I Am the Wallpaper (15 page)

“What are you talking about?”

“When blogging, blog.”

He looked at me like I’d just sprouted a new nose.

“Look, I can’t do anything about what already happened, but this could be an opportunity to turn the tables on them. What could I write that would embarrass an eleven-year-old boy or a ten-year-old girl?”

“Floey, that would be kind of mean.”

I smiled. “Exactly.”

He rolled his eyes. “So the New Floey is a writer now? Making up stories?”

I grinned.

“Your problem is that this New Floey is completely deranged.”

I nodded. It was a deranged idea.

But they definitely deserved it.

When Richard, Tish and my mother finally came home, I didn’t mention a thing. Later that night, I pulled out my diary, as usual. After I finished writing, I placed it back in my drawer, careful to bury it beneath my socks and underwear.

Even Wen laughed when I read it to him. If Tish could write stories, so could I. Okay, so maybe I enhanced the truth just a little, but that’s a writer’s prerogative.

When Wen and I looked it up on
floeysprivatelife.com
the next day, there was just a short note saying that I’d skipped writing in my journal that night. I had this hilarious image of Richard and Tish reading what I’d written and then the discussion between them about whether it should be included on the Web page.

My next masterpiece went like this:

Later, I heard Tish in the bathroom gargling.

In the early afternoon I passed the two of them sitting at the kitchen table. They were snacking again. I went over to the refrigerator, pulled out a can of soda and opened it up. After taking a long sip I made a point of putting my hand to my lip and wincing with imaginary pain. Then I held the can out to them.

“I don’t think I can drink this. Do either of you want to finish it?”

They both looked revolted. They shook their heads.

“That’s a shame,” I said. I left the can between them on the table and walked away.

Azra called. Even though I’d wanted to phone her first so we could talk about the things I’d written, I hadn’t because I was scared about what she would say. So I’d tried not to think about it—denial again. The day I found out about
floeysprivatelife.com
it had even crossed my mind to ask Wen not to tell her about it, but in the end I didn’t. So I figured she had almost surely heard about it from him.

“That’s some Web site you’ve got there, Floey,” she said, her voice not as friendly as usual.

“It’s not exactly
mine
, but thanks, I guess.” After a long, weird silence I asked, “Are you mad at me?”

“Why? Because you haven’t called in almost three days? Because you didn’t tell me about the site yourself? Or do you mean because you think I’m Leslie Dern’s lapdog?”

“I don’t really think you’re her lapdog,” I said. “At the time I was just a little annoyed.…”

“And I’m a follower? I wouldn’t stand out even in an empty room?”

I cringed. “I write a lot of stupid ideas in my diary. That’s all it was. You have to believe me. I was just venting. I didn’t really mean any of it.”

“No? You didn’t? Then why did you write it?”

“I … don’t know. I’m so sorry, Azra. I feel just terrible.”

“But that’s not even the worst of it. How about when you wrote about trying to make Wen your boyfriend? Didn’t you mean that either?”

I closed my eyes.

There was another long silence. I knew that what I had written about Wen was really the biggest reason she was mad. We had an agreement. Once again I felt my stomach move around and I wondered if I was going to puke. Azra was my best friend. Would she ever even talk to me again?

That’s when she hung up.

I dropped my head onto the kitchen table with no intention of ever lifting it. I wanted everyone I had ever met to hate me forever. I deserved it.

After a few minutes, I tried calling her back. Thankfully, she picked it up. “I’m really, really sorry, Azra.”

I heard her take a deep breath. “I know you are,” she said, sounding a little calmer than before. “I’ve been thinking about it. I guess I was the one who started it by calling you ordinary. I didn’t mean that either.”

“Really?” I said, surprised. “So you forgive me?”

She didn’t answer right away. Finally she said, “Look, I don’t want us to fight. I, your unremarkable friend, might be willing to forgive you—but only if you swear that you didn’t mean it, and that you forgive me for what I said to you on your birthday.”

“I do. I swear.”

I could almost hear her relax. “When I was seven,” she said, trying to laugh, “I used to keep a diary. I found it last year and I couldn’t even
believe
some of the things I wrote.”

But I still didn’t feel like we were finished yet. “And all that stuff about Wen? You’re okay with that?”

“Floey, we’ve been best friends since second grade. You think I don’t know that you wish we hadn’t made that deal? I guess we all have our own little moments of insanity, right? But in the end I know you’d never really break it. I trust you.”

Now I felt even guiltier. Six years of friendship meant a lot. I was suddenly more determined than ever that Wen and I should never be more than friends.

“I’m glad,” I said, my heart beating again. “I’m so glad. You really are remarkable, Azra, you know that? You definitely stand out from the crowd.”

“You bet I do,” she said.

After that I felt a lot better. We talked about the Web site and I told her about the fake diary entries. Azra thought I was crazy. But not so crazy that she didn’t laugh—and come up with an idea of her own. This one was about Wen and Tish.

To be honest, I didn’t really think this one would work. If it did, it was pretty mean since Tish actually had a crush on Wen—that was obvious even to Azra, so her idea was just to add fuel to the fire. After what Tish and Richard had done to me, though, I felt okay going through with it.

When we told Wen about today’s as-yet-unpublished diary entry, he didn’t think it was funny. “That poor girl,” he said. “You shouldn’t play with her that way. She’s only ten.”

He was right, and I immediately felt sorry.

Not.

The next day, Wen called and Tish happened to pick up the phone. According to Wen, as soon as she heard his voice, her voice dropped down to a whisper. “Listen, Wen. I have something I want to say to you.”

“Uh … okay,” he said.

“I’ve been getting the idea that you might have … feelings for me.”

“Oh, Tish, I—”

“Please, don’t say anything until I’m finished. Don’t ask me how I know, but I know. Sometimes a woman can just tell these things. If it really is true, then I want you to know that as flattered as I am, it could never work out. I’m too young for you. You need to find someone your own age. Please don’t take this the wrong way.”

Wen said he wasn’t sure what to say, so there was a long pause before he finally said, “Okay.”

“I’m trying to let you down as gently as I can.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll go get Floey now.”

“Thanks.”

Unfortunately, Tish is a smart girl and wasn’t fooled for long.

“Floey,” she whispered to me from the other bed. “Are you asleep?”

It was late Saturday night and I was wide awake. I made my voice sound groggy. “Why do you have to keep waking me up every night? Are you trying to torture me?”

Her bed squeaked. “The things you’ve been writing in your diary—you’re making them all up.”

I turned my head. From the moonlight shining through my window I could just about see her eyes peering over at me. It wasn’t a question. She said it like she knew it was a fact.

I glared across the room at her. “So you’re actually
admitting
that you read my diary?”