by Jody Gehrman
I wasn’t exactly in a sunny state myself. For starters, Amber is constantly borrowing my clothes, and afterward, instead of hanging them up, she simply surrenders them to the growing miasma of discarded outfits covering every surface of my room. It’s getting so I can’t even think in there! My room, the place that once served as a rare refuge in this godforsaken world, is now a wilderness of dirty laundry.
All the same, I have to admit that having Amber as a live-in best friend has been kind of useful during this post-breakup period. Yes, she’s annoying, and sure, she’s a horrible roommate, but at least I have someone to talk to when I’m itching to send Ben an e-mail that will surely cement my status as pathetic, groveling dumped-girl extraordinaire.
Amber had just given the hippie chick from the health food store her soy chai latte when she spun around and spat out, apropos of nothing, “Look, just admit it: I’m stupid.”
Things were pretty slow, and I was making myself a mocha during the lull. I turned to her, shocked at this non sequitur. “What? Of course you’re not stupid.”
“You say that.” She waved a hand dismissively. “But I know I am.”
“What brought this on?”
She slumped onto the stool, hiding behind her hair. “I got a D on my expository essay. I’m in bonehead English, and I got a D!”
“Did you put a lot of work into it?”
“No. I did it like ten minutes before class. But if I was smart, I wouldn’t have to work at it, right?”
I turned back to my mocha-in-progress. “Amber, you see how much time I put into my homework.”
She sighed. “Yeah. And in a couple years, you’ll be at Yale or wherever and I’ll be . . . I don’t know . . . pumping gas.”
“You’ll be a tattoo artist, right? Isn’t that what you want?”
She picked up her sketchbook from its usual place on the counter and started flipping though it listlessly. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“This whole thing with Rex . . . it’s got me thinking. I mean, I love Floating World and I love tattoos, but maybe I shouldn’t limit myself, you know? Maybe I should go to college.”
I thought about that for a second. Junior year seemed kind of late in the game to suddenly decide you’re college-bound, but then again, people change their plans a lot later than that and sometimes it works. Mom has a friend who managed a hair salon until she was thirty-five, then suddenly decided to be a doctor. Now she’s an intern at the local hospital. When you look at it like that, Amber’s getting a huge head start.
“If you want to go to college, you’ll figure out a way,” I said.
She looked at me. “Really?”
“Of course. Even if you don’t get in straight out of high school, there’s always the JC.”
She looked down at her sketchbook, hiding behind her hair again. “You really think that graphic novel I showed you is any good?”
Something clicked in my brain then. Maybe it should have been obvious before, but all at once I realized something: Amber’s an artist. I can’t really see her as an academic—she’s about as analytical as daytime TV—but it was easy to picture her studying art. “Your graphic novel is amazing! You could totally go to art school. That would be perfect. And who says you have to choose between tattoos and college? You could put yourself through school by doing tattoos on the side, right?”
She looked at me, hope lighting up her eyes. “That’s true. I could do both, huh?”
For the first time in days, I felt almost happy. Sure, I still have a zit the size of Mt. Fuji and my eyebrows look like a couple of twist-ties glued to my forehead—oh, and I totally blew it with the only guy I’ve ever really liked—but I’m a good friend. That’s something, right?
I heard a car drive up and turned around to see Sophie De Luca in her sparkling Merc with Marcy Adams riding shotgun. Good-bye, tentative sense of well-being. Amber and I exchanged a look. I slid open the window and stared Sophie down.
“Hi there. What can I get you?”
She tossed her hair over her shoulder and glanced down at her cell. “Two double macchiatos, please.”
“Coming right up.” I punched their order into the register while Amber started brewing their shots. “That will be six fifty, please.”
Sophie reached into her Gucci bag, extracted a twenty from her wallet, and handed it to me. Then she held her phone out to Marcy and said in a disgustingly jovial voice, “Benedict is so sweet. Look at this picture he just sent me.”
Marcy took the cell from Sophie, studied it a second, and burst out laughing. “Oh my God! That’s so adorable!”
I swallowed hard as bile rose in my throat. I could just see myself projectile vomiting right out the window and into Sophie’s face; admittedly, her squeals of disgust would be gratifying, but such a stunt would only hasten my descent into Loser Land.
As Amber steamed the milk for their macchiatos, she leaned in and whispered, “Macchiato con loogie for Miss Bitch Face?”
I shook my head. Sure, watching Sophie sip spit might be fun, but I had to hold on to what little dignity I had left. That’s how it is when you’ve been dumped. You have to pick up the jagged shards of your self respect and glue them back together piece by piece.
“Here’s your change.” I handed the bills and quarters over, trying to keep my expression perfectly neutral. “And here are your drinks.”
“Thanks.”
No tip. Naturally.
“Hey, what happened to you on Saturday, anyway? You just took off.” Sophie handed Marcy her drink and sipped delicately from hers. Even so, I could see her little smirk. “Didn’t you have a good time?”
That was it. Good-bye, dignity. “Actually, I got a little tired of watching you throw yourself at my boyfriend.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” she said, her voice dripping with fake concern. “Except he’s not your boyfriend anymore, is he?”
I wanted to fire a good comeback—God, I wanted it so badly I could taste it! Instead, I stood there completely paralyzed, as if she’d just punched me in the solar plexus.
Amber nudged me out of the way. “You want a piece of this, you spoiled little Merc-driving bitch? ’Cause if you mess with G, you’re going to tangle with me too! You got that?”
“Oooh, very intimidating.” You could tell she was trying to sound sarcastic, but the slight wobble in her voice undermined the effect.
Her cell rang, and she looked past Amber to me as she answered it. “Hi, Benedict. Love that picture. . . . Sure. We can be there in five minutes.” She waved at us with just the tips of her fingers, shifted gears, and drove away with a devilish little smile.
“I can take her.” Amber craned her neck to watch her go.
“No.” The adrenaline started to ebb, and in its place I felt a bone-crushing sadness. “Let it go.”
9:20 P.M.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Sophie De Luca is Satan
Hero,
Grrrr! Sophie De Luca is el Diablo in the flesh! I can’t believe Ben is even friends with her. Ben and I broke up on Saturday and now she’s clinging to him like—like a hideous clinging thing! Okay, rage is stunting my vocabulary, but come on, this is serious. She’s driving around in her oh-so-pretty Mercedes, flashing me triumphant looks and dropping snide little comments. Is he seriously going out with that Prada-clad harpy?
Hope you and Claudio are faring better than we are. Maybe you’re onto something with this long-distance relationship thing. No need for birth control, plenty of time for homework, and all your beautiful rivals are a continent away.
Geena
10:15 P.M.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Sophie De Luca is Satan
Geebs,
Um, hello?! You and Ben BROKE UP? And I’m just now hearing about it? You’re fixating on Sophie De Luca’s Me
rcedes while Ben is probably out there somewhere brokenhearted? I beg of you, for the sake of cousinly love, forget about your so-called “beautiful rival” and work it out with Ben directly. Doesn’t he deserve that much?
Kisses,
Hero
Wednesday, February 18
3:45 P.M.
So sixth-period English just ended, right? I gathered my books, minding my own business, trying with monk-like serenity to elevate my consciousness above Sophie De Luca’s infuriatingly coquettish giggle trailing after Ben, when suddenly I heard my name.
“Geena?” Mr. Sands’s gray eyes were fixed on me. “Can I speak with you for a moment?”
My heart rumbaed around my ribcage. “Yeah, sure.”
I saw Ben glance back at us, and the flicker of jealousy in his face made me want to run after him, but I didn’t.
Mr. Sands waited until the last nosy gawker had left the room. Then he closed the door, walked over and sat on the edge of his desk, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. Mr. Sands is the only teacher I can think of who wears jeans on a regular basis. I generally try not to notice how adorable his butt looks in them when he writes on the board, though since Ben and I broke up, I let myself indulge more often. It’s one of the few real pleasures I have left.
“First, let me just tell you what an excellent job you did on your Camus essay. It had a compelling thesis and very convincing support points.”
Compelling, I thought. He thinks my thesis is compelling!
“You’re very perceptive,” he said, scooting back a little, getting more comfortable on the desk. “You know that, right?”
I could feel my cheeks burning, but I tried to keep my voice normal when I said, “I don’t know . . . I guess,” like an idiot.
He tilted forward slightly and said in a soft, confiding tone, “You’re so perceptive that I want to ask your opinion on something.”
“Okay.” I was hypnotized by his very proximity.
“It’s about your coworker, Amber. I’m a little concerned about her right now. She doesn’t seem to be herself lately.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jeez, this is kind of uncomfortable for me.” He let out his breath and ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve never taught before, you know, so I’m not used to being the ‘authority figure.’” The way he said it, I could hear the quotes around it.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You can be normal.”
I couldn’t look directly at his face for too long. I glanced at the posters on the walls, the bookshelves, then at him; out the window, at my shoes, back at him again. I knew I probably looked furtive and childish, but prolonged eye contact was too risky at this range.
“Well, she sent me a message the other day. It just didn’t sound like her at all. She’s a lit major at Brown, for God’s sake. I mean, this message made her seem . . .” He shifted slightly on the desk. “I don’t want to sound like a snob, but frankly, she came off as profoundly uneducated.”
My facial muscles tightened. “Really?”
“She even said she’s interested in graphic novels. I know they’re all the rage right now, but come on, why would a girl like her waste time on comic books?”
“Oh. Yeah.” I could feel my mouth drying up. Where was he going with this?
“And then I thought, you know, people make stuff up on the Internet all the time.”
My heart went from a rumba to a manic break dance. I felt kind of dizzy, but I forced myself to breathe normally. “True.”
“Maybe this Amber isn’t the real Amber.” He gazed at me with piercing intensity. “Maybe she’s an imposter.”
“Well . . .” I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans. “It’s possible. I guess.”
“Maybe someone hacked into the real Amber’s MySpace account and started sending me these silly, poorly spelled messages, trying to convince me it’s her. She probably doesn’t even know it’s happening.” He grinned. “I’m sure she’d be mortified to learn that someone is saying she loves graphic novels! You know Amber. She’s all about the classics.”
I tried to wrap my mind around this madness. He was worried about the real Amber impersonating the fake Amber! Good God . . .
“And then I thought, well, Geena must know Amber pretty well. She works with her. They share so many interests. She can tell me if the Amber she works with is into Brontë or”—he snickered—“graphic novels.”
I swallowed hard. “Maybe she likes both.”
He raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Believe me. This is not the same person I was communicating with a week ago.”
What should I say? How could I possibly get out of this? The truth just didn’t seem like an option. I couldn’t do that to Amber, not like this. And even if she’d forgive me, how could I look my English teacher in the eye and tell him I’d been seducing him all along?
“See, the thing is . . .” I looked wildly around the room, searching for inspiration. There was a flyer for the poetry reading Saturday, a black-and-white picture of Neal Cassidy and Jack Kerouac, a bunch of Mrs. Bricker’s old posters of penguins and mountains with stupid slogans like “Believe!” God, there was nothing. My brain spun like a top. Amber never even told me she was writing to him on her own. Why would she do that?
Then I saw it. Over near the door was an old movie poster for The Three Faces of Eve, one of Mom’s favorite movies. Bingo! “Amber wouldn’t want me to tell you this, but she suffers from multiple personality disorder.”
I think he was trying to decide if I was joking. “Oh-kay . . .”
“She’s totally embarrassed by it, but she’s trying to face it. That’s the real reason she left Brown. It was just getting worse there.”
“I thought her mom was sick.” He looked confused.
“Her mom has it too. It’s hereditary.” I had no idea if that was true, but he didn’t call me on it, so I babbled on. “She’ll be so upset if she finds out I told you. See, one of her personalities is really into graphic novels and another one is into Brontë. It makes perfect sense that both of them would contact you. When she was at Brown her professors freaked whenever she turned in a paper written by the wrong Amber.” Okay, that was officially the most ridiculous statement ever to pass through my lips.
“I can see why.” I couldn’t read his expression.
“Anyway, I’ve got to go—I’m late for . . . doing homework.” I started backing toward the door and tripped over a chair. It clattered to the floor. My hands felt like huge baseball mitts as I tried to set it upright. “Okay. Glad we had this chat. Bye.”
I ducked out of his room and darted for my locker. Glad we had this chat?! Things were more messed up than ever! I was already dreading the “chat” I’d be forced to have with Amber in a matter of hours.
9:45 P.M.
While Amber was at Floating World, I hacked into her MySpace account and read the messages between her and Mr. Sands. Of course, it felt a little sneaky, but I told myself it was for the greater good. There were only three messages, but I couldn’t help cringing at the damage she’d managed to inflict.
From: Amber
Date: February 14
Subject: Happy V-Day!
Hey there, Rex! I’m thinking about u and yr hawt bod today! Have a good one! (Here she’d pasted a picture of an ornate heart tattooed onto someone’s heart-shaped butt.)
-------------------------------------------------------------
From: Rex
Date: February 15
Subject: ???
Umm . . . thanks?
-------------------------------------------------------------
From: Amber
Date: February 16
Subject: Hola Rexito!
Did you not like my V-Day massage? Oh well. No worries. Check out this link to graphic nvls pg: www. grphcnvlsrus.com. It has the most awsome artwork. I no you like books and art so u will love this!!!
God, it was worse than I’d imagined. No wonder Mr. Sands was freakin
g out. She sounded like one of those creepy viral marketing people who try to friend you all the time on MySpace so they can send you poorly spelled pitches begging you to join their pyramid schemes. I thought of everything we’d done to build up her image as an intellectual: her masterful profile; the subtle, artfully crafted messages; the text-message-prompted date. She’d taken a hatchet to all of that with a handful of ineptly constructed sentences. For a minute I just sat there, staring at my monitor in mute horror.
I actually jumped when Amber walked in.
“What are you doing?” She was immediately suspicious.
I faced her, feeling simultaneously guilty and betrayed. “You’ve been writing to him.”
“Yeah. So?” She marched over to my laptop and closed it. “Why are you even looking at that?”
“How come you didn’t . . . ?” I hesitated.
“Didn’t what?”
“You know—ask for help.”
Her jaw dropped. “Geena! You’re the one who’s been telling me you want out. What did you say? ‘I can’t be smart for you all the time’?”
Hearing my words tossed back at me like that prompted a major stab of guilt. I’d used her desperate need to live out my own fantasy. I complained the whole time, but when she cut me loose I resented it. What kind of friend did that?
Amber plopped down onto the bed, looking sad all of a sudden. She smoothed the comforter with her palm. “I’m screwing it up, huh?”
“No!” Yes, but I couldn’t tell her that, could I?
“He thinks I’m an ass-face, huh?”
“Amber!” I scooted my desk chair closer. “Don’t even say that.”
She scowled. “I hate that I’m not as smart as you.”
“Listen to me: You’re every bit as smart as me—smarter, maybe. It’s just that we express ourselves in different ways. You’re arty and wild and tough and funny. You’ve totally got your own style. I’m good at writing; you’re good at art. You saw me trying to make that stupid valentine for Ben—I’m hopeless when it comes to drawing.”