Inside Girl (14 page)

“Listen,” I said, “my brother is just one little tiny thing about my life, so I don't see why I should be talking about him all the time. But even if I didn't mention him on purpose, that doesn't mean I don't like you. I'm here, aren't I? Why would I hang out with you if I'm so embarrassed to be your friend?”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe you tell all of your celebrity buddies about us and sit around laughing all day. I mean, you're probably laughing at us right now! How lame we are, leaving a party at eleven without even getting kissed.”

“Or talking to a boy, practically,” Meredith murmured sadly.

I shook my head. “You've got this all wrong. Most of the time I just sit at home watching movies by myself. The only reason I know any of those people Harrison mentioned is because of my brother. Patch is the cool one, not me. And even if I were cool, I'd
never make fun of you, not in a million years. You guys have been nicer to me than anybody else at Stuyvesant.”

Judith and Meredith exchanged doubtful glances. After a long moment, Meredith spoke.

“I really like you, Flan,” Meredith said softly. “It's just, our old school was filled with, well, bitches. They'd be nice to your face, and then the minute you were gone they'd double-cross you. It was awful. Judith and I were the only ones who could trust each other, because we've been friends since forever. We talked it over and decided we needed a change. So we came to Stuyvesant to get away from all that.”

Judith nodded. “Unless you can show us you're not two-faced, we just can't keep hanging out with you. I'm sick of feeling stupid all the time. Seriously.”

The cab pulled up to their street, and Meredith and Judith got out—leaving me in the backseat all by myself. Traffic was slowed to a crawl, the cab hit every red light, and it was a long, long ride back home to Perry Street. I felt completely miserable, and it seemed like this night could not possibly get any worse.

When the cab pulled up in front of my house, I saw Mickey getting ready to leave on his Vespa. I opened the door to wave to him, but before I could get his attention, he gunned the engine and took off down the street. He certainly was in a hurry to get away from whatever was going on in my house. I took a deep breath, paid the driver, and went inside.

I knew it was going to be bad, but nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. Couch cushions lay scattered around the floor, some with holes ripped in them, like leftovers from a particular angry pillow fight, and someone had ground rice crisps into the carpet with the sole of her shoe. Noodles had apparently forgotten whatever housebreaking he'd learned in his last home, because he'd made messes all over the place. Designer dresses lay on the furniture, like crumpled ghost-sheets, and empty soda bottles, wine
bottles, and prescription pill bottles for SBB's various medications were all over the floor, lying on their sides. And that was just the living room! I didn't want to imagine what I might find upstairs. Never, not even after one of Patch's crazy parties, had I seen the place in such terrible shape.

I didn't know what to do. My first thought was to call my parents and confess everything: “Hey, I know I was supposed to be starting high school and concentrating on my homework, but guess what? I invited three of my friends to move in with us, and they trashed everything!” But something stopped me: maybe the possibility (unlikely) that my folks would freak out, hurry home, and kick my butt—or maybe the possibility (more likely) that they'd be mad but say it was my responsibility and leave me to fix it on my own anyway. So I kept my cell phone in my pocket. Instead I pulled off my shoes and yelled, “Philippa? Liesel? Sara-Beth? You guys around here anywhere?”

They appeared, all together, at the top of the stairs. They didn't look happy, but at least they weren't yelling or clawing one another's eyes out, so I took that to be a good sign.

“What happened?” I asked, gesturing at the huge mess. “It looks like a mosh pit or something in here.
This isn't cool, you guys, seriously. I'm sorry I left you all alone, but I've had a really hard night.”

But none of them said anything. They all just stared at me, and I started to realize why they weren't fighting anymore. They were united now. Against me.

“Listen,” I went on, “I'm really sorry I ditched you guys to go to that party. Believe me, I wish I'd just stayed home. I had an awful time. From now on, I promise I won't go off and not invite you guys. It was mean and stupid and wrong of me. Okay? I'm really sorry. Beyond sorry. What else do you want me to say?”

Philippa held up my chemistry notebook. “Maybe you could explain this.”

For a second, I didn't know what she was talking about. Then I realized she had it open to the page where Judith, Meredith, and I had been scribbling notes to one another during the school assembly. And right in the middle of the page was the picture Judith had drawn of stick-figure SBB stripping.

“How could you say those things about me, Flan?” wept Sara-Beth. “I thought you were my friend.”

“It's one thing to … double-book us, Flan,” said Liesel, “but it's another to turn against someone who trusts you.”

“But wait, I didn't write those things. Judith—”

“Sure, blame it all on somebody else,” scoffed Philippa. “That's so mature.”

“But I really didn't—”

“I know when I'm not wanted.” Sara-Beth wiped her eyes. “Tonight you can rest easy knowing you'll never see me again. I don't care if I am homeless—I'm not going to spend one more hour in this horrible, horrible house!”

“Sara-Beth, wait!” But before I could get my shoes back on, she was running down the stairs, past me, out the front door, and out into the street. I chased her out onto the sidewalk, but she was already disappearing into a cab. “Wait!” I yelled. But she didn't so much as say good-bye.

Now I felt really sick. I went back inside the house. Liesel and Philippa were sitting on the couch now, their arms crossed, their faces as stony as a pair of judges'. I didn't look at them as I ran up the stairs to my bedroom, shut the door, and locked it.

As soon as I crashed down onto my bed, Noodles came out from under it. He hopped up next to me and started licking my face. But, as cute as he was, even he made me sad, because he reminded me of Liesel and Sara-Beth and how much fun we'd had hanging out at Cube the night I got him. I hugged the little doggy to my chest and started to cry. Everyone
hated me: my friends from home, my friends from school, the guy I liked—everybody. I'd humiliated Bennett in his own house, made Judith and Meredith not trust me—and worst of all, SBB thought I'd basically called her an anorexic prostitute. It was awful and ugly and stupid, and I wanted to die.

After several hours of crying and hating myself, I finally fell asleep. All night long I had a series of terrifying dreams, filled with people yelling at me and sentencing me to jail. But when I woke up the next morning, the voices I heard in real life were even more terrifying. They belonged to my parents, and they were coming from downstairs.

I got dressed in a hurry, then crept down the stairs, trying to make as little noise as possible; maybe I could sneak out of the house before the fireworks started. My parents are gone a lot, sure, but when my dad gets back from traveling he sometimes gets randomly strict and expects everything to be a certain way, like he's making up for all the time we were completely unsupervised. Patch and Feb and I will be like, “Whatever, when you guys were in Southeast Asia we did what we wanted and everything was cool.” And sometimes there's an argument, but my mom hates fighting, so it usually settles down pretty quickly. This time, though, I knew even she wouldn't be on my side—and I didn't want to find out what would happen then.

When I got to the bottom of the stairs, though, I couldn't believe my eyes. The living room was
immaculate. All the cushions were back on the sofa, the floor had been vacuumed, the pictures were straight on the walls, the lightbulb in the lamp had been replaced. Someone had even taken the time to dust the screen of the TV and put the remotes and video game controllers back where they belonged. What's more, there was no sign of Philippa, Liesel, or SBB anywhere—not so much as a suitcase or a high-heeled shoe. It was like elves had come in the night and set everything right—only, somehow, seeing everything all in place like this made me feel even worse. It was like one of those awful fairy tales where someone gets her wish and spends the rest of her life wishing she hadn't.

I went into the kitchen and found my parents. Earlier, I think I said good looks run in the Flood family. Well, my folks are so beautiful that sometimes it's hard to believe they're parents and not just pictures cut out of a magazine. My mother is tall and kind of willowy, with ash-blond hair and a faraway smile that never quite comes into focus, like the fuzzy lenses they used to use on movie actresses back in the forties. She has the best posture of anyone I've ever seen—back in college, she used to think she wanted to be a dancer, but I guess she just lost interest after she married my dad and discovered the perks and pleasures
of a life of nonstop world travel. Plus, she had three kids, which probably puts you out of commission for dancing, at least for a little while.

She loves being a mom too; when we were little, she spoiled us all rotten, and there's still nothing I like better than when she takes me shopping. Today she had on a pair of Versace jeans and an old burntumber cashmere sweater of my dad's. She'd kicked off her shoes, these sandal-y heels with a bunch of interwoven straps, but the way she'd left them on the floor, they looked more elegant than they would on most people's feet.

I probably look more like my dad, who's also blond, but in a more sunshiny kind of way. He plays a lot of tennis, so he's always tan, which just makes his huge smile seem even brighter. When I was little, I used to think he looked like Guy Smiley from
Sesame Street
, but now I think he's more like Dennis Quaid. Right now, he was sitting at the table, doing the
Times
crossword. He was so intent on it that he barely noticed me come in, but my mom, who was peering into the refrigerator, turned around with a big smile and clapped her hands together.

“Flan, honey! We've missed you so much.”

“What are you guys doing here?” I asked, coming over to give her a hug. My dad set down his pen.

“Don't look so glad to see us,” he said, getting up.

“I'm sorry. I'm just surprised. I thought you guys were going to Marrakech.” I gave him a hug too, then sat down at the table. “Uh, and I'm not sure we had a chance to clean up—”

“We were about to leave, but on the way to the airport, we decided that maybe we should be around for our baby's first year of high school. So we turned the car around and drove straight into the city.” My dad grinned. “Of course, we called and had the cleaning service in before we arrived—you know how your mother hates to come home to a messy house. Anyway, look at you, so grown-up! I hope your brother and sister have been taking good care of you.”

“Um … yeah.”

“Where are they, sweetie?” asked my mom, taking a bag of oranges out of a drawer in the fridge. “They really shouldn't leave you home alone like this.”

“I think Patch had to be somewhere … early this morning. Besides, I can take care of myself okay,” I added defensively. If they only knew. “Is it okay if I go check my e-mail?”

“Don't take too long,” said my dad. “We're making breakfast. Thought you kids could use a home-cooked meal for a change.”

“Sure.” Forcing a smile, I walked out into the living
room, wondering how I'd explain that I hadn't seen my brother or sister for weeks. But before I could get too worried, I spotted Patch, slouched on the sofa in an old DEFEND BROOKLYN T-shirt and jeans, eating a croissant.

“Mom! Dad! Patch's back!” I called, trying to hide the delight in my voice.

My mom appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, holding a spatula. “Oh, good. Honey, don't spoil your appetite. We're making omelets.”

“'Kay,” said Patch, finishing the croissant and licking his fingers. My mom went back into the kitchen.

“Where have you been?” I whispered as soon as she was out of earshot. “I thought I was going to have some serious explaining to do.”

“I've been staying with some friends. You know—chilling.” He settled back on the cushions. “I met this girl. She's pretty awesome. The only problem is, her fiancé's this French diplomat and they're going back—”

I shook my head. “Listen, Patch, I'm really sorry if you're going through a hard time. But seriously, I have enough problems of my own right now.” The minute I said it, I felt really bad. What was I turning into? Queen Bitch?

Patch whistled. “Whoa. Sorry.”

“Wait, I shouldn't have said that. It's just, things've been crazy since you left. You have no idea. I've made such a mess of everything. My friends … this guy …” Suddenly I felt like I might start crying. Patch scooted over on the couch and I plopped down next to him, covering my face with my hands.

“Hey, hey, be cool. I understand.” Patch ruffled my hair sympathetically. “It's easy for me to forget you're growing up sometimes. I still just think of you as my kid sister, you know? But you've got your own life. That's the way things should be.” He scrutinized me. “You want to tell me what's going on?”

“Ugh, no,” I said. “I don't want to get into it all right now. It's just something I have to figure out. But thanks for asking—really. It's good knowing I have someone I can talk to.” It wasn't every day that my big brother treated me like one of his friends. I thought about how much had changed since he drove me to Connecticut at the beginning of the summer. He was right: it was easy to forget sometimes, but I really was growing up. And doing a pretty lousy job of it too. “I wish I was more like you, Patch. You're so good at making friends.”