Friend Me

by Sheila M. Averbuch

  Roisin … I’m sorry.

  Do you have to go? Maybe she’s supposed to be at Zara’s bedside, giving her sips of water or whatever.

  No, I mean—at the party. When you told me what Zara did to you. In the bathroom. I said the wrong thing, didn’t I?

  I push out a breath. It feels so good to hear that, at last. It’s fine, I type back to Lily. I took you by surprise. Myself, too. Didn’t mean to tell u.

  I’m glad you did! You’ve got to tell a teacher, too. No one should be attacked like that.

  Lily’s right. I look around the bathroom, with its slippy floor. It happened right here. I won’t forgive Zara. I can’t. I swallow hard. Zara was horrible to me, I type. But I feel awful that she’s hurt. It’s complicated.

  I scrub my forehead. Lily will think I’m a monster. If only I could talk to Haley about this. But she’s acting like she’s glad Zara’s suffering—maybe because she’s not totally over that horrible girl, Coral. These mean girls: They really mess with your head.

  I get it, Lily says. I talked to Zara on Saturday, after that stupid post about your brother. She owes you a big apology, for everything. It’s just—she’s not even conscious right now.

  The bell screams suddenly, and I jump off the shelf. I text Lily that I’ve gtg and dive into the corridor crush, pushing my way back to Art for my bag. The substitute teacher gives me an earful for disappearing for twenty minutes, and I mutter an apology, but I’m not even looking at her, I’m making myself check You-chat and Haley’s messages. There are loads.

  U there?

  Ro, msg me when you get this

  Hello, are you dead?

  Either her teachers in Maine don’t care who’s on their phone, or Hales is good at hiding hers, because the timestamps are all through the day, when she’s obvs in class.

  When I reach the bus, I flop into the front seat and dash her a message. Haley, SORRY, loads of drama today. How r you?

  I don’t wait for her answer but flick through other stuff I’ve missed. A text from Mum, to say she’s thinking of me. Which is nice. One from Dad, too. Seems like they’re glad it wasn’t their daughter who fell off a balcony.

  My phone rings. Unrecognized number. For an instant, I wonder if it’s Haley, but Jeeves’s familiar voice sounds in my earbuds. “It’s a call from Jors Kuypers, a contact from You-chat. Should I put it through?”

  I say okay, and Jors’s face and floppy blond fringe appear. “Good afternoon, Roisin! How would you like some good news about de study?”

  The what? Slowly, my brain catches up. I haven’t thought about Jors or my random trip to City University of Lowell since things got so crazy. “Sure, go on.”

  “Okay! I am sending you your voucher for the part two, and we’re doubling it to one hundred twenty dollars, because your usage levels are nice and high—about six hundred megabytes a day. Good job!”

  You-chat, right. Something about tracking my usage and my mood. Wait—did he say one hundred twenty dollars? Whoa. I can buy another couple outfits and new makeup; my eyebrow pencil is a scratchy stub.

  “Ah, but—you weren’t on the app today very much.” Jors looks like he’s waiting for an explanation. I almost laugh. “Hey, use your phone more.” It’s the opposite of what every other adult says.

  “Is that a problem?” I ask.

  He tilts his head in a way that could mean maybe. “It’s a learning algorithm, it needs de data, so—yes. Your usage today is”—he looks down—“almost zero. So. I call to check is anything wrong.”

  I don’t know what to say, and the bus is slowing for my stop. I grab my bags and stand up. “I need to run, sorry.”

  Jors gives a don’t-worry wave. He says he’ll send me the payment and tells me to keep up the good work.

  As I climb our hill, what he said niggles at me. Is that what I’m doing—working for Jors? I’m mentally spending his money already, mostly on M•A•C. But I can’t shake the feeling that something is off. Everything feels off today: not chatting to Haley, and Jors pushing me to use You-chat, and the image my brain keeps flashing of Zara falling. I can’t grasp what’s wrong, but it’s like I can smell it, like a whiff of smoke in the house.

  I shiver and realize that actual smoke drifts from our neighbor’s chimney. More freak Massachusetts weather. I zip my hoodie. The temperature’s dropped fifteen degrees. Dad couldn’t cope with the weather when he first lived here, either; he met Mum when they were students at Harvard, in a snowstorm. Dad had no winter coat, because he was too Irish to think he’d need one. I can get Dad a proper birthday present now, thanks to Jors.

  I sigh and open You-chat again. Jors is right; I’ve hardly looked at it today. And I’ve left Haley hanging. She’s typing another message as I watch—about a boy who sits behind her in Chemistry.

  Good looking? I type.

  Haley gives me a shrug emoji. Kinda. He’s nice and he makes me laugh. She pauses. It’s good to talk to u. Missed u today. She adds a teardrop face.

  I’m the worst friend. Haley’s been so supportive, and now I’m avoiding her, just because she’s a bit hard-core about Zara. I scan her other messages: She must’ve thought I ghosted her. Sorry, sorry, sorry, Haley. After all she’s been through with Coral, I don’t want her to think I’m abandoning her. I read everything I’ve missed, but keep zipping back to the live chat, so she’ll know I’m listening.

  I want to ask him to the Memorial Day dance. Would that be weird?

  Go for it, I type. You don’t get what you want in life by sitting around hoping. I scroll back farther, to be sure I’ve seen all her messages, and my heart just about stops.

  A rock should fall from space and flatten her in her bed.

  SHE should fall from space

  Into boiling oil.

  Or sharks. Sharks are always good.

  My breath catches in my chest. I’m shaking as I flick back to Mara’s picture of Zara at the hospital.

  Panic climbs my throat as I scan the latest comments. Mara keeps saying she saw me grab Zara, right before she fell. Lily tells them they’re being insane, and even Nita pipes up to say she watched the whole thing, and I was nowhere near Zara when it happened.

  Well the cops wanna talk to everyone, Mara says. That’s what I heard.

  Good, someone says. They can go all LAW AND ORDER on her butt.

  It’s like someone’s punched through my chest and grabbed my heart. I stop to lean against the oak tree. I scroll frantically through the stream, but there’s no more mention of cops. I pray Mara’s making that up. But everyone’s heard the stories: bullied kids try to kill themselves, and then police find the cruel stuff people said to them online. If they investigate Zara’s accident, they’ll see I promised to tear her head off. They could demand all my DMs, too—even the jokey messages about Zara dying.

  Falling and dying.

  I jump as the phone buzzes again. Good thinking. I think I will ask him to the dance. See? U are awesome.

  I don’t tell my thumb to do it, but I press, hold, delete each Zara revenge-fantasy message I sent Haley. My heart gallops like fury. Now there’s a weird one-sided conversation with just Haley’s messages, because I can only erase my own. Unfortunately.

  I stumble toward our house.

  “Mission Control to Roisin. Come in, Roisin.” Michael hisses pretend-static into his fist. He stands in our doorway, grinning. He drops the NASA voice. “You’ve got a face like a funeral. Cheer up! We’re going to another par-tay.” He waves his phone. “Hiro said his dad’s arranged to take us all to Maine for Memorial Day weekend, because the mother-units have to work. Their family has a holiday house in someplace called”—he checks his screen—“Old Orchard Beach. Ever heard of it?”

  I stare at Michael. A hundred thoughts rip through me. Haley lives in Old Orchard Beach. I have to meet her. Warn her. God, I don’t even know what I’ll say. But every fiber in me screams that Haley and I both need to erase these messages about Zara now, before we get hauled into some police st
ation, like every American cop show I’ve ever seen. I can’t text Haley about this; that would only leave more messages, all about the same thing … we wanted Zara to suffer. A lot.

  “Yes. Okay. Good,” I stammer, and nudge past Michael up the stairs to our flat.

  He follows me. “Do you mean actual good, or, ‘Good, it’s just a flesh wound’? Because you look awful.”

  “Thanks a million.”

  Michael is still behind me when I shut my bedroom door in his face. “Okay!” he calls. “Good chat!”

  I don’t have brain space even to be annoyed with his chronic cheeriness. But, oh, to be Michael. My round room lets me pace without stopping, but I’m soon dizzy and sick with it, or maybe it’s the guilt, which is drowning me now—even though I didn’t do a thing to Zara.

  Hales, I type, and hesitate. How in the world do I say this? YOU WILL NEVER GUESS where I’m going this weekend.

  Paris? Tokyo? The Moon? She sends an Eiffel Tower emoji, sushi, a crescent moon.

  I laugh. All places she knows I’m dying to visit.

  Old Orchard Beach!!!!

  I stare at my screen, waiting for the fireworks and party hats. There’s a pause.

  But you dont have a car.

  This is still true. Eastborough is filled with kids whose parents have holiday homes in New Hampshire or Cape Cod or wherever. They pile into their giant cars and roar up the motorway every weekend to hang out somewhere better. Michael and I mostly sit around like car-less losers.

  Lily’s dad is driving. They have a place at the beach. Check it! I flip back to Lily’s timeline on You-chat, to the beachy pics I liked way back when. I can’t believe I’m going to stay there. I ping Haley the link. I’m still waiting for her yay! It doesn’t come.

  LILY? Ro. Lily’s queen of mean. WHAT R U DOING?

  I shake my head. Haley doesn’t see how decent Lily’s been. I’ve already told Haley I made a mistake: Lily wasn’t the one who canceled our plans when I first got here, it was loopy Zara, sending fake messages from Lily’s phone. But Haley seems to like Lily less and less. This is jealousy, I’m sure of it.

  She’s nice, Hales, really. But listen—you know you’re my bestie, right? We haven’t said that yet to each other, but now feels like the right time.

  For real? Haley includes hearts and stars. Because ur mine, too.

  I smile. Come on, this will be awesome. What’s good to do in Old Orchard Beach?

  We trade messages about cool stuff to do, like the funfair rides and something called a clam roll, which sounds revolting, but I’ll try it. Haley sounds like a guidebook; she obviously loves the place. Stick with me, she says. Vacationers like your little friend don’t know the best parts of OOB.

  Haley’s like this all week. More digs at Lily, who she insists is fake. It’s horrible, feeling torn between them.

  Lily is psyched about the trip. Zara is recovering quickly, so that worry’s off her mind. She really wanted our mums to come, but they’re doing something critical at the lab, even though Memorial Day is apparently some sacred American barbecue weekend when no one works. Hiro and Michael keep texting about their plans for the beach. I’m the only one who’s all conflicted.

  I haven’t told Lily I’m seeing Haley. Mixing friends never works. And I couldn’t trust Haley not to be super rude, if they did meet. I obviously haven’t told Haley we need to delete those messages on her phone, either, or that police might be getting involved. I’ll say it when I see her: We’re meeting at the school dance, where Haley’s invited that boy from her Chem class. Between Lily and Haley, my head is mush, trying to remember what secrets I’m keeping from each of them.

  But that weirdness is nothing compared to the nightmare school has become. Nobody’s been contacted by the police—yet—but I’ve become the punching bag. Between classes I keep my eyes on the ground, but it’s hard to ignore what everyone’s saying, to my face and on You-chat: I’m a crazy Irish assassin who’s obsessed with Zara. I threatened her once and probably did it again, scaring Zara into falling off the balcony.

  Lily says to ignore them, and they’ll be gossiping about something different tomorrow, but she’s not the one getting PSYCHO notes in her locker (someone has learned how to spell it).

  And then there’s Mara. She roams the halls like she’s recently widowed, pale and shocked, stopping to accept sympathy or trade information about Zara’s recovery in exchange for big-eyed hugs. I try to arrange my face in an expression that says, I’m genuinely freaked by what happened and am definitely not hiding any morbid jokes about Zara dying. If anyone knew about the messages Haley and I sent, we’d be arrested. I’m sure of it.

  My nerves are shot, and by Wednesday I’m in floods of tears after History; my horrible teacher will fail me if I don’t give her my World War II project outline by the end of the day. Huddling in the loos again, I write to Haley. I haven’t messaged her much today—her anti-Lily rants are stressing me out—but I need a Haley pep talk now. I’m becoming the worst kind of friend, the kind who dumps on you when they’re down and ignores you the rest of the time. But Haley isn’t mad; she even offers to help, saying she just did World War II in her school.

  An hour later, my phone buzzes, and I can’t believe what I’m looking at: Haley’s sent a list of everything I should cover in my report on Pearl Harbor. It’s utterly perfect—I can just hand this in as my outline. Tysm!!! I don’t deserve u, I say, swallowing down tears.

  No bother, she answers, and I smile; she’s sounding Irish again. It’s what friends do. And hey! I can’t wait to see u!

  By the time we’re piled into Mr. Tanaka’s Lexus SUV on Friday afternoon, flying up Interstate 95 to Maine, I still haven’t told Lily my plans. Hiro and Michael are like giddy six-year-olds, punching each other in the arms as part of some highway game. Lily’s up front with her dad, so it’s just me and my guilt in the back, watching the boys mess about, avoiding my phone.

  I squirm in my seat. I must be the only person who’s ever been uncomfortable in this much leathery luxury. Lily has been so nice, but I can’t possibly tell her about seeing Haley. I need to get my best friend to delete the messages about wanting your best friend to die, if that’s cool with you? I’m rubbish at lying. If I tell Lily anything, I’ll spill everything. No. The only way is to keep my mouth closed and slip out of the house tonight, somehow.

  Haley knows I’m meeting her at her school’s dance but not why. I am so excited to finally hang out with her. She’s been my north, south, east, and west through the whole Zara drama. She realized that her hard-core comments about Zara’s accident freaked me out, and she hasn’t said anything else like that. What she has done, though, is all these little kindnesses that only a best friend who really knows you would think of. There was another one this morning: an easy pasta recipe with chili and garlic that Haley found; she knows Mum’s never around to cook.

  The SUV finally pulls off the highway and weaves through streets of blocky wooden houses. Old Orchard Beach looks like Eastborough, but more basic: not many houses have gardens, giving the place a city-center feel, though it’s a small town. Mr. Tanaka parks outside a two-story shack that looks like a stiff breeze could blow it down.

  Hiro and Michael have reached peak toddler mode: Michael snatches Hiro’s baseball cap and races to the door. The tang of sea hits the back of my throat: I think of last summer and language camp in Connemara, stumbling around trying to ask for Cokes and sweets at the shops in our basic Irish. There’s another smell of home, too.

  “Am I smelling chips? Fries, I mean?” I follow Lily toward the shack, which I realize isn’t the holiday home, as I’d stupidly thought, but a restaurant. My tummy creases with hunger and I sniff at the fried air.

  Lily stretches toward the watery-blue sky, then rests an arm around my shoulder. “I literally dream about this place.”

  “Best fish and chips in the world.” Mr. Tanaka grins and gestures me through the door.

  “And OH-migod, the lobster rolls?” H
iro calls back to us, putting on a fake teen-girl voice that makes Michael laugh. He sits at a picnic table by a window that looks onto a tangle of metal arches. It takes my brain a second to figure out what the strange scaffolding is.

  “Is that a roller coaster?” Michael’s face looks like it’s Christmas. “We have to go!” It is a roller coaster. This must be the funfair Haley meant. The coaster rises high over an amusement park that’s plonked right in the middle of town. It looks like it’s filled with classic rides, the kind that swing and fling you around, although they’re motionless now.

  Hiro nods. “It should open for the season this weekend. The roller coaster’s the best, isn’t it, Lil?”

  Lily laughs. “You get sick on it every time.”

  “I’ve got a good feeling about this year.” Hiro nods at the waitress, who gives us a super-bright American smile and a friendliness that’s genuine, I realize, when she hugs Mr. Tanaka.

  I’ve never tasted lobster in my life, but it’s so good: pinky chunks of it burst out of a buttered hot dog bun that’s almost too big to hold, and it’s tossed in some dressing that is life-changingly delicious, like Hiro promised. The chips taste just like home.

  I watch Lily paint circles in her ketchup with a chip, giggling at Michael. There’s something more relaxed about her here, like Maine is her happy place. I can’t help feeling it, too. Maybe it’s the seagulls, or the beach air, or the chilled-out smiles of everyone around, but the tension ebbs out of me. Old Orchard Beach feels like somewhere that good times have seeped right into the floorboards, the memories of a million summer days.

  Everyone knows Lily’s family. The owner comes to our table, wiping his palms on his apron, to shake Mr. Tanaka’s hand. Later, at an ice-cream stand down the road, the lady giving us our cones asks about Lily’s mum and quizzes Hiro about college. When I say I feel too stuffed to climb back into the Lexus and ask if we can walk to their holiday house from here, Mr. Tanaka says I’m a genius. He’ll pick up groceries, and we can walk to the cottage.