BFF Breakup (2 page)

I started to gag—like I actually started sputtering a cough. They both ignored me because that's what they do. They'll totally be in AP Ignore Brooke by second semester.

“Sounds fun,” Madeline said.

“Yeah,” Susanna said. “Only the best people will be invited. No way will I allow some loser in homemade clothes to come to my party. Maybe I should—”

I lost the thread of their totally boring conversation because something knocked me on the head, sending me off balance and almost causing me to slam my forehead into the sharp side of my locker door.

“Ow!” I hollered, putting my hand on my face. In a split second I saw Madeline's splatter-painted bag (also new) swing back up onto her shoulder.

“Oops,” she said, looking down her ski-jump nose at me.

“Watch it with that thing,” I said, and from the corner of my eye I could see Susanna trying not to laugh, but actually not trying at all.

“Accident.” She shrugged like it was no big deal. I kept rubbing my head—it didn't hurt, but I wanted her to think that she'd really whacked me. She didn't seem to care either way.

Susanna really started laughing, and Madeline snickered too. My face burned. Had I really been friends with this mean girl? I slammed my locker shut and pushed my way down the hall before they could see my cheeks burning and the slight (slight!) welling of tears in my eyes. I couldn't let Madeline and her OMG friend make me feel upset, but it was hard, to the point of exhausting.

When I got to history I slumped down in my seat, angry and humiliated. Madeline strolled in, looking like
she'd just come from a leisurely jaunt in the woods, her cheeks glowing healthily. I immediately started searching through my folders and opening my textbook and writing gibberish and doing everything at once to make it look like those ten seconds in the hall hadn't just happened. As I wrote nonsense in my notebook (
so what now and then can't tell chocolate and sprinkles
), I couldn't stop the one simple thought that had been at the front of my mind every day and every moment since this all started:
How could she?

F
IRST OF ALL, TOTAL ACCIDENT. MY BAG
suddenly slipped off my shoulder and Brooke happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It happens, am I right? Of course, she acted like I did it on purpose. Like I'd actually get physically violent with her.
Please.

Besides, I felt bad about it, which had to count for something. Her hair was pulled back with her bangs, which she was growing out, twisted up front then pulled into her big ponytail at the back. It
looked cute, in the two seconds I saw it before my bag bopped her head and made her hair go all wonky. When she snapped at me, I swear I saw tears in her eyes; I wondered if I'd hit her that hard.

“Accident,” I told her.

“Sure,” she said, and I knew she totally didn't believe me, which was just fine because I decided I didn't really mean it.

She scurried off to class like I was chasing her with a hot poker and Susanna said, “Oh my god, that was hilarious. Good one, Mads.”

“I hope she fixes her hair,” I said. I really didn't want her walking around all day with her hair at weird angles just because she was too proud to fix something I had messed up. (Hello? Sound familiar, Brooke?)

But Susanna just laughed and said, “You are
too
funny.”

When I walked into class I didn't even look at Brooke. I concentrated so hard on
not
looking at her that I tripped on Ben Addelston's bag strap that's always dangling in the aisle. I almost bit carpet.

Flustered from my near face-plant in front of the whole class and this
person
I used to call my best friend, I put my books on my desk and sat down with extra breeziness, which was meant to say, “It was nothing.” Also, “You are nothing.”

“Nice one,” muttered my former best friend.

Our desks were near each other. At the beginning of school we were beyond excited that our last names lined up that way; now I was thinking of legally changing mine so I didn't have to be anywhere near her. Her pathetic little comment was loud enough for me to hear. My guess was she didn't have the guts to say it loudly and secretly hoped I didn't hear it.

I shifted in my seat and said, “Problem?”

Her eyes were wide with fear, maybe, or shock that I busted her. I wasn't about to let her get away with wimpy little mutterings. If she had something to say, she could own up to it.

“You,” Brooke said, in a not-at-all wimpy voice.

I waved her off and said, “Please.”

“Serves you right.” Her voice was more forceful than her face looked. She kept her glaring eyes focused on mine and, I gotta admit, I couldn't stand it. I glanced down at her desk before looking at her again.

“Oh, get over it, Brooke,” I said.

“You get over it,” she said.

“Why are you even talking to me?”

“Why are you even looking at me? Don't you have a party to help plan or something?”

I knew she was listening! She's probably just jealous
she doesn't have any friends to do cool stuff with—to do anything with. I always knew she resented the fact that I made new friends and she didn't.

“Jealous?” I asked, putting on the sweetest, fakest smile I could muster.

“God, you wish!” she said, her voice getting squeaky.

“I don't have to; I
know
.”

“Excuse me, girls!” Mrs. Stratford snapped. “What is going on here?”

I looked up and realized Mrs. Stratford and the entire class were staring at us. I guess we hadn't noticed class had actually started. Or that we were kind of yelling.

“She hit me in the head!” Brooke said out of nowhere.

Oh my gosh, I couldn't believe it. She was tattling on me!

“I did not!” I said, because the last thing I needed was to be accused of violence.

“Madeline,” Mrs. Stratford said, staring me down. “Would you care to explain what is going on here?”

Well hey there, isn't that just the question of the year? How could I possibly explain what was going on here when I didn't even know myself?

How could I explain that what happened between Brooke and me didn't have to be this big of a deal? It should have been a fight at best, and we should have
gotten over it by dinner that night. How could I explain that I was starting to think Brooke and I were never that good of friends in the first place? I had thought we were, but clearly I was wrong. Because someone who is very best friends with you would never totally ignore you when you're going through the biggest, most traumatic life-crisis this side of injuring your first pet in a freak bobsledding incident.

How could I explain how hurt I am? And angry, too? That it's hard to get used to the idea that I had put so much, I don't know,
care
into the one person who I thought would always be there for me and had suddenly realized she was
never
there for me?

I had been trying so hard not to get too worked up over it. I mean, maybe the end of our friendship was just a fact of growing up, like how my all-time favorite dress from last summer, the one I wore to my cousin's wedding, the dress that had black lace and was so beautiful, didn't fit me anymore. I mean, yeah, I was kind of bummed about it but I didn't cry when I put it in the Goodwill pile for Mom to take. It was just like,
Oh, well, there'll be other dresses.

At least, that's what I told myself, and what I've been telling myself since it all started.

“Well, Madeline?” Mrs. Stratford prompted me. “Will you explain to me what is going on?”

As Mrs. Stratford waited for me to explain myself—ourselves—to her, all I could do was gulp and say, “Nothing.”

Because when you're not friends with someone, that's what they are to you. Nothing.

O
UTSIDE, BOTH OF YOU,” MRS.STRATFORD
said. “Now.”

Tears stung my eyes as I grabbed my notebook and stomped out of the room ahead of Madeline. I couldn't believe I'd been humiliated in front of the whole class, and by her.

As I left the classroom, I didn't hold the door open for her. I started to, because it felt unnecessarily mean not to—she was right behind me, after all. But then, in an instant, everything between us
flashed, including the head whacking, and I let go.

“Uh,
Brooke
,” she said when she made her way through. I ignored her and sat on the floor with my back against the wall and pulled my knees to my chest. I'd never, not once in my entire life, been kicked out of class. I was mortified. I wasn't sure what would happen—detention? Suspension? All because of Madeline, her immaturity, her refusal to stand up for what's right instead of what's cool, and . . .

“I can't believe you,” Madeline snipped as she slid her back down the wall and sat on the opposite side of the door from me.

I couldn't stop the tears anymore, even if I'd had the energy to try. It was too much—the fight, having to see her every day, being near her but knowing nothing of her life and not wanting to anyway (even though I totally did).

I turned to face her, but of course she didn't acknowledge me. “You're horrible,” I said through snotty gulps of air. “You're a horrible, horrible person. You know that, right? You ruined everything, and I hate you.” She kept her eyes dead ahead, and that just sealed my suspicion that she had no soul. She'd sold it for a short haircut and a stack of noisy bracelets.

The classroom door flew open and Mrs. Stratford stood glowering above us. “Explain yourselves.”

I knew Madeline was incapable of explaining what had
happened, as she'd so eloquently shown the class when Mrs. Stratford had asked her. I had to step up once again and be the mature one.

“I'm sorry,” I began, standing up. “We had a disagreement and just got a little excited. We didn't mean to get so loud. We're sorry,” I said, figuring if we looked united she might go easier on us. Naturally, Madeline sat on the floor just staring at the lockers across the hall like they were hypnotizing her into buying more ugly accessories.

“Unacceptable,” Mrs. Stratford said. “I don't know what's gotten into you two, but you've both been acting completely out of character for weeks now. You especially, Brooke. Don't think I haven't noticed. It's affecting your work.” She sighed, looking greatly disappointed in us. “I don't accept fights in my classroom, period. Are you going to pull yourselves together, or do you want detention?”

Madeline still kept her eyes on the lockers so I said, “We'll pull ourselves together. We're sorry.” I looked at Madeline and silently added,
You're welcome!

Mrs. Stratford told us we each had to write five hundred words on why people immigrate, which is much better than getting detention like some future criminal. As we walked back into class, I thought about muttering a “thanks for helping,” since she'd done such a stand-up job
in trying to save us, but something about her expression held me back. Frankly, she looked as worn out as I felt. Was it possible that somewhere deep beneath her multilayered Urban Outfitters' tees she actually felt something?

Perish the thought.

At home, I couldn't hide my mood any more.

“Just what has gotten into you?” Mom asked. Her candles and incense were spread out on our long kitchen table, along with order forms, the cordless phone, and the computer we kept at the end of the table. She sells this stuff to clients for Sense of Scent, which is kind of like Mary Kay cosmetics, meaning you can't buy them in a store but only through a sales rep. I know she doesn't make much money—thank goodness for Dad's job—but it really makes her happy working so closely with clients and getting to know them and their families. She said the world had become too virtual and she likes interacting with people.