Part of me wants to hang on to my hurt, to tell her how deep the pain of her turning on me like that was, especially when she’s the one always trying to appease and placate, always willing to hear the other side of the story, but when I needed it, she didn’t offer that courtesy to me. But I don’t want to keep fighting with her. “I’m sorry, too,” I say.
“Okay.” The tone of her voice makes my heart sink. She’s talking the talk but not walking the walk. It’s not okay. I could hear her hesitation. I press my fist against my forehead. I can’t do this right now, so I pretend I don’t hear the strain behind the word and tell her I’ll see her soon.
A few minutes later, I’m at school. I jog up the stairs to the second floor and head to the last room at the end of the hall.
English is the only class I have with Carly, Kelley, and Dee. I walk in feeling wary. The problem is, our fight wasn’t private. Their texts were a not-so-subtle hunt for deets, so I know Carly talked to Dee, Kelley, Sarah, Emily, and who knows who else. Despite our mutual apologies, I’m still hurt and a little pissed, but a part of me gets it. From Carly’s point of view, the facts are the facts. She knows what she thinks she saw, and I can’t exactly tell her the whole story to fill in the parts she’s missing.
Still, her rejection is like a knife in my back. Just because she pulled the knife out doesn’t mean the wound isn’t aching.
I slide into my usual seat, back of the classroom, beside Carly, behind Dee. Kelley’s in front of Carly. I’m more of a front-of-the-room kind of girl, but since this is the only class I have with all of them, I sit where they sit. Right now, I’m tempted to put in my earbuds, stay quiet, and ignore Dee’s and Kelley’s questioning looks. But that’s the coward’s way out.
Carly stares at me for what feels like an hour. Then she offers a small smile. “We’re discussing costumes.”
It takes me a second to catch up and realize she’s talking about the Halloween dance.
“Are you in or out?” she asks.
“Ummm . . .” I’m hesitant to commit until I hear what she has in mind.
“I’m going as mustard, Dee’s gonna be ketchup, and Kelley’s relish. We came up with it last night.”
The fact that they decided without me and I’m the last to know sort of smarts.
“What are you planning to make the bottles out of?” I ask, surprised that they’re going this route. All the other costumes they’d been considering involved very high heels and very short skirts.
Carly offers a cat-got-the-cream smile. “No bottles. Too bulky. We’re thinking spandex. Mine’ll be yellow. Dee’s will be red.”
“And Kelley’s will be green.” I get the picture. “I’m not sure people will know exactly what you’re dressed as. Colored spandex doesn’t exactly scream condiments, you know? Are you all going to wear pop-top lids on your heads?” The second I say it, I feel a wave of unease, the memory of how Jackson popped the shell’s skull like the lid of a shampoo bottle freaking me out a little.
Carly laughs, and I force myself to let go of the memory. “Maybe,” she says. “But I’m thinking colored wigs to match the spandex. And maybe little labels drawn on our tummies or something. So . . .” She lifts a brow. “You in or out?”
A minute ago I was upset that they hadn’t invited me to join in. Now, I’m trying to think of a graceful way to decline. Before I can come up with something, Carly says, “No . . . wait . . . there’s three of us and, well, mustard, ketchup, and relish? That’s kind of a trio thing. Guess you’re on your own.”
“Guess so.” I duck my head and reach into my bag for my copy of Lord of the Flies, hiding my expression. By the time I lift my head again, I have my hurt hidden. I actually feel insulted and slighted and pissed that my friends made this plan without me. How’s that for confusion? I don’t know whether I’m upset that I’m upset, or glad that I’m upset because I’m feeling something more than the usual anger or pain. I can’t help it. I laugh. My friends all look at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“It’s all good,” I say. The truth is, wearing skintight, reveal-all, red, yellow, or green spandex with a matching wig or a pop-top lid on my head isn’t my idea of fun. Inspiration hits. “I might go as a ninja.” If I go at all. Dress all in black—or if I wear my kendo outfit, navy blue—wear a mask, and strap my wooden kendo practice sword across my back. That could work. I catch Carly’s eye and lower my voice. “Oh, and Carly? Don’t do the bitch thing. Either we’re okay or we’re not.”
I’m stunned by how calm I sound. Her eyes widen.