It’s only once I’m in the cafeteria, piling my plate high with carbs as the heat of hundreds of stares bore into my back, that I realize today would have totally been a good day to eat out. But it’s too late now. They’ve seen me. And the only thing more humiliating than having your boyfriend cheat on you with your best friend would be to take your tray into the hallway to eat.
I’m almost at the lip of the dining room entrance when, at the last minute, I lop off half the mountain of mashed potatoes. (I don’t want people thinking I’m eating my feelings—it has absolutely nothing to do with stalling.) And then I make my way to the Pretty People table. With each step, the din of the cafeteria quiets further. I pretend not to notice, though all the while my heart's clanging so hard it hurts. Devon is in his usual spot next to Jarrod at the end of the table, but I refuse to look in his direction, just focus on taking steady, even breaths, on making sure my hands don’t shake as I lower my tray to the table and take a seat.
And it is more than awkward the way everyone refuses to make eye contact with me, as if they’re just far too preoccupied with their trays of cafeteria food. Everyone except Julia. She holds her head high with this irritatingly satisfied smile on her face. I pretend it doesn’t bother me, because that’s what she wants. The girl would probably die and go to heaven if she could steal my spot next to Bianca.
After a few painful minutes, the clatter of dishes and peals of laughter return to a normal decibel. When the guys at the end of the table start loudly talking about their NFL fantasy draft, Thea takes one for the team and leans across the table.
“Indie, are you, like, okay? I saw you run out of the party. You looked pretty upset.”
On cue, the rest of the girls edge in to hear my response. I look around at the fake-concerned faces and come dangerously close to crying. Because I realize I have no friends. The only real friend I have is sitting over at the loser table eating french fries with Jessie Colburn.
A hush falls over the cafeteria. At first I think, What now? Do I have mashed potatoes on my chin? but when I look up I find that no one’s watching me. They’re all looking at Bianca as she walks toward our table. I almost don’t recognize her. She’s sporting a pair of big sunglasses, which would be strange enough since we’re inside, but she’s also wearing a sweat suit. Okay, so it’s a supercute sweat suit that hugs her shapely body, and since her hair is perfectly styled and her face applied, she pretty much rocks the look, but still. It’s a sweat suit. And it’s Bianca.
She falls into the seat next to mine, and it’s so dramatic that it cannot be natural. She pulls off her sunglasses and gives me a sheepish smile. Or at least, that’s what she’s trying for. It sort of looks like she’s constipated.
“Are you still not talking to me?” she asks carefully. “Because you didn’t return any of my calls …” She looks into her lap, but her eyes shift to gauge my reaction.
There are a few ways this can go down.
Option One:
Me: You’re a nasty little bitch, Bianca. Now come here so I can drag you around the cafeteria by your cheap extensions!
Option Two:
Me: What calls, Bianca? I got three texts from you. Three! Which might as well be none. After nine years of friendship, I think I deserve a little more than that. [Followed by a breakdown (and I’m not a cute crier, as Bishop can attest).]
Option Three:
Me: You don’t know this, Bianca, but I’ve recently discovered I may be a witch. So I’d watch out a few days from now. You may receive an unpleasant surprise in the form of whiteheads and cellulite.
When I look around the table, I find that everyone’s waiting with bated breath to see how I will react to Bianca’s sort-of apology, and I know that I’m going to have to go with Option Four.
I turn to Bianca. She blinks her big eyes at me, waiting for a response.
I think about the nine years of friendship we shared, from the first grade, when we were completely inseparable, right up until last year, when it was so painfully obvious we were drifting apart. I think about the Pretty People Club and cheerleading and my reserved table at lunch and all the parties, and of how hard we worked to get to this place on the social ladder—and suddenly I couldn’t be more tired of it all. The worst part is that I’ve known our friendship was over for a long time. I just didn’t want it to be true. And if I really think about it, it’s the same thing with Devon. It’s like I was just waiting for them to screw up because I wasn’t brave enough to end things on my own. Or didn’t know how to do it.
But suddenly it’s very clear what I have to do.
I pick up my tray.
“Where are you going?” Bianca asks.
A low murmur runs through the cafeteria. My heart beats so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it as I walk across the dining hall, but it’s not because I’m scared I’m making the wrong choice. Not at all. I know even before I thunk my tray down next to Paige’s that I’ll never regret it.
15
Somehow, when I imagined the big moment when I’d learn the truth about whether or not I was a witch, it didn’t take place at home with my mom on a Monday night.