needs to be reminded of that.”
So last night Grams helped me make a dozen tamales de dulce.
The lunch bell rang, and students started pouring into the caf, including Brie. When she reached table fourteen, her beautiful face twisted in an ugly scowl. She looked at Clementine and wrinkled her nose. I could see the thought bubble over her head. Outsider.
“This is my table.” Brie’s lips barely moved.
My hands grew sweaty, which was crazy. This was Brie, one of my BFs. She knew my fears and dreams. I knew hers. We steamed tamales together. “We need to talk,” I said.
“This is my table.” Her lipstick, Iced Cotton Candy, was frosty pink, cold. Behind her a crowd gathered, probably the other A-listers who claimed a spot at table fourteen, but I saw only my best friend’s face.
I wasn’t a mean person; the idea that I hurt my BF made me sick. “Listen, Brie, I’m sorry about the Mistletoe Ball. I’m sorry I was AWOL during winter break. I had issues with Grams and Mom—huge, universe-altering issues—but that doesn’t excuse me not being there for you.”
Brie’s face remained as hard as the diamond studs glistening like glaciers in her ears.
“I made a mistake,” I went on. “I know you felt like I abandoned you when you needed me, but I’m here now.” I slid the tamales toward her, relief washing over me. It was like handing her my heart, and as Duncan had said, it was a big one.
Brie picked up a tamale and studied it with unblinking eyes.
I licked my lips. “I have no idea what you said to everyone to make them whisper about me, but honestly, I don’t care. I want what we had, and I’ll do anything to get that. Anything. What do you want me to do, Brie? What do you need from me?”
Brie blinked, and with a flick of her hand, she flung the tamale across the room, where it smacked into the side of a garbage can. “You’re such a loser, Chloe. The only thing I need is for you to get away from my lunch table and out of my life.”
The cafeteria silenced. Trays clanked, mouths moved, but I heard nothing except Brie’s words. They sliced through me with razor sharpness. At some point someone with crinkly black hair ushered me to table twenty-one, where I sat and tried to stanch the flow of blood from the middle of my chest.
When the lunch bell rang, I gathered surveys with Clementine. Or was it the pope? After school I went to Portable Five and helped the radio staffers log survey results into computers, but the numbers were a mishmash of squiggly lines. When I got home, I saw Grams and Mom in the throes of battle, but I didn’t hear any explosions. I was in a daze, numb but for the ache in my chest.
That night tears rushed down my cheeks and soaked my pillow, which according to Grams should have been a good thing. During my hormonal junior high years when I came home from school sobbing at least once a week, Grams explained tears were good. She claimed they washed away the bad and nourished the soul. Mom explained that tears helped our bodies release toxins that build up during stressful situations. They contain beta-endorphins, natural pain relievers.
Both were dead wrong.
Sleep and the morning sun burned off some of the haze, and an odd, hollow feeling settled in my bones. Brie, one of my two best friends, had slammed me publicly and decisively. She booted me from the clan, stripped me of my plaid.
I was cold and naked.
As I arrived at school the next morning, my bruised and bloodyheart convinced me it was time to give Brie and Merce the space they needed. For now. Despite the tamale incident, I wasn’t ready to give up on my two best friends, but I needed a little space, too.
All that week I worked on my Junior Independent Study Project, with the emphasis on independent . No one waved at me in the school parking lot when I arrived every morning. No one invited me to eat lunch in the cafeteria. I spent my lunch hours in the safety of the library studying the school’s large but
So last night Grams helped me make a dozen tamales de dulce.
The lunch bell rang, and students started pouring into the caf, including Brie. When she reached table fourteen, her beautiful face twisted in an ugly scowl. She looked at Clementine and wrinkled her nose. I could see the thought bubble over her head. Outsider.
“This is my table.” Brie’s lips barely moved.
My hands grew sweaty, which was crazy. This was Brie, one of my BFs. She knew my fears and dreams. I knew hers. We steamed tamales together. “We need to talk,” I said.
“This is my table.” Her lipstick, Iced Cotton Candy, was frosty pink, cold. Behind her a crowd gathered, probably the other A-listers who claimed a spot at table fourteen, but I saw only my best friend’s face.
I wasn’t a mean person; the idea that I hurt my BF made me sick. “Listen, Brie, I’m sorry about the Mistletoe Ball. I’m sorry I was AWOL during winter break. I had issues with Grams and Mom—huge, universe-altering issues—but that doesn’t excuse me not being there for you.”
Brie’s face remained as hard as the diamond studs glistening like glaciers in her ears.
“I made a mistake,” I went on. “I know you felt like I abandoned you when you needed me, but I’m here now.” I slid the tamales toward her, relief washing over me. It was like handing her my heart, and as Duncan had said, it was a big one.
Brie picked up a tamale and studied it with unblinking eyes.
I licked my lips. “I have no idea what you said to everyone to make them whisper about me, but honestly, I don’t care. I want what we had, and I’ll do anything to get that. Anything. What do you want me to do, Brie? What do you need from me?”
Brie blinked, and with a flick of her hand, she flung the tamale across the room, where it smacked into the side of a garbage can. “You’re such a loser, Chloe. The only thing I need is for you to get away from my lunch table and out of my life.”
The cafeteria silenced. Trays clanked, mouths moved, but I heard nothing except Brie’s words. They sliced through me with razor sharpness. At some point someone with crinkly black hair ushered me to table twenty-one, where I sat and tried to stanch the flow of blood from the middle of my chest.
When the lunch bell rang, I gathered surveys with Clementine. Or was it the pope? After school I went to Portable Five and helped the radio staffers log survey results into computers, but the numbers were a mishmash of squiggly lines. When I got home, I saw Grams and Mom in the throes of battle, but I didn’t hear any explosions. I was in a daze, numb but for the ache in my chest.
That night tears rushed down my cheeks and soaked my pillow, which according to Grams should have been a good thing. During my hormonal junior high years when I came home from school sobbing at least once a week, Grams explained tears were good. She claimed they washed away the bad and nourished the soul. Mom explained that tears helped our bodies release toxins that build up during stressful situations. They contain beta-endorphins, natural pain relievers.
Both were dead wrong.
Sleep and the morning sun burned off some of the haze, and an odd, hollow feeling settled in my bones. Brie, one of my two best friends, had slammed me publicly and decisively. She booted me from the clan, stripped me of my plaid.
I was cold and naked.
As I arrived at school the next morning, my bruised and bloodyheart convinced me it was time to give Brie and Merce the space they needed. For now. Despite the tamale incident, I wasn’t ready to give up on my two best friends, but I needed a little space, too.
All that week I worked on my Junior Independent Study Project, with the emphasis on independent . No one waved at me in the school parking lot when I arrived every morning. No one invited me to eat lunch in the cafeteria. I spent my lunch hours in the safety of the library studying the school’s large but
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