap taken off-line. Some of it we couldn't, but I think we deleted nearly everything mean. About any of us.”

“Really?” I asked. “The, all the . . . pictures and, opinions, rumors?”

“Yeah,” Brooke said.

“In the trash where it belongs,” Evangeline said.

“Well, the virtual trash,” Lulu said.

“So you just went through and . . .”
What?
“When?”

“Instead of rehearsing yesterday afternoon,” Evangeline said.

“YOLO!” Lulu yelled.

“Yeah, we're gonna bomb today,” Natasha said. “We have to use our scripts.”

“I'm sure that's fine,” I said. “Thanks, you guys. So much.”

“Shouldn't have been there to begin with,” Brooke said, and shrugged.

“No,” I said, looking over at Natasha. “None of it should have.”

We both knew she'd been the one who posted at least those pictures of me with kissy faces. She was the only one who had those.

“True,” Natasha said. “Whoever posted all that is such a—”

“You look really nice,” I interrupted. No need to go there.

“I do?” she asked.

I nodded. I breathed.

“You were right, Natasha,” Brooke added. “That dress is perfect.”

“And I love the scarf over it,” Lulu said. “That's such a great addition. Don't you think, Truly?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“How about these sweatpants,” asked Evangeline. “Sexy, right?”

“Super hot,” Brooke assured her.

Lulu shook a bottle of white hair spray and told Brooke and Evangeline to cover their eyes, then sprayed a toxic cloud onto their hair. It dispersed into the air. Almost invisible, but not quite, and we were all breathing the fumes. A dusting of white covered Brooke's hair and Evangeline's.

“Do I look like George Washington?” Brooke asked, coughing. We all gathered around the sink and looked into the mirror above it, together.

“Totally,” Lulu said, and crossed her eyes. “I thought you were a dollar bill, standing there.”

“I almost put you in my wallet,” I said.

They all laughed. Then Brooke stuck out her tongue at our reflection. Natasha made a fish face. I tilted my head and raised one eyebrow. Evangeline snapped a photo of us in the mirror.

“Let's post that,” Brooke said. “We gotta put something good up, right? Not now though. Don't we go first? I think I just forgot everything.”

We all grabbed our stuff. As the others rushed out, Natasha grabbed my wrist, the one with the bracelet on it, and held me back.

“Hey,” she whispered. “Truly, so you know? I'm not the one who . . .”

“Let's not . . .” I whispered back. “Not right now. Let's just let it all . . . My mom says we should take a break from each other, but . . .”

“Fine.” She dropped my hand.

I held the door open and let her walk through. I followed her. “You okay?”

“No, Truly. You killed me. Hurt me to the core. Get over yourself. You want a break? Great, fine, whatever. I actually don't care.”

“No,” I said. “I meant, you're walking very . . . carefully. Are your feet hurt?”

“Long story,” she said. “Don't ask.”

“You're always mad at me.”

“Yeah,” Natasha said. “That's probably true.”

“Okay. Well, what I was gonna say is just, instead of talking it through
or
taking a break? Maybe we could just try not to be so mad at each other all the time.”

We walked along, side by side, not talking. Both stepping tenderly.

“It's kind of a habit by now,” she whispered.

I smiled up at her and nodded. “I know. For me, too. I didn't, I guess I didn't want to know that about myself, but . . .”

“But there it is. Now we know.”

“And I'm terrible at breaking habits. Just ask my cuticles.” I held out my hands.

“Ew. That is disgusting,” she said, slapping them down. “Put that freak show away.”

She grabbed the gym door and held it open for me.

“Thanks,” I said, and smiled. It wasn't even a fake smile. I don't know fully why.

“Okay,” she whispered as I passed through. “I'll try. No promises.”

“Fair enough,” I whispered back. “Me, too.”

Ms. Canuto was under the basketball hoop, yelling into the microphone at everybody to
sit down, settle down! Welcome to History Day please sit!

Natasha ran on tiptoes to join Brooke, Evangeline, and Lulu in the front corner, beside the flagpole. I sat down at the back, alone.

“No, no, no,” Ms. Canuto said into the microphone. “Truly Gonzales! Stand up!”

I stood up. People turned around to look at me.

“You have to introduce the play!” Ms. Canuto said as I stood there, trying not to devour myself fingers first. “Come on up front! Boys and girls, settle down now. For our first event of History Day, we have an original play! Here to introduce the play she wrote—starring Brooke Armstrong, Natasha Lawrence, Lulu Peters, and Evangeline Murphy—is Truly Gonzales! A round of applause and your attention please! Truly? Come up here, dear!”

Great. I walked around the halfheartedly clapping crowd to the front of the gym. As Ms. Canuto lowered the microphone way down to my level, I looked out at the faces of all the kids in the whole eighth grade. They were kind of swimmy, like in my dream of the horrible carnival. There was Hazel, though, watching me. I latched my eyes onto hers like you're supposed to do on the horizon when you're on a boat, to keep from puking out your seasickness.

“This is a play about Benedict Arnold.” I gripped the microphone stand. “He was a traitor. A bad guy. As everybody knows.”

Toward the back, the guys from the Popular Table sat in a clump. Clay was grinning like it was his birthday. I guess he was psyched for the show. Maybe because Brooke was in it. Or maybe he was just happy to not be in math class. On the edge of that group, Jack held up a small lollipop. I knew what flavor it would be.

“But there's more than one side to the story,” I said, smiling at Jack. “There usually is.”

I peeked behind me. Lulu was bouncing around. Natasha was fidgeting in her dress while Evangeline clutched the script, muttering the words I'd written. Brooke smiled and gave me a thumbs-up sign.

“The play is called
Benediction,
”
I said
. “
Because, well, his name. Benedict. But also
Benediction
because that's what Benedict Arnold wanted most, in the end, a
bene-diction
, which means ‘good say.' To be spoken well of. Not riches. Not power, not love, not even to win the war. Just to have people say good stuff about him. Basically, he wanted to be popular. That's all. We didn't invent wanting to be popular, turns out. Hahaha.”

Nobody was laughing. I gripped the microphone stand. “So I guess this play is not just a slice of history—it
is
history, don't worry Ms. Canuto, with a bibliography at the end!—But it's also a story about somebody who got so tangled up in wanting people to
think
he was good that he forgot to actually
be
good.”

I swallowed hard. Maybe I was saying too much. Not seeming light and easy. Oh, well. I pretty much already fully blew that. “Anyway,” I blundered on, “here it is. I hope you like it. Or, whoops, that makes me sound as messed up as Benedict. So, no. Not I hope you like it, even though, honestly? I can't help it. I do hope you like it. Especially you, Ms. Canuto! Well, actually, all of you, really. But more important, I hope it's good. Good in itself. What you guys think about it is ultimately not my business so I'm trying to . . . Ugh. Whatever. Here goes. Thank you.”

I went and sat down in the middle of the front row of kids on the cold gym floor. My friends stepped forward for the start of the play. And then it was happening, ready or probably not.