To make matters worse, we have a pop quiz. If a quiz can be fifty questions long, that is. It takes the whole class period and I’m positive I completely, totally flunk it.
Nicole doesn’t seem to have my troubles, though, because she skates out of class the second the bell rings, her quiz already nestled among all the others on Mr. Gordon’s desk. I leave the last ten questions blank and reluctantly hand it over.
By the time I make it to lunch, I’m in a horrid mood. I had to spend all of trigonometry leaning away from Ben again, and he most definitely thinks I hate him. I guess I should be relieved. Maybe he’ll stay away. But instead it makes my heart twist around in my chest.
I empty my pockets of gumballs in a trash can and then head to the cafeteria. As I pass a couple classmates, I can’t help but notice that one elbows the other and nods in my direction.
The other one clearly mouths, Oh my God, and then, even worse, she grabs the front of her shirt and holds it way out, mimicking the size of my chest.
I walk faster in the direction of the cafeteria, holding my binder in front of my chest in a feeble attempt to conceal the fact that it’s half the size of the state of Rhode Island.
Right now I want nothing more than to bury my worries with a giant cafeteria burrito and about three cans of Mountain Dew.
My hand is on the cafeteria door, and I’m about to swing it open, when I see Nicole through the glass.
She’s at their table.
The cheerleaders’ table, that is. She’s already eating her salad and nodding at something Breanna Mills is saying.
I just stand there, watching her, as the other students jostle by me to get through the doors. They stream past me, happily oblivious to the unease raging in my empty stomach.
I retreat a few steps, sit down on a bench outside.
I don’t even know who she is anymore. She’s dressing differently, she’s become outgoing, she’s laughing and having the time of her life.
Without me.
There was a time she would have waited outside the cafeteria doors because she was too timid to go in and run the social gauntlet alone. She would have sat on this very bench until I arrived and we’d go in together.
I mean, I’m kind of happy for her. I always knew people would like her if she would give them a chance, talked to them, got outside her shell. But she was afraid to do that, hiding behind her hair, hoping no one gave her a good look because she knew her skin wasn’t perfect.
And now it’s like . . . a complete 180. She’s Little Miss Popular.
She hasn’t even noticed that I’m missing. There’s not even an empty seat next to her. What would she do if I walked up? Would she move to our table and eat with me, or would she just shrug and stay put?
Would I end up eating alone, watching her from across the room? Would she do that to me?
My stomach twists around, feels like it’s hollowing out.
I thought my only worry was that I was losing her to Ben.
But turns out I have far more competition than that.
This is lame. Why can’t I just do that? Find some friends? Stop putting everything into Nicole?
But I’m not like Nicole. Not this version of Nicole, anyway. People don’t get me, don’t get my warped sense of humor. They won’t want to be seen with me, would be embarrassed by my clothes and demeanor.
Nicole was different.
Was being the operative word.
IN PHOTOGRAPHY, my portrait hasn’t changed. I’ve taken two rolls of pictures of my Converse shoes, especially the yellow ones I drew all over, but it’s one boring shot after another. Artistic? Most definitely not. It looks like a pair of shoes sitting on some carpet, not like art.
I turn toward Nicole, who has hardly spoken to me since we got into the darkroom. I thought maybe she’d say something about lunch. Something that would let me know she noticed I was in bio and photography but not sitting next to her in the cafeteria.
But so far, nada. I glance over at her. Her face is scrunched up as she works on her photos. She’s wearing some designer-looking jeans and a flowered, flowing peasant blouse. “Why aren’t you working on your assignment?” I ask.
Nicole looks up at me. She’s working on pictures of road signs. There is no way a Yield sign is supposed to be her self-portrait. “I already turned it in. I thought I’d make some cool photos for my room.”
“You turned it in already?” It’s due on Friday. I still have not a clue what I’ll do. “What did you take a picture of ?”
Nicole shrugs and waves her arm around, making the bracelet jingle on her wrist. “Oh, you know, just some random stuff at my house.”
She’s not looking at me, just staring right at her enlarger, trying to find a good focus. Her toe starts tapping.
I’m beginning to hate her toes. It’s hard to tell in the darkroom, but it looks like they’re painted a bright shade of pink. She’s wearing heels, too. Nothing extreme, but still, high heels with a peep toe.
Her hair is curled, too, and swept back in a messy twist. But it’s messy in a stylish way, not messy in an “I don’t care how I look” kind of way. And she’s accessorized. With bangle bracelets and a string of pink plastic pearls.
Everyone is changing. Everything is changing, spinning out of control. I want to be nine again. I want to wish for Raggedy Ann and gumballs and stupid things, things that prove I have almost nothing of real concern in my life.
I don’t want to have to wonder if I should make a transatlantic call just to talk to my dad.
And I don’t want my best friend to keep ignoring me.
How come, if I’m getting everything I ever wished for, I feel so confused and empty?
“Why are you acting so weird these days?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
She looks up at me. But it’s not surprise. More like worry.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. It’s like all of a sudden you’re trying really hard to fit in. I don’t even recognize you. You’re changing.” My voice comes out sort of tentative at first, then gains steam as I let out what I’ve been worried about ever since school started.
She crosses her arms. “What makes you think I’m the one who changed?”
I snort. “Of course you have.”
She shakes her head. “What, there’s something wrong with dressing better? With being pretty, for once in my life?”
I stare at her as she turns back to her enlarger, as if the conversation is over. My mouth is parted slightly, but I can’t seem to get any words to form. Not the right ones, anyway. “You didn’t want this last year,” I say, my voice lower.
Nicole pulls away from the enlarger. “Are you kidding me? Of course I did. But being popular is out of the question when your face is one big zit, don’t you think?”
I’m surprised at how angry she sounds. “Nicole, if you wanted to be popular last year, you could have been—”
“That’s a lie, and you know it.”
Her voice is so sharp I can’t help but step back a few feet and lean against the table in the center of the room, the one covered in shallow pans and chemicals for developing the photos. “So what, now that you’re pretty I’m not good enough?”
Nicole rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on, that’s not what I’m saying!”
“Are you sure?”
My heart hammers a little faster in my chest. Nicole and I have never gotten into a fight. Not like this.
“Yes. It’s just really hard to get them to like me when you’re standing around and—”
“Ohh, I get it.” My stomach twists. “I’m an embarrassment, right? Maybe you’ll hang out with me at home but not at school?” I lean in, my eyes narrowed, and lower my voice. “Do you want me to be your secret friend?”
I move away from the table and grab my things and start shoving them into my backpack. My backpack unzips as I try to jam my binder into it and I end up dropping everything. The binder skids across the floor and a bunch of papers fall
out, and at least a dozen gumballs skitter across the floor.
Nicole sighs and then looks at the ground. “Kayla, stop freaking out. You’re not understanding—”
Her voice stops abruptly when she sees what has fluttered to the ground in front of her toes.
And my heart stops at the same time.
It’s the picture of Ben.
The picture I have of her boyfriend just fell out of my backpack and is sitting at her feet.
Oh God, this is so not good.
She starts to reach down to pick it up. “Why do you—”
No, no, no, no. Something needs to happen in the next half second. An earthquake. A fire drill. Anything.
She can’t know, she can’t see this, she can’t—
But it’s too late. I feel our years-long friendship ripping down the middle, tearing apart, as she bends over.
She stops short of touching it and just stares at it. She blinks a few times and then looks up at me and just keeps blinking faster and faster, as if she can blink away the truth.
“It’s not what it looks like,” I say.
I’m not sure why I said that. Because it’s exactly what it looks like. My cheeks begin to burn. The feeling in my stomach is horrible. The dread, the embarrassment, the hysteria, just keeps building inside me.
Everything is ruined. It’s over. She’s going to hate me now.
I know what she’s thinking of as she stands there, blinking and blinking and blinking, like she has a gnat stuck in her eye. I know what she’s picturing, remembering. She’s thinking of those times I asked her for every detail of their date, of those times I agreed a little too wholeheartedly how perfect Ben is.
And I know she knows. Maybe this picture finally confirmed my secret crush on him, but everything I’ve done until now has been sketchy enough to support the theory.
It feels like my insides are emptying out as I stand here, waiting for her to tell me what I already know: I have no friends in this world.
“Wow. I mean, wow.” Her voice isn’t bitter now, it’s pure anger. And it’s directed at me.
“Nicole, I’m so sorry. I—”
The sharp look in her eyes makes the words evaporate.
She leans down again, her eyes never leaving mine, and picks up the picture and grips it so slightly in her hand it crumples and folds, and I can’t see his face anymore but I know it’s ruined, and I try not to flinch.
She laughs, the anger melting together again with the bitter undertones. “Well, then, I bet you’ll be just ecstatic to hear that he dumped me. Is that what you’ve been waiting for?”
My jaw drops. “You broke up? Why?”
She laughs at me as she crumples the picture into a ball. A few of the students in the darkroom turn and look at us. “How could you do this to me?”
“I didn’t do anything, I swear, I—”
“What? Lusted after my boyfriend behind my back?” She’s spitting the words now, and they’re getting louder.
I can’t seem to close my jaw. It weighs a thousand pounds.
“I can’t believe you,” she says, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She gives me one last disgusted look and then leaves the darkroom.
I think I just lost my best friend.
25
BY THE TIME I make it home that afternoon, I feel like I’ve been spun around in circles and no longer know which way is up. I don’t know what to do about Nicole, about the wishes, about anything.
My only condolence is that I don’t run into Ann or the pony as I’m walking home. I’m not sure I could deal if I encountered them.
I slow as my house comes into view. The right bay in the garage is open, and my mom’s Lexus is parked inside. This is weird. I can’t remember the last time I came home from school and she was there.
I stop and just stand there, staring at it. Somehow I know this is not a good thing, that her being home can only lead to disaster, at least as long as the wishes are still hanging around. My mom is never home, not in the middle of the day.
I shake my head and pick up a walk again. Whatever it is, it’s not like I can stand out on the sidewalk all day.
I slip my key into the doorknob, but before I can turn it, the whole thing swings away from me, my keys still jangling from the lock.
My mom is on the other side, giving me a hard look.
This is not good. After the blowout with Nicole, the last thing I want is another showdown.
“Is there something you’d like to tell me?” She doesn’t step aside, doesn’t move so that I can enter the house.
Whatever it is, she’s seriously mad.
I stare at her, blinking.
I don’t know what she’s asking. Did she find out about my boyfriend , Ken? Has she discovered Ann, my new bestie, has been staying the night every night for the last week? Or is it the garden shed filled with gumballs and a pink pony?
“Um . . . no?”
She narrows her eyes. She’s unimpressed by my lack of honesty. But it’s not like she’d believe me on, oh, anything that has happened in the last two weeks. No way.
So my lips are sealed.
“Nothing . . . in the garage?”
I swallow. It’s hard not to fidget. I’m just standing on our front porch like I’m an unwanted houseguest. But my mom is so mad she doesn’t seem to notice that she hasn’t let me inside.
I don’t know what’s in the garage. But whatever it is . . . it can’t be good.
“What’s in the garage?”
My mom rolls her eyes, slowly, and then shakes her head. She seems to have lost her patience altogether. But I’m not playing games with her. Not really.
“Don’t play dumb.”
“But I am! I mean, not dumb, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come.” She steps aside and opens the door, and I realize she’s not wearing her heels. She never takes her shoes off unless she’s going to be home for a long time.
So either she’s been stewing about something for hours or I’m in really, really big trouble, and she’s canceled whatever she has going for the evening. I’m not sure which scenario is more favorable.
I follow her to the garage, my feet feeling heavier with every step, until it’s like my limbs are filled with sand.
At this point, nothing would surprise me. Maybe there’s an elephant with a red bow in the garage. Maybe the entire cast of Twilight is sitting in some director’s chairs, ready for my one-of-a-kind interview. Maybe my brother is dressed up as a giant pickle.
My mom opens the heavy door leading into the garage and steps into the space. It’s dim for a moment as she reaches over and flips on the fluorescent overhead lights.
They blink and flicker to life, revealing my mom’s silver Lexus.
And a lime-colored dirt bike.
Holy crap, there is a fluorescent green dirt bike in the garage, sitting innocently next to my mom’s shiny car.
My mom turns to look at me, shooting me a look that must wither anyone who stiffs her on a bill.
“That’s not mine,” I say, crossing my arms, hoping it’s true, knowing it’s probably not.
I knew I’d really wanted a dirt bike for a while. I guess if I think about it, it still sounds like fun.
I just didn’t know I ever wished for one.
For about two years, I asked for a dirt bike for every birthday and every Christmas. My dad always said I could have one once I got a little older, and my mom always shot him death glares when he said it, but I figured he would sway her to the dark side sooner or later.
That’s part of what sealed the deal with Ben. I wanted a bike, he had one.
Fate. Kismet. Back in seventh grade, my fantasies with him involved me dreaming of him showing me how to ride. He’d take me out, and I’d hang on to his waist and rest my cheek against his back, and life would be perfect.
My mom reaches into the pocket of her khaki slacks and produces a key ring.
A key ring with a big black plastic
-encased key and a string of beads.
Beads that perfectly spell out Kayla.
“Where did you get that?” I ask. For some reason I reach out to grab the key, which makes me seem completely guilty. She snatches them away, continuing to dangle them as if they are the key piece of DNA evidence in a murder trial.
“Your room. I forgot a file and stopped in to get it. Once I saw the bike, I checked your room. Chase has been at work all day, so I knew it wasn’t his. Do you care to explain yourself ?”
I just stare, because it’s not like there’s a way to explain away a lime-green dirt bike, especially not one with a custom key ring.
“I throw you an enormous sweet-sixteen party and this is how you repay me?”
Pft. I can’t stop the escape of breath, the one that sounds like bitter laughter.
“What’s that for?”
I look up at her. If she hadn’t thrown that stupid party, if she hadn’t insisted I make a wish, I wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place. It’s her fault there’s a motorcycle in the garage. “I didn’t want that party and you know it. You know it because I told you over and over. You wanted the party so you could impress your clients.”
She narrows her eyes. “I can’t believe you’re being so ungrateful! A hundred girls would kill for a party that expensive and nice!”
“Maybe! But maybe if you paid one ounce of attention to me, you’d notice that I am not one of those girls!”
She crosses her arms. “What do you mean, if I paid attention? I work my butt off for this family!”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Don’t pretend your job is for us. I know it’s because you want to impress Dad. News flash, he doesn’t care about you or me or any of us.”
“Kayla!”
“What? You know it’s true. You’re obsessed with your stupid company. Nobody in this family even talks anymore! You don’t eat dinner with us, you don’t watch TV with us. Dad might as well have taken you with him when he went to Italy!”
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