Reel Life Starring Us (8 page)

“So, how's your new BFF?” Marcus asks me.

“Huh?” I notice Kendall pulling Ross over to the side like they're conferencing about something. I'm trying to keep an eye on them and pay attention to whatever Marcus is saying at the same time.

“Y'know, that girl you're always hanging out with.” Marcus smiles. “She's been chipped, like, ten times already.”

“I'm not ‘always' hanging out with her,” I declare, and then feel bad about saying it like she's a disease or something. “Who chipped her? You?”

“Only once by me.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, can we just stop talking about her? I'm forced to work with her and you know that.”

Thankfully, Molly interrupts before I have to talk more
about Dina. “Can we please discuss who is wearing what to Cami Feldman's bat mitzvah?”

“Yes, can we please, please, please discuss?” Eric mocks her. “I have no idea what to wear. My black suit or my other black suit or my other black suit.”

Molly hits him on the arm, hard. And he laughs. But you don't want to get into a fight with Molly, physical or emotional. Either way, it'll hurt.

To distract myself from the things I'm not supposed to talk about, I spend the rest of the day trying to figure out if Ross really likes me or not. Even though I don't like him that way, it's still important that he likes me. Does that make me like Kendall, always competing?

There are signs that he does: he sits next to me in the movies, he buys me a box of Sour Patch Kids (my absolute favorite candy), and he asks me how things are going at school like he really actually cares and isn't just trying to be annoying about me working with Dina, the way everyone else is.

But there are also signs that he's just being like every other boy, the way he stops a conversation midsentence to say some dumb line from
The Simpsons
to Marcus and Eric even though it has absolutely nothing to do with what we're talking about. And he spends as much time talking to me as he does whispering with Kendall off to the side.

And I could be imagining it, but it seems like when they're talking, they're always looking at me. Maybe I'm just paranoid, but I spend the whole day on pins and needles instead of having fun.

It didn't used to be like this. I used to be the one in the middle of conversations, the one people were off to the side with.

If I were on
Sasha Says So
and I could ask Sasha Preston for advice, that's what I'd ask: how to keep things the same, how to make things go back to normal, how to keep a secret without freaking out.

Maybe if Dina really does find her, I can ask her that. Maybe Sasha's just the person who can help me sort things out. Just the thought of that makes me feel better—like thinking about it will actually make it happen. Yeah, right. But I get so excited anyway. I guess being excited can't really hurt anything.

On the way home in Molly's mom's car, Molly turns around in the front seat. “Hey, Chels, you gotta see this.” She hands me her phone, and it's on the video camera screen. “Just hit Play,” she says.

So I do and it opens up into a video of our school cafeteria. Kendall and Molly are laughing in the background, and then it turns into a shot of Dina at her lunch table. No one's
talking, and Dina's eating a bag of mini-carrots, crunching and crunching, staring into space. Then the video ends, and I hand Molly back her phone.

“What do you think?” Molly asks.

I say, “Um … it's a video of Dina eating carrots?”

Molly's mom stays silent during this whole thing, clicking her nails on her fancy wooden steering wheel.

“Isn't it funny?” Kendall screeches. “See, we can take videos, too!”

Molly and Kendall crack up, and I guess it is kind of funny, actually, and it's not really mean or anything—it's just a video of her eating carrots. Everyone eats carrots.

“We're so putting it on Facebook,” Molly says. “It'll be really funny.”

“No, come on,” I say. “Really?”

“Don't be lame, Chelsea,” Molly says. “Or I'm telling Ross.”

I don't know what to say, so I just say nothing and hope that they forget about this.

Video tip: Avoid talking heads. Shoot a lot of
B-roll so you don't bore your audience.

Nathan is so lucky to be in fourth grade.
It's not even a big deal for fourth graders to start a new school, and they obviously don't have to worry about chipping.

Also, all the third and fourth graders in Rockwood Hills are on soccer teams. It's a coed league, and it's a huge deal. So of course my parents had to sign him up for one. They made sure to do that before we even moved here.

My mom is always on top of this stuff.

So Nathan has built-in plans on Saturdays. He's getting ready to leave for his soccer game, all geared up in his cleats and his shin guards. All I want at this minute is to be a fourth-grade boy. Seriously.

Because right now my mom is doing that thing that she
does. She asks me what my plans are for the day when she knows I don't have any. It didn't used to be like this. She didn't used to have to ask because I always had plans.

“You could call someone,” she says, all casual.

“Who should I call, Mom?” I don't look up from my laptop when I talk to her. Making eye contact would only make things worse.

“What about that girl that you're working with on that project? You said she was very nice, and popular, too. And didn't you say she lives in the Pine section of the neighborhood?”

Our neighborhood is divided into four sections. Each of them has a tree name. So Chelsea lives in the Pine section and we live in the Elm section. Everyone knows the Pine section is the fanciest and the Spruce section is the least fancy, mostly because it backs the expressway. The Elm section is one step above Spruce because it doesn't back the expressway and the houses are bigger, plus that's where the neighborhood pool is. People in the Pine section have their own pools. Some of them, anyway. The Maple section is right below the Pine section, and some of the houses are actually bigger, just not as new or fancy.

“Yeah, she does. I'm not calling her, though, Mom. So please don't even think about it.”

“Dina,” she says in that tone that leads me to believe that whatever comes next is going to be impossible to say no to.
“You have to make an effort. You're the new one. Please just call her.”

“She has a million friends, Mom,” I say, ending the round of the computer version of Connect Four. “She doesn't need me. We're just working on the project together, and she doesn't even want to be working on it, really. We're not BFFs.” I pause and wait for her to say something, but she doesn't. “It's different here,” I say under my breath.

My mom sits next to me on the couch and closes the laptop. “First of all, it's very rude to be on the computer when someone is trying to talk to you. Second of all, how do you know she doesn't need another friend? You can never have too many friends. And besides, what's the worst that can happen?”

“The worst that can happen is that she tells all her friends how I called for plans and everyone knows how pathetic I really am.” I get up from the couch and walk into the kitchen for a snack. “Just forget about it. Go with Nathan to his soccer game. I'll be fine here.”

“You can at least come with us to his soccer game.” My mom follows me into the kitchen. She doesn't understand the term
personal space
.

I grab a handful of almonds. “No way. Then if by chance anyone from school is there, they'll know how pathetic I am
that I didn't even have plans so I had to tag along with my parents to my younger brother's soccer game.”

“Well, if they're at the game, they must be pathetic, too, right?” My mom leans onto the island in the kitchen. She has a look on her face like she's just so smart.

“No, because I bet they'll be there with someone else.” I clench my teeth. My mother has to be the most infuriating person in the world. I'm sorry it pains her so much that I don't have any friends, but it was her idea to move us here. If we were back home, I'd be with Ali right now. We'd be planning our outfits for the next two weeks and drinking iced tea on her back patio.

“Either call the girl or come with us to the game,” my mom insists. “One or the other. But I'm not leaving you here alone.”

“I'm thirteen years old, Mom. I can handle staying home alone.”

“Stop talking back to me, Dina.”

“Fine, I'll call Chelsea, but leave the room, please.” I don't know why I think this is a good plan. Clearly, she's not going to leave the room. And I could have made it much simpler by leaving the room myself and pretending to call upstairs. Sometimes I just don't think things through.

“I won't listen. Just call her.”

“I'll go upstairs.”

“Dina. Call her now.”

My mom is a half a minute away from screaming. I do not want her to scream. Because then my dad will get involved, and he'll be mad at me. Nathan will be late to his game, and it will all be my fault.

I take my cell phone out of my jeans pocket and dial Chelsea's number. The only reason I have it is because Mr. Valakis made us exchange numbers so we'd be prepared to work on the project together. Rockwood Hills Middle School isn't the kind of school to have a phone directory, and I wouldn't have one anyway since I came a month late.

Please don't be home. Please don't be home. Please don't be home,
I pray. And then I realize how dumb I am because even if she isn't home this is her cell phone number.
Please don't answer. Please don't answer. Please don't answer.

“Hello?” a male voice answers on the fourth ring.

A male voice? On her cell phone? Does she have a boyfriend? Or is this her dad answering her phone? I absolutely forbid my parents from answering my phone, and they obey my request. Usually.

“Um, hi, is Chelsea there?”

“No, she's at the movies with her friends.” A pause. “Who's this?”

Oh, God, clearly this person knows I'm not her friend, because if I was her friend, I'd be at the movies with her. And everyone else. So who am I talking to? And why doesn't Chelsea have her cell phone with her? Why did my mom make me do this? And why is my life so unbelievably embarrassing?

“Oh, um, I'm Dina.” I swallow hard and debate just hanging up.

“Did you try her cell?”

“I thought this was her cell?” I say and feel even worse than before. What is worse than an utter living hell? Whatever it is, I'm experiencing it.

“No, this is the home line.” Pause again. “I'll tell her Dina called, though. She should be—”

“No, that's okay,” I interrupt. “Um, thanks. Bye.”

I hang up while he's still sort of half-talking, something like
Are you sure?

“So?” my mom asks. I was so focused on how absolutely awful the call was that I forgot my mom was still in the kitchen.

“Don't ask.” I squint even though it's not even sunny in here and try as hard as I can to keep from crying. “I'll go get my sweatshirt and meet you guys in the car.”

“Dina. You're my daughter. I know when you're about to cry,” she says as I'm already out of the kitchen and in the hallway.

She's right. She does know. And I do cry. Up in my room,
into my pillow, like some pathetic girl who doesn't get what she wants. But I'm not pathetic. I just don't have any friends here, and now even Chelsea's dad knows that.

And Chelsea's at the movies with all those girls who did the “Sea-Sea Stern” cheer during badminton, and I bet Ross and all the boys that sit at the table next to them during lunch are there, too. And I bet they're all slurping Cherry Cokes and eating mega bags of popcorn with greasy liquid butter. And they're all laughing and wearing their cropped leggings and their long cardigans. All of the girls' hair is straight and perfect and they look like models from the Delia's catalog.

And I'm at home wearing last season's Gap jeans with a zip-up sweater I got for Hanukkah two years ago. And I won't be going to the movies. I'll be going to my brother's stupid Rockwood Hills Soccer League game, where I'll probably see other kids from school.

Not the Chelsea Sterns but the Katherine Fellsons and the Maura Eastlys, the girls who aren't popular, who live in the Spruce section. The girls who are just normal, who don't worry about being seen at their brothers' soccer games because they have friends.

I suppose I could try to be friends with them. They let me sit with them at lunch. They're acceptable. They'd probably welcome me more than Chelsea would. But I don't want to. I
don't want to be someone who just fades into the background, someone who's friends with people by default.

“Dina,” my mom yells to me from downstairs. “Come on. Now. We're going. Nathan's going to be late.”