Among Friends

by Caroline B. Cooney

  “What are you going to resolve, Mom?” said Hillary.

  “Same thing I resolve every year. One, be more patient with my teenage daughter. Two, be superwoman and go back to baking cookies so my teenage daughter won’t complain that we are single-handedly supporting all the bakeries in town. Three, read the Great Books I’ve been meaning to read since I was in college.”

  We gave her a round of applause. I adore Mrs. Lang.

  I wondered what Mrs. Smith was like, before her nervous breakdown. I wondered if she could go back to being the old Mrs. Smith. I wondered if Paul had sat home alone for the whole vacation.

  And all of a sudden I knew who could help.

  “I, personally,” said Hillary, “have an all-new, improved, and higher-quality list of resolutions. The new me is going to be a particularly spectacular new me,” she explained.

  “Yeah?” I said, running away from my own thoughts. I felt heavy with my secrets. “Lemme see your list.” I grabbed Hill’s index card and read it out loud. “Hillary Lang, her list. One, lose seven pounds.”

  We all giggled.

  “Now that’s precise, Hill. Not five, not ten, but seven pounds. You’ve measured your fat? You know that seven pounds from now you will be in a state of perfection?”

  “Just keep reading,” said Hillary with dignity. “And don’t say it, Jennie, I can see your clever little brain noticing that I am on my fifth cookie. Refrain from commenting on that, okay?”

  “Okay,” said Jennie meekly. We were all on our best behavior. There was nothing awesome about the Threesome except that it had gotten back together for an afternoon of skiing.

  I read Hill’s second resolution out loud. “Two, get a B in physics.” I thought: Mr. Lowe! Jared’s father! He could do anything!

  “Get a B in physics!” echoed Mrs. Lang. “Now there’s a goal. I am impressed, Hillary, darling. You are such an unexpected person to live with. Who would have thought that the second most important thing in your life is a B in physics?”

  “It isn’t the second most important thing in my life,” protested Hill. “It isn’t even the twenty-second most important thing in my life. It’s just a resolution that happened to come to me.”

  Mr. Lowe is one of those important lawyers who get quoted in the Wall Street Journal and are always flying off to Europe or Washington or Tokyo to consult on something or other. I don’t care about that. But a person who can help the president solve world legal problems—he could do something about Paul.

  I looked at Hillary’s third resolution, and my heart stopped. I wanted to skip over it, but Mrs. Lang read it out loud over my shoulder. “Three, learn the truth about Paul Classified.”

  Hillary thinks Paul’s secret is spies and high adventure: traitorous sales of computer chips to the Soviet Union, with pressure put on the family by kidnapping sweet innocent little Candy. Ansley thinks that Paul may have a dread disease, Billy Torello thinks that Paul’s family sells drugs.

  Paul was just left holding the bag. When we went through all that horror with my father, and all his drinking problems, I had my mother, and all four of my grandparents, and a bunch of cousins and friends to take me through it. Paul has nobody.

  I give Paul credit. When everyone else abandoned Mrs. Smith, he wouldn’t.

  I don’t have a crush on Paul Classified any more. I just plain love him. For his sense of responsibility. What an odd reason to love.

  “Paul Classified will never tell us a thing,” I said firmly. “Now listen up, everybody, because here are my resolutions.” I used my TV commentator’s voice, to make my list sound as important as Central American politics. “Emily Weinstein, her list. One, be nicer to my disgusting, revolting little brother. Two, get on honor roll and stay there. Three, go out with Donny Donnelly.”

  “Ooooh, you like him?” said Hillary in disgust.

  I have no interest in Donny whatsoever, it was just a name to put down instead of Paul R. Smith. I was getting all excited about talking to Mr. Lowe. How would I get him alone? Even Mrs. Lowe can never get hold of Mr. Lowe—he’s always out of the country.

  I said to Jennie, “Lemme see your list, Star of the East.” I tugged her index card from between her fingers. Even Jennie’s handwriting has more character than anybody else’s. Bold, firm writing, with the straight tails of letters like y and g slicing down the page. And oh, that first resolution took my mind off Paul in a hurry. For Jennie’s first resolution was “Be number three in The Awesome Threesome again.” I swallowed hard. Hill and I had ganged up against her. And whose fault was that? It really wasn’t Jennie’s fault that she had more of the cake, and the best icing, and the thickest filling. Jennie just came that way. No more than it’s Paul’s fault that his real mother is horrible, his little sister is worse, his father vanished, and his poor stepmother is falling apart. How could one person have so much go wrong in his world? I guess it’s no different from Jennie, who has so much go right in her world.

  I felt almost soft toward Jennie. But, of course, for Hillary nothing was different. Hill swirled the cooled-off chocolate in her mug. Hill said, “First time you’ve been willing to be number three, Jennie.” Her voice was baiting; there was no friendship in it.

  Everybody laughed uneasily.

  I looked back down at Jennie’s index card. “Two. Win the National Young Composers Contest.” Oh, Jennie, I thought. My voice felt queer and frozen. “Three,” I read. “Get 800 on my English SATs.”

  The tearjerker movie was suddenly audible. Its dialogue filled the room, along with the crackle of the fire, and the very faintly heard football commentary from upstairs. It’s all right to have wall-to-wall success … as long as you stop at one room. But when—tell me, when?—did Jennie ever know enough to stop?

  There was a fourth resolution, although Mrs. Lang had said that three were plenty. Jennie, being Jennie, could never stop when anybody else did. “Four,” I read, and Hillary’s tight face got tighter, and thinner. “Win Paul Classified over.”

  It made Paul sound like a game. A game Jennie would win because she always had to come in first. Paul—who stayed a secret because he was cracking, not because he was tough.

  Jennie, Jennie, I thought. You think Paul is like you: a blazing torch who just happens to avoid the center stage. But he’s not. He’s cold ashes, he’s burned away, there’s nothing left now but the sense of duty.

  I folded the index card in half to cover up the resolutions. Then I folded it in half again to prevent myself from ripping it up.

  “Why don’t you add a fifth resolution?” said Hillary, her voice full of rage and pain. “Show up all my friends would be a good resolution for you, Jennie,” said Hillary. “Make them look stupid and dull would be a good resolution for you, Jennie. Of course that’s your resolution every day, isn’t it, Jennie Quint? You’d better think of a fifth resolution, Jennie Quint, and maybe a sixth because so far it’s just the same as last year, Jennie Quint! Be better than anybody else.”

  Skiing makes me hot and sweaty, but the laughter of friends made me warm.

  They took me back. The Awesome Threesome existed again. Laughing, jostling, slipping, sliding.

  Friends, I thought joyously. We’re friends again. After a whole day of thin ice (under the skis and in our conversations) a whole day of feeling as if Emily and Hill were my parole officers—oh, how I loved it! Lying on the rug like old times, Mrs. Lang supervising the fun as if we were still little kids cutting out construction paper.

  But in the end I blew it.

  I wrote down what I really wanted for my resolutions. When will I learn that nobody on this earth wants honesty?

  Only ten minutes after I made it, my first resolution failed. “But you weren’t serious about wanting the Awesome Threesome to exist anyhow,” said Hillary viciously. “And you’d never be serious about being third, Jennie Quint.” Hillary flicked the white index card toward me. It twisted once in the air and fell on the rug by my fingers. “Show-off,” said Hillary, in a thi
n, angry voice.

  I choked on the tears, fighting them, almost hitting my eyes with my fists to stop them. “I am not a show-off! I just—I’m only—”

  But I did not know what to say next. If we took an exam, and I scored lower, I could safely say, “I’m worse than you are.” But it’s never all right to say, “I’m better than you are.”

  Emily rolled over until she was lying next to Hillary, and I was alone on the far side of the room.

  The resolutions literally lay between us.

  At last this so-called vacation is almost over. Used to like vacations. Used to like being home. Used to have a home.

  Candy came to visit December 26th.

  She was there too. She had the nerve to tell me I’m acting “immaturely” about this whole thing. I wanted to say, “Hey, I haven’t killed you or anything. I think that’s very mature of me.”

  When she was gone, I put Candy in the car and we drove to the psychiatric hospital to visit Mom. I can hardly stand to drive in the gates. No place was ever so obviously what this is. A place to stick mental cases you can’t handle at home.

  Candy was all bubbly about what fun she’s having in her new life. What was I supposed to say to my sister? “I’m glad you’re having fun, Candy, you’ve killed Mom, but hey, what’s another mother in the debris of life?”

  I thought of calling Emily.

  I didn’t.

  I couldn’t trust my father or my sister, so what makes me think I could trust anybody else? There isn’t anybody to trust.

  Maybe not even me.

  Mom doesn’t trust me.

  Every time I visit she looks at me with those starved eyes and doesn’t trust me to show up again tomorrow.

  Morning … A New Year. And it feels new! New-fallen snow, new moon, new record low. New clothes, almost-new haircut.

  New knowledge.

  Of me, of friendship, of Paul.

  I can’t wait to get back to school—see Paul—find out how his mother is doing—be his friend.

  Ansley yelled at me for wearing colors that look lousy on me, so for once I took her advice instead of Hill’s. I’m going to wear a pale gray cardigan, very oversize (my mother’s) with a dark gray and black plaid shirt under it (Ansley’s) and earrings in twisted silver ribbons (Ansley’s mother’s) and gray jeans (mine). In the mirror I look petite and tailored and special.

  Oh, this morning, I’m glad to be me!

  Paul and I share the secret now, and we’ll be friends. And maybe we’ll be more than friends.

  I’m writing in the car while Hill drives. The Quints pass us. Mrs. Quint drives very fast. Jennie looked into our car and waved. My hand came up to wave back but Hillary said, “Em, don’t start. It’s a New Year. Without her.”

  I thought Hill said, “Without hurt.”

  Yes.

  Let’s all have a New Year without hurt.

  Evening … What good are the perfect clothes if the boy you adore doesn’t one single time look in your direction?

  Fans.

  I actually have fans.

  Sophomores crowded around me, asking questions, bubbling with the excitement of it all. “We hear you might be getting the pageant published!” they cried. “Is it true?”

  Attention is like getting a tan: you feel all hot and glorious. I could bask in it, like summer sun. Of course, as far as Hillary and Emily are concerned, ye season it was winter.

  Why is it the strangers who rejoice for me?

  Oh, Paul! Paul Classified, why don’t you want me? I thought we were two of a kind! I thought when I asked you out, you would sigh with relief, because you need me as much as I need you.

  But I was wrong.

  You don’t need me any more than Hill or Em does.

  Of course, my parents rejoice. Smiles of pride wreathe their faces like the green holly on the door. Yesterday I noticed for the first time that my parents don’t have any photographs of me framed. Just my writing and artwork and music. What I’ve done. Not what I am.

  Dr. Sykes called me out of class. “Report immediately to the office.” I thought somebody had been in a car accident, and I raced down to the office, a headache already throbbing.

  He wants me to take the examination for Connecticut Star Student. This award is given to twenty students statewide every year. Our high school is the fourth largest in the state but we haven’t had a winner in seven years. You have to have all sorts of academic and activity stuff on your record, but you also have to do very well on an exam they give up in Hartford.

  Dr. Sykes (he never says Mr. Sykes, or Jimmy Sykes—it’s always Dr. Sykes and he strokes both syllables like a puppy: Doctor Sykes) says to me, “Jennie, dear, you have an excellent chance. And it means being on television, being interviewed for Connecticut Magazine, being interviewed again in the newspapers—that was a lovely article about you and your pageant, my dear—and of course, a fine monetary award for college, which you hardly need, but which will be nice anyhow.”

  I said, “I thought that only seniors qualified for it.”

  “No,” he said. “Usually it takes four years of high school to compile a track record good enough, but you’ve been so outstanding you could make it as a junior. Then you’d have a chance of winning again as a senior—which would be a Connecticut first!”

  Oh, how my parents would love that!

  Their daughter, a Connecticut first.

  But there was one little problem. “Math,” I said to Dr. Sykes. “I’m not good at math. I’ll score low.”

  “No problem,” he said. “We’ll have you tutored.”

  Somebody sent an anonymous letter to Mr. Lowe to ask him to help Paul R. Smith! Mr. Lowe showed us the first sentence to see if we could recognize the handwriting! About the only thing we could say for sure is—it’s not Jennie Quint’s—her handwriting is too distinctive. Otherwise—it could be anybody’s. “Very schoolgirl,” said Mr. Lowe thoughtfully.

  “What does that mean?” I said.

  “Very rounded. Very immature.”

  Jared and I begged to read the rest of the letter, but Mr. Lowe refused. He said it was in the nature of a confidence between client and lawyer.

  “You can’t have an anonymous client,” said Jared.

  Mr. Lowe stared at the contents of the letter. “I rather think I do,” he said, and he folded the letter over, and slid it into his breast pocket. Jared and I stared at its white tips, as if it were forbidden fruit.

  Mr. Lowe learned some stuff about Paul very quickly—just a few phone calls. When I’m grown up, my life will be like that. A few well-placed phone calls to my fascinating friends, and I’ll know everything there is to know.

  But when we asked what he found out, Mr. Lowe refused to say a single word. “Paul has an unfortunate number of problems. I think I’ll have to keep the information classified.”

  Jared and I laughed until we cried. “You picked the right word, Dad,” said Jared.

  I’ve tried diaries before and I give up after about three nights of entries. It’s a month now, and I haven’t skipped a night. I think it’s because of the ordinariness of the notebook. The lovely leather-bound one was no good because my thoughts were too boring to be written on such perfect paper. The Judy Blume one, the Girl Scout one, the five-year one with its little lock and key—they were no good because they were too cute and I felt stupid even opening them. But this plain stenography notebook, with its spiral binding on top, its ugly pages: somehow it’s comforting, and welcoming, and a good place to write. I am really getting into this.

  I don’t like the word “diary.” It feels too junior high. I want to call it a journal. More sophisticated, I think.

  The journal organizes how I feel about each day.

  Was something important enough to write about?

  Yes or no?

  But of course if it’s really important, I only sort of write about it. The truly truly personal parts I would never write down. I wonder if other people are writing down the really per
sonal things.

  The truly personal part today was me and Jared. In place of words, I will use stars. This was a ************ afternoon. Enough written down!

  God, God, God, God, God!

  I don’t know if I’m swearing or praying.

  Maybe it’s always that way when I say God’s name. Who found out? Who told?

  Called to the office—cops there—social worker there—guidance counsellors there—I take one look and I let myself freeze over. They won’t reach me. I’m ice.

  “You’re living alone, Paul,” they say. Understandingly. I hate people who try to understand. If I can’t understand, how do they dare try? “Boys of sixteen cannot live by themselves,” they say. “Now where exactly are your parents?”

  I tell them that is not their business. The way my parents and I choose to conduct our lives is private. For a moment this stops them. But only for a moment. The interrogation begins.

  What—do they think I murdered my family and buried them in the basement?

  At least I know it’s not Emily who told, because then they’d know more. They don’t even know where my mother is. And if they find out where my father is, I wouldn’t mind knowing that myself.

  I sit tight, I’m polite, I do nothing. They even call in Miss MacBeth because they know I like her—do they keep little files going?—which teacher does the kid trust? Because we may want a little leverage one day. I smile at Miss MacBeth because I do like her, but I say nothing. And I know now that no diary of mine gets passed in to anybody.

  But something really queer has happened with this diary.

  I need it.

  If I can’t set down what happened in the day I feel like I’m going to suffocate.

  It’s you and me against the world, book.

  Jennie flirted again today.

  I held myself back. Easier than it was last time. I have enough energy now for just one person, and if I’m not okay around her, she’ll lose it completely.