“What’s wrong?”
Everything I want to say is caught in a snare, pulling and tugging against the rope. The trains lie crumpled on a model of a tiny town that looks like an earthquake and a tornado hit it on the same day. I rest my chin against the small world. Everything is chipped and plastic and smells like a musty cabin. “When you and your friends busted up, how bad was it? Like, did they turn the whole school against you? Is that why you transferred?”
“I…it was not good. It was partially them, but it was mostly me.”
“Why you?”
“I changed.”
“Um…” Beyond the obvious? Or am I allowed to say that? “In what way?”
“It’s hard to say, because you can be like, oh, it’s because I stopped doing her hair or she didn’t want me to wear skirts because my legs are better than hers, but I guess because I found enough pieces of me that were real. And they weren’t fans.”
“They sound shallow.”
“What can I say? Popularity does weird things to people.”
“I get that,” I say, but I can’t tell her that aside from all the perks I get from hanging out with JP, I still want to be friends with him for some dumb reason. It’s just something we’re both really bad at. But if I tell Jamie I’m afraid the rest of the school will stone me without JP, she’ll think I’m more shallow than people who care if someone wears a skirt. I don’t care what people wear, I need them to acknowledge my existence. I hate that I need JP for that. “JP and I had a fight. A bad one.”
“That kid I met when I had my bike?”
“Yup.”
“He seemed really full of himself. Are you sure it’s over?”
“Positive. I’m about to be a leper.”
“Whoa. That’s pretty bad. What’d you do?”
Let you down, I want to say.
“Okay, let me ask you a different question,” she says. “What did he do?”
“Same thing he’s always done. It’s just the first time I noticed.”
“Do you want to know what I learned?”
I nod, but that’s dumb. She can’t see me. “Yeah.”
“That sometimes, friends disappear. They go away. That all the stuff you know about them to be true, they’ll never see it. And the best part about it?”
“What?”
“They think equally terrible things about you, and that’s why you shouldn’t be friends anymore,” she says. “You can rehash a million little details, every conversation, every text, but at the end of the day, shit happens. And if you don’t like the shit that happens when you’re with them, time to mosey.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Yeah, except I’ve done it,” she says. “It sucks; it leaves holes in you.”
I already have this little Swiss cheese thing going in my gut. I hate knowing it’s only going to get worse. We’re quiet. I fiddle with a switch next to the tracks. Nothing happens when I flick it. “My mom thinks I’m being selfish. She’s not on my side anymore.”
“Oh, do I know what that’s like. My mom and I can’t be in the same room alone for more than ten minutes before we’re at each other. She thinks I’m going through a phase. I ask you, would anyone really go through this for a bucket of giggles? Yeah, don’t think so.”
“My mom’s mad at me.”
“She holds a good grudge?”
“The best,” I say. “But it’s not like I didn’t deserve it.”
“What’d you do?”
“I messed up a train set my dad built.”
“So help him rebuild it.”
“I can’t. He’s dead.”
“What? Oh my god!” she almost shouts. “I’m so sorry! You never told me.”
“You didn’t notice the lack of a dad when you came over for dinner?”
“I dunno, no, but I didn’t bring my dad either, so I figured we were square,” she says.
“It’s fine. He’s been dead for twelve years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you mean it,” I say. “And thanks.” I mean it.
Leaning back against the chilled walls of the basement, I appreciate the empty chunks of missing mirrors. Although what would the mirrors show if they existed? Me smiling as I’m talking to Jamie. Yeah, I’d see a big old globby grin on my face because talking to her is like sunshine in February, and in Portland that is no small thing. All it takes is two minutes on the phone with her and I’m good.
I’m falling for a girl with boy parts. This is weird. Although technically I fell a long time ago. Over the phone, it’s better than best. Like a tiny little rectangle rendering us as nothing more than voices. As simply us. She doesn’t have to see me and my hideous, hairy-ass self, and I can talk to the person I need the most.
“Hmmm,” I hum.
“What?” she asks.
“Just doing better.”
“Good.” It’s curt and short.
“Are you feeling better?” I ask her.
“About what?”
I put some padding back under a fake hill. A gentle swell returns to the meadow. “I don’t know—what’s bugging you right now?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Of course I do.”
“I want to go to the bathroom in peace.”