The Pages Between Us (9 page)

Look at me . . . back at school!

It was a little strange to be away for two days—kinda like when the TV announcer says “we now return you to your program, already in progress.” It feels like I've missed a bunch of the plot and can't keep up. But I'm happy to be back and spending a quality fifty-two minutes each day with you in French class.

You're right . . . the rule should be one-day absences only. Even if you're coughing up an internal organ, GO TO SCHOOL. Deal?

Honestly, reading about how it went for you Friday at school—where you were wearing people-attracting perfume—was, how do I put this . . . hard to read. I mean, it makes perfect sense for people to want to talk to you. You have such a funny personality. An awesome smile. The world's cutest boots.

It just made me think . . . why does talking to people have to be so hard for me? All this planning and preparation—is something wrong with me? Am I missing the section of my
brain that handles people skills? Or maybe I'm low on some essential vitamin . . . ? I keep forgetting to take my daily pill. (It's not a pill, of course. I'm still taking those Gummy Bear vitamins. Only the orange or green ones.)

I'm guessing that whole Savannah Swanson incident from third grade still haunts me.

But I'm in sixth grade now—I should have this figured out! Honestly, I just wish there was a formula I could follow.

I say that because of what happened today . . .

I took your advice to heart. Really, I did. The thing with the sharks and the unicorns? I gave it a shot. And it may have ruined my life.

But I'm guessing you've already heard.

Today in the cafeteria, I searched for an empty seat. I had to because I'd already stopped by Ms. Benson's and she was out sick today. Her office door was locked with this note tacked to it.

“Out sick the rest of the week. No counseling. And no organizing my office during lunch, Olivia.”

She probably knew I'd try to get in there. Locked door, darn it.

So that's how I ended up in the cafeteria searching for a seat. The room had filled up quickly and open seats were a rare commodity. (On a side note: I'm not confident that the school staff has counted out the number of students versus the number of seats available. It's like an apocalyptic version of musical chairs. With lunch bags and trays.)

My heart sped up and I felt frantic. Where could I sit?

I recognized a couple of faces from our fifth grade class last year. Tara and her best friend, Jamie, who's obsessed with flavored lip gloss. There was one seat open on the end by them, but I wasn't sure if they were saving it for someone. You know what that meant: I had to ask the question.

“Umm, can I sit with you?” I barely squeaked it out.

Tara looked up at me as if I were some annoying door-to-door salesperson. But she didn't say anything—not a word. She just went back to chatting with Jamie. Was she being rude? Hard to tell.

So I sat down anyway, slowly easing into my chair like it was covered in thorns. Or maybe broken glass. It was an uncomfortable situation is what I'm saying.

Without hesitation, I whipped out my lunch and laid out a bag of Frito chips and some M&M's. Surely these would be my key to breaking into a new group of friends. Let the lunchtime bartering begin!

But when they pulled out their lunches, my jaw dropped through the floor:

French
macarons
.

Raw almonds.

Seaweed chips.

They had listened to Bethany's blog advice. Apparently junk food was now the uncoolest lunch item possible!

I quickly stuffed them in my backpack, but I'm sure Bethany is already blogging about my lunch fail. Defend me in the comments section, okay?

So there I was . . . trying to get Tara or Jamie or someone to acknowledge my existence. You would think I would've given up and run out of the cafeteria to save my reputation.

You.

Would.

Think.

But, no. That “Everything Is Awesome!” poster from Ms. Benson's office kept nagging at me and I knew I had to try to look on the bright side. Which meant I couldn't give up.

I took a deep, cleansing breath and said to Jamie, “I got
some bubblegum lip gloss this weekend. How about you?”

Nothing. No response. No one even looked my way. I could feel my heart beat faster and faster. It was up to techno-dance beat. Ohmygosh, ohmygosh . . . what was I supposed to do? Why were they ignoring me? I refused to hide out in the bathroom!

And that's when your advice came to mind. You know how you said that at lunch I could read interesting factual books about things like sharks or unicorns and become an expert on those things and then find other people who liked those things?

You said it's how I could make friends.

Well, I haven't started reading at lunch, but I have watched a bunch of reruns of Shark Week to get prepared. I'm not a shark expert yet, but I know a lot of shark facts.

So that's why without warning, I let out a sentence involving sharks.

A sentence I will regret until I'm a senior citizen.

“They're re-airing episodes from Shark Week. Anyone watch last night's
Man-Eater
show?” I asked it all loud and perky, counselor style. Then I horrifyingly added, “There was some very interesting information about the shark's mating behaviors, amirite?”

Tara looked over and crossed her arms. “We aren't talking about sharks. We're talking about something else.”

With one head flip and swing of her hair, she shut me out. None of them would even look at me.

It was the Savannah Swanson incident all over again. I know you say I shouldn't bring that up anymore, but all those feelings . . . the humiliation, the embarrassment, the Immediate Stomachache . . . they all came back.

I realized I couldn't do this anymore.

I bolted out of the cafeteria and discovered that the fourth bathroom stall really isn't all that bad. Sort of roomy, actually.

But I can't live like this. Ms. Benson could get sick anytime, so I can't rely on the comfort of her office. I have to find a way to deal. And apparently sharing my new knowledge of sharks is not the answer. I have no doubt that if I'd tried to start a unicorn conversation, it would've ended in the same result.

Oh wait. Unicorns are way cute. Darn it!

Which brings me to this:

I know it's always been me and you . . . The Fearsome
Twosome. But I have to find a way to make more friends—people who talk to me, eat lunch with me, ask me questions.

Today made me realize that my problem isn't just trying to talk to Jackson . . . it's trying to talk to
anyone
.

So maybe I need to open up more—make some actual friends. I'm not exactly sure how I'm going to do that, but I'm going to try. Trying feels good.

I know it won't come between us. It just WON'T.

So. Deep breath . . .

LEGO Club is this afternoon. Am I ready to charmingly chat up Jackson? No. No, I am not.

I know we figured that all those practice clubs would give me time to rehearse my Chatting-People-Up skills. But worksheets and toe sprains and girls with tooth extractions got in the way, and the only real conversation I had was with that CVS cashier. So I'm going back to my original plan. . . .

Note passing. It's been done that way for centuries, and it was the primary form of communication during the Renaissance period. That's Shakespeare . . .
Romeo and Juliet
, all that. It's more romantic, don't you think?

So I went through our notes on that letter to Jackson and made a revised-revised-revised version. And it's not really so much “revised” as “brand-new.”

So bold, right?! I think I'll give it to him just before the club ends. That way he can think about it overnight. No sense in pressuring him to answer me right then and there. Hopefully he'll tell me if he likes me too, and I can always play it cool if he doesn't like me, like “Oh, I didn't mean I LIKE like you.” So there is still an out. And the
J
is the right mix of casual and friendly, don't you think?

You know what? Forget about me saying I'm not ready for this. I have a feeling that today is going to be the day that everything changes, Piper! I'll make new friends at LEGO
Club . . . you'll find all the guests you need for your party . . . Jackson will admit he likes me more than a friend . . . I'll create a LEGO house that blows everyone's mind. . . .

Sigh. (The happy kind.)

I take back all my worries above. Because right now, at this moment? I am loving my life.

I'll meet you this afternoon outside the door for LEGO Club. I'll have my note to Jackson in hand.

This is it, Piper. LET'S DO THIS.

Hopefully yours,

Olivia

Grateful:

1. Cool-looking bruises

2. Gummy Bear vitamins (the red ones are good too, actually)

3. You—dear Piper—for being the one to walk into that club with me today and give me all the confidence I need

4. My neighbor (that boy with an unusually high number of missing teeth) who let me borrow his LEGOs last night for practice

5. Our heart-shaped rock at our sacred tide pool spot

P.S. Just remember . . . me making new friends doesn't mean they will come between us. We're best friends forever. And that means FOREVER. We will sit on the same bench and feed seagulls when we are ninety-two. Cool?