Being Friends With Boys (29 page)

“You okay?” he wants to know, appearing in the seat next to me.

“I’m okay.”

I can’t tell him. Can’t explain, because I can’t fully wrap my head around what’s happened. Also, I’m not sure I can get the words out.

“Good to see you,” he says, leaning across to kiss my cheek.

I don’t even feel it. “Let’s go.”

“Pizza day?” He checks the rearview.

“Uh-huh.”

He touches some buttons on the stereo, and the music explodes around us. For once I am not wishing he would change it. We say nothing on the way to Fellini’s. I am so glad that we drive this short distance instead of walk.

We are out of the car. Walking inside. Benji holds open the door for me. At the counter, words come out of my mouth: a white slice, a Coke. Benji orders something, gives the cashier money. I pay attention to the echo of ice, the harsh hiss of the soda falling into my cup.

We sit across from each other by the window. Benji’s aviator glasses are off. His eyebrows are furrowed.

“So, you gonna tell me, or what?” he says.

Utterly against my will, I start crying.

“Hey, hey, hey.” He half stands up, leaning toward me, like I’ve spilled a soda across the table. It’s awkward for both of us.

His hand is on my wrist. It is warm. And heavy.

“He just won’t even talk to me,” I croak, as though that explains anything. “Usually when I get mad at him he just blows me off a couple of days and then . . . But this time . . . I mean, I tried, and then he just . . .”

“Who? Oliver?”

I nod, still not able to look at him.

Benji’s hand leaves mine. He falls back against the wooden booth.

“Dude,” he says, waiting a second, hoping I’ll look up. When I don’t, he finishes: “That guy is a goob.”

“He’s not a goob,” I say, automatic. I can’t take my hand away from my face to frown at him. I have no idea what I look like. I kind of don’t care.

“He is. I’ve thought so since ninth grade, man. An utter, old-fashioned, emo-boy, no-one-cares-anymore
goob
. Those sweater-vests and jackets? What is that? And tell me, really—because I know you know—how long does it take for him to get his hair like that? Strand-by-strand sculpting? Or more of a sleep-on-your-face kind of thing?”

In spite of myself, I laugh. I can feel the itchy cloak of my tears still on my cheeks, but I am laughing.

“I can’t reveal his dressing room secrets,” I choke out. “Not even to you.”

He hunches down, leans closer, squinting. “But you know, don’t you? You do know.”

“There are secret formulas I may be privy to,” I concede. My voice is thick, but I finally lift my face.

“So why you want to hang with a homey like that, yo?” He makes some stupid gang sign, squeaking his voice.

“I’ve known him since fifth grade,” I eke out. “We’ve always
been together. He’s a jerk sometimes, but I understand him. It’s the way it works.”

“Unless it doesn’t work,” he says gently.

My eyes connect with his. We don’t say anything. I know I’m a mess. But that I’ve made such a surprising friend like Benji fills my heart with gratitude. Simultaneously, knowing how I’ve used him fills the rest of me with shame. I understand, very clearly now, that my feelings for Benji don’t go beyond friendship. And it’s time for me to tell him.

“I don’t think this whole dating thing is really . . . going to work,” I say.

He looks away, says quietly, “Well, that’s not the response I was looking for.”

Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.

“I know. And I’m sorry. And I honestly thought it was going to work for a while. I mean, I wanted it to.”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute. I feel horrible.

“I guess I’m not very good at relationships.” He finally looks at me.

“No, that’s not it.” I grab his hand. “You do everything great. I’m too stupid to appreciate you that way, is all.”

“Huh. Well, that’s mature-sounding of you.”

God. He’s really hurt. Ugh. “Benji, I so don’t want to lose you as a friend.”

He shakes his head. “Oh, you won’t.” His voice is bitter. “It just puts me in an awkward position for a little while, but . . . I’ll get over it. It’s what I do.”

It’s selfish of me, but I’m relieved. And am also trying not to laugh.

“You said ‘position.’” I leer at him from across the table.

His hand goes up, maybe a little irritated, but slowly he smiles. “Well.”

I clear my throat, looking at him. “I used you, kinda.” It’s uncomfortable to say.

He shrugs. “I let you. And, you know . . .” He leans closer, making it hard to see anything but the pointy gleam of his longer-than-the-other canine tooth. “I liked it. At first.”

Perfect timing for the server to come with paper plates bending under the greasy weight of our pizza slices. We thank him, sip our drinks, clear our throats, try again.

“Which section do you want to tackle first?” He reaches for his 20th Cen. textbook and the test tucked inside.

“How ’bout you take front page, I take back page?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“And hey, Benji, thanks.”

His eyes are still sad-looking, but he bops me on the head with his pencil and gives me a wink. “Just goin’ with the tide, Coastal.”

I know my breakup with Benji has the potential to disintegrate quickly from fine to horrible, so I’m nervous all night and the next day, when I meet him before third period, as I’ve been doing. We don’t hold hands, and there’s notably no kiss, but we get through it okay. It actually makes me think maybe Oliver and I can still fix things, eventually, if given the opportunity. But then the idea of fixing things makes me picture Trip, and when I do, I’m not sure whether I could be as forgiving as Benji in his case. Or if he would care.

Sixth-period psych, and Oliver’s clearly not in a forgiving mood either, because he’s not looking at me again. I examine him across the row. He is wearing—ha-ha—another sweater-vest today. Those stupid skinny jeans, those wing tips. If I didn’t know him so well, maybe I’d see him the way Benji does.
You are a goob
, I try in my head. It almost sticks.

But the end of class is a little harder. I have to give myself a reason to not get up to leave when he does, so that we’re not walking out at the same time and I don’t have to see him not looking at me. Ms. Neff’s handed back our timed writing, so I make myself have questions about mine. Even without looking, I hear Oliver walk out. He’s heading to practice. Maybe this afternoon they’ll test some new songs he wrote. Even though I don’t
want to be scurrying after him, I don’t like not being a part of his project—our project—anymore.

By the time Darby, Gretchen, and I get home, I’m bummed enough about losing Sad Jackal that Darby easily talks me into helping her with Spanish flash cards. I lie on her bed, holding up card after card, correcting her or saying “yes” or “try again” for almost two hours. I’m trying not to look at the clock. I’m trying not to listen for my phone in the next room, in case Fabian calls to find out why I wasn’t at rehearsal or to say they missed me. Or, better, that he, Abe, and Eli all rebelled when Oliver told them the news, and they’re demanding I come back.

But my phone, like so often, is silent.

Miraculously, Friday does have its own special kind of levity. On the drive to school, I find myself looking forward to lunch, to gossiping with Lish and the other girls, just laughing about nothing and finalizing plans for tonight. We’re all going to the movies, then spending the night at D’Shelle’s house, since her mom doesn’t care what anyone does, and supplies, from time to time, a bottle of pink champagne for sleepover parties. Also, Fabian texted very first thing this morning, saying:
Damn about the band. Saturday night still?

Buoyed by hearing from him, by the beautiful, crisp November
sunshine and another good encounter with Benji in third period, I’m a lot happier walking out to the parking lot at lunch. I remember me and Lish skipping arm in arm down the halls last year, for no real reason, cackling and not caring what anyone thought.

I see her up ahead, leaning against D’Shelle’s car, arms crossed, and I’m about to say, “We should’ve skipped out here,” when I realize she’s frowning.

“What’s up?” I’m breathless.

“So annoying,” she huffs, shaking her head. The other girls are gathered together a few cars down, huddled around the open driver’s side of someone’s truck. One of them looks back in our direction. Not, I notice, for very long.

“Well, report cards.” She holds up an exasperated hand.

“Those were last week.”

“I know.” She tosses her head. “Which is why it’s even more annoying that now D’Shelle’s mom is all, ‘You’re not going to improve these grades if you’re staying up all night every weekend with your friends.’” She makes her voice tight and grating, like I guess D’Shelle’s mom must sound.

“But that’s easy to fix; we’ll promise to sleep.”

“I know, right? But they had some other fight or something this week, and whatever, and so . . . we can’t tonight.”

“We could do it at Bronwyn’s. Or yours. I’d say mine, but Darby’s so annoying—”

Brief displeasure clenches her face, and her hand flicks in the air again. “It’s too late for that. Everybody’s parents checking with everyone else’s. You know how it is.”

It’d take five minutes
, I want to say. But then I catch, in the corner of my eye, Bronwyn looking over at us, a wisp of her long brown hair catching across her lip. Something in her face—I don’t know what it is, exactly—makes me understand this isn’t about report cards. Déjà vu creeps up my spine. I’ve had this conversation, or something like it, with Lish before, back when she couldn’t give me a ride to school. I don’t know what I did to be uncool then, but I understand what I did this time. Lish must’ve heard from Eli about my not being in Sad Jackal.

But instead of being crushed and sad the way I was on Wednesday when Oliver pushed my note onto the floor, this whole Lish thing simply makes me
mad
. I squint at her, realizing what a stupid poseur she is. She has no idea about me anymore. She may have been my best friend for a couple of years, but she didn’t truly understand me, and I didn’t really understand her. Now I do, but she’s still in the dark. Besides, I’ve dealt with her ditching me before. She has no idea how over her I can be.

It stings knowing all the other girls think I’m uncool too, knowing I’ll be at home on a Friday night and eating lunch by myself from now on, but I don’t want Lish on my coattails anymore. I don’t know why I didn’t see her this way before, but it
doesn’t matter. I will rise above her, and them, and all of this high school bullshit, and they’ll realize what a mistake they made.

But I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of getting a rise out of me. “I see.”

I turn around without saying anything else, not even when she calls after me, surprised.

S
aturday, Taryn and Sylvia change our practice time five times, and finally Gretchen has to drive me, but I don’t care about the details. I just want to be over there, singing with them, having fun, forgetting.

In the car, Gretchen goes, “I heard.”

“Heard about what?”

“Heard about you and Oliver.”

I groan. “Jesus. We are not going out. I thought that died already.”

“No.” Her mouth goes down in a line. “About how you had a big fight. How you’re not in the band anymore.”

Huh.

“We didn’t have a fight.” I find myself echoing Trip. “It was just creative differences.”

“Uh-huh,” Gretchen grunts.

Whatever. I don’t care what she thinks. What anyone thinks. I’m growing in new directions.

“Can we come?” Gretchen asks. “Whenever you play?”

“I guess so.” I’m eager to get out now, to enter the basement of fun and escape.

“Good. Give me a call if you need a ride home. I’m not going out until later.”

“Okay. And, you know, thanks.”

She smiles at me, almost pitying. I get out and head to the house.

Taryn wraps me in a huge hug the second she opens the door. There’s music blaring from the living room, and at least five other people are in there. Taryn introduces me to everyone, her arm wrapped tight around my shoulders.

“Hi, everybody.” I wave to them.

“Charlotte is our secret weapon,” Taryn says proudly. “We’re going to win Earhorn next week, thanks to her.”

“Um, what?” I say.

“We told you about that, right?”

I shake my head.
We’re
performing next
week?

“Oh.” Taryn sneaks an
Oops
look at her friends. “Well, we do this amateur-night thing at this place sometimes and the winners get money and everything and I think maybe Jack Johnson got his start there. Or is it John Mayer? Or . . . well, I don’t remember. I think John Mayer was Eddie’s Attic, where of course we’d love to play too one day. But still, if you win you get paid and then every six months or so they have a show with all the winners and . . .” The last bit just comes out in a winded sigh: “We just think you would make us win.”