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I was trying so hard not to cry that my face felt like it was going to explode. Marco just kept laughing and doing his little dance as he brushed the stray bits of hair off the back of my neck.

A million years of embarrassment later, he finally took off my bib.

I looked at myself in the mirror. The haircut was cool — J's style of cool, definitely not Stacey's — short in the back and shaggy in the front, but it made my goofy, pimply face looked totally out of place. I wanted to be cool enough to pull it off, but I knew that I wasn't, and I just felt awful.

Marco smiled at me in the reflection. “Great, right?”

“Uh-huh.” I faked a smile. “Great.”

Finally Mom showed up, with a can of tomato juice in one hand and the plastic bag with our discount glass set in the other.

“Wow,” she said, gawking at my head, “it looks terrific, sweetie. Very funky.”

I shivered. Funky wasn't at all what I wanted. Least of all coming from my mom.

Mom paid the girl at the front desk and then slipped five dollars into my hand.

“Go give your hairdresser a tip,” she whispered in my ear.

“Please don't make me,” I said as quietly as possible. My eyes were back down on my shoes.

“Okay,” she said, rustling what was left of my hair, “whatever you say, sweets. He did a great job.” She walked over to give it to Marco herself. Even she started blushing when Marco talked to her. He really was that beautiful.

I turned around fast to leave; I couldn't wait any longer to get out of the salon, this total monument of humiliation. But I turned around so fast that I didn't notice the guy who had just walked in until I literally smacked right into him, my right shoulder colliding with his chest. I jumped backwards and was about to blurt out an apology when I noticed who it was I'd slammed into.

Declan. Walsh.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Declan Walsh, who I hadn't seen since the final campfire last summer. His parents had come early to pick him up that night, so I'd never had a chance to say goodbye (well, technically it would have been more like hello since we'd never actually spoken, but I'd spent all week psyching myself up to say something, anything).

And now he was right in front of me.

And even cuter than I remembered.

Which only made me feel worse.

And of all the dumb coincidences in the universe, that afternoon in the salon we were wearing identical Nirvana T-shirts.

Declan looked at me. He blinked. He said nothing.

My mouth had gone completely dry. I put my hands up to try to hide my freshly shorn head. “Sorry,” I mumbled, willing myself to say anything else. But today my mouth wasn't working on behalf of my brain.

Declan looked at me. He blinked. He said nothing.

And I ran.

I ran out of the mall and through the parking lot until I found our car and collapsed on the hood. And then I started crying. That humiliating, hiccupping kind of crying where you can't get any words out and you're a total blubbering wreck, unfit to be seen by any human being except possibly your mother.

Mom found me like that, seventy thousand years later when she'd finally finished blushing at Marco. She wrapped her arms around me, rubbed one hand slowly up and down my back, whispering, “It's okay. It's okay. It's okay.”

It wasn't, and it only made me cry harder, but it felt good just the same.

Friendship

From
Wikipedia
, the free encyclopedia

Friendship is a relationship and concern between individuals and provides positive emotional support. Friends care for one another and look out for each other
or sometimes they act really weird to each other for no good reason
. In order for a deep understanding to occur between friends it requires opening up about personal things, listening carefully, and being loyal to one another,
and not refusing to forgive someone for a dumb accident they tried really hard to make up for
.

I
showed up early to school Monday morning, hoping I could talk to Chloe alone before first period and give her the glasses.

Mom and Dad both gave me a kiss before I left the house, which is sort of unusual for them. Not that they don't love me and want to wish me a good day and everything, but the house is always kind of hectic in the morning with Mom and Dad racing around to get themselves ready for work. Apparently they had all the time in the world this morning, though. Dad packed my lunch and Mom helped me fix my hair with some fancy styling gel she bought from Dye, Dye, My Darling while I was busy sobbing on the hood of our Honda. I had to admit, with it spiked up just right, I looked almost cool enough to pull it off. Or I would when it grew out a little. I'd been freaked out at how short it was at first, but it was going to be fine. I could totally rock it. Maybe.

I waited for Chloe by our lockers, but by the time the bell for first period rang she still hadn't shown up. Stacey was late, too, but that was pretty normal; she always complains that it's because Becca takes forever to get ready and her mom drives the two of them together since Becca's school is in the same neighbourhood as ours. So I put the glasses on the top shelf of my locker, away from the rest of the mess, and headed to class with Trisha.

“Cool hair,” she said, as she grabbed her backpack and closed her locker. “We're going to have to take band photos soon.”

“Yeah, definitely,” I joked, secretly relieved that Trisha thought it looked good. “We're ready for the big time now.”

We were more than a little surprised to see that Stacey and Chloe were already in class when we got there, sitting at the back of the class with a bunch of the popular girls. We took our usual seats at the front, and when the bell rang for lunch, I went back to talk to Stacey.

“Whoa,” she said as I walked up to her. I'd already almost forgotten about my new haircut — class had been an almost-welcome distraction — and I self-consciously reached up to try to tousle my hair just the right way to make it match the almost-cool look I'd achieved briefly in the mirror that morning.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, “what do you think?”

“It's, like, really short.” Stacey sat back, appraising me. “But it's cute. It suits you.”

“Yeah? Thanks. Hey, where were you guys this morning? I didn't see you at the lockers.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Maylee told me that there were two spare ones by where hers is — you know, right by the gym? — and I figured that since it's such a pain to change clothes and everything after gym that it would be easier if I just used the locker there.”

“Oh,” I said. Huh? Did that even make sense?

“Yeah, and I told Chloe I was going to move, and she said it sounded like a good idea, so we both moved. Plus, I mean,” she whispered, “Chloe's really wanted to switch lockers after, you know,
the thing
.”

“Yeah, right.” That did make sense.

By this point everyone had left the classroom apart from me and Stacey, and Trisha and Chloe, who were waiting for us. Even Vilaney had taken off for lunch.

“Lunch?” Trisha suggested, nodding her head toward the classroom door.

“You guys go,” Chloe said. “I want to talk to Jo for a sec.”

“We'll meet you guys in the lunch room,” Trisha said.

“Actually, I'm going to go meet up with Maylee. She's helping me with my math homework,” said Stacey.

“Yeah, I'll meet you by our lockers,” said Chloe.

As Trisha and Stacey left, Chloe closed the door behind them.

“I'm glad you wanted to talk,” I said. “My mom and I bought a couple of glasses to replace the one I broke the other day. I mean, I know they're not the same, but they're pretty nice. They're in my locker, let me just go grab them.”

“This isn't about the glass,” Chloe said.

“Then what?”

“I think you did it.” Her face was deadly serious. It was freaking me out.

“Did what?” I said. I already knew the answer.

“The locker.”

She didn't sound all that upset. She sounded like she had totally rationally solved the mystery and that she was one hundred and ten percent sure that I was the criminal mastermind behind the graffiti job. She almost sounded smug.

“What are you talking about? I'd never do something mean like that.”

“Oh yeah? Just like you wouldn't get me in trouble with my parents by smashing their property.”

“You know that isn't what happened.”

“You're jealous,” she said, “that Stacey and I have been spending so much time together. That we're best friends. It's pretty obvious.”

“Stacey's still my —” I stopped myself. Did I really believe that she was still my best friend?

“Just admit it.”

We stood there for a second just looking at each other. I started to wonder if Chloe was going to hit me. She looked like she was seriously considering it. I wished I'd listened to Dad when he suggested I take karate last year. At least then I'd know what to do if Chloe's fist came flying at me.

But she didn't punch me.

She didn't do anything.

Eventually, I spoke. “You don't seriously think I'm the one who did it, do you?”

“Yeah,” she said, “I seriously do.”

Then she picked up her backpack from where it lay slumped on the floor next to her and left. As she turned to open the door, she said, “Oh yeah. And Stacey wanted me to tell you that she's not having a party for her birthday on Friday. She said she was going to tell you herself but she was afraid you'd cry about it. And by the way? No guy's ever going to like you with short hair.”

And then she was gone.

Had that really just happened?

I stood there for a while, totally shocked into stillness. Thinking about Chloe, and the absence of her fist. About Stacey and the absence of her birthday party. About boys and haircuts.

Had that really just happened? It was too awful to even wrap my head around.

The world had crashed out of orbit and into the sun.

Ulen Township, Clay County, Minnesota

From
Wikipedia
, the free encyclopedia

Ulen Township is a township in Clay County, Minnesota, United States. The population was 163 in 2000.

Ulen Township has nothing to do with anything. Ulen Township is so tiny I bet I'm only the 164th person in the world who's ever heard of it. Today I clicked on the link marked
Random article
on my favourite online encyclopedia because my head is spinning so fast that I can't think straight and don't know where to go, even online. Why is all of this happening now? And why is it all happening to me?

I hope no one ever looks up Ulen Township again. I hope these words stay here untouched, forever.

But I know they won't. Someone a million miles away is already waiting to erase them. To erase me.

I wish I knew how to disappear for real.

I
wanted to call Stacey this morning to talk to her about everything that was happening, how out of control it all felt, and what she was planning on doing for her birthday (her thirteenth!) if she wasn't going to have a party, but every time I picked up my phone, I couldn't make myself do it.

I thought about sending her a text instead, about trying to explain what I thought was going on with Chloe, but I didn't know what to say. Maybe I could just invite her to come over this weekend for a non-party birthday party? I didn't even know if that was okay. Did she just not want to see me?

So I called Trisha instead. Her mom picked up on the second ring.

“Hi,” I said, “is Trisha there?”

“Is this Jo?”

Shoot, shoot, shoot. I hadn't spoken to her since the embarrassing zit/swearing episode at Trisha's sleepover. All of the sudden I remembered her face as I left the bathroom.

“Yeah. Hi, Mrs. Wynn.” My voice was meek, innocent, terrified.

“Hi, Jo.”

“Ummm.” I buzzed, waiting for Mrs. Wynn to go get Trisha. But she stayed silent on the line, waiting for me to finish my sentence. I took a breath, praying for dumb courage. “I, uh, wanted to apologize for what happened at the sleepover. I'm sorry I swore in the bathroom. I don't usually talk like that. I was upset. I was, uh, having a problem.”

“A problem?”

“A zit, actually.”

“A zit.” She sounded kind of amused.

“Yeah, it was really, um, painful, and — and anyway, it doesn't matter, I'm sorry.”

“All right. It's not a big deal, but thank you for your apology. I used to have pretty bad acne when I was your age, too. It's no fun.”

“You're telling me. But, um, can I talk to Trisha now?”

“Of course. I'll go get her.”

I breathed out a giant sigh of relief, like cartoon characters do when they've narrowly avoided having a giant anvil dropped on their head from the top of a cliff. Then Trisha picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey, T.”

“My mom said you apologized.”

“Is that weird? I felt really bad about swearing at the sleepover.”

“It's fine. But just keep a lid on it next time, okay?”

“I think I can manage that.”

“So when's our first band practice?” Trisha asked.

“You mean Slush Puppies?”

“No, I mean the Flying Monkeys.”

“Oh, too bad,” I said. “I heard they broke up. The guitarist's in a new band, though. They're called Yeti Confetti.”

“Oh yeah? Well my new favourite is playing a concert next week. They're called I Hate Mondays.”

“Yeah, they're okay. I heard that Don't Touch My Squash is opening.”

“Those guys know how to rock,” Trisha said.

“They practically know how to boulder.”

Trisha snorted.

“So can I come over?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said, “obviously. Bring Zim's guitar.”

“Aye-aye, captain.”

It's funny that Trisha and I don't hang out more often, especially since we live so close to each other. I walked over to her house, and we spent most of the afternoon talking and listening to music in her room.

Trisha's bedroom is kind of plain — still sort of babyish and pink, she hasn't changed it around too much since she was little — except for a few posters she's put up in the last couple of months. She's been getting really into this band she heard about called Mainline, and she ordered one of their posters online. It looks kind of funny in her room compared to the rest of her decor, but it's just another way that Trisha's very quietly doing her own thing. Lately she's been wearing weird tights to school, too — striped ones, or ones with cool designs on them. She changes into them in the bathroom, which is kind of weird because I'm sure her parents wouldn't care. I think she just likes the idea of having a secret identity, like a superhero.

She put on the new Mainline album for me, playing it quietly enough that her parents couldn't hear it downstairs.

“How did you hear about these guys?” I asked.

“I found their Facebook page and checked out some of their music. They're actually from around here, you know? They all grew up in Brampton, like an hour outside the city.”

“Oh wow, you think they ever play here? I mean, in Toronto, downtown?”

“Yup,” she said, drumming along to the music on her desk. “Their shows are always nineteen-plus, though. It sucks.”

“Oh, man.”

“I know. I'm never going to get to see them play live.”

“I guess not.”

We sat for a while, just listening to the record. The guitars were great, they wailed, but it wasn't like the harsh distorted music they were playing at Dye, Dye. This was kind of, I don't know, weirdly melodic? But tough; the singer was practically growling through the lyrics. She definitely wore combat boots.

“This is great,” I said.

“Yeah, I know” said Trisha, as she turned the volume up just a tiny bit. She smiled, and she looked like she was drinking in the music right through her skin. Trisha's happiest when she's listening to music, I could just tell. No wonder she plays the piano so well.

We got to the end of the album without saying much else, and then Trisha started playing it again from the beginning. I held Z's guitar in my hands and pretended to play along, but it was tough since I didn't actually know any chords.

“Hey, Trisha?” I said, when we were well into the third song for a second time around.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think it's weird that Stacey cancelled her birthday party?”

“I don't know. She told me her parents were going out of town so she couldn't have us over. Something about how Becca had a modelling job in Montreal so they had to take her there for the weekend.”

“Oh. Chloe didn't mention that.”

“Chloe told you the party was off?”

“Yeah. She said Stacey was afraid I was going to cry about it or something. She's been acting super weird lately.”

“Who, Chloe or Stacey?”

“Both of them. But I was talking about Chloe.”

“Uh-huh,” Trisha said. “Weird like how?”

“She thinks I'm the one who wrote on her locker.”

Trisha paused and looked at me hard. “You didn't, right?”

“Of course not. You think I'd do that?”

“No,” she said. “Just checking.”

“I'd never do something to hurt her.”

“I guess she was pretty pissed about that glass.” Trisha got up to change the music on her computer.

“That's what I don't get,” I said, turning on the bed to face where Trisha was standing. “All this over one stupid glass of water? Isn't that totally insane?”

“Yeah.” Trisha nodded. “Anyway, I'm sure Chloe will get over the whole locker thing. Maybe you should just tell her you did it?”

“But I didn't, and she's the one who's acting totally weird.”

“I don't know, Jo, you've been acting kind of weird the last couple of weeks, too. Spaced out, you know?” She found what she was looking for and put it on. Whatever the band was they were a lot more chilled out.

“So what?”

“I'm just saying.” She flopped down on the bed again. “If you and Chloe are in a fight, I'm not picking sides.”

“I'm not asking you to. There's — there's a lot going on right now.”

“Like what?” Trisha asked.

“You know Zim's girlfriend?”

“Yeah, I remember you talking about her. You said she had green hair or something. What's her name, Jess? She sounded cool.”

“Jen. She is. Her hair's not green anymore, though, that was months ago.”

“What colour is it now?”

A trumpet joined in on the song. It sounded really good.

“Pink, but that's not the point. The point is she's pregnant. Zim's going to be … he's gonna be a dad, and the two of them are moving back home.”

“Whoa,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said, “I know.”

I told Trisha about everything that had happened. It felt good to tell someone how I was feeling, even if it wasn't Stacey.

Trisha mostly just sat still and nodded, occasionally making a sympathetic face, as I described the family meeting and everything my parents had told me about what was going to happen next.

“What does Jen mean, she doesn't talk to her family?” she asked when I had finished. “Like, at all? How is that possible?”

“I don't know. Zim says it's complicated.”

“I believe that.”

“I know. Man, I am going to be the most pizza-faced aunt who ever lived.”

“Why do you always talk about your face like that?” Trisha asked. “It's not that bad.”

“Are you kidding? Do you know how many different kinds of creams and washes and oils and cover-ups I have to use to even look half-human? My skin is disgusting.”

“I'm just saying, it could be worse.”

“I guess,” I said. “It's just pretty hard to imagine.”

“Don't worry. Everyone loves a girl in a band.”

“I can't believe you found an upside.”

“What can I say?” Trisha said, totally deadpan, “I'm an optimist.”

Trisha didn't invite me to stay for dinner, so I walked back home around six.

Z and J were there when I arrived, with their first load of stuff for the big move. Dad was helping Z carry a futon frame up the stairs, and J was hauling a giant duffel bag toward the house.

“Do you want some help or something?” I asked.

“Hey, Jo!” She beamed at me. “Nah, don't sweat it, I've got this.”

I wasn't sure if pregnant women were supposed to lift heavy bags. I couldn't remember if they'd said anything about it in health class. My mom certainly hadn't been warned against it, though. She wasn't anywhere around to help.

I found her later, upstairs reading a book.

“So. They're really moving in,” I said, plunking myself down on my parents' enormous king-size bed next to where she lay.

“They really are,” she said, putting her book down next to her and putting her reading glasses on top of her head.

“What are you reading?” I turned my head around to read the cover. It was an old book I recognized, one that had been on the old shelves in the basement forever.
The Wind in the Willows
.

“I used to read it to your brother when he was little.”

“Oh. How come you never read it to me?”

“Your brother had me read it to him so many times that by the time you came along, I didn't want to hear about Mr. Toad of Toad Hall ever again.”

“And now?”

“I may have some love for these silly animals left in me after all.”

“Are you going to read it to the baby?”

“Yes,” she said tousling my short, short hair, “I think I might.”