The Freak Observer by Blythe Woolston Page B

And the power involved is high-voltage— lightning-bolt scale. When friendship moves through you, it leaves a mark.
    All friendships are unequal. If they weren’t, power couldn’t get swapped back and forth. We would just hover in our self-contained envelopes producing everything we need and eating our own shit. “Mmmmm!” we would say, “That’s good shit.” And we would all be perfectly happy and immortal, like yeast.
    Imagining a friendship between equals is sort of like imagining angels dancing on a pin. Does it matter if they are raving or pirouetting? What’s the point, really, other than the one on the other end of the pin?
    I am not a happy little yeast or floaty little angel. I am a bad friend.
    When it comes to the power of friendship, I am a black hole. Fun, money, creativity—whatever—I’ll just swallow it up. Eventually, I will collapse, and when I do, I’m going to take you with me. Consider yourself warned.



I had a friend, once.
    I probably shouldn’t be so dramatic. That sort of thing can be irritating. Still, there is some truth to the drama.
    I’ve known a lot of people, grown up with people, and done stuff with people. I know what color their bedrooms are and if they like to eat a dill pickle before they go to sleep. I watched people outgrow sweatshirts. I’ve played No Bears Are Out Tonight in the mountains at night, while I was drunk, and there probably really were bears, but there were certainly warm bodies and excitement and hiding in the dark.
    But friendship is something more than breathing the same air or touching the same basketball. Not much more, maybe, but something. I speak from experience here. Like I said: I had a friend for a while.
    It was after Asta died. I’m not sure why it happened. Maybe Mrs. Bishop sicced him on me and told him to fetch me in like a bummer lamb. Or maybe grief is like magnetism—some it repels and others it attracts. Whatever the reason, it didn’t last forever. I am a bad friend. That’s part of the explanation. But I think maybe my friend was even worse. Like I said, friendship leaves a mark.
    . . .
    Teriyaki chicken, rice pilaf, stir-fry vegetables, mandarin oranges, and cinnamon roll. I like to eat school lunch. Seriously. I like to eat what I don’t have to cook. Yay! for canned mandarin oranges. Yippy! for vegetables that look different but taste, oddly, the same. I even enjoy eating with a fork I don’t have to wash. I was sitting there enjoying the finer things in life when someone actually made a point of sitting down across the table from me.
    I recognized him from French class: Some guy called
Guy
.
    Then he stuck his finger into the goo on my cinnamon roll. Then he smiled.
    â€œHi, Loa,” he said, “Want to be my debate partner?”
    â€œWant to keep your hands out of my food?”
    â€œNow that, right there, is one of the reasons why you and I should be debate partners. You ask the tough questions. I set you up to ask them, and you ask them.” Then he stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked off the frosting. He made that frosting look better than it was. That frosting looked great.
    â€œReally. I’ve watched you,” he said. “You’re smart and you’re mean. We can start practicing after school today. You’d enjoy it. I know you would, eviscerating some poor guy from Two Dot, Outer-East-Montanagolia, who couldn’t find Africa with both hands if it was tattooed on his ass. Think about it. A world of wonder awaits.”
    â€œI ride the bus. My mom. . .”
    â€œCall your mom. Moms like this kind of shit.”
    â€œI don’t have a phone.”
    â€œI have a phone. Call her.” He slid a pretty piece of machinery across the table.
    â€œTell her you can spend the night with Corey. Tell her she doesn’t have to drive into town or anything. You’ll bring home the permission slips