Among Friends (12 page)

They took me back. The Awesome Threesome existed again. Laughing, jostling, slipping, sliding.

Friends, I thought joyously. We’re friends again. After a whole day of thin ice (under the skis and in our conversations) a whole day of feeling as if Emily and Hill were my parole officers—oh, how I loved it! Lying on the rug like old times, Mrs. Lang supervising the fun as if we were still little kids cutting out construction paper.

But in the end I blew it.

I wrote down what I
really
wanted for my resolutions. When will I learn that nobody on this earth wants honesty?

Only ten minutes after I made it, my first resolution failed. “But you weren’t serious about wanting the Awesome Threesome to exist anyhow,” said Hillary viciously. “And you’d never be serious about being
third
, Jennie Quint.” Hillary flicked the white index card toward me. It twisted once in the air and fell on the rug by my fingers. “Show-off,” said Hillary, in a thin, angry voice.

I choked on the tears, fighting them, almost hitting my eyes with my fists to stop them. “I am
not
a show-off! I just—I’m only—”

But I did not know what to say next. If we took an exam, and I scored lower, I could safely say, “I’m worse than you are.” But it’s
never
all right to say, “I’m better than you are.”

Emily rolled over until she was lying next to Hillary, and I was alone on the far side of the room.

The resolutions literally lay between us.

At last this so-called vacation is almost over. Used to like vacations. Used to like being home. Used to
have
a home.

Candy came to visit December 26th.

She
was there too.
She
had the nerve to tell me I’m acting “immaturely” about this whole thing. I wanted to say, “Hey, I haven’t killed you or anything. I think that’s very mature of me.”

When
she
was gone, I put Candy in the car and we drove to the psychiatric hospital to visit Mom. I can hardly stand to drive in the gates. No place was ever so obviously what this is. A place to stick mental cases you can’t handle at home.

Candy was all bubbly about what fun she’s having in her new life. What was I supposed to say to my sister? “I’m glad you’re having fun, Candy, you’ve killed Mom, but hey, what’s another mother in the debris of life?”

I thought of calling Emily.

I didn’t.

I couldn’t trust my father or my sister, so what makes me think I could trust anybody else? There isn’t anybody to trust.

Maybe not even me.

Mom doesn’t trust me.

Every time I visit she looks at me with those starved eyes and doesn’t trust me to show up again tomorrow.

Morning … A New Year. And it feels new! New-fallen snow, new moon, new record low. New clothes, almost-new haircut.

New knowledge.

Of me, of friendship, of Paul.

I can’t wait to get back to school—see Paul—find out how his mother is doing—be his friend.

Ansley yelled at me for wearing colors that look lousy on me, so for once I took her advice instead of Hill’s. I’m going to wear a pale gray cardigan, very oversize (my mother’s) with a dark gray and black plaid shirt under it (Ansley’s) and earrings in twisted silver ribbons (Ansley’s mother’s) and gray jeans (mine). In the mirror I look petite and tailored and special.

Oh, this morning, I’m glad to be me!

Paul and I share the secret now, and we’ll be friends. And maybe we’ll be more than friends.

I’m writing in the car while Hill drives. The Quints pass us. Mrs. Quint drives very fast. Jennie looked into our car and waved. My hand came up to wave back but
Hillary said, “Em, don’t start. It’s a New Year. Without her.”

I thought Hill said, “Without hurt.”

Yes.

Let’s all have a New Year without hurt.

Evening … What good are the perfect clothes if the boy you adore doesn’t one single time look in your direction?

Fans.

I actually have fans.

Sophomores crowded around me, asking questions, bubbling with the excitement of it all. “We hear you might be getting the pageant published!” they cried. “Is it true?”

Attention is like getting a tan: you feel all hot and glorious. I could bask in it, like summer sun. Of course, as far as Hillary and Emily are concerned, ye season it was winter.

Why is it the strangers who rejoice for me?

Oh, Paul! Paul Classified, why don’t you want me? I thought we were two of a kind! I thought when I asked you out, you would sigh with relief, because you need me as much as I need you.

But I was wrong.

You don’t need me any more than Hill or Em does.

Of course, my parents rejoice. Smiles of pride wreathe their faces like the green holly on the door. Yesterday I
noticed for the first time that my parents don’t have any photographs of me framed. Just my writing and artwork and music. What I’ve
done
. Not what I am.

Dr. Sykes called me out of class. “Report immediately to the office.” I thought somebody had been in a car accident, and I raced down to the office, a headache already throbbing.

He wants me to take the examination for Connecticut Star Student. This award is given to twenty students statewide every year. Our high school is the fourth largest in the state but we haven’t had a winner in seven years. You have to have all sorts of academic and activity stuff on your record, but you also have to do very well on an exam they give up in Hartford.

Dr. Sykes (he never says Mr. Sykes, or Jimmy Sykes—it’s always Dr. Sykes and he strokes both syllables like a puppy:
Doctor
Sykes) says to me, “Jennie, dear, you have an excellent chance. And it means being on television, being interviewed for
Connecticut Magazine
, being interviewed again in the newspapers—that was a lovely article about you and your pageant, my dear—and of course, a fine monetary award for college, which you hardly need, but which will be nice anyhow.”

I said, “I thought that only seniors qualified for it.”

“No,” he said. “Usually it takes four years of high school to compile a track record good enough, but you’ve been so outstanding you could make it as a junior. Then you’d have a chance of winning
again
as a
senior
—which would be a Connecticut first!”

Oh, how my parents would love that!

Their daughter, a Connecticut first.

But there was one little problem. “Math,” I said to Dr. Sykes. “I’m not good at math. I’ll score low.”

“No problem,” he said. “We’ll have you tutored.”

Somebody sent an anonymous letter to Mr. Lowe to ask him to help Paul R. Smith! Mr. Lowe showed us the first sentence to see if we could recognize the handwriting! About the only thing we could say for sure is—it’s not Jennie Quint’s—her handwriting is too distinctive. Otherwise—it could be anybody’s. “Very schoolgirl,” said Mr. Lowe thoughtfully.

“What does that mean?” I said.

“Very rounded. Very immature.”

Jared and I begged to read the rest of the letter, but Mr. Lowe refused. He said it was in the nature of a confidence between client and lawyer.

“You can’t have an anonymous client,” said Jared.

Mr. Lowe stared at the contents of the letter. “I rather think I do,” he said, and he folded the letter over, and slid it into his breast pocket. Jared and I stared at its white tips, as if it were forbidden fruit.

Mr. Lowe learned some stuff about Paul very quickly—just a few phone calls. When I’m grown up,
my
life will be like that. A few well-placed phone calls to my fascinating friends, and I’ll know everything there is to know.

But when we asked what he found out, Mr. Lowe refused to say a single word. “Paul has an unfortunate number of problems. I think I’ll have to keep the information classified.”

Jared and I laughed until we cried. “You picked the right word, Dad,” said Jared.

I’ve tried diaries before and I give up after about three nights of entries. It’s a month now, and I haven’t skipped a night. I think it’s because of the ordinariness of the notebook. The lovely leather-bound one was no good because my thoughts were too boring to be written on such perfect paper. The Judy Blume one, the Girl Scout one, the five-year one with its little lock and key—they were no good because they were too cute and I felt stupid even opening them. But this plain stenography notebook, with its spiral binding on top, its ugly pages: somehow it’s comforting, and welcoming, and a good place to write. I am really getting into this.

I don’t like the word “diary.” It feels too junior high. I want to call it a journal. More sophisticated, I think.

The journal organizes how I feel about each day.

Was something important enough to write about?

Yes or no?

But of course if it’s
really
important, I only
sort of
write about it. The truly truly personal parts I would never write down. I wonder if other people are writing down the really personal things.

The truly personal part today was me and Jared. In place of words, I will use stars. This was a ************ afternoon. Enough written down!