She laughs. “You mean vicariously?”
“Right. Vicariously.” I always mess up that word because it seems like curious should be the root of it, since it comes from being curious about how someone else lives. I should know, since I spend most of my time that way.
“It’s not that exciting. We rode the bus and they asked me where I was from and stuff like that. I told them all about you.”
“You did?” My pulse quickens just knowing they were talking about me. “What did you say?”
“Just how we’ve been friends since kindergarten. How much I miss you. That I can’t tie my shoes without you.” She laughs. “Tristan didn’t believe me so he untied his sneakers and made me show him.”
“How you can’t tie shoes?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I just rolled the laces into a ball and shoved them into his sock.”
I laugh, strangely relieved.
“I’m pretty sure they won’t be inviting me to sit with them again,” she says. “But I have a picture. Bus selfies are a thing out here, apparently.”
“Ooh, show me.”
“Okay. I’ll send it as soon as we hang up.”
We chat a little longer, then say good-bye, and the photo comes through as I’m walking into the kitchen. There’s Jenna smiling like it’s the most exciting moment of her life, surrounded by the faces of Supercuteguy, Supercutegirl, and Supercuteothergirl.
I should be happy for her. I know I should. She’s meeting people, making friends. I’d have to be a horrible person not to want that for her. But all I can see is how quickly and easily she is moving on without me.
My mother is in the kitchen at the computer when I walk in. She’s on Facebook, where she spends her free time scrolling through the heaping mounds of evidence that I am not nearly as accomplished or impressive as the children of every single other person she knows.
She sees me holding my phone and says, “How’s Jenna?”
“Terrible,” I say, not sure why I decided to blurt this out.
“Why?” Mom turns from her monitor to face me. “What happened?”
All of a sudden, my eyes start to water. If I tell her the truth, that Jenna is making new friends and I’ve probably lost the one thing I look forward to every day, which is thirty measly minutes of texting time with my only friend, she’ll pity me more than she already does.
I clear my throat. “She’s, uh, having a hard time at her new school,” I lie. “The kids on her bus are really mean.”
Mom’s lips turn down in an exaggerated frown. “Aw, poor Jenna.”
“Yeah, she’s wishing they never moved.” I sit at the counter and peel a banana.
Mom studies me like she’s never seen someone eat a banana before. “I know it’s hard,” she finally says. “Maybe a little neighborhood party would help. Invite some classmates’ families over.”
“Sounds embarrassing.”
“Oh, it would be fun.”
My eyes slowly widen as I realize she isn’t talking about Jenna anymore. “Mom. No.”
“What?”
“Please tell me you did not invite kids from school to a party.” It hardly bears mentioning that parties are on the Terror List.
“It’s just an idea. We could invite the Everlings. And Roberta DiMarco from work. Her daughter Marissa is a junior at Richardson, isn’t she?”
Mom turns back to the computer and brings up a full-screen image of Marissa DiMarco and ten other beautiful girls in sexy, short dresses and extremely high heels, standing in a row. The next image shows them paired with their dates for homecoming, boy girl boy girl boy girl boy girl. Then just Marissa and her date, a grinning Adrian Ahn, sans drumsticks. I’ve already envied the photo on Marissa’s Instagram.
“She seems like such a nice—”
“Mom.”
“You don’t like Marissa DiMarco?” My mother’s face is pained, as if failing to be an adoring fan of Marissa DiMarco is making it all the more unbearable that I will never be Marissa DiMarco.
“I like her just fine,” I say. “But I don’t need you to set up playdates for me. I can make my own friends.”
She hesitates. Takes a deep breath. “Of course. I know you can.”
“So, just . . . don’t. Okay?”
Her eyes get kind of squinty, and she nods slowly.
“I can make my own friends,” I repeat.
She keeps nodding, but I can tell she doesn’t believe me.
“As a matter of fact,” I say, “I had a lengthy conversation with Adrian Ahn just yesterday. And . . . some kids in my world history class today.”
An eyebrow shoots up. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
She moves from the computer to the kitchen sink, and starts washing dishes. “Then why not have some of them over? We can put up the badminton net. You kids could get to know each other . . .”
“Just kill me now.”
“Oh, please, Vicky. It won’t kill you.” She drops the pan she’s scrubbing into the soapy water and turns to face me again. “I just want you to get out there and live a little. Is that so bad?”
There is nothing quite so demoralizing as having your middle-aged mother pause from her Facebooking and dish-washing to suggest that you need to get out more. I glare at her until she looks away, then drag my backpack to my room, lock the door, and flop on my bed.
I pull out my phone and stare at the bus selfie again, zooming in on Jenna’s face so I can focus on how happy she looks. I try to pretend her smile is for me. But inevitably I swipe to the left and right, to the faces that are the reason for her happiness. New friends, their heads squeezed together, filling the frame. I wouldn’t fit even if I was there. And the supercutes are not to blame for that. I have absolutely no reason to dislike them, but I do. They’re so perfect. So everything that I am not.
I slump to my desk and plug my phone into the USB port on my computer so I can open the image in Photoshop. Soon it’s filling my whole computer screen.
I zoom in on the face of Supercutegirl, her flawless skin. And I can’t help myself. I use the pencil tool to give her a ladystache, and then Supercuteothergirl gets a unibrow. Supercuteguy is the recipient of a bad case of acne. I’m just about to go full-on mean girl by making Jenna cross-eyed when my phone buzzes with a text message from her:
Miss you so much. Wish you were here.
I sit back in my chair and close my eyes. I feel a pang of guilt, and shame, and a heavy dose of “I suck.” I sigh and text back:
Me too.
I quickly delete the ladystache and the unibrow and the zits. They looked realistic, but I vow to henceforth use my Photoshop skills for good and not evil. Which gives me an idea—a way to convince my mother I am not completely hopeless and avoid the embarrassment of a please-be-friends-with-my-daughter party.