The Kind of Friends We Used to Be by Frances O'Roark Dowell Page A

black boots or play guitar.
    The other people in the Creative Writing Club had more potential. There were twelve of them besides Kate, ten girls and two boys. A few of the seventh-grade girls she knew from fifth and sixth grade, and one of the boys, Seamus Williams, had played on her coedsoccer team in fourth grade. There was a girl dressed all in black Kate had never seen before, who introduced herself by saying she was new this year and was a terrible writer. A few girls giggled when she said that, and the new girl glared at them. “I bet you’re all Ernest Hemingway,” she sneered. “I bet you’re all the greatest authors ever.”
    When it was Kate’s turn to introduce herself, she said, “I’ve always liked writing. Mostly what I’ve written in my life is poetry, and now I’m writing a lot of song lyrics, since I also play guitar.”
    She looked around expectantly, waiting for the other songwriters and guitar players to announce themselves. But no one said anything. They just smiled at Kate like they thought what she said was nice, but not of particular interest to them personally. Kate held in a sigh, trying not to feel too disappointed. The girl next to her began introducing herself, saying her name was Lorna and she liked poetry too, especially the poems of Langston Hughes and Shel Silverstein.That made Kate feel better because she also liked poems by Langston Hughes and Shel Silverstein. She looked at Lorna’s shoes. Tennis shoes. New. White with a red stripe. Kate decided to take the red stripe as a sign that the girl was an original thinker.
    During the next person’s turn, Kate felt someone looking at her. She shifted her eyes left, then right, but couldn’t catch anyone’s eye. She sat very still. She could sense that whoever was looking at her was sitting slightly behind her, but not all the way at the back of the room. Kate swiveled her head to the left and back, and that’s when she caught him. He was an eighth grader who’d only said, “I like to write,” when he introduced himself to the group and wouldn’t elaborate when Ms. Vickery, their club adviser, had asked him to. “I just like to write, that’s it,” he’d said.
    He’d said his name was Matthew Holler, and now he was staring at Kate. Kate thought about staring back, but she wasn’t brave enough. Matthew Holler had hazel eyes and long, dark eyelashes and dark eyebrows, andhe had to be almost six feet tall. He was beautiful, Kate realized suddenly as she stole another glance at him, although not everyone would notice this fact about him. Marylin, for instance, would notice his hair, which was too long to be respectable, even if it was wavy and a gold color that most girls would die for, and she’d notice his black T-shirt with a picture of the Ramones across the front. Kate did not know who the Ramones were, but they looked kind of weird and frightening. They looked like a band Flannery would like.
    She didn’t know why Matthew Holler was staring at her, and she wondered if he would say something to her when the Creative Writing Club meeting was over, but he didn’t. He was the first person out of the room when Ms. Vickery said that was all for now, be sure to bring some writing to share for next week. He brushed past Kate’s desk, and she smelled a clean, fresh smell, like he’d just taken his shirt out of the dryer. Kate watched Matthew Holler walk out of the room, his head bent forward, hands shoved in his pockets. She’dnever had a boy stare at her that way before. She wondered if he played guitar.

    At the next Creative Writing Club meeting, people read something they’d written, three poems or up to five pages of a short story. Madison LaCarte read five incredibly boring pages from her novel, and when Ms. Vickery asked if there were any comments, there was dead silence. Finally, when Kate thought the room might explode from everyone wanting to say how awful Madison’s five pages had been, Matthew Holler raised his