Among Friends (13 page)

God, God, God, God, God!

I don’t know if I’m swearing or praying.

Maybe it’s always that way when I say God’s name. Who found out? Who told?

Called to the office—cops there—social worker there—guidance counsellors there—I take one look and I let myself freeze over. They won’t reach me. I’m ice.

“You’re living alone, Paul,” they say. Understandingly. I hate people who try to understand. If I can’t understand, how do they dare try? “Boys of sixteen cannot live by themselves,” they say. “Now where exactly are your parents?”

I tell them that is not their business. The way my parents and I choose to conduct our lives is private. For a moment this stops them. But only for a moment. The interrogation begins.

What—do they think I murdered my family and buried them in the basement?

At least I know it’s not Emily who told, because then they’d know more. They don’t even know where my mother is. And if they find out where my father is, I wouldn’t mind knowing that myself.

I sit tight, I’m polite, I do nothing. They even call in Miss MacBeth because they know I like her—do they keep little files going?—which teacher does the kid trust? Because we may want a little leverage one day. I smile at
Miss MacBeth because I do like her, but I say nothing. And I know now that no diary of mine gets passed in to anybody.

But something really queer has happened with this diary.

I need it.

If I can’t set down what happened in the day I feel like I’m going to suffocate.

It’s you and me against the world, book.

Jennie flirted again today.

I held myself back. Easier than it was last time. I have enough energy now for just one person, and if I’m not okay around her, she’ll lose it completely.

My parents are absolutely thrilled. They can’t talk about anything except the Star Student Award. They never heard of it till now, but they don’t care about that. They keep hugging me, and laughing to each other, and saying, “Well, it finally paid off, didn’t it?”

Like I’m a mortgage.

They’re going to burn me to celebrate.

Honestly, this school is sick for rumor—I just heard that Jared and I are breaking up! Over Paul Classified!

Well, we were all having lunch—Jared and me and Paul and Keith and Jennie and Emily and Hill—it was egg-salad sandwiches, which I hate, so I was having a lunch of everybody’s potato chips and Hillary was lecturing me about nutrition and Jennie was staring wistfully at Paul and Jared said, “So, Ansley Augusta, what’s the truth in this?”

I crunched a potato chip very loudly and said, “We’ve been having a mad affair, haven’t we, Paul?”

Paul didn’t react at all. I thought he’d make some funny remark and we’d all laugh. But he just sat there. Everybody looked at him. Even Emily, who you would think a person could trust to be sensible, was all gaga over Paul. Honestly, I’d like to locate just one girl who doesn’t adore Paul Classified.

“I think there’s something wrong with you, P.C.,” I said. “Maybe you should go see the school nurse.”

Oh, boy, did Jared laugh then. “Ansley, people don’t have to see the nurse just because they’re not madly in love with you.”

I said, “Paul Classified is obviously insane not to take advantage of me. I think the boy needs medication.”

Paul roused himself. It took an effort, as if he had fallen into a trance. He said gallantly, “If I could be madly
in love, it would be with you, Ansley. Unfortunately, I have no emotions left.”

I thought about it all day.

That’s his secret.

He has no emotions left. Something drained them all out, and just his body is still there. That’s what’s classified. Paul is a shell.

It’s so boring to make these entries.

I’ve already told Emily everything, but now I have to set it down on paper as well. Emily says we should run a tape recorder while we talk and then just have my father’s secretary transcribe it into our journals. When is this dumb assignment due, anyway? Keeping a diary is a prison sentence.

Mother yelled at me because I bit my fingernails down.

I know my hands look awful, but why does every inch of me have to be perfect? I screamed at her, terrible things I never even knew I was thinking! All of a sudden
my entire life seemed like walls: huge thick walls of stone that were tumbling in on me, crushing me, pressing my lungs until my ribs poked through. I said, “What difference does it make if my fingernails are ugly?” and she said, “Jennie, I can’t bear it when you don’t live up to your potential! There’s no reason for you to take up nasty habits. Anyway, we’re having a party next week.”

A party next week.

The best of food, the trendiest of clothing, the most interesting guests—and of course, their best trophy of all: their daughter. Who will be a shinier trophy if her fingernails are long and polished.

I got 89 on my history test for the quarter.

Daddy was bent out of shape because after he read my essay he felt I should have gotten 100. He wanted to call Miss Marcello up and argue with her. I said no, please don’t. He said, “How can I brag about an eighty-nine? I like hundreds.”

And Mother said dreamily, “Star Student. I like it. My daughter. Gretchen Lowe says in school they’re calling you Star of the East, Jennie. Think of it—star of the entire east coast!”

“Mother, they’re being sarcastic, and anyway they’re referring to the pageant.”

My mother never hears the bad things. What I said didn’t even pass her earrings, let alone penetrate her brain. “They’re so proud of you,” she said, beaming.

Right.

When I knew nothing, I could laugh and shrug and think of other things. Now I think of Paul all day long: does he have enough to eat, is somebody paying the electric bill, how long can he go on like this? I want to ask how his mother is, if he has enough money to put gas in the car to visit her, does he want to come have supper at our house—but he won’t look at me.

He’s afraid of me.

It makes me feel queasy.

Paul Classified—afraid of me, Emily Weinstein.

Paul, I’m on your team. I really am. Please believe it!

I caught Hill and Emily after school and just climbed into Hill’s car so she had no choice but to give me a ride home. I decided just to attack the subject. I said, “Listen. It isn’t my fault. I was born this way. It’s not fair of you to be jealous.”

“Jealous?” said Hillary in this soft, tight voice. “You think one of us is jealous of you, Jennie Quint?”

I ended up apologizing to them. Telling them I’m sorry I said such a terrible thing, and yes, it was very conceited of me, and yes, I’m a very nasty conceited person who deserves to be lonely and friendless.

They didn’t say good-bye when I got out of the car, even though I took a long time getting out.

But if they’re not jealous—what are they?

What am I?

I’ve just figured it out.

Paul Classified has watched The Awesome Threesome die.

He knows I can abandon a friend.

He knows I can plan how to hurt Jennie.

So how can he count on me?

He can’t.

Oh, Diary, Diary.

I am afraid of you.