Crash Test Love (24 page)

When I rst moved to Long Island, I thought that if I could make a guy understand what it’s like to be dumped, I would feel bet er about myself.

But I’ve learned that hurting someone doesn’t make you strong. And hurting someone I care about feels worse than anything I’ve ever su ered. It was foolish to think that toying with Henry’s emotions would ever provide me with validation, or that hanging out with the J Squad and pretending they were my friends would actual y turn them into people I’d want to be friends with.

I stil have a lot to learn, it seems. But I am ready to start.

The J Squad o cial y reject me from their cafeteria table.

London approaches me at my locker. “Just so you know,” she says, “you can’t sit with us at lunch.”

“I wasn’t exactly planning on it. Where are Jyl ian and Jessica—did they send you to be the o cial bearer of bad news?”

“Jyl ian has a physics test and Jessica is scared of you. She’s total y having diarrhea in the bathroom right now. And just so you know, you didn’t win the bet.”

At this point, I don’t even care. I know enough to see that London is put ing on her brave face and that, inside, she’s stil reeling from Henry’s rejection. If asserting power over me makes her feel bet er, whatever. I don’t need the J Squad.

“If you say so,” I tel her.

“Now’s the time we would make your life a living hel , but judging from the gossip I’ve heard, you’ve already done a fantastic job of that yourself,” she says. “I just can’t wait until MTV airs the episode of Destiny’s party in a few months so the entire country can see what a skank you are.”

There are a few choice responses I think of immediately, but I’m not real y in the mood to ght, especial y not with London. I close my locker and give her a “Smile” (Lily Al en, 2006). “There’s toilet paper stuck to your shoe,” I tel her, and then I walk toward the cafeteria to nd a table for one.

En route, I see Henry—it’s the rst time I’ve seen him since the party. He did send me an e-mail afterward. The subject said “Friends …” and underneath he wrote: “I wish I could, but I can’t.”

I didn’t respond.

It’s pret y clear that he’s avoiding me. I don’t exactly blame him, but I wish things were di erent. But you can wish and you can pray and at the end of the day, that doesn’t real y change anything. I stand stil and watch him pass. He sees me, that much I’m sure of. I give a tiny wave, but he doesn’t return it. I think I see a smile, a tight-lipped one, but it may just be the light. I’m too far away to tel . Whatever his expression is, he walks away to somewhere I am not invited.

It’s devastating to lose a friend. I wouldn’t wish it on my ercest enemy. I wouldn’t wish it on the worst person in the entire world. There is nothing like having everything and then having nothing—no mat er how it happened—and longing for that person but being rewarded only by memories that play out like scenes in a movie until you can barely recal what is real and what is not, what is life and what is ction.

I nal y reach the cafeteria. I expect the entire room to stop when I enter, but it doesn’t. I maneuver through the crowded room until I nd a dingy table that is completely empty. Four or ve chairs surround it; I put my books on one, sit on another, and take out my lunch. I debate picking up one of the books and reading, or pretending to read so I don’t look so lonely, but screw that—I am lonely. I might as wel embrace it.

The J Squad are gathered at the other end of the cafeteria, and I avoid eye contact completely. A few minutes go by. I’m staring at the wal to my left when I hear a voice I don’t recognize.

“Hey, Garret .”

I look up. Two seniors are standing in front of me: Melody Brickman and Josie Ramirez. I know them peripheral y; they don’t social y orbit the J Squad, but they’re not complete losers, either. They’re just normal, regular girls with normal, regular-looking paper bag lunches of their own.

J Squad, but they’re not complete losers, either. They’re just normal, regular girls with normal, regular-looking paper bag lunches of their own.

“Hi,” I say. My voice cracks and I take a sip of water.

“We don’t want to pry or anything,” Josie says, “but we were at Destiny’s Sweet Sixteen.” Ah. A few people have come up to me since then, asking me for details about Henry (“Does he have any tat oos? Is it true he hooked up with one of the Pussycat Dol s? Does he use a lot of tongue when he frenches?”); these girls probably want in on the secrets too.

I sigh. “He doesn’t have any tat oos but he’s not opposed to get ing one if he can gure out a meaningful design, he didn’t hook up with one of the Pussycat Dol s, although I’m sure he could if he wanted to, and he’s a great kisser. Anything else?” They look at me like I’ve just escaped from a loony bin.

“Um, what?” Melody asks.

“Henry. That’s why you’re coming over to talk to me, right?”

Josie frowns. “Not exactly. We just wanted to say that we saw what happened, and we’re sorry. If you want to talk about it with anyone, I mean

… I know we’re not real y friends, but I’d be happy to lend a shoulder to cry on.”

“Dit o,” Melody says.

I’m kind of shocked. “I don’t real y know what to say.” I look around for cameras to see if someone is lming our interaction (it wouldn’t be the rst time), but I don’t see any.

“I broke up with my boyfriend over the summer and it was awful. I feel your pain,” Melody says. “He stil won’t talk to me.”

“Guys are crazy,” Josie says, sti ing a laugh.

I smile and a sort of warmth l s my stomach. A tiny bal of hope. “Do you guys want to sit down?”

“Is that okay?” Melody asks. “We weren’t sure if you were eating alone or if you just have a lot of imaginary friends.”

“Oh,” I say, shrugging, “I do, but they don’t leave the house. Except on weekends.” We al laugh. Then they sit.

INGRID MICHAELSON LYRICS RUNNING THROUGH MY HEAD AT THE POSSIBILITY OF MAKING NEW FRIENDS

“I just wanna be okay.”—Be OK

“I am giving up on half-empty glasses.”

—Giving Up

“I think I’m starting to feel something good.”

—Oh What a Day

“Thanks,” I say.

“For what?” Josie asks.

“Oh.” I take a bite of my sandwich and feel some of the weight on my shoulders dissolve. “You know.” At the end of Shakespeare in Love, there’s a moment when you wonder whether Gwyneth Paltrow’s character, Viola, wil stay in England with Shakespeare, who she loves, or if she wil travel to Virginia with Lord Wessex, who she was forced to marry.

“How is this to end?” Lord Wessex asks the Queen. To which the Queen replies, “As stories must when love’s denied: with tears and a journey.” This part of the movie is particularly wrenching—even though Shakespeare and Viola are devastatingly right for each other, even though they have a love most people would kil for, a love most people never know their entire lives, it’s simply not meant to be.

But unlike Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare and Viola wil not su er tragic deaths. (This is assuming they are real people as opposed to lm characters, but stay with me.) There wil be heartbreak, yes, but they wil live. There wil be tears and there wil be a journey. They wil go on to have ful lives and do wonderful, exciting things. Henry and I wil too. I’m sure of it. Because love, no mat er how tragic (or rusty, as the J Squad would say), is not an ending. It is a test and a textbook; it is a map to undiscovered places and a lexicon of languages yet to be spoken.

Love.

Real y, it is a beginning.

Acknowledgments

Acknowledgments

Thanks to:

Everyone at Random House Children’s Books, especial y Krista Vitola, Marci Senders, Kathy Dunn, and Beverly Horowitz. Also to Jil ian Karger and Col een Fel ingham for their keen eyes.

My editor, Stephanie El iot , for her wisdom, wit, and warmth—plus making sure I stay (semi) appropriate.

My family, for their love and support.

Lastly, to the friends who Virgiled me through my own CTL: thank you for helping me realize that it’s bet er to feel everything than nothing at al .

CONTINUE READING

FOR AN EXCERPT FROM

The Diamonds

Excerpt copyright © 2009 by Ted Michael

Published by Delacorte Press

an imprint of Random House Children’s Books

a division of Random House, Inc.

New York

The light icked on, and I was blinded by my nakedness, and his nakedness. The door ew open. Before I could move (there was no time to do anything but freeze), a sea of faces stared down at me—Duncan’s, Priya’s, Lili’s, Ryan’s, faces I had never seen before, shocked faces—and in the center of them al was Clarissa’s, eyebrows arched in surprise, mouth pul ed together in a tiny O that said a mil ion things and nothing at once.

And I remember thinking: My life is over.

The next day, nobody returned my cal s.

When I stopped by each one of the Diamonds’ houses on Sunday afternoon, they were conspicuously “unavailable.” I even went to our regular brunch at Bistro, but they were nowhere to be found. By Monday morning, what had happened at Ryan’s party was al over school. For discretionary reasons, I won’t repeat the gossip here, but know that it was awful, and that by third period, the entire school was under the belief that there was a sex tape of me, Anderson, and a live chicken oating around the Internet.

AP Lit with the twins was the worst.

“I heard she has ‘I heart Anderson’ tat ooed across her back,” Dana said while Mrs. Bloom drew stick gures of Romeo and Juliet on the board.

“And underneath that, ‘I heart bal s.’”

“I heard that Lili and Priya never even liked her,” said Dara, “and the real reason Jed dumped her is because she has warts. Not the kind on your feet, either.”

The Diamonds weren’t at lunch; they didn’t show up for government, either.

Nobody was outright rude to me, but everyone stayed far, far away. The only human contact I had that entire day was two seconds with Anderson after art class, when he whispered, “Cal me later, it’s gonna be okay,” into my ear and ed down the hal way before I could fol ow.

After school, Duncan was waiting for me at my locker with an incredibly peculiar expression on his face.

“Hi, Duncan,” I started, “I’m real y—”

He held up his hand. “Whatever, Marni. I’m just here to give you this.”

Duncan handed me a thin slip of paper, which I immediately recognized (I’d helped design them, and conceived the entire text): it was a subpoena, the kind the Diamonds slipped into peoples’ lockers if they were supposed to appear at a trial.

“It’s for today,” he said, leaving before I could reply.

That was okay. I didn’t feel much like talking.

There were more people in the chorus room for my trial than for al the previous ones combined. People were clumped around the doorway, balancing on their toes to see inside. To see me.

Clarissa, Priya, and Lili looked formidable and gorgeous in their chic black robes; I thought about mine lying in its garment bag somewhere, and about how—now more than ever—al I wanted to do was put it on and stand beside them.