The Forever Crush (2 page)

I nodded yes. “We drank ice water together on his back porch until his parents got up to go to church,” I said.

Forrest had said, “I don't want to mess anything up for you. So if you're, like, going out with someone now, or there's someone you like, forget about it.”

“And he said he liked me and we had a lot in common and why didn't we go out. Seize the day and all that,” I said.

“Forrest said ‘seize the day'? That so totally doesn't sound like him,” Piper said.

“He said something like that, anyway,” I said.

“You don't remember his exact words?” Kate said. “I thought you wrote down everything he ever said to you in that diary under your bed.”

I do. The real truth is all there.

“Kate! TMI, don't you think? I mean, I have a boyfriend now, so I can't be all blabby about everything,” I said.

“
I
am,” Piper said.

“She is,” Kate agreed.

It was right then that I was about to say something witty about how Piper had a lot more to tell, with her having a different boyfriend every week. But in a flash, Forrest walked right up to our table, punched me softly on the shoulder, and said, “Hey,” before heading to history.

Five

At study hall, we slipped into the stairwell and descended into the basement, which was our dismal new PLS “office.” I wanted to get to work on the Pink Locker Society Web site, but Kate and Piper tried to shake some more Forrest details out of me. I would have liked to ask them what they thought about his soft punch to my shoulder. What did it mean? But they thought he was my boyfriend and that's a pretty normal boyfriend thing to do. I guess I didn't expect him to actually touch me during this fake relationship of ours.

I resisted saying anything more and my friends let it go, partly because we had so much work to do. With literally hundreds of questions coming in to the Pink Locker Society, we were trying to answer at least one question a day. But seven a week was hard, especially because the questions girls sent in weren't always easy. Sure, there were the standard ones about when—oh, when—will I get my period? But there were also ones like this:

Dear PLS,

I'm just an ordinary girl and I know I'm not skinny, but I didn't think I was fat. That was until I saw my ratings in the Fat or Not book. Twenty-two people said I was not fat, but eighteen people said I was. I asked my mom and she says I'm not, but she's my MOM. What's she going to tell me—the terrible truth? I want to know how to know for sure if I'm fat and how to get thinner, if I am. And FAST. I would like to know exactly who those eighteen people were who said I was fat. So mean!

Confused Girl

“I feel so bad for her. Confused Girl is probably Emma Shrewsberry,” I said.

“My money is on her, too,” Piper said.

“What should we tell her?” Kate asked.

Usually, we take a few moments to think and then we start talking at once, brimming with ideas of how to answer a girl's question. But in this case, it was just quiet and quiet and more quiet.

“I guess I can ask the nurse, right? She'll know something about it,” I said.

“Um, she'll know something, but she won't know what to say to make her feel better,” Kate said.

“Well, all we can do is try,” Piper said. “Jemma, Kate—who wants this one?”

“I'm not qualified to answer,” Kate said, stone-faced.

“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked her.

“I'm on the fat list, as you both probably know.”

Piper and I both looked at Kate with pity. I knew Piper had seen the book and had already filled in her votes.

“Okay, whatever, I honestly don't care at all. It's dumb,” Kate said. “But I'm worried for other people.”

That was so like Kate, always thinking about others before herself.

“I'll look into it and give Emma a really nice answer,” I said. “I'll be supportive, not mean. I promise.”

“Please tell me you guys didn't vote in that terrible notebook,” Kate said, eyeing both of us.

Piper bit her bottom lip but didn't say a word.

“I have the notebook in my backpack,” I admitted with embarrassment.

“You have it? You filled it in?” Kate asked, looking hurt.

I told her that Tyler Lima had given it to me and that I was supposed to pass it on to Charlotte Bouchard. Charlotte and her twin sister, Lauren, were slim as could be. They also both completely, obviously liked Forrest. I wonder how they felt now that I was dating him. Well, now that it appeared that I was dating him, anyway.

Piper sighed dramatically and shook her head at the laptop screen.

“Really?” she said, as if talking directly to the computer.

“What's the matter?” I said.

Piper spun the laptop around and showed us the next message in our queue:

Attention PLS,

I think you are gross and discusting and you talk about gross and discusting things. If you don't shut yourselves down, I'll shut you down myself.

Your worst enemy

“That's unfriendly,” said Kate.

By my count, this was the seventh threat we'd received in the last three weeks. It started with this one:

I know who you all are. Stop now or you'll be sorry. Very sorry.

From there, they seemed to repeat a theme—that what we were saying on the PLS was foul, sick, or otherwise “inappropriate.” The use of the “I” word frightened me because that's the word Principal F. used to describe the Pink Locker Society after he forced us to shut it down. And before we restarted it on our own. Shhhh!

“One threat, fine. Two threats, still no big deal. But we're talking about SEVEN threats now,” I said. “It's time to do something.”

“Like what?” Kate asked.

Six

You are a link in the pink chain.

In between threats, and our daily barrage of questions from girls, the PLS had been getting a new category of messages. These were less disturbing (hurray!), but still unusual. They all began, “You are a link in the pink chain.”

We assumed they were sent by someone older because they always included some kind of historical factoid related to the PLS or girls in general. I guessed that the messages were from Ms. Russo, or her anonymous source—the former Pink Locker Lady who a while back sent me the Kathrine Switzer race number. She was the first woman to run in the Boston Marathon. Since I'm on the track team now, I had pinned that to my bulletin board at home for good luck.

Sometimes, I wondered if Edith was writing the notes. She had invited us to be in the Pink Locker Society at the start of school, but we hadn't heard from her since we were shut down. I wasn't sure she'd approve of how we had restarted the PLS on our own. (Though I would have loved to get back in touch with her if it meant we could get back into the swank office she had set up for us behind the pink locker doors. Our new basement office was dingy and gross.)

These pink chain messages reminded us that we were not the first Pink Locker Society members—and we wouldn't be the last. Nor were we the first group of girls to try to do good stuff. I imagined myself, Piper, and Kate as a chain of pink daisies, rather than a thick metal chain that clanked, like in a haunted house. It was clear from the messages that our flowery chain reached way back in time.

You are a link in the pink chain. With pride, we point to 1832, when Maria Weston founded the Boston Female Anti-Slavery Society in Massachusetts. With help from freedom-loving women—and men—slavery was outlawed in the United States in 1865.

Honestly, I didn't know what to make of the pink chain messages.

You are a link in the pink chain. In 1869, Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and Lucy Stone formed two groups that pushed hard to give women the right to vote in the United States. It took more than 50 years. The 19th amendment was ratified in 1920.

Was someone hoping that we would do something world-changing? Right then I was content just to help the girls who wrote in with basic questions about middle-school life. And I just assumed everyone thought girls and boys were equal. I was much more interested in talking about how all girls were not equal, but they should be.

For instance, certain girls at my school, like Taylor Mayweather and Clem Caritas (and sometimes even Piper), seemed to think they were better than everyone else, probably because they were so pretty and grown-up-looking. They were the girls that boys wanted. I was an eighth-grader who still didn't have her period. And my boyfriend wasn't really my boyfriend.

Oh, I know pretty, popular girls have problems, too. Even the most gorgeous girls with seemingly perfect lives are worrying about something, trust me. The Pink Locker Society had hundreds of questions from girls to prove it. And I guess, being a link in the pink chain, it was our job to help them, too.

But my mind today was focused on my own distressing dilemma: Could I just keep being Forrest's faux girlfriend forever? Would I one day be his fake fiancée, his pretend wife? I tried to tell myself that this was my best chance with him, even if it was just make-believe. But I also had to admit that this was not a problem Piper, or Clem, or Taylor—or even Kate—would ever have. It felt like I was the only girl in the universe who would
ever
have this problem.

Telling Kate and Piper the truth would have been embarrassing, and then the truth would be out there, like a hamster out of its cage. Piper would say something too loud and everyone would find out. Or Kate, in her sweet Kate way, would accidentally reveal the awful truth. This potentially embarrassing moment would be far worse than the time I got caught on video crawling out of my locker (I had been inside our gorgeous secret office for a Pink Locker Society meeting). And it would be worse than people thinking—as they briefly did—that I had a crush on Trevor McCann, Forrest's brother, a sixth-grader.

So I had to do something, right? I did what hundreds of girls had already done. I texted a question to the Pink Locker Society.

Dear PLS,

Love your site! I hope you can help me with this one. My crush asked me to be his “pretend girlfriend.” I said yes because it seemed like a really good way to get to know him better and convince him to like me for real. Is this a good or a bad idea? And if it's a bad idea, how do I tell my friends the truth? Do I have to fake-break up with my fake boyfriend?

In Love ( for real) With a Pretend Boyfriend

I looked down at my fingers on the phone's keyboard. Would I really send this in? I spotted an eyelash on the back of my hand. For good luck, I blew it away and hit send.

Seven

Being someone's pretend girlfriend drained me daily. There was no drama between us, like I'd seen with other eighth-grade couples. But I was being an actress all the time, living a secret life. We had so much more contact with each other now that I almost missed the days when he was just my crush. At least then, if he was nice to me, or said hi, I knew it was real. But when your pretend boyfriend sits near you at lunch or smiles at you, what does it mean? I had no idea. It just wasn't real. Or if part of it was real I'd never be able to figure out which part.

I needed lots more time to think because my feelings were changing each day. So there I was: head leaned back in the car, eyes closed, letting Mom drive me home from track practice, when she blurted it right out.

“Jemma, I hear you and Forrest are an item,” my mother said.

She made it worse by reaching over and giving me a playful swat on the knee.

I had no idea she knew. And if she knew, who else knew? Dad? Mrs. McCann? It was like someone dropped a heavy jar of marbles and they scattered everywhere. I didn't know where to begin.

In my panic, I couldn't speak so I just wrinkled my nose and shook my head, still facing the windshield. It was like she presented me with a plate of chilled creamed spinach. No, no, take it away! My wish was that the conversation would end immediately and the topic never be raised again.

“Are you saying no? Or are you saying you just don't want to discuss it?” Mom asked, smiling now.

“I'm not saying anything,” I said, and scrunched down in my seat.

“Well, I just wanted you to know that I knew and that if you ever need to talk about anything, I'm here. First love can be confusing,” Mom said.

OMG, now she was talking about love. I wonder if I would survive if I flung myself out the car door right now. Probably not.

“The feelings can be quite intense. I was young once, you know,” she said.

“Okay, Okay, I get it. Next subject, please,” I said.

I reached over to turn on the radio and cranked up the volume to a conversation-stopping level. I pretended to be engrossed in the song, which I didn't even like. I knew only the chorus for sing-along purposes. When the refrain was over, I looked for something, anything, to occupy my mind and my hands as I sat trapped and imprisoned in the front seat next to my mother.

I fiddled with the glove compartment, looking for nothing in particular. It was then that I heard the sound of my mom starting to cry.

“Mom? Mom? Are you all right?” I asked. “Did somebody die?”

Between her sobs, she told me that no one had died and that she was just a little sad that I seemed angry with her. And that it “just hit her” that I was growing up so fast. But as for why she was crying while driving through our neighborhood, she said could not explain it.

“I haven't a clue what's come over me,” she said.

Then she laughed and wiped her tears with the back of her hand. I laughed with her, but I didn't like seeing her acting not normal. As far as her crying history, Mom cried like grown-up people do. She cried at funerals and at sad movies. And sometimes when they played those patriotic songs on the Fourth of July. But she was not a weep-at-the-drop-of-a-hat mom.