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Not An Endless Summer

At lunch, after my public humiliation, I saw Chad.
He asked me, completely out-of-the-blue, “So, what’s up with you and Summer?”

I shook my head, sighed.
Something else to feel depressed about.
“I dunno. Maybe I’m too—”

“Smart?”

We laughed. I was going to say “dorky.” Chad and Summer have never exactly been friends.

Chad seemed happy to see me—he was being his usual cheerful self. He was in boardshorts and a T-shirt. His skin was brown, and his hair was extra curly, like he’d just gotten back from the beach.

“So what’d you do all summer, Chad?”

“Family went to Fiji. Nothing exciting like you. I mean, not everybody gets to mix cocktails for Ms. Liz.”

He laughed. I wanted to hit him. But I didn’t since he’s my Summer replacement.

I guess I was never part of Summer’s high school plan. Maybe I
am
too dorky. Maybe it’s the less-than-new clothes or the fact that I never have any money.

It has become apparent to me that Summer, my best friend, is now my former best friend. She found new homies over the summer, Chelsea and Hannah. I don’t know them, but I already don’t like them. They’re the type of girls who look eighteen, dress like they’re twenty-one, but probably read at a second-grade level. Total flash over substance. And they’d never be caught dead with someone like me. (So I
really
don’t like them.)

After two days of trying to get her attention and being repeatedly blown off with excuses, I got the picture.

When I saw her in homeroom today, the picture was developed.

“Hey, Summer. Wanna get lunch later?” I asked.

“Oh, Stacy!” (Everything Summer says has an exclamation mark attached to it. Everything is
very
important.) Her hands were fidgety; she looked away, eyes darting to the side of the classroom where her new friends sat checking their phones for messages, even though we’re not allowed to have them in class. “I can’t. I made other plans already!”

“Come
on
, Summer! What are you
doing
?”

Chelsea was calling her over, acting as if she owned her, giving me this look like, “And just
who
are
you
?”

“Stacy! We’ll talk later, ’kay?”

“Sure, Summer. No problem,” I lied. And she was off.

How like her.

The thing with Summer is, she’s a force of nature—like an earthquake or flood. There’s no stopping her. But for some unknown reason—a complete mystery to me—she had chosen
me
to be her friend. Summer Phillips, social butterfly. Summer with the waterproof mascara and trendy clothes. Summer who made out with guys in middle school. Cute ones.

I tried not to question our friendship too much though, because sometimes you just have to let a good thing happen. So I went along for Summer’s ride, but in the back of my mind (the glass half-empty part), I wondered how long it would last. I wondered when she’d drop me like a hot rock.

In middle school, Summer would invite me to spend the night at her house, and then insist on me going to Mass with her Sunday morning because—well, you know. Misery loves company. I’d sit there, totally lost, afraid of doing the wrong thing, and her mom would keep shushing us while all Summer wanted to do was sit and gossip with me.

Even in the eighth grade she knew where all the action was. She’d constantly get phone calls from people wanting to know whose band was playing where and where the parties were. (She had all these
connections
.) And if someone called her who she didn’t consider worthy or who she just didn’t feel like speaking to, she’d tell them, “I’ve gotta go. My muffins are burning.” But she’s never baked in her life.

A few weeks ago, I called her.

“Hey, Summer. Wanna go to the mall?”

“Stacy! I can’t talk right now!” (Girls’ voices in the background laughing.) “I’ve got something in the oven. Gotta go!”

At least she didn’t say “muffins.”

Now that we’ve started high school, she acts like she’s a rock star and school is this giant mosh pit. She just dove right in, and people are passing her around—and here I am standing in the shadows waiting for her to come back to me some day.

The truth is, Summer is kind of a bad friend. And that’s just who she is. But she reached out to me when I really needed someone. And she always gives me good advice about my hair.

So I’m giving her back to the universe. Maybe she’ll gravitate back to me once in a while, or maybe the universe will get tired of her one day and throw her back. Until then, I’ve got Rose and Bethany. And then, of course, there’s Chad.

My New Best Friend?

Chad seems to be my new best friend.
We’ve been eating lunch together every day. Rose and Bethany sit with us. Actually, he
lets
us sit with his group. But Chad’s like that. He doesn’t care that we’re fringy. Yesterday when we sat down with him, horrible Vanessa gave me a death stare. I don’t know if it’s because I’m not “one” of them or because she thought I had the hots for Chad.

“So I’m running for class president,” he said during lunch, all excited and goofy.

“Look at you, Mr. Popularity.”

“Well, you know.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Want to help me campaign?”

The look on his face was all hopeful and maybe a little—what? I don’t know. But I did notice that his hair was extra wavy and sticking up a little in the middle. I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t.

“Sure, Chad. I’ll write your speech and see how many times I can work in the words ‘awesome’ and ‘cheese.’”

“Um, okay. Maybe not ‘cheese.’ Um, maybe I’ll have you work on posters instead.”

I gave him a little shove, and we laughed some more. We talked about ideas for his campaign, which would be short—only two weeks to get everything done.

We’ve collaborated before. When we were in the gifted program in fifth grade, we cowrote and starred in our modern version of
The Three Little Pigs
. It killed. Hilarious. The adults ate it up. Chad’s a natural comedian. I’m having him start his speech out with a joke to loosen up the crowd. He’s funny
and
popular. (I’m funny too, just not popular.)

As we were talking, sitting on a bench in the quad planning our strategy, I scanned the crowd for Anthony, waiting for him to walk by so I could maybe get a glimpse of him. If I could
just
manage to see him, it would be enough to get me through the day. But then when I didn’t, I kicked myself for being so weak.

Sometimes I think my feelings for Anthony border on obsession.

Anthony is my Kryptonite. Anthony is my Achilles’ heel. Anthony is: whatever other bad description I can come up with.

Wanting Is Not
The Same As Having

The world is full of fools for love.
So are the movies. So why should I be any different? Why
shouldn’t
I jump into that black pit of despair?

But why does love have to be so painful? Is it a requirement for life, like going to school and getting a job? Is there some rule that we
all
have to suffer? I’d really like to know the answer to this. And just why does something everyone wants—each one of us—
why
does it have to hurt so much?

Still, I’m in love with love, the whole idea of it. The puffy hearts and puffy clouds, the couples walking hand in hand into the sunset. (Yes, I’ve seen a
lot
of movies.)

I don’t have a boyfriend, and I really want one. A boyfriend.

I made a major discovery today: Anthony has Chemistry second period, and if I hurry and get into the right position, we pass each other on the way to third. I don’t think technically it’s stalking, is it? (I’ll have to check that later.)

Another major discovery: our first dance is one week away. Rose and Bethany are, of course, excited. Chad mentioned it at lunch casually—almost hopefully, which was strange—but all I could think about was whether Anthony would be there and whether he’d ask me to dance.

For the past two years, my love for Anthony has been the one constant thing in my life: the thing I can count on, just like that extra zit on my forehead when I’ve had too many French fries. (Love is like…
junk food?
)

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a crush on some boy. Ricky from preschool was my first love. He was cute, but what I really remember about him, more than anything else is he had some great toys, really high-quality stuff. Toys that an only child would have—not all worn-out and crappy looking. He also had the softest hair, and he’d let me pet it. (Now that I think of it, Ricky was more like a dog than a boyfriend.)

Then there was Ted in kindergarten. I called him “Tiger Ted” for some reason. He didn’t look like a tiger at all. He wasn’t mean and ferocious. I think I just liked the way the words sounded together, “Tiger” and “Ted.” Our first week of school, Mrs. Shaw picked the two of us to take the attendance sheet to the office. We walked the halls together; I held the classroom’s drink order form, and Ted held the roll sheet. He wore a red, white, and blue sailor suit, and I loved him. So much that I reached over so we could walk hand in hand. When I did this, he jerked away from me. I guess that’s why I socked him. And I guess that’s why he stayed away from me after that. I loved him the rest of kindergarten from afar.

In first grade, Matthew, the only boy with glasses, looking at me very earnestly with all his heart, said, “Stacy, will you marry me?”

I turned him down, though, because he’d already asked two other girls. (Right in front of me!) I would’ve said yes if I hadn’t been the third in line. I do have my pride.

Since then I’ve had about a million crushes, but I’ve never had a
real
boyfriend. And I really want that. Just someone to listen to music with. Someone to watch movies with. Someone to write songs about me. (Okay, I know.
That’s
ridiculous.)

I’ve been kissed once by a boy. It was quick, maybe two seconds. Davey Schwartzman, last day of fifth grade.

Martina handed me a note that said, “Do you like Davey? Circle Yes or No.”

I hadn’t thought about Davey that way. I looked over at him and considered it for a few seconds, then circled “Yes” and handed the note back to Martina. She immediately opened it and clasped her hand over her mouth before passing it back to Davey.

We kissed once behind the big tree in the field during lunch. It was a nice kiss—lips only—but fast. And I never saw him again, because his family moved away that summer.

So I really want a boyfriend this year. My hope is for Anthony, who I’ve quietly longed for, but I also know that deep down inside of me—in the part of me that knows the truth about things—it’s like all the other hopeless crushes.

But a girl can always hope, can’t she?

Election Day

I leaned forward in my chair
during second period when I heard Chad’s voice over the loudspeaker.

“Good morning, students and faculty.”

He said it clearly, with confidence, not shaky like Edwin or too fast like Ileana. So far, so good.

I had the entire speech memorized word for word. We’d practiced it with a stopwatch so it would come out to exactly ninety seconds and not run over the allotted time.

Once again, we’d had a disagreement that morning over the last line.

“I don’t know,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “I think it’s too much.”

“Don’t be a weenie, Chad. Laughs get votes.”

“All right, all right. And I’m
not
a weenie.”

“Are too.”

I punched him on the arm; we laughed. That is, until horrible Vanessa butted in.

“Chad? Are you ready to go?”

I made a face behind her back. For some reason, she needed a personal escort to class. Thinking of her as I listened to Chad give his speech made me wrinkle my nose.

“…and lastly, if you elect me freshman class president, Mr. Fonseca has agreed to shave his head.”

Laughter.

Yes.

The joke: our principal, Mr. Fonseca, was already bald, so there was nothing to shave. It was stupid and silly; everyone thought so. And I was proud of Chad for having the nerve to say it. Judging by the reaction of the class, the line was a hit. So was the speech.

During lunch, as we walked to go vote, I gave him my campaign manager’s pep talk.

“You know, I have a good feeling about things. You did a great job with the speech.”

“Well, just don’t forget to vote for me.”

I snapped my fingers. “I knew there was something I forgot.”

He gave my arm a shove, and we cast our ballots, stuffing them inside the box in the gym. All through lunch, kids high-fived him and complimented his speech. He hugged horrible Vanessa, then he hugged me. The hug lasted a couple seconds too long on his end. It was weird.

“Stacy,” he said, after releasing his hold on me, “thanks. I really appreciate all your help. It means a lot to me.”

“Oh, c’mon. I didn’t do that much.”

I tried to brush off the vibes I was getting from him.

“Will I see you tonight?”

The dance. Right.

“Uh, I guess.”

I tried to ignore the puppy-dog look on his face, but I was experiencing the same feelings I had the week before when we worked on his speech at his house. I hoped it was just me, though, and he didn’t mean anything by it. I held out that same hope until Saturday when he had a work party at his house, and the vibes kept coming at me in waves—gloppy waves of feelings—giving me the very bad sense that he
liked
me. He liked me in a way that friends aren’t supposed to like each other.

The thing about Chad: we laugh at the same jokes; we like the same music. We’re both crazy for Mexican food and 1980s-era John Hughes movies featuring mopey teenagers. The two of us go together like peanut butter and jelly, like chips and salsa, but we’re friends. Just
friends.

Horrible Vanessa was there. Why is she horrible? Because she hates me for some reason, although I’ve never done anything to her. And she’s stuck up. She made snotty little comments, like, “Why are you using pink and not purple,
Stacy?
” And, “Stacy, you should let Brianna draw the letters. She’s much more even.” She placed herself between Chad and me whenever possible. It was more than slightly uncomfortable, and I wanted to flee or punch her in the face. But I didn’t do either. Ugh.

These thoughts ran through my head as I heard the loudspeaker’s crackle.

“Everybody, quiet.” Horrible Vanessa was shushing us. We stopped to listen as Mr. Fonseca announced that Chad won. Then he made his own joke, “And I’ll make you a deal, Chad. You get a haircut, and I will too.”

It was pretty funny. I mean, for a principal.

And here was Chad, hugging me again, but this time adding a quick kiss on the cheek, leaving me confused.

“I’ll see you tonight, Stacy.”

He walked away happy, which would have been a great emotion to be feeling right at that moment—perfectly appropriate, in fact—except for the bad feeling I had about Chad and me. There was that.

Why is it that things never seem to go exactly the way I want them to?