Friction

by E. R. Frank

  “Well, I don’t care about any reasons,” I say, and I’m so mad all over again. “I couldn’t care less.”

  “But there is a reason,” Simon says. “And someone who tells a lie like that probably needs a friend more than most other people do.”

  “I don’t want to be her friend,” I go. “She’s not a good person, Simon.”

  “I’m sure she’s not a bad person either.”

  “I thought she was going to die,” I tell him. Then I’m crying again. Simon pulls me into a sideways hug and lets me mess up his second shirt of the day. When I stop, resting my chin on his shoulder, I finally see Tim, standing at the edge of the playground, watching us. I move back from Simon fast, but Tim’s already jogging away.

  You’d think I’d want to cry all over again, knowing what he must still be thinking about Simon and me, but I don’t. Or maybe I can’t. Nothing that happens anymore seems right, and I’m tired of wanting it to be.

  13

  I WALK STRAIGHT home from the jungle gym, even though the school day isn’t over. Simon doesn’t think it’s a good idea, but he can’t stop me either.

  When I let myself in through the back door, my father’s toeing off his shoes.

  “What are you doing here?” I go, helping myself to a Hostess box from our pantry.

  “Same thing you are.” He drops his briefcase to the floor. “Skipping.” He swings a chair away from the kitchen table to straddle it, backward. “Simon and Maggie called me at work,” he explains. “I wanted to be here when you got home.”

  “Mom couldn’t leave the clinic, right?” I slip a cupcake out of its plastic wrapping right onto the kitchen table. If my mother were here, she’d tell me to use a napkin.

  “Actually, she was still at the hospital when I got the call,” my father goes. The frosting has white corkscrew swirls, like an old telephone cord, dividing it down the center.

  “With that Martha, right?” I say. He doesn’t really answer.

  “I called Mom there,” he goes, “and she checked everything out.” He rests his elbows on the table. “Stacy’s going to be okay.”

  “Did she have to have a blood transfusion?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If she needed one, would she have died if they couldn’t have given it to her?”

  “She might have died in a situation like that,” my dad says. “But she’s fine.” I pick the frosting from the top of my cupcake. It peels off like a chocolate sticker.

  “She said she couldn’t have blood transfusions,” I go. “I thought they would let her die.”

  “Yeah,” my dad goes. “Simon told me that’s what you thought.” He watches me pull the cupcake apart and lick out the whipped sugar center. “He also said you were right there when it happened,” he goes. “And that you were pretty scared.”

  “Here.” I hold out the other half of the cupcake. “You can have the rest.”

  “Alex,” he goes, like he’s about to ask me a question. He takes the cupcake.

  “Yeah?”

  He stares at me a minute and then pops my gift into his mouth. He barely even chews before it’s gone. “Maybe you’ll visit her. Talk things out.”

  “No.” She made me feel so dumb. And all those lies about Simon. And about me. My father looks like he’s waiting for something.

  “You can’t talk things out with her,” I try to explain. “Besides, there’s nothing to talk out. I just don’t like her.”

  “Because she lied to you about her religion and her father dying?” He’s got chocolate on his tooth.

  “That. And other lies. Like about Simon. She says the worst stuff about Simon.” My father might really know what to do. I could tell him about it. Tell him everything. Even though it’s so embarrassing. Even though it’s the kind of thing you don’t want to go around talking to your father about. I could tell him right now. But he starts up again.

  “Remember that time Mom asked you about the thief?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “She was really talking about Martha.” My dad nods. “Is Mom going to help her live longer and then send her to jail?”

  “She’s going to try to help Martha live longer,” my dad says. “And she doesn’t want Martha to go to jail.”

  “But Martha’s a thief and a drug addict and a liar,” I say, “who doesn’t treat her kids right or something.”

  “Your mother’s struggling with how to make sense of and how to respond to a complex person acting in complex ways.” I think I know what’s coming. “Just like you’re doing with Stacy.” I knew it. “It’s a struggle we all face at one time or another in our lives. It’s especially a struggle if you’re someone who cares.”

  “What do you mean, someone who cares?” I ask.

  “I mean someone who wants to be a decent human being.”

  “Stacy’s not a decent human being,” I say. “And if Simon knew the stuff she was saying, he’d think that too.”

  “Simon can take care of himself,” my dad says. “And you don’t have to like someone every minute of the day to be their friend.”

  “I don’t want to be her friend,” I go. And then I don’t say anything else. Because I don’t want my father to think I’m not a decent human being.

  After a while he pulls me and my chair out a little bit from the table, the way a waiter does for people at the end of a meal, so I stand up. “You’re really angry with Stacy right now,” my dad says, guiding me to the stairs. “But it’s important to be fair to people. To give them second chances. If you give her another chance, I’m sure things can be patched up.”

  “I don’t want to patch things up,” I say. And then I start crying again. He hugs me, right there on the seventh stair.

  “You want to lie down?” he goes, after I’ve pulled myself together.

  “I’m not tired,” I say, and then I feel like I’m three years old again because that’s what I used to say when my parents made me take naps.

  “You’ve had a rough day,” my dad says. “Why don’t you just lie down and see if you can sleep a little?”

  “It’s only one thirty,” I say.

  “True.” Somehow, he ends up getting me to bed. It’s warm out, but my dad covers me anyway. The next thing I know, it’s morning.

  * * *

  I glance around for Tim when I’m tossing stuff into my locker, but he hasn’t saved me a seat. I press on my stomach with my hand, hoping I can massage away the ache, and find a spot next to Sophie.

  “Stacy’s going to be okay,” she goes. “She just broke her arm really bad.”

  “I know,” I go. “My parents told me.”

  “Her mother and father threatened to sue the school,” Sophie whispers. “My mom told them we don’t have any money anyway.”

  “Great,” I go.

  “Yeah,” she says. “Plus, now they’re taking the ladder away. My mom says it’s too dangerous.” Then Sophie puts her hand on my arm. “You and Tim should make up.”

  “We’re not in a fight,” I say.

  “Yes, you are.”

  I hang out with Teddy all day. We do math on the floor in the side hallway kitchen, leaning our backs against the oven. I don’t know how we end up there, but I’m glad, because it keeps us away from everybody else.

  “Everything under control back here?” Simon wants to know, poking his head around the corner to check on us, right before lunch.

  “Yeah,” we say.

  “Teddy,” Simon goes, “leave us be a minute.”

  “Is Alex in trouble?” Teddy goes.

  “No.”

  Teddy looks at me funny, like he doesn’t believe Simon. “Hope not,” he tells me, and then he leaves.

  I’m already nervous. I don’t want Tim to see us and think I asked to be alone with Simon.

  “What’s up?” Simon goes.

  “What do you mean?”

  He leans against the kitchen counter and crosses one ankle over the other. “Are we all right?” he goes. “You and me?”r />
  “Uh-huh.”

  “Because you seemed sort of upset again when you took off yesterday.”

  “Uh-uh,” I go.

  “If there’s anything more we need to talk about, we can, you know.” But how am I supposed to tell him Stacy claims he’s a pervert and has Tim and maybe everybody else believing I like him? “Something’s going on with you.” He doesn’t sound mad or anything, just kind of confused. “Yesterday was the first talk we’ve had in a while. It wasn’t such a long talk, either.”

  “I was upset yesterday,” I go. He looks so bummed.

  “Yep.” He nods. “Me too.” I hate how worried he seems. I hate that things are so different between us. I want to fix it, to make things right again. But I can’t think of what to say. “That latrine thing still on your mind?” He’s looking at me really steady. I blush and shake my head. We stay there a minute, but then Simon unhooks his ankles. “Hope you’re getting ready for the game next week,” he goes.

  I am.

  * * *

  Time passes sort of slow, but somehow, even with all the weirdness, a bunch of days go by. The next thing I know, we’re pulling up to St. John’s in Teddy’s dad’s van, only it’s Teddy’s mom who’s driving this time. Tim has brand-new cleats.

  “Sweet,” I try, just to see if he’ll talk to me for a change. He won’t.

  “Oh man,” Danny goes, when we pull up to their field. The St. John’s team has blue-and-gold uniforms. Plus, they’re in these complicated formations, passing and shooting into a real goal: white posts, a yellow net, and all. They look professional almost. We don’t look like anything. Even with our sixth and seventh graders, we barely have enough players. Plus, we don’t have actual uniforms. Just white shirts, red shorts, and cleats. My cleats are sort of old, but I like them that way. Worn in and soft.

  We trickle out onto the field and try to act like we’ve done this before. And then I kind of see us the way other people probably do—the way Stacy must have seen us on her first day. We’re all different sizes and colors, and we’re sort of sloppy-looking, and we have a girl on our team. My heart starts to pound, and even with everything that’s happened, I’m psyched because I know they don’t expect me to be as good as the guys.

  Simon talks to the St. John’s coach at the sidelines for a minute and then gathers us in a circle. “We’ve got the kickoff,” he goes. “Remember, their best player is their right wing. They think Alex is our weak link. Take advantage of that. Okay?”

  “Okay,” we say.

  “Good.” Simon raises his voice. “Most important thing?”

  “Have fun!” we go.

  “Play ball!” Simon yells, and we break out onto the field.

  On the whistle Tim tips the ball over to Danny, who passes back to Viv. At left wing I’m already racing forward, wide open. Their defense isn’t even watching. Viv arcs the ball to me. Even after I trap it, their guys don’t look worried. They dive in too fast, and I dribble around them, easy, set up a shot, and smack the ball. It glides into the air, floats into the goal at the top right-hand corner, and falls for the score. Less than ten seconds into the half. Beautiful.

  The St. John’s guys are pissed. “Who’s covering her?” one of them shouts, angry.

  “Come on, John’s!” their coach yells. “That was a girl!”

  “Luck,” their right wing mutters.

  I don’t care about any of that until Tim won’t slap five with me. He pretends he has a gnat in his eye all the way until the next whistle. Then he passes off to Danny again, who sends it right back to him for a give-and-go.

  “Tim!” I yell. “Man on!” Two St. John’s guys are chasing him down from behind.

  “Give it to Alex!” Viv calls. Instead, Tim boots the ball to Viv, who loses it because his St. John’s guy has him covered tight now.

  “Tim, man,” Danny says, mad. “What’s wrong? Nobody’s taking Alex! She’s wide open!” Tim spits on the grass and shoves his hair out of his eyes.

  It goes like that for a long time. St. John’s starts to cover me better after a while because I score another goal, no thanks to Tim. He won’t play with me. He won’t pass, he won’t set me up, he won’t do anything. Finally, after their striker scores his third goal, tying the game, Simon calls a time-out.

  “What the hell’s going on out there?” he goes, thumping Tim on the head and glaring at me, like I’m to blame too.

  “Ask him,” I go. My voice is high and shaky. I bite my lip, hating it.

  “Timothy?” Simon goes.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Tim says.

  “Right,” Danny mutters.

  “Keep your squabbles off the field,” Simon warns. But Tim won’t pass to me the whole rest of the game. I don’t score again, even though Viv and one of our seventh graders do, and we win; 5–3.

  I make sure I’m behind Tim when it’s time for handshakes. We form a moving line with the St. John’s players in the middle of the field to give lazy sideways hand slaps and mutter, “Game, game, game,” like a chant.

  “You ruined it,” I hiss at Tim’s back, near the end of the line. He doesn’t even turn around. Just heads for the van. He ruined the whole thing.

  14

  TIM’S SITTING ON the curb with his back to me, waiting for his mom to pick him up. All the other kids are gone, and Simon’s gaining speed out of the parking lot on his bike. The side of my leg hurts, where a St. John’s guy fouled me, and a little piece of the scab on my cheek is oozing, but I’m too mad to feel any of that.

  “Tim,” I say to his back. I wait, figuring he’ll answer me, now that we’re alone, but he doesn’t move. “What’s wrong with you?” I go. There’s a big green-and-brown smear on his T-shirt from when he did a slide tackle at the end of the game. He swivels his head toward the parking lot entrance, where it sounds like there might be a car turning in, but it’s a false alarm. “Timothy!” I yell. He picks up a bunch of pebbles and snaps one out a few feet—almost like he’s trying to make it skip, only there’s no water. All of a sudden, I’m practically running over to him, and he’s jumping up, twisting and backing away from me all at once. I shove him.

  “What are you doing?” he goes.

  “Why didn’t you pass?” I want to hit him. In the face.

  “You know why.”

  “I do not.” My hands are all balled up, like I might really punch him. He smashes the rest of his stones on the ground. One of them sprays up to sting my ankle.

  “You like Simon.”

  “So do you,” I go.

  “Not the way you do!”

  “Stacy told you that!”

  “So?”

  “Stacy makes up a lot of crap,” I go. “You know she does.”

  “I saw you hugging him,” Tim says. “Stacy didn’t make that up.”

  “I’ve seen you hug him too. So what?”

  “That’s different.”

  “How?” He doesn’t answer. “How is that different?” Somehow, I’ve moved forward even more, and he has to tilt his neck to keep my face out of his.

  “Stacy said you told her you like him. She said you didn’t want to kiss me because you like kissing him more.”

  “I never said that!” I hate her. Tim won’t look at me now. I lower my voice. “That’s disgusting, and I never did that, and I never said that.”

  “You saw his dick,” Tim accuses, like I must have wanted to or something.

  “By accident,” I go.

  “Stacy said you guys were touching and stuff that night in the tent.”

  “We were asleep,” I say. “And Stacy knows it. And he’s old, Tim.” Now he’s looking at me. “He’s too old.”

  “They like younger women,” Tim goes.

  I don’t understand. “Who?” I ask.

  Tim swallows and bends down to gather more stones. He tosses them at my cleats. “Older men,” he mutters. “Older men like younger women.”

  “Who told you that?” I ask. “Stacy?” Tim nods, flicking his wrist
at my feet. I snort.

  “Well, other people say it too,” Tim goes. “I’ve even heard my parents talk about it.” I feel the little rocks bouncing off my toes, the sides of my foot, my instep. “Everybody knows it, Alex. Come on.”

  “Well, I don’t know about other people,” I say, “but I know Simon. And so should you. He’s not some older man. He’s just Simon. And I’m not a woman. I’m just a girl.”

  “Then why were you two hugging yesterday?” He doesn’t sound mad anymore. Instead, he sounds like he’s about to cry.

  “I don’t know.” How do you describe things you do that come out of a feeling? How do you make one feeling sound okay, when others aren’t? “I was upset, and he was just trying to make me feel better.” Tim’s chin is all trembly. “I don’t like him like that,” I say loud and strong. “I swear.” He’s run out of things to throw. His hands dangle by his sides. I hear a car pulling in from Maple Avenue to the parking lot, and I know it’s going to be his mother. “Stacy says weird things,” I go. Tim nods a little nod. “We can’t let her mess us up like that.”

  “You’re the one who wanted to be her friend so bad,” Tim goes.

  “Just in the very beginning,” I say. “Besides, you’re the one who kissed her.”

  “I did not kiss her!” His mom’s car circles and slows. “She kissed me.”

  “Well, you liked it.” I’m hoping he’ll deny it. But maybe he doesn’t have time because his mom’s car is coming to a stop right next to us.

  “Anyway,” he goes, “it was a good game.”

  “You should have passed to me, moron,” I tell him.

  “Sorry.”

  His mom lowers the passenger window. “Hi, guys.”

  “We won,” Tim and I tell her. Then we slap five. Friends again.

  “Of course you did.” She smiles through her long curls. Her hair is just like Tim’s. “Want a ride, Alex?” she asks.

  * * *

  In the backseat I feel more tired than I ever felt before in my life. The world blurs by through the window, and Tim and his mom’s conversation up front turns into a murmur without words. My body is tired, and my brain is tired, and then somehow, my mind goes all the way back to when I was in the lower school, to how I learned to read. My teacher gave me these small squares of paper, each coated with a sandpaper letter. I had to trace the sandpaper over and over with my fingertips until I got the feel of how that same shape might ease out from a pencil. I remember tracing the whole alphabet for weeks, not understanding that it was language under my touch, just winding lines scraping my fingertips. And then one day those lines turned into letters, and the letters turned into cat and pot and straw, and I could read. I could figure out the world.