by Lara Chapman
“It’s true, you know. Even when you were a toddler, you kept everyone at a distance. It was like you didn’t need anyone.”
I focus on the intricate pattern of the rug, doing my best to block her out and failing.
“Sarah, look at me.”
I cut my eyes her direction. “What?”
“I think Jay may be on to something.”
“I can’t believe you’re taking his side. You don’t even know him!” Aren’t mothers supposed to be on your side, no matter what?
Mom laughs, like I said something freaking hilarious. “There are no sides here, Sarah. And if there were, you can bet I’d be on yours. All I’m saying is that there’s some truth to what Jay said.”
I fold my arms over my chest, glaring at her and feeling completely betrayed.
“When was the last time you hung out with someone besides Kristen?” she asks.
Narrowing my eyes, I shrug. “What does that have to do with anything? It’s not like there are people out there just dying to be my friend.”
“How can you be so sure?” she pushes.
“The barrage of never-ending big-nose one-liners and snickering when I walk by is a pretty good indicator. Trust me, if someone said hello or even smiled my direction, I’d notice.”
“So how is it you missed Jay’s crush on you?”
The truth is, I’ve been asking myself the same question all afternoon. In a sea of sarcasm, how could I have missed Jay’s laugh, his warmth?
Would it have mattered?
“The answer’s pretty obvious, if you ask me,” Mom says slowly.
When I stay silent, she pulls my chin with her soft hand so that we’re facing each other.
“Sarah Burke, I love you. I think you are the most amazing person I’ve ever known and I thank God every single day for you.”
I refuse to give her any leeway. “You have to say that. You’re my mom.”
She giggles, sounding and looking more like a college girl than a middle-aged woman. “I guess all moms feel that way,” she concedes. “But I wasn’t finished.”
I hold up my hands. “My bad. Please go on.”
“Sarah, you’re a difficult person to get to know. You’re adamant about keeping your nose the way it is, but you won’t look strangers in the eyes. You keep your eyes down and heart closed to new people who might want to get to know you better. I understand how you feel, and I know kids have teased you over the years. I’m not saying that’s easy to deal with or that it’s fair. It’s all a matter of you accepting who you are, Sarah. Everyone else around you has already done that, and those that haven’t don’t matter anyway.”
“You’ve been reading Dr. Phil again, haven’t you?” I say, the sting of her words burning my eyes.
She playfully slaps at my hand. “Don’t let your nose keep you from life. Don’t let it limit the people who get to know you and love you the way I do. I guess that’s why I always pushed the nose job on you … I was never as strong, as independent, as you. I craved approval and attention from everyone else. I guess a part of me still does. But you don’t, Sarah. You’re perfect just as you are.”
I look at my mom, a sinfully proportionate, stunning, successful woman. “It’s hard to imagine you with a single flaw,” I say.
“Trust me, I still have flaws. Lots of them.”
“Yeah, right. Tell that to the million people that watch you on the news every night.”
“You know,” she says, “I’ve been thinking about what happened between you and Jen at the station. I’m really proud of you for sticking up for me. For us.”
“You would have done the same thing,” I say, feeling a rush of warmth on my face.
“Not at your age, I wouldn’t have. If I’d been the seventeen-year-old standing in that doorway, overhearing those ludicrous rumors, I’d have run and hid. But you’ve got more guts than I ever had. That’s why you don’t need a nose job to make you feel complete, worthy.”
I stare at Mom, wondering if she could possibly be right. Could someone really love me with my nose exactly the way it is?
More importantly, can I learn to love myself? Nose and all?
More than once, I thank God that I don’t have to go to school and face Rock so soon after that weird exchange at my car. With the weekend as a buffer, I’m pretty sure I can pretend nothing ever happened. And I’ve been blessedly spared a call from Jay.
But I’m not nearly as lucky in steering clear of Kristen. Not that I’m really trying to avoid her, but I’m not quite ready to face her when I’m still muddling through my feelings about my life and who I am. And I definitely don’t need to hear the details of her latest date with him. When she shows up unannounced Sunday morning, I’m still in my pajamas, working at the computer on an article for journalism.
“God, don’t you ever get tired of doing homework?” she complains, stretching out on my unmade bed, stroking Ringo curled up on my pillow. He rolls onto his back for more attention, which Kristen freely gives him.
“Doesn’t matter if I’m tired of it. It still has to be done,” I tell her, smiling at her predictability.
“So you and Rock say,” she mumbles, arm thrown over her eyes.
“Something on your mind?” I ask, glancing back at the half-written article on the computer screen, wishing I could finish it.
“Yep,” she says, eyes still covered.
“Care to share?” I ask.
She pulls her arm from her eyes and rolls onto her stomach to face me. “It’s Rock.”
I brace myself for the play-by-play of her date. I press my lips together tightly and let her take over the conversation.
“So we get to this place called the Chocolate Bar in Montrose. It’s totally amazing—chocolate everywhere! The smell alone is enough to give you a caffeine buzz.”
“Definitely sounds like my kind of place,” I say, picking at my fingernails.
“It was the most romantic setting for a date,” she says, eyes drifting to some faraway place in her mind, like she’s watching the night unfold in her head.
“That’s so great,” I say, stopping myself from hurrying along this little stroll down memory lane.
“But then the poetry reading began.”
I smile, sure that Kristen’s about to reiterate her reasons for hating poetry. Always at the top of that list is, “Who talks like that, anyway?” which is followed closely by, “Why are poets so cryptic? Just say what you mean already!”
But she shocks me with the look in her eyes that tells me things aren’t so sunny in paradise. “That’s when things started falling apart,” she says.
I hop off the chair and sit down on the bed close to her. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
“It was awful,” she moans, sitting up so we’re side by side on the edge of the bed. “I kept trying to make comments about the poetry but he just kept smiling and laughing, like I was purposely saying things to make him laugh.” I reach around Kristen and pull her in for a little hug, and she drops her head to my shoulder.
She sighs deeply. “I think I’m going to break up with him.”
My heart skids to a screeching halt, and the air is sucked out of my lungs.
Kristen raises her head and studies me. “Don’t look so surprised,” she says. “You had to know this would happen. It’s not like I can keep up the facade without you around. That was painfully evident last night.”
“But it’s Rock,” I say, feeling oddly conflicted. Thrilled, on the one hand, that he’ll actually be free, but terrified on the other. Because now there will be nothing to stop me from telling him how I feel. Aside from my burgeoning insecurity and the fact that twenty-four hours ago he was dating my best friend, of course.
“Exactly. He’ll understand when I tell him.” She nods her head resolutely. “Right?”
“When you tell him what?” I ask, already sensing what’s coming next.
“About the e-mail and Facebook messages you wrote. I mean, if he hadn’t figur
ed it out already, he has to know after last night.”
“You swore you’d never tell, Kristen. Besides, he probably just thinks you were being cute,” I suggest in desperation.
“There is nothing cute about being dumb. Not in Rock’s book, anyway. Besides, it’s too much work.”
I stare at her, infuriated that she’d ever consider telling him I’d written the letters. “It’s too much work for you?” I nearly scream. “I’m the one who wrote those letters. I’m the one who spent hours on Facebook thinking up believable replies and coming up with questions to keep the conversation going. You can’t tell him, Kristen. You swore you wouldn’t tell him.”
“Breathe,” she tells me. “You’ve seriously got to relax. Geez.”
“You. Promised.” My voice is lower, but still shaky.
“I won’t tell him you wrote the letters, just that I had someone else write them for me. I owe him the truth.”
“Since when did you grow a conscience?” I ask her, instantly regretting it when I see the hurt cloud her eyes. I hug her tight. “I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean that.”
She pulls away, looking at me through watery eyes. “That was way below the belt.”
I nod. I’m not too proud to admit when I’m wrong. And that was way wrong.
Kristen stands, walks to my computer, and scans the article on the screen. “Do you have any idea how long it’d take me to write something like this?” she asks, pointing at the screen.
I shrug. “We all have different talents.”
“If that’s true,” she whispers, “what are mine?”
My eyes are glued to hers. In all the years we’ve known each other, I’ve never heard her talk like this.
“You are about a million times more talented than I ever thought about being,” I tell her.
She shakes her head emphatically. “I dare you to name just one real talent. Something you can say I’m really good at.”
I hold up my index finger. “First of all, you’re a social genius. You know exactly how to make everyone feel comfortable at a party.”
“That’s a personality trait. What can I do that’s special?” she asks, pleading me with her eyes to come up with something. Anything.
“You always know exactly what to wear and when. If it wasn’t for you, I’d have spent the last four years in jeans, faded T-shirts, and flip-flops.”
“Anyone can learn how to dress from watching What Not to Wear and reading a fashion magazine.”
“You’ve got mad math skills, Kris. I’ve never seen anyone calculate equations in their head the way you do. I’ve got to be honest. It’s a little bizarre.” I end with a little chuckle to let her know I’m teasing.
She cocks her head to the side, studying me, then breaking into a small grin. “Well, it’s not writing, but I guess it’s something.”
I nod, unsure of what to say next, not sure I should say anything at all. All I know is, for the first time since I met Kristen Gallagher ten years ago, I realize she’s as insecure as I am.
Two weeks ago, I would have laughed if you’d called either one of us insecure. As sure as I’m sitting here, watching my best friend grapple with self-doubt, I know it’s true.
Underneath our bravado, we’re the same.
Beauty is the pilot of the young soul.
—RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Chapter Nineteen
By the time Monday morning rolls around, I’ve thoroughly obsessed over Kristen’s pending breakup with Rock. I only know she plans to break it off “when it feels right,” which, in Kristen’s world, could be today. Or June.
I don’t have a clue what to expect when I enter journalism for third period that morning. Is he going to be heartbroken if Kristen’s already broken it off with him? Is he going to act all weird about the conversation he and I had outside Kristen’s house? The whole thing has my gut in knots. But there’s no way I’m skipping. I’ve been busting my butt on an article that’s due today and has a shot at being put in the school paper. You can never have too many published articles to make your college applications shine.
I stride into class just as the bell rings and take a deep breath to prepare myself for what I might find. But, like always, Kristen and Rock are in their usual seats, chatting and smiling. The only thing different about today is they aren’t glued to each other like two ticks. I take my seat in the next aisle with a questioning look to Kristen.
“Hi, Sarah,” Rock says, full smile telling me what I need to know. She hasn’t broken up with him. Yet. There’s a part of me that wants to warn him because I don’t want to see him get hurt. But I would never do that to Kristen. Being Kristen’s bestie is not for the weak.
I smile back at Rock and give a stupid little wave. Like there’s some huge distance separating us and he can’t hear me speak. Geez. But I’m so grateful that he isn’t acting all weirded out from Friday that I totally let myself off the hook.
“Do anything special this weekend? Make it to Salado with your mom?” he asks.
I pause a beat before answering, momentarily lost. “Mom got called to work.” I’m getting entirely too good at lying. I hold up the paper I’ve written. “So I just wrote.”
“Write, write, write,” Kristen says sadly, shaking her head. “I swear, that’s all you do.”
I give her a pointed look to let her know she’s not being funny. I mean, she’s totally pulling my chain because she knows I’d kill her for telling Rock I’d written all those messages. But still. It’s enough to get on my very last frazzled nerve.
“All work and no play,” Rock teases.
“Very funny,” I snap back, maybe a little more fiercely than I’d intended.
“You should have joined us for the poetry reading,” he tells me. “You would have loved it. There was a guy there who did the most amazing Lord Byron reading.”
“Oh yeah,” Kristen agrees halfheartedly. “Amazing.”
Rock playfully shoves her. “This one’s a regular comedian. She had the one-liners coming all night.”
I can’t stop myself from chuckling, knowing the one-liners he’s referring to. I give the girl props for even trying. Talk about being out of your element.
“Yeah, you never know what she’s going to say,” I agree.
One look at Kristen and I know she’s done.
Done with the charade of being something she’s not, and done with Rock.
I spend my lunch period scarfing some seriously stale peanut-butter crackers and chasing down the school counselor. I desperately need him to write a letter of recommendation to accompany my scholarship application. If I get the station scholarship Jen told me about, I can at least say Mom and I got one good thing out of her.
It’s not until I’m crawling into bed at ten thirty that I hear from Kristen. When my cell phone rings, this time playing the oldie “Brick House,” I know it’s her.
“I did it,” she breathes into the phone.
“Rock?” I ask, clarifying before I let my emotions run rampant.
“Yep,” she says, typically stoic. She’s always like this after a breakup, like it was inevitable that every single relationship has to end.
“What’d you say? How’d he take it?” I ask in a rush.
“Um, I told him the truth.” Her words are so matter-of-fact I nearly come through the phone to strangle her.
“You told him?”
“Chill, Sarah. I didn’t tell him that. I just said we didn’t have that much in common.”
“What’d he say?” I ask quietly, barely recognizing the tightness in my voice. I try to focus on our conversation, try to ignore the obnoxious thudding in my chest that she’d totally hear if she was in the room with me. But it’s impossible to concentrate. All I can think about is Rock.
“He took it pretty well, actually. It was weird, you know? Kind of like he expected it.”
“He didn’t ask a bunch of questions?” I ask, stunned he didn’t put up a heroic fight to keep her. And if I’m hone
st, I’m just the tiniest bit happy he didn’t. Okay, I’m a lot happy he didn’t.
“No, not really. I explained to him that I’d had help writing the e-mails and Facebook messages. But I didn’t say who,” she says quickly.
But I can’t relax because everything’s changed. Even though I hated Kristen dating Rock, at least then I knew what to expect. I knew exactly where I stood. I was comfortable, in a constant, heartbroken kind of way. Now everything is different. I’m not even sure he’ll still be friends with me now that he and Kristen have broken up. It suddenly dawns on me that because Kristen’s broken up with Rock, I kind of have, too. Now I’ll only see him in class.
Unless I’m willing to do something about it.
Unless I’m brave enough to tell him exactly how I feel.
“So I’m back to riding to school with you. I’ll drive this week, okay?” she says, breaking my reverie.
“Sure,” I mumble. “Don’t be late.”
When Kristen picks me up ten minutes late, I’m too tired to muster any real indignation. After hanging up with her last night, I tossed and turned for hours. I’m not sure how much sleep I actually got, but it wasn’t nearly enough.
“Oh, man. Are you getting sick?” she asks, looking way too put together for someone who just broke up with her boyfriend. I’ve probably lost more sleep over this than she has.
I attempt to hold back a yawn. “No, I’m not getting sick. Couldn’t sleep last night.”
In the blink of an eye, Kristen launches into a long-winded story about the last time she couldn’t sleep and all the different things she’d tried.
“Do you know what finally worked?” she asks, a rhetorical question if there ever was one, which is a good thing, since I’m only half listening to her rambling.
Without waiting for my reply, she answers. “Warm milk! Sounds totally gross, I know, and way too Little House on the Prairie or something but it worked like a charm.”
She pulls into a parking space that appears to be a country mile from the school’s entrance. “Could we be any farther from the door?” she complains.
I stop myself from telling her this is the kind of parking spot you get when you’re late.