Friction

by E. R. Frank

  I want things to make sense now, but there aren’t any tricks to help me. I can’t trace paper for what I don’t understand anymore. The things I need to figure out don’t have rules. Like why Stacy wants it to be true that Simon and I like each other in that certain way. Like why I’ve been scared sometimes lately that maybe she’s right. What if Simon does look at me? What if he did want me to see his thing? What if that slow, sliding feeling I’ve been getting lately is because I like him? Most of me knows it can’t be, but then why am I suddenly restless sometimes, in the middle of the night or at school, or even on the soccer field? Why do I want to feel something light, maybe on the arm or on the lips, and how come, even though I think it was an accident that time Simon touched my chest, I can’t get it out of my mind?

  One time last year Simon found out that Marie was doing the same math workbook over and over again. Simon couldn’t figure out why Marie would do that, and when he asked, Marie said it was because it was easy—because she knew how to do those problems. Then Simon told Marie that once you figure one thing out, you’re supposed to move on to the next thing, and that’s the way to grow in the world. And then Marie had started to cry, and she kept saying, “But I don’t want to move on! I know how to do this!”

  I didn’t get it then, but now I do. I don’t want to move on either. Everything’s too hard, too complicated, and I want to stay right where I am—or maybe where I was—where it’s easy.

  15

  IT’S DARK, AND I’m still wiped out from the game and everything, and my mother and I have been driving a long time to find Stacy’s street. Just when I’m feeling better, thinking that maybe we really won’t find it after all, my mom perks up.

  “Park Place!” she goes. “Here it is.” She turns right. “Start looking at numbers.” I don’t answer. “102, 104, 106 . . .” My mom’s driving slow so she won’t miss 114. She pulls to a stop in front of a long driveway with a smashed metal mailbox leaning crazily off its green post. She lifts a package of chocolates and a bunch of flowers from the seat between us into my lap. I don’t move. “Alex, stop this right now.”

  “Stop what?”

  “I know she lied to you about her father,” my mom says for the millionth time. “I know she embarrassed and scared you with that lie. But you have to learn to forgive people.”

  “Why?” I sound obnoxious, but I couldn’t care less.

  “Because, Alex,” my mom says, “it’s the right thing. The fair thing.”

  “It’s not fair to lie,” I say.

  My mom sighs. “No, it’s not,” she says. “But people do lie to us, and we have to figure out how to know the truth for ourselves or how to handle it when we can’t do that. We have to look at the facts of things, at all sides of things. Including all sides of people’s lies.”

  “Whatever,” I say.

  “Drop the attitude, Alex,” my mom says. “Stacy needs to heal. And people heal with the concern, support, and understanding of friends.”

  She’s never lectured me like this before. It feels like she’s reading from a recipe or something. Where’s the mom from that time in the middle of the night? The one who really looked at me? Nowhere.

  She’s waiting for me to answer her.

  “She only broke her arm,” I finally say.

  “Badly,” my mom answers. “She’s in a lot of pain.” So am I, I want to shout. Inside somewhere. “They’re expecting you, Alex,” my mom says. “I told Stacy’s mother you’d be here at eight o’clock. I’ll be back in half an hour. Now go.”

  I get out of the car and slouch across Stacy’s driveway to a brick walk that winds its way to a small front porch. There’s a light there with moths swirling around it, like a sloppy soccer team fighting for a loose ball. I knock on the front door, hoping nobody will answer, but then Stacy’s mom swings it open. She’s small with big eyes, like Stacy, only she blinks a lot.

  “You must be Alex,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I mutter.

  “Thank you for coming,” she goes. She says it all formal, stiff. “I’ll get Stacy.” Then she just walks away without even inviting me inside. Weird.

  “Stace!” I hear her call once. I hear Stacy’s footsteps, and then she’s here, with practically her whole arm inside a thick orange cast held up with a blue sling and her hair spreading over her shoulders.

  “Are those for me?” she asks right away, looking at the flowers and box of chocolates. I nod. Stacy steps out and shuts the door behind her. She lowers herself to the top step, careful of her arm. I see her wince when she moves. I guess she is in a lot of pain. “Sit,” she goes. I sit next to her and shove the gifts into her lap. But not too hard. “Thanks,” she goes. Her tongue ring’s gone. Maybe they made her take it out in the hospital. Maybe doctors think tongue rings are unsanitary or something.

  “They’re not from me,” I say. I swat away the flying beetles that can’t get in on the moths’ game. “They’re from my parents. They made me come.”

  “I have to tell you something.” She lowers her voice. “It’s important, and I wanted to call you, but my mom’s been nearby the whole time, so I couldn’t.” Stacy rips open the plastic shrink-wrap off the chocolate box. She’s still wincing, but it’s not stopping her from getting to that candy.

  “I thought you didn’t have a father!” I tell her. “I thought you were going to die!”

  “Yeah.” She nods, picking through the assortment. “Sorry about that.”

  “You’re sorry?”

  She bites into a chocolate, drops it back into its paper cup, and then chooses another one. “I didn’t think you really believed that Jehovah’s Witness stuff,” she goes. “Nobody else would have.”

  “A lot of people believe what you say!”

  “If you’re talking about Tim,” she says, “I had to change the truth around a little for him. It’s better that way.” She holds the candy box out to me with her good arm. I ignore it.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I think about just getting up and walking home. The thing is, we’re pretty far from my house. And it’s dark out. Plus, my mom’s supposed to pick me up.

  “God,” Stacy moans. She picks out another candy and bites into it. Cherry drips down her chin. “The truth about Simon is, he is a pervert, only Tim doesn’t want to hear that because Simon’s like some kind of father to him or something. So Simon has to be perfect, or else Tim will freak out. So it was just easier to tell him that what’s going on is that you have a crush on Simon. Not the other way around.” She swallows and wipes her chin with her finger. “So, see, I was protecting Tim from the truest truth because he couldn’t handle it.”

  “But there’s nothing going on,” I say. “Nothing. You’re wrong, Stacy. Simon’s not a pervert, and nothing is going on.”

  She slaps the chocolate box on the ground and jams her face in mine. “I am not wrong!”

  I jump up, knocking her stupid candy off the steps. Chocolates and little paper cups scatter everywhere. “I don’t listen to liars!” I yell. Her mouth gets thin. “And you don’t scare me anymore, Stacy, so don’t even try it!” I pound down the steps to the brick walk. I’ll walk home. Far or not. Dark or not.

  “Alex,” she says to my back.

  “Screw you!” I don’t even turn around. “Liar!” I’m almost to the driveway before I hear her running.

  “I’m not making it up,” she pants out behind me. “Alex, wait.” I keep going, fast. She catches up. “Alex, I swear.” She huffs. We’re on her driveway now. “Okay,” she admits, “I have sort of lied before.” I stop. There’s just enough light coming from the houses and street lamps that I can see her expression, the glimmer from her cast, the black space between her white front teeth. “I’m sorry about the thing with my father,” she goes. “That was a lie. It was.”

  “Why did you tell it?” I say. “Just explain why.”

  She tosses her head like a pony. “I wanted to pretend he was dead.” I can’t imagine wanting to pretend somethi
ng like that. “And . . . I don’t know why else. I don’t know.”

  “I bet it’s not even true that Jehovah’s Witnesses can’t get blood transfusions,” I say. Then I start walking again. She walks along with me. Her face is all scrunched up.

  “That part was true,” she goes. “I saw it on TV. That’s really true, and what I have to tell you is true, and you have to listen.” She stamps her foot hard. Then she starts to cry. I’m so surprised, I stop short. I never thought I’d see Stacy cry over anything. She uses her good hand to swipe at her eyes and then push on them to keep the tears in.

  “Okay,” I say. To give her a chance. To be fair. “I’m listening. What?”

  It takes her a few seconds. A car drives by slow, its headlights shining on us long enough for me to notice the cherry stain on Stacy’s shirt and the pale yellow hospital bracelet on her good arm. “When I fell . . . ,” she finally starts. “When Simon took me into Maggie’s office . . .”

  “What?”’

  “He messed with me in there.”

  “Huh?”

  “He touched me,” she whispers. “He touched me and stuff.”

  “Nuh-uh,” I go.

  “You can’t tell anyone,” she warns. “You better not. But you’re alone with him a lot, aren’t you? And he likes you, Alex. He does.” She’s talking fast now. “That’s why I had to tell you. So you can be careful.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I swear, Alex. He was doing stuff to me in there.”

  “What stuff?” I go. “What did he do, exactly?”

  “You can’t tell anyone. My father will kill him. You saw my father.”

  “What did Simon do?” I ask again, because I can’t imagine it, really. What people do.

  “Look,” Stacy says. “I like you, Alex. And I don’t want him to mess with you, too. That’s all.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I tell her.

  “Don’t be mad,” she goes. “Please, Alex. Don’t be mad I told you, but it’s true.”

  “Why would he touch you if he liked me?” I ask, and then I feel my face flush because that sounds like I’m jealous or something.

  “Because he’s a pervert, Alex!” She stamps her foot again. “You are so stupid! Don’t you get it? He’s a pervert!”

  “Then you ought to tell your parents,” I go. “If it really happened, you ought to tell them.” She marches over to her mailbox sticking out of the ground, leaning lopsided to one side and smashed up in the back. It’s gleaming in the night light like some sort of metal skeleton.

  “My father did that!” She’s pointing at the mailbox and yelling at me now. “With his bare hands! My father’s crazy! He’ll kill Simon if he finds out! He’ll kill him!”

  “I’m going home.” I break into a run.

  “You better not tell,” she yells after me. “You better not, unless you want Simon killed!”

  I keep running until I can’t hear the sound of her voice anymore, and I keep on running after that. Headlights hit my eyes, blinding me for a second, and then I can see again, and it’s my mother, on her way to pick me up.

  “What happened?” She throws open her door and rushes over to me. I’m too out of breath to answer. “Alex, what’s going on?” I push past her into the passenger seat. My mother drops into her place behind the steering wheel a second later. “Are you all right?” I lean my head against the window, the way Tim did riding home from our camping trip. The glass is cool against my skin. “Alex!” my mother goes.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “We had a fight, that’s all.”

  “What do you mean?” my mother asks. “What happened?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing,” I say. “Nothing happened.”

  16

  “NO WAY.” TIM’S voice shatters on way. “Simon’s not like that. He wouldn’t do that.”

  We’re a few feet from the edge of the woods, hidden from Maple Avenue for the first time in months by layers and layers of new spring leaves. Tim knew something was wrong last night when I called, asking him to meet me before school, but he didn’t know exactly how bad things were.

  “She tried to make me promise not to tell anyone,” I say.

  “She’s insane,” Tim goes. “I don’t believe it.”

  “She was crying so hard,” I whisper, even though there’s nobody around to hear.

  “So? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. But I’m thinking about what Simon told me: Even if the content of someone’s lie seems like it’s a pure lie, there may be something real in it somewhere.

  “You don’t believe it, do you?” The way his voice sounds makes me think that if I said I did, he might. Which fires up my stomach, because if he’s that close to believing what Stacy’s told me, then maybe I am too.

  It’s the reason for the lie that gives us a clue as to where the truth is.

  “No, I don’t believe it!” I say. We stand there for a second, and I get this urge to brush those curls out of Tim’s eyes. I don’t, though. Instead, I start walking.

  “Maybe we ought to tell Simon what’s going on,” Tim says as we push out of the wood path and onto Maple Avenue’s shoulder. Even though it’s barely May, it’s hot already. My underarms are damp.

  “But what if Simon calls Stacy’s parents?” I go. I’m thinking of that crumpled mailbox. Stacy might be a liar, but she didn’t make that mailbox up. I saw it with my own eyes. Her father really could be crazy, if he did that.

  “Maybe we could tell our parents,” Tim goes. We cross the road and turn into the school driveway, which is pretty now, with dogwood trees all blooming pink and white.

  “But they would call Stacy’s, right?”

  Tim nods. “Yeah. Probably.”

  “And then Stacy’s dad might freak out anyway.” I think about it. “He could hurt Simon.” We’re on the slate path, and we slow down. “I’ll tell him,” I decide.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” I stare at the double doors and think about fairness. “Simon should know what she’s saying about him. He has a right to know. You can’t tell him because Stacy didn’t tell you. She told me. So I’ll do it.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know.” We push through the doors, and I see Stacy sitting at the round table with some of my mother’s flowers stuck in her cast. She doesn’t look so good. Her hair seems sort of stringy or something. She looks over at us and puts her one good hand on her hip. She knows I told Tim. I cross my arms over my chest and glare right back at her.

  “She looks weird,” Tim whispers.

  “Who cares,” I say. But she does look weird. Tired. Really tired. And something else. Something creepy.

  * * *

  I get my chance at lunch.

  “Games day this afternoon,” Simon announces. “And McDonald’s for lunch.” Everybody cheers.

  “I call going with Simon!” Danny yells.

  “Actually,” Teddy says, “you went last time. It’s my turn.” He shrugs. “But you can go if you want.”

  “It’s Stacy’s turn,” Simon goes. “She’s never gone.”

  “I don’t want to,” Stacy goes. “My arm hurts.”

  I can talk to him in the car. “Let me go,” I say. “I want to.” The whole class gets really quiet. Has Stacy gotten to them already? She snorts. Soft, so Simon won’t hear.

  * * *

  Maggie loans us her car while she covers our class for Simon. It has seats you stick to if you’re sweaty. I start sticking right away. It’s too hot for spring. It feels like July, or something. I have to keep unpeeling my thighs, almost before we’re even out of the parking lot. Simon tries the air conditioner, but it doesn’t work so well. We just roll down the windows instead.

  “So,” Simon says. Then he stops. Then he goes, “Are you okay?” I’m huddled up against my door.

  “Yeah,” I go, and I’m telling myself to spaz down so I can think of how to begin. But it’s too hard. I can’t rela
x. The ride to McDonald’s is too short. I’ll tell him on the way back, after I’ve had a chance to figure out how to say it. That’s what I’ll do.

  We pull into McDonald’s and park. I get out fast. I want to get inside, to the air-conditioning.

  “You have the order list?” Simon asks me.

  “Yeah,” I say. Another voice overlaps with mine.

  “Simon!” It’s high and loud, like a cheerleader’s. I look around. So does Simon. He smiles.

  “Dawn,” he goes to this girl wearing a short skirt, a tank top, and a blue jewel in her belly button. “What are you doing here?”

  “Excellent,” this Dawn girl goes. Simon laughs, and so does she.

  “I’ll meet you inside, okay?” he says to me.

  “Okay,” I say.

  The air-conditioning blasts my skin as soon as I step through the doors. It’s crowded, but the line moves fast. I’m wondering who Dawn is and how Simon can stand to stay out in the parking lot for so long with it so hot out. I look behind me every now and then, expecting him to come inside, but I don’t see him.

  “May I take your order, please?” the McDonald’s lady asks me.

  “Yeah,” I say, looking one last time for Simon. “This is to go.” I read our list to her. It’s long, but she doesn’t seem like she cares. She rings up the cash register and totals everything. Simon’s got everybody’s cash. I look around for him again, but he’s still not here.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” I tell the McDonald’s lady, after she puts the first bag filled with fries on the counter. “I have to get the money from my teacher.”