Among Friends (17 page)

Well, there were three of us again. But this time the third was Ansley, and we were definitely not awesome. We were
awful
.

Basketball season, right?

We’re having a reasonably good year, which considering it’s Westerly High is absolutely amazing. We do stuff like ski team, fencing team, soccer team, and diving team, but we don’t exactly shine in basketball.

Still, everybody basically likes basketball, so there we all were, in the gym, at night, yelling our heads off.

Ansley is without Jared. She says this in a way that
makes you think she’s without arms, or hair. “He’ll be here later,” she says carelessly. “We just couldn’t manage all the cars tonight, what with everybody going in different directions.” Ansley frowns a little tiny frown to match her little tiny mind. She said, “Having a boyfriend really makes life complex, you know.”

We should all have that complexity in life.

In comes Jennie. She pauses at the door of the gym, and looks across the bleachers. It’s that where
do I sit
? look. Remember—from junior high, when you were so afraid you’d have nobody to sit with? And you didn’t even go places unless you already had somebody? I suddenly realized that was one reason The Awesome Threesome existed to start with—that way, we would never be alone. Everybody would know we were popular.

I stared at Jennie, alone in the gym door. We were packed into the fourth bleacher up. There was not a single space … unless, of course, we picked up all our coats, and piled them somewhere else, and squished over, and let Jennie in.

Jennie walked toward us. She was nervous. You could tell.

Hillary looked at me. Everybody else looked at both of us. Would we be loyal to our best friend and give her space? Or would we stare at her and let her be alone?

Keith Malone, one of the seniors who are eligible for Star Student application, leaned between Hill and me and said very loudly, “If it isn’t the Star of the East! Look at that! Somebody lend me sunglasses, I can hardly see! She’s shining so brightly!”

Be loyal! I thought. Stand up for her!

But I didn’t. I didn’t say a single word. I braided the tassels on the end of my scarlet and white scarf.

And Keith said, “So how’s that math tutoring going,
Miss Quint? You reach perfection yet? We wouldn’t want you to settle for anything less.”

Ansley said, “Lay off, Malone.”

Jennie was standing right in front of us. She smiled her usual bright smile and said, “I’m a little worried about the math, to tell the truth.”

Keith gasped loudly. “Worried? Jennie Quint? Oh, Jennie, we wouldn’t want that! You must scurry to Dr. Sykes and he’ll help you.”

Jennie’s chin tipped up and her cheeks went red.

Amanda Hodges said, “But she’s just a little worried, Keith. Jennie would never worry much.”

I looked up. Jennie was waiting for me. She still expected friendship from me—after all these snubs, she still thought I would come through and be nice to her. I muttered, “Hillary, shove over and let her in.”

Hillary said, “No, Em, forget it. We’re too crowded.”

Jennie whirled away, running back toward the door of the gym.

I almost jumped over the three rows below me and ran after her. “Hill, we can’t do this to her.”

“Oh, Emily,” said Hillary angrily, “you were the one who was the most jealous.”

“I know, but I wasn’t the most mean.”

“Meanest, dummy,” said Amanda Hodges.

I grabbed my coat to go after her and haul her back when in the door came Scott and Brandon. Handsome, overdressed, amused by the whole place. They said, “Jennie! Great! We were hoping to run into you! We’re slumming, going to a public-school game! Want to sit with us?”

Keith Malone said, “Slumming?”

Amanda Hodges said, “It is Jennie, Keith dear. She’s far superior to the common run of Westerly students, you know.”

Jennie didn’t look back. She crossed the gym and sat opposite us, Scott on her left and Brandon on her right.

I would feel guilty and awful and rotten through and through (in fact, I
do
feel guilty and awful and rotten through and through), but Jennie coming out on top again just made me weary. So I didn’t call her up to apologize, and after the game Hill and I stood around joking with Jared and Ansley so we wouldn’t have to talk to Jennie and Brandon and Scott in the front foyer.

This is getting bad.

I am going downhill faster than on skis.

Jennie gets Scott and Brandon. How does she do it? Anybody else would have dragged home with her tail between her legs, utterly miserable and defeated. Jennie ends up with two handsome rich boys. I have never known a single person in my life who so consistently ends up better off than the rest of us.

So far we hadn’t glanced at the game yet, and it wouldn’t be any time soon that we did, because Paul Classified appeared in the doorway to the gym. From everywhere, girls’ eyes drifted toward him and locked.

Paul was wearing jeans, and a fleece-lined jeans jacket. He had a hard look to him, as if it would be dangerous to talk to him. He needed a haircut. That thick dark brown hair was in his eyes. Very slowly Paul Classified pushed it back. You could hear this female group sigh. Paul Classified
didn’t notice; the basketball teams didn’t notice; maybe the parents didn’t notice. Jennie Quint noticed. She stood up and waved at Paul.

Paul had never come to a game before that I knew of. I wanted him to sit with me—or us, rather—but if the choice was Jennie or elsewhere, I wanted him to sit with boys, who would welcome him because Paul had their respect, but he wouldn’t really be one of them: he’d be with them.

Sit with me, sit with me! I thought at him, willing him to pick me out of the crowd. Paul circled the gym and climbed up to sit with Jennie Quint, who already had Brandon on her left and Scott on her right.

You should have heard us then.

Now I know that lightning does
not
strike when you say bad things, because lightning didn’t strike and if anybody ever deserved it, we did. We were horrible, we spent the whole basketball game saying terrible things about Jennie Quint.

I kept thinking—Jennie and I were best friends. We did everything together. Which of us is bad right this minute? Me or Jennie?

Oh, I don’t want to keep a diary anymore! Putting these thoughts on paper makes me feel so much worse. I can’t pretend I’m good when I see them written down.

I’m not writing stuff like this anymore.

After this, I’m writing strictly facts. Weather, headlines, and homework.

No more truth.

The end.

Love, Hillary … (although I should invent a new way of signing off, because right now I certainly don’t feel loving. So I’ll write—)

Anger, Hillary

Well, old P.C. definitely is a mystery after all.

Last week in school (where I figured it was a little safer) I apologized to him for following him. He said nothing, of course. His face just froze over as if it were water in January. What he was mostly doing was not decking me. Then he walked away. How can somebody who says so little, moves so little, does so little—reduce me to nothing so thoroughly?

So just when I knew where I stood (in danger), he started being friendly to me. A mere few weeks after I thought he was going to strangle me right out on the highway. In fact, the way he looks at me, you’d think
I’m
the mystery.

At least I don’t have to worry about being attacked. And Paul doesn’t have to worry about being followed. I think he taught me a minor lesson.

During the basketball game not one girl saw a single point being made. They spent the entire game talking about how Jennie Quint has gotten Paul. Forget it. Paul doesn’t even know Jennie’s there. He’s just staying safe, with a pair of strangers: Brandon and Scott he’ll never see again in his life.

Paper. I cannot believe that the only friend I have is a piece of paper. Nobody else to listen to me? Nobody else to tell things to?

I don’t want to be sitting home writing my triumphs down in some lousy stenographer’s notebook!

I want to be at McDonald’s having a strawberry shake with Emily and Hillary. I want to be at school throwing the whipped cream on top of the Jell-O at Ansley. I want to be telling Paul, or Keith, or Jonathan, or Brian, or Matthew.…

I am telling my diary.

Like a sixth grader who just moved to a new town.

Dear Diary, you’ll have to he my friend because I don’t know anybody else
. Oh, how pitiful.

And it’s me.

Brandon and Scott. Those girls who were so jealous of me should have been there. It wasn’t a date, just a row of three. Nobody held hands. Nobody kissed. Nobody uttered a single personal syllable. The boys talked about cars and engines and good buys in electronic equipment.

Anyway, I wanted to be with Paul Classified, not Scott and Brandon. I know—I just
know
—that if I got to know Paul better he would be exciting. His little sister Candy—it could be anything. From illegal adoption to early childhood drug addiction, you know?

Actually when I waved at Paul to come sit with us, I was rather hoping he would get jealous himself. He might think, I don’t want Jennie running around with these other guys from the Yuppie Yard. I want her for myself. And he’d ask me out!

Well, he sat with us, but he sat next to Scott and they talked through the entire basketball game about snowmobiles, because Paul used to have one.

I couldn’t even see Paul very well. I spent most of the game watching Hillary and Emily laughing. How long has it been since I laughed like that? I used to laugh all the time.

Mother is having a big party Sunday night. Forty guests. It’s a Celebrate the Star Student party. I said, “But Mother, I haven’t even gone to Hartford to take the examinations yet.” She just laughed and kissed me and went on dialing the caterer. “You’ll win, dear,” she said confidently. “Daddy and I have absolute trust in your brains and ability.”

We had a very unexpected dinner guest … Paul Classified.

Ansley and I got home from working on our term papers at the library and Dad drove in the driveway and he had P.C. with him.