What Are Friends For? (7 page)

Behind me, I heard CJ whispering to Zoe.

“What?” Zoe gasped.

CJ whispered to her some more. I kept sitting straight in my seat, telling myself to mind my own business. I folded the cartoon, put it in my back pocket, took out my math notebook, and rechecked my problems. They were all right, and I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I turned around to see what was happening. Zoe was slumped down into her seat, looking like she’d just been given devastating news. I’ve never seen her look so pale and horrified.

“What happened?” I asked Zoe.

CJ answered, “Nothing.”

Zoe opened her mouth, said nothing, then dropped her head down hard onto her desk. In my mind, I started reviewing what my father had taught me about CPR.

Meanwhile, Morgan had gone over to CJ’s desk and was leaning toward her, whispering, “You think you’re so special, don’t you?”

CJ shook her head.

“What happened?” I asked again.

“Nothing!” CJ yelled. Ms. Cress looked at us over her shoulder, then went back to writing on the board.

“She’s fixing up Zoe with Lou,” Morgan told me.

“Lou?” I asked.

“Do you even like Lou?” she asked Zoe.

Without raising her face off the desk, Zoe shook her head. The bell rang, and Ms. Cress asked everybody to sit. Lou straggled back to his seat without looking at me. I didn’t know what to do, or think.
What if he likes her, too? Everybody likes Zoe; he probably will
. I started to stand up, but since I had no plan of where to go, I sat back down. I pushed my pencil onto my notebook page and broke the tip, which spoiled the clean copied-over homework with a dark smudge.
Pull yourself together
, I told myself. My palms were drenched.

Morgan leaned close to CJ and whispered, “Not everybody needs a boyfriend. You just think you’re so great to have a boyfriend, and be a little ballerina, in your ballerina dress, so much better than the rest of us.”

CJ looked pleadingly at me, her oldest friend. She was starting to cry, I could tell by the way she pulled her lips inside her mouth. I decided to check my math problems again—thank goodness for math, problems with actual answers.

“You go ahead,” I heard Morgan whisper to CJ. “Do everything you can to set yourself apart. I hope you’re impressed with yourself, Superstar. The rest of us will be perfectly happy to stick together in the shadows.”

I wished there were some shadows for me to hide in.

Ms. Cress asked Morgan to sit down, so she did. When we split up to work on our codes, I asked for a pass to go to the bathroom. By the time I got back, we were up to going over the homework, thank goodness. I was called on to go to the board a few minutes later. I didn’t even know what problem we were up to. That’s never happened to me before. When I looked back at the class from up in front, Zoe’s head was on her desk, CJ’s face was buried in her palms, Morgan was staring lockjawed at the clock, Lou had his desk opened and was hiding inside it, and Tommy Levit was scrunched so far down in his chair he looked like he might slither out under his desk. Ms. Cress made some joke about marking us all absent for the day. Nobody laughed. I turned back to the board, tried to concentrate, forgot to carry the one, and got the problem wrong.

ten

A
s we set the dinner table, Dex
made the mistake of asking, “How’s Lou?”

I slammed the stack of plates onto the table, which startled me for a second, long enough to gasp, but when I saw nothing had chipped I returned immediately to being furious. “Not everybody needs a boyfriend.”

“What?” Dex asked. “What’s wrong with you?”

I took one of the plates and set it down hard in front of Mom’s place. “Nothing! Why does it always have to be something wrong with me? Maybe there’s something wrong with you!”

I slammed a plate down in front of my place.

“Are you crying?” Dex asked.

I wasn’t, but that started me. I ran to my room and slammed the door shut. I was feeling persecuted and overwhelmed—why would CJ fix up Zoe with my—whatever—my crush? Obviously, she didn’t know, but I still felt like, I wouldn’t do that to her. I’m such a good friend to CJ, I defend her all the time, I am so there for her and happy for her successes—I made her a flip book for being in
The Nutcracker
last year, a ballerina doing a leap and a pirouette, and it took me a solid month, and she barely even thanked me for it. Even though she’s the first to act annoyed with me when I use words she thinks are fancy, or make fun of me in a group of friends when I do or say something she thinks is less than cutting-edge cool, even with all that, I have always been totally loyal to her, my first friend. But enough is enough. She has no right to stab me in the back. I have plenty of dirt I could tell Morgan, and CJ would deserve all of it. I wouldn’t, of course, but it’s totally unfair that she can be mean and callous about my feelings without the slightest thought that, you know what? I could do damage to you, too.

I lay down on my bed with my feet up on the wall. I wasn’t crying anymore. I forced myself to imagine Lou and Zoe walking down the hall together, holding hands. That got the tears going again, until I reminded myself,
That won’t happen, because he can’t go out with anybody, and Zoe doesn’t even like him
. Why doesn’t Zoe like him? What’s so wrong with him? He’s smart and kind and screw her, the Grand One—she doesn’t deserve somebody so good. Was I missing some horrible fact about him? Maybe he really is a loser. Why haven’t I told anybody I like him? Am I really just private? Or is it shame, because of other people’s opinions? Am I turning into someone who does only what the crowd allows?

I tumbled off my bed, sat down at my desk, picked up my phone, and dialed Lou’s number. I hung up before it rang.
Do I need a boyfriend?
I asked myself.
Am I such a weak girl that I need a boyfriend to feel like I have value as a person?
Yuck. I hate girls like that.

I don’t need a boyfriend. I don’t need anybody. I have always been really proud of my self-sufficiency. I listen to my own heart, my own mind, march to my own drummer. I’m my own person, standing alone. Anyway, can I still stick together with my best friend in the shadows if I have a boyfriend?
My best friend
. I liked the sound of that.

Mom called me to dinner.

“One minute!” I yelled back. I picked up my phone again and quickly dialed Morgan’s number. When she answered, I whispered into the phone, “I can’t talk, they’re all at the dinner table, I just wanted to say that . . .”

“Who is this?” Morgan asked.

I rested my forehead in my palm. “Olivia. Pogostin.”

She laughed. “I know.”

“Oh.” I closed my eyes. “I just wanted you to know I think what you said to CJ was totally justified. I think she really deserved that.”

“Oh, good,” Morgan said. “You didn’t say anything to me the rest of the day and all through soccer, so I sort of thought . . .” She didn’t finish.

“Thought what?”

“Thought . . .” she repeated. “I thought you were mad at me.”

“I wasn’t,” I told her. “I was just in shock.”

“Because of what CJ did, fixing up Zoe and Lou, you mean?”

“Yeah.”
Should I tell her?
“Remember what we were saying, about Lou?”

“I know it! What is it with Lou Hochstetter this week? As if!”

I just breathed and didn’t tell her. It felt dishonest but also safer.

“And the note? Could you believe that one?”

“Note?” I asked, nervously. “What note?”

“You know. CJ passed that note to Tommy saying forget about fixing up Zoe and Lou. Remember? She told us at the lockers, after seventh period?”

“Oh, yeah.” I shook my head. “But . . .”

“I don’t think that makes up for it.”

“No,” I agreed. “Completely insufficient.”

“What?” Morgan asked.

“That was completely insufficient,” I said louder.

“Yeah,” Morgan agreed. “Well, she’s been like that ever since she got friendship rings with Zoe Grandon.”

“Like what?”

“What you said before.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant so I said, “Oh.”

“Not that I care that they got friendship rings together.”

“No,” I agreed. “Why would you?”

“Right,” said Morgan. “It’s a free country, although those are the most boring ugly rings, if you ask me.”

“But nobody did.”

“Did what?”

“Ask you,” I said.

“True,” said Morgan.

“That was a joke. I was being sarcastic.”

“I know.” She forced out a laugh. “You really are funny. Much funnier than CJ. We’d never get friendship rings, you and me. Too, whatever. Corny. Right?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I honestly thought the rings CJ and Zoe had gotten together were sort of pretty, in an understated way, and had even imagined that maybe someday Morgan and I might get rings together, too. “I guess we definitely wouldn’t.”

“Why?” Morgan asked. “Would you want to?”

“Oh, no,” I told her. “I think something like friendship rings just makes whoever doesn’t have them feel hurt and left out.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Morgan answered.

“Which wouldn’t be moral of us at all, right?” I lay across my bed with my feet on the wall and my head hanging backward. “Besides, we don’t need . . .”

“CJ is very needy.”

“Olivia!” Dad yelled. “Now!”

“I gotta go,” I said. “I just wanted you to know that I agreed with you, that CJ did the wrong thing, today.”

“Thanks,” Morgan whispered back. “I’m glad you called.”

“Hey, what are friends for?” I said.

“Beats the crap out of me,” Morgan said.

“What does?”

“What friends are for.”

“It was a rhetorical question,” I explained.

“A what?”

“It’s . . . There’s not an answer.”

“Welcome to my world,” Morgan said.

“Olivia!”

“I gotta go,” I told her.

“’Bye.” She hung up before I did.

eleven

S
o? Tell me what’s going on.”
Mom stooped to check the date on a carton of milk. “You’ve seemed preoccupied, the past couple of days.”

I gripped the grocery cart handle and didn’t answer. We do the shopping together, Thursday nights. It’s our special time.

Mom placed a half gallon of milk in the cart and chewed on her thumb as she read over her list. “Do we need toilet paper?” Two cute guys, in their twenties maybe, passed us just as she asked that. The taller one smiled at me. I looked down at my Adidas. Mom tugged the cart toward the paper aisle. “We always need toilet paper.”

“Mom?”

She turned around, holding an eight-pack of toilet paper. “What, sweetheart?”

“I like Lou Hochstetter.”

“I had a feeling that might be it.” Mom smiled at me. She tossed the toilet paper into the cart. “He sounds like a nice boy.”

“He is,” I whispered. I could feel my face heating up. “I’m allowed to go out with somebody, right? We’re not, I’m not. He, well, I’m just wondering, for the future.”

“I trust you implicitly, Olivia,” Mom said as we turned the corner at the head of the aisle. “You’re smart and responsible, and when you feel ready to go out with somebody, I know you’ll handle it wisely and with self-respect.”

“That’s what I thought,” I said. “I will, don’t worry.”

“I don’t.” Mom leaned against the grocery cart. “I’m happy for you. That’s exciting.”

I smiled.

She chose three cans of tuna, then said, “Tell me about Morgan.”

“Why? What did Dex say?”

“Just that he’s concerned. He says you two have become inseparable.”

“Really?” I surprised myself by smiling at that. “I know what you think about her, Mom, from what you heard through CJ’s mother. And me.”

Mom pulled a store coupon out of the dispenser and held it without reading it. “I know what you’ve always thought of her.”

“Morgan says I’m her best friend.”

“Are you?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Well?” Mom crumpled the coupon and threw it in the cart. “Do you like her? Do you have things in common? Do you . . .”

“She’s the prettiest, nastiest, angriest, most powerful, and most vulnerable girl in seventh grade. I’m none of those things. Well, except girl and seventh grader.”

“And pretty.” Mom smiled. “She seems very different from you.”

“That’s true, but you don’t know her, Mom. She’s been having a hard time, this past week. You know how her father left and moved to California? He’s not sending the family any money, again. She tries to act tough but she’s really scared, I think. And . . .”

“And?”

“And she’s fun.” I shrugged. “When she talks to me, it’s like I’m the only person in the world. I don’t know. I can’t explain.”

“I had a friend like that,” Mom said, closing her eyes slowly.

“Really?”

Mom nodded. “Colleen Lusardi. She went to the parochial school down the road, and she looked so wholesome, the long blond hair and clear blue eyes, white socks and crisp linen uniform, I was afraid she’d be too boring for me. I was listening to jazz and writing self-indulgent poetry at the time. I thought I was a rebel. But Colleen. I was deceived by her appearance, to say the least. Colleen was wild, impulsive—she’d do anything and laugh. She was so unlike me, but at the same time, she was also like me—like the hidden, inside part of me nobody ever knew about. Nana hated her.”

“I bet,” I said, throwing a box of Cheerios into the cart. “Nana thinks
I’m
impulsive.”

Mom laughed. “I know.”

“What did she do?” I asked. “Colleen, I mean. What did you do with her?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Mom placed a box of All-Bran beside the Cheerios.

“Come on,” I prodded.

“Colleen. She used to, OK. She wanted to smoke cigarettes in my car, and I wouldn’t let her—I hated cigarettes even then, and my father would’ve taken that car away in a second if he ever smelled smoke in it—so Colleen, one night she wouldn’t wait till we got to the party we were going to, maybe ten minutes away. She stood up on my car seat and hung out the window from the waist up. Smoking and singing. An Allman Brothers song, I think.”