Frenemies

by Megan Crane

  “Great to see you,” Georgia murmured insincerely, sweeping inside. She, too, had better things to do than wait for Henry’s reply. After all, she’d spent years waiting for Henry.

  Not that Henry cared. His eyes were on me, glowing. With malice, obviously. Later, I would have to check for scorch marks.

  “I’m not sure I deserved all that hostility,” Henry said mildly. “But how are you, Gus?”

  He glided forward to kiss me on the cheek, the treacherous snake, and I smiled as if delighted beyond words and did the same, because I was nothing if not fake in awkward social situations.

  “You look great,” I told him, trying not to think about the fact I was touching him. Anyway, it was true, he really did look great. But then, you would expect Lucifer to be hot. I felt a flash of anger and something like guilt, and ruthlessly repressed it.

  Henry leaned back and just looked at me for a moment, as if waiting for me to say something. As if daring me to say something.

  “Stop looking at me,” I ordered.

  Henry didn’t take orders very well.

  “This is supposed to be a party,” he said. “Do you think you can keep things friendly?” He flashed me as patronizing a smile as I’d ever seen. “Didn’t I hear something about an incident at Gretchen’s party the other night? Another little piece of your heart, I believe?”

  “You’re scum,” I said through a fake smile.

  “It’s good to see you too, Gus,” Henry continued, his eyes especially bright, which always boded ill. “The last time you showed up at my house—”

  “I bet you’ve been waiting at the door all night, hoping you could throw that in my face,” I said. It felt as if he’d sucker punched me. Which I assumed was his goal.

  “Don’t worry.” His eyes felt electric when they swept over me. “I haven’t told anyone.”

  The yet was implied.

  I didn’t wait for more, I just pushed past him and into the house. I had to remind myself to unclench my jaw before something shattered or Amy Lee diagnosed me with Henry-caused lockjaw.

  I risked a glance back anyway and, sure enough, Henry was watching me with that little crook of his mouth that managed somehow to be hotter than a smile. Not that I wanted to notice his hotness, however omnipresent it seemed. I was glad he found himself so funny. Somebody had to.

  I moved carefully through the crowd, which was divided into three different sorts of people:

  There were the Halloween diehards, who painted themselves blue or sported elaborate costumes involving much thought and papier-mâché. These people could often be seen sneering at each other, or saying things like, “Um, I think you’ll find that season four Buffy had the curly hair, which means your season three leather with that hair is totally inappropriate.”

  Then there were the cutely costumed. These were almost all girls—the long-legged, bored-eyed girls Henry collected, for example. They had names like Eleanor or Maggie, and they liked to tell incomprehensible stories about their prep schools, their East Coast elite colleges, and their summers on the Cape or in Maine. And for Halloween, they liked to dress in pretty or slutty outfits that accentuated their bodies, so they could flaunt themselves in front of anyone who cared to look.

  The other group—the majority I was pleased to be a part of, as I had no desire to attract any further attention to myself—had foregone costumes altogether.

  I found my friends huddled in a corner about three feet from the bar. Georgia handed me a martini without comment. I made a face and handed it back to her.

  “Please,” I scoffed. “After my last outing? I’ll have water, thanks.”

  Georgia rolled her eyes, and poured my drink into hers without a word. Amy Lee waved her hand at the room and sighed.

  “This is lame,” she said. “I don’t know anyone. And if I were almost thirty years old and wearing Quidditch robes, I don’t think I’d laugh way too loud like those guys by the window.”

  “I hate Henry,” I said, without sparing a glance for the fully dressed and decorated Gryffindor Quidditch team, complete with broomsticks and goggles. “It’s like someone showed him Pretty in Pink at an impressionable age and he’s been channeling James Spader ever since.”

  “Oh, good movie,” Georgia murmured from behind her drink. Because it truly was a great movie and also because, as a redhead, she viewed early Molly Ringwald films as a personal shout-out.

  “Henry wanted to know if I could keep stuff on a happy, party level and not throw any scenes.” I couldn’t let it go. “As if having public dramas is something I really enjoy.”

  “As if you cause the public dramas!” Georgia retorted, scandalized. “And as if Henry, who is himself a public drama, should comment!”

  I was more than prepared to throw myself into an orgy of trash-talking, as usual, but Amy Lee had other ideas.

  “There was a really cool restaurant in DailyCandy today, did you guys see it?” she asked. “Some Asian fusion thing, very hip, apparently. I think we should check it out.”

  I couldn’t process the change in subject. I drank my water in a big gulp and put my glass back on the bar.

  “I feel oppressed by DailyCandy,” Georgia confessed with a sigh. “Isn’t that terrible? Every morning my in-box is swamped with a level of coolness I can’t attain. Restaurants I will never eat at, clothes I will never buy—I can’t take the pressure!”

  “You could—I don’t know—cancel your subscription,” I suggested. “No one’s forcing you to read it.”

  “And then what? Accept that I’m intimidated by daily e-mails?” Georgia shook her head.

  “I think you’re overthinking the DailyCandy,” Amy Lee said. “And I’m making reservations for us because I don’t care if we’re almost thirty—we are that cool.”

  “If you say so,” Georgia said, but her expression said something else. “But I’m warning you right now, I’m not dressing up like one of those Simpson chicks just to blend in.”

  The image of Georgia dressed as Ashlee Simpson was one I knew I would treasure for years to come. I could feel myself grinning.

  “Because normally, you blend so well?” Amy Lee eyed her. “Since six-foot redheads are so common here in Boston?”

  “I’m five-ten, thank you,” Georgia retorted. “And don’t pretend you’re not jealous. You dream of reaching five feet, and that’s when you have heels on!”

  “I’m five-two!” Amy Lee cried. Georgia just looked at her. “Fine. Five-one and seven-eighths.”

  “And those seven-eighths make a huge difference,” I added, and laughed. “They elevate Amy Lee far above the usual short person.”

  So it made sense that just then, just as Amy Lee made a rude gesture and I was beginning to think it was safe to be back in that house, something caught my eye from across the room.

  Sure enough, there was Nate, standing at the foot of the stairs that led up to his rooms on the top floor. He scanned the crowd, and then turned back to take the arm of the woman behind him—as if precious Helen couldn’t be expected to maintain her own balance without his assistance.

  I watched as Helen whispered something into Nate’s ear, something that made him smile and noticeably squeeze her hand oh-so-supportively. I racked my brain, and couldn’t think of a single time Nate ever squeezed my hand. He liked to hold hands, though—and play with my fingers as he did so, as if each curve of each fingerprint was individually fascinating to him.

  I must have had some of my feelings on that subject plastered across my face, because when Helen’s gaze drifted to mine, she blinked. And then she smiled.

  Directly at me.

  “What was that?” I demanded out of the corner of my mouth.

  “Ignore it,” Amy Lee advised at once.

  “Seriously,” Georgia agreed. “Fuck her and her sweet little smiles—”

  “Yeah, but . . . guys?” I was at a complete loss. “She’s coming over here.”

  Impossible, but true. I watched as Helen detached herself fro
m Nate and made her way through the party. Okay, I told myself, I was standing right next to the bar. Maybe Helen had as much interest in talking to me as I did in talking to her—which was to say, none at all. Maybe the bitch was just thirsty.

  That sinking feeling in my stomach, however, knew better.

  “You have to hand it to her,” Oscar said then. “She has balls.”

  “My ex-boyfriend’s balls, to be precise,” I snapped.

  From across the room, I could see that Henry’s smirk had sharpened as he watched the show. Terrific, I thought. Another drama for him to witness and then use to mock me.

  And then Helen Fairchild, that girl in all her glory, was standing directly in front of me. Close enough so I could notice that her peach camisole top really suited her. I also noticed that she’d attached wispy little fairy wings to her back, the better to look ethereal and fetching. I wanted to smack her.

  “Gus!” she said in her sweet, almost breathy voice, the one that inspired otherwise perfectly normal men to spring to her aid like some kind of modern-day white knights. The idiots. “I’m so glad you came!”

  I heard what sounded suspiciously like a guffaw from Amy Lee, and I could feel the chill emanating from Georgia, but I knew better than to look at either of them. Despite some behavior that might suggest otherwise, this wasn’t actually the seventh grade.

  “Hey, Helen,” I managed, with what I thought was extraordinary calm. Given the circumstances.

  She reached over and grabbed my hands in hers, and I had to order myself not to leap back in fright. It was a close call. I really didn’t like her touching me. For all sorts of reasons, but not least because she had her usual perfect manicure and I knew my own nails were in their perpetual state of scraggly disrepair. Like I needed further reasons to feel inadequate.

  “Come on,” she said.

  At that point, I went into what I can only describe as an out-of-body experience. Because I didn’t jerk away from her, or tell her where she could go. I just let her lead me away from the party, to a secluded little corner of the unused sewing room—once Henry’s grandmother’s refuge, if I remembered the story correctly. And if Henry’s grandfather was anything like Henry, I could definitely see the need for refuge.

  I stopped contemplating Henry’s family tree and shifted my gaze to Helen, who sat down uncomfortably close to me on the rigid little settee. Her wing scraped against my shoulder.

  “What was the other night all about?” Helen asked, gazing at me with what looked like pity. Of all horrible things. “Gus.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to scare you, or make you angry, but I wanted you to know I’m a little worried about you. A lot worried, to be honest.”

  Oh my God.

  She wasn’t trying to apologize, which I’d sort of assumed she’d been planning. Because she had to at least pretend to be sorry, didn’t she? This, however, sounded much more like tough love than the tearful appeal to my tender sensibilities I’d had every intention of throwing back in her face.

  This wasn’t going to be tearful at all, at least not on Helen’s part. Not if I read that tone of hers correctly.

  This was an intervention.

  chapter four

  An impromptu Janis Joplin karaoke intervention, for God’s sake.

  My life was a sad, sad farce.

  “Worried about me?” I echoed her stupidly. “What?”

  “Worried,” Helen said firmly. She reached over and took my hand. I stared down at her pale, manicured fingers as they closed over my scraggly ones. “I know you, Gus. I know it’s just not like you to make such a fool of yourself in public.”

  The clincher was the tone she used, the one that suggested we were such close, deep friends that she felt comfortable saying these potentially hurtful things.

  “If you know me so well,” I managed to get out past my brain’s inability to accept that this conversation was happening, “I’m curious why you didn’t foresee the fact that I wouldn’t react too well to you stealing my boyfriend.”

  To my surprise, and eternal horror, my eyes welled up when I said it. I looked away. I would scratch my eyes out with my own scraggly fingers before I’d let her see me cry.

  “Oh, Gus.” She sighed. “I don’t think ‘steal’ is the right word, but you can use it if you need to.”

  I wanted very much to stand up then. I wanted to leap to my feet, actually, and scream at her. But I was afraid that if I moved—even just a jerk of the hand to make her stop touching me—I wouldn’t stop at screaming.

  I breathed in, and then out. I forced myself to count, very slowly, to twenty. Then thirty. Then, hell, fifty—

  “You can’t say I didn’t try,” Helen said, getting to her feet. She finally let go of my hand and I cradled it with my other, uncontaminated one. “We’re too good friends for me to let something as crazy as that performance just slide by. I hope you know, both Nate and I were scared for you. You should think about that.”

  I wanted to tell her that Nate hadn’t sounded too thrilled with her when he’d spoken to me that night. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more it seemed as if what Nate had been saying was that I was too good for him, which meant Helen was just dirty enough. I would have told her all that—happily—except there was still too much moisture around my eyes and I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea.

  “Fine,” Helen said. “Be this way, if you need to.” She shrugged—audibly, thanks to her wings—and then flounced out the door.

  I just sat there for a moment and tried not to scream.

  The fact was, I’d been concentrating a whole lot on Nate’s part of this mess. How my boyfriend could have left me, how I hadn’t noticed that he was cheating on me, etc. The usual stuff. I was hurt and confused, sure. But really? It was Helen I wanted to kill.

  It didn’t matter that on occasion she drove me insane. We were friends. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t the kind of friendship I had with Amy Lee and Georgia, or that no one seemed to understand that, even if it was different, it was real. Helen and I had lived in the same room for ten months. We’d been eighteen and away from home for the first time together. She taught me the secrets of applying eyeliner and mascara, and I taught her how to cook pancakes and make chocolate chip cookies from scratch. We lived on ramen noodles and microwave popcorn for the entire month of March that year. I knew that she had bad dreams sometimes and that she’d regretted losing her virginity to that guy in high school because she’d really liked his best friend better. How could all of those things be true? How could she have done something so horrible to me when she was part of that history?

  And more to the point, how dare she talk to me as if she were on some moral high ground here? Was she completely insane?

  Quivering with fury, and that slippery emotion that had brought tears to my eyes, the one I refused to name, I surged to my feet and headed for the party. I wanted that freaking martini, and I wanted to kill Helen. Not necessarily in that order.

  I was brought up short by the immovable wall of Henry that appeared before me as I walked into the living room. This was evidently not my night.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Henry said, laughing. “I didn’t say a word.”

  “Your nonverbal communication is deafening,” I retorted.

  “I knew Helen wanted to reach out to you,” Henry said, watching me so closely that I was forced to look away. I concentrated on his ever-present selection of bimbos, two of whom hovered just behind him, each dressed as some form of leotard-wearing cat. It was fun to watch them snarl at each other from behind masses of thick, blown-out hair and identical fake smiles.

  Then Henry’s actual words penetrated.

  “Reach out to me?” I echoed. “Are you kidding?”

  “I knew she wanted to,” Henry clarified. “I didn’t realize she wanted to drag you out of the room and be such a drama about it.”

  “Because if you had, you would have leapt right in there and helped me out?” I was as incredulo
us as I was sarcastic. “Because you’re such a Good Samaritan?”

  “The last time I tried to help you—”

  “Good call, Henry,” I snapped. “After a moment of sharing and growing with Helen, what I really want to do is revisit that nightmare. Thanks.”

  There was a moment of silence. His eyes seemed particularly blue, but that could have been the lack of oxygen I was taking in as I fought off hysterics.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” I managed to say after the moment dragged on and became, if possible, even more uncomfortable, “I’ll gather what’s left of my dignity and we can return to our regularly scheduled program of hating each other.”

  “I think you’re a strange one, and I have no clue what goes on in your head,” Henry said, as if he’d given the matter some thought. “But I wouldn’t go so far as to say I hate you. That’s just one of those girl games you like to play.”

  Several feminist enclaves in Cambridge and out in Northampton keeled over and died at that one. I wasn’t sure what it said about me and my commitment to the sisterhood that all I could muster up was an eye roll.

  “Whatever.” I felt surly and ungracious, a feeling I associated with being near Henry.

  He didn’t say another word as I stepped around him, but I was sure I could feel his eyes on me long after I thought he should have looked away.

  This time, when Georgia handed me a drink, I took it.

  I could only hope she was no longer monitoring Henry’s conversations with other women—a reflex she’d maintained for a long time after the worst of the crush had ended—because I felt far too unsettled to discuss it. Especially with Georgia.

  So I told her what Helen had said—and even reenacted the hand-grabbing—and then we stood there in silence for a long moment. Georgia scowled across the room in the general direction of Helen—whose horrible donkey laugh could just be heard now and again, braying above the music.

  “I’m finishing this drink and then I’m out of here” was what I said when I could finally speak.

  “Right after your private moment with Helen? As if she wounded you in some way? As if she was right?” Georgia’s eyes flashed. “No way are we leaving.”