Sometimes Never, Sometimes Always by Elissa Janine Hoole Page A

who spends more time muttering into her ink-stained pages than confiding secrets. Maybe she’s the only one who could be friends with me. But … maybe not.
    The night I was born, the last night of the year, there was a new moon. My dad drove to the hospital all hunched over the wheel of our car, peering through the dark night. My mother hoped I would be born on New Year’s Day because then my picture would be in the newspaper and I would win a big basket full of prizes from the local merchants. I would be a fresh sign of new beginnings—the promise of change. Instead, I came into that dark night at exactly 11:56 and became the last baby of the old year. Like I was born into a quietly fading history.
    I don’t want to be popular, not exactly. People like Annika and Britney—they aren’t real. They can’t be real, I suppose, or they’d be vulnerable. But maybe I can find the real beneath the act, you know. Maybe I need to be more … I don’t know. Active about making the connections.
    Kayla wouldn’t quit the paper for me. I realize this even as I realize that it’s what she expects from me, or maybe she doesn’t even bother to expect it, doesn’t even question it, the same way she always walks ahead of me and never looks back to check if I’m following. It’s not her fault, like it’s not Eric’s fault for not being able to choose a birthday gift for me. It’s me. I’ve conditioned them all to expect me to follow along, to form myself into their ideas of who I should be.
    As if to prove my point, off she goes without waiting for me to get my stuff out of the locker. I watch Kayla walk away, hoping she’ll pause or look back, but she doesn’t.
    Whatever. I shrug and go back to gathering my stuff for homeroom. I don’t notice Drew until she speaks.
    “Cass?”
    I jump, rapping my elbow on the door of the locker. “Oh. Hey.” I check the wall clock, hoping I can tell her I have to rush, but oddly enough, I still have seven whole minutes until the tardy bell. “Did you need something?” I wince because it sounds too mean.
    But Drew doesn’t react, just takes a step closer. Her cheeks are pink, and she’s chewing on the side of her index finger. Her cuticles are ragged—I look down and compare them to my own. I can’t help it. I’m relieved that my nails look better than hers. And then I feel guilty for even comparing.
    “I was thinking,” she says. “Wondering, like, if you had read my poem yet. I was thinking … ” She lapses into an uncertain silence. She’s too close.
    I nod. “And?” There’s an entitled impatience in my voice that comes in part from how I feel about Kayla right now. I’m sick of trying—to be a nice person, to be a good best friend, to be interesting. I’m sick of it.
    Her bottom lip drops open a little and I regret the tone. “Sorry, Drew,” I say quickly. “I … I don’t mean to snap at you. I just … need to go ask a question about my pre-calc homework.” It’s a total lie. “Do you still want me to show the poem to Annika and Britney?” Why am I asking this when I have zero intention of doing it? Isn’t it meaner to keep on acting like I’m her friend, when I hate being near her? I start walking toward the math room. I hope she doesn’t follow me all the way there because I don’t even have my math book, much less a question about the homework.
    “So you liked it?” Her face brightens.
    Oh god. I feel like the scum of the earth, basically. And now I’m going to lie to her some more.
    “It was really heartfelt. Really … nice rhymes.” I smile at her, trying to be generous. I feel bad for her; I can’t help it. “I mean, I guess the speaker of the poem really likes some guy? I think … people can relate to that.”
    Drew shakes her head, her eyes bouncing off my hairline. “Or maybe it’s not even a boy,” she says. “Maybe … a friend. I don’t know.” She looks down at her hands twisting together in front of her. “It’s kind of