I half expected to see Amanda’s car roaring away down the street when I showed up, but she was there. She opened the door.
“Hey,” she said. Then, maybe realizing there was no way simultaneously to take the proffered ziti and slam the door in my face, she stood there a moment, doing neither, saying nothing. Her hair was messy, and she had on a T-shirt that said, You wish you could throw like a girl! She looked the way she looked when we were kids.
And, stupidly, I said, “It’s ziti. My mom made it.”
She said, “I know. She called and told me.”
“Can I maybe put it in the refrigerator?”
She moved aside, and I walked in. I hadn’t been there for months, and the smell, a kind of air freshener I’d never really noticed but that had always been there, a smell like lemons, brought back every memory of being there, every Halloween, every day after school, every weekend swimming there. I could barely hold up the casserole dish. My arms felt too weak.
“How is he? He’s going to be okay?” I needed reassurance on this point.
“Yeah, he’s fine. Or he will be. I think. They say he’ll be home in a few days.”
It had never been awkward to talk to her before. Before, I’d barely had to speak at all. It was like she was inside my head, hearing my every thought through headphones.
I wanted to tell her everything, everything from the car with all the bumper stickers to how much I missed her every single day, but I said, “I’d like to go see him.” I put the dish into the refrigerator. That, too, was so familiar. Takeout rotisserie chicken, stacks of Oscar Meyer cold cuts, and a six-pack of Sam Adams.
“They’re only allowing family.”
I turned on her. “He is my family. He’s the only one who ever played ball with me, the only one who cared about . . . anything.”
“Yeah, he asks about you, why you don’t come around anymore.”
“Yeah? What do you tell him?”
“I tell him the ugly duckling grew up to be a huge asshole.”
“Why? Why are you so angry at me? Because I missed a softball game, because I messed up once? You’re throwing away an eleven-year friendship over that?” I’d been over and over it in my head, and I still couldn’t believe she wouldn’t give me a second chance.
“It wasn’t the baseball game. It’s that you lied about it. And . . .” She shook her head. “Forget it.”
“No, what?”
“You’d rather hang with those people, people like Sydnie, people who make fun of people like me, now that you’re good enough for them.”
I couldn’t even answer her. Was that what I’d done? I’d just been freaked out that things were happening for me, making varsity, having girls actually come on to me when I was used to being the fat, funny kid everyone mostly ignored. Maybe I was star struck. Was that the same as what she’d said? Probably was.
“We don’t all get to be swans, Chris,” she said.
“I don’t want to be a swan. God, I’m sorry. How can I tell you I’m sorry so you’ll believe me? I just want it to be like it was with us.”
We were standing in front of the open refrigerator. Maybe that was why I shivered when she said, “I’m just stupid. I thought maybe we’d be more than friends, and now I feel so stupid and embarrassed for thinking that.”
Was she saying what I thought she was saying, that she had felt the same way? Was that why she’d gotten so mad at me? I looked in her eyes. “There was never anything more than our friendship. Our friendship was the biggest thing in my life.”
And then I leaned over and kissed her.
It felt like the right thing to do. I loved her. She was the single most important person in my life, always had been since that first day with Spidey. She’d said she wanted to be more than friends, and I did too. I knew, just knew I had to kiss her. I thought she’d kiss me back.
Instead, she pushed me away. “Really?” She backed up until she was on the other side of the open refrigerator door, then held it in front of her. “You really thought it would be okay to kiss me? When my dad’s in the hospital, and we haven’t talked in a month?”
“I don’t know. You said—”
“I know what I said. You thought it would be a good idea to take advantage of that, of my feelings?”
“They’re my feelings too. I have the exact same feelings, Amanda. I need—”
“You need to leave. You need to . . . I can’t look at you anymore.” She slammed the refrigerator and started toward the front door.
I followed her. “Amanda.”
“Please leave.”
“I’m sorry.” I knew now it was a stupid thing to do. God, I’d just gotten her to talk to me again. What an idiot I was. “I’m sorry.”
“I wasn’t just waiting around for you to decide you like me, you know.”
“I didn’t think that.”
“Go away!” she said.
She was gesturing toward the door, then out the door, and I knew I should shut my mouth, but I had to say, “I’m sorry.”
I was on the doorstep now, and she started to close the door behind me. I looked at her face. It was pink and beautiful, and I could tell she was trying not to cry.