Playing Nice

by Rebekah Crane

  Words come out of my mouth that I don't expect. Maybe it's because it's my duty to make sure Lil does well today. Maybe I'm worried she'll contact U of M and tell them I failed her. Or maybe I don't want to sit in the Special Ed classroom, thinking about penguins and sex and waiting for my first class to start. Maybe I want to be outside instead of stuck inside the four walls of this school.

  "Can I come with you?" I ask.

  She doesn't respond at first, just keeps staring at me with squinted eyes, like she's scanning me for possible diseases.

  "Fine," she grumbles.

  I don't know why I want to go anywhere with Lil. Based on the black clothes and skull ring alone, I'm pretty sure she's a one-way ticket to hell, but I grab my backpack and make for the door nonetheless.

  I just hope she doesn't ask me about sex again.

  CHAPTER 2

  Lil doesn't say a word as we sit on the ground next to a large oak tree across the street from the school. She takes long drags on a cigarette, holding it in her mouth, and then exhaling a smooth line of smoke into the air.

  I stare at the skull ring. It has a red rhinestone for a tongue and two black eyes. It looks like a Halloween costume accessory. Except I'm pretty sure Lil wears it every day, because her finger indents around the silver base like the ring has grown into her skin.

  On closer look, she's not fully covered in black. Her hair is actually brown. Deep, dark, brown. Like soil after you dig a few feet into the ground. With her blue eyes and red lipstick, she looks like Snow White. A smoking, combat boot-wearing princess.

  The whole time we sit there, I try to think of what to say, but what's appropriate when she's already said "tight thighs," "virgin" and "getting laid" in our first five minutes together? And I'm entranced at how her hand holds the cigarette like it's an appendage and her mouth curls around the end, making out with the filter, as if she's been smoking for years.

  I wonder if her parents know. The one time I tried a cigarette, I hid next to the dumpster in the alley behind Rite Aid on Main Street so no one in town would see me. When I went home, I covered myself a layer thick in plumeria lotion and mouth wash to mask the odor. I was worried my parents would be able to tell. My mother scolded me for smelling like a hooker and told me to stop buying that lotion. I haven't worn it since.

  Once Lil finishes, she puts the cigarette out, sizzling the lit end into the earth. My hand reaches out to pick it up and put it in the trash can. Cigarette butts take forever to biodegrade. But I stop myself. It wouldn't be kind and Lil needs to know that I'm nice.

  The second before I decide to start a conversation, she gets up and walks away, the chains on her black combat boots clanging with each step. Nothing is spoken between us. I watch her cross the street back to school, her fresh smoke smell lingering in my nose, and a weight hangs in the air. It presses on me, like each word I thought about saying is a boulder on my shoulders. I realize I'm disappointed. No one has ever talked to me like that before; no one's ever been so honest and brash. Now that Lil's gone, I'm left sitting on the ground, dirt on my favorite pink dress and an annoying pinch in the back of my chest reminding me how foolish it was to follow her.

  I get up and look around. Until this moment, I hadn't thought about what people would think if they saw me sitting with Lil while she smoked. I was too focused on her mouth. Luckily the first bus is just starting to unload a pack of students and no one's looking.

  I dust off the back of my dress, giving it an extra wipe clean. I wear a dress to school every day but Friday. My mom says people know the type of person you are by what you wear. Some weeks I'm so tired of crossing my legs so no one can see my underwear that I can't wait for Friday to roll around. But then I remind myself that boys like dresses, probably because it's easy access to my lady parts, and leg cramps are just the price I have to pay.

  Brushing out the wrinkles that have formed, I look for my best friend in the crowd of students exiting the busses. If Lil doesn't want my help, I can't force her. That's another thing we talked about in WelCo at the beginning of the year. If someone is lost and they don't want help, it's not our job to save them. I tell myself that over and over until the uncomfortable jabbing in the back of chest eases to a dull poke. I decide it's better that Lil walked away silently. My mother always says, if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.

  I find Sarah lingering at the back of the crowd, headphones plugging her ears. She's always listening to classical music. Beethoven, Bach, Tchaikovsky. I tried to get her to listen to a musical once, one of my favorites, but she covered her ears. This shit is terrible, she screamed. Sarah plays flute in the Minster orchestra. First chair, of course. We've been friends since kindergarten, when her parents moved from one side of Minster to the house directly across the street from us. My mom and I brought a cherry pie over as a welcoming present. Sarah came running to the door, her hair pulled into a tight bun on the top of her head, like a ballerina.

  "Do you want to play Barbies?" she asked, waving around a blonde-haired Barbie and a brunette.

  "Sure," I said, grabbing for the blonde one.

  "You can't have either of these." Sarah yanked her hand away. "You can be Ken."

  I looked at my mom. I really wanted to be the blonde Barbie. She smiled and whispered through her teeth, "Don't be rude, Marty."

  I forced a grin and grabbed Ken.

  Sarah never did get better at sharing her dolls, but that's just her. Eventually, it was all about Ken and Barbie lying naked on top of each other like they were having sex, and it didn't matter anymore. Sarah's planning to attend U of M with me, but as a Music Theory major. We've been friends for so long; I couldn't imagine doing anything without her. It just seems right to go to college together.

  "You smell like cigarettes," Sarah says as I approach. She pulls the headphones from her ears; a screech of violin music blares from the speakers. "Why weren't you on the bus?"

  "Ms. Everley wanted me to come in early and meet a new girl," I say, pulling vanilla perfume from my backpack and spraying it on my wrists.

  "A new student at Minster High? That hasn't happened since, like, third grade. Is she pretty? Please tell me she's butt-ugly."

  My brain scrambles for the right words to describe Lil, to tell Sarah about our awkward conversation and the skull ring and the way Lil knew I was a virgin just by looking at me. How she kind of makes me want to confess things I would never say out loud, but I don't know why.

  "She's different."

  "Different in a hot way or different in a gross, smells-like-cheese way?"

  "I don't know. Neither." I play with my hair like that might focus my thoughts. "She's dark."

  "Dark? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Sarah says as we walk into the school building.

  "She likes the color black," I say.

  "She sounds weird. Thank God. I thought you didn't like smoking?" Sarah asks.

  "I don't. But I didn't want to leave her alone."

  "Well, where is she now?"

  "Alone," I shrug. "It didn't go as planned."

  We head for the bathroom to do our normal morning routine. Sarah always spends a few minutes fixing her hair, making sure every curl is properly placed. Last year in psychology, we learned that what people find most attractive in a person are a large forehead, big eyes, and a small mouth. It's why people always love babies. Sarah's face has all those features. A clear forehead, big brown eyes, and a rosebud mouth. She complains about her curly red hair, but I've come to realize that most people don't like their hair. Curly people want straight, blonde people want brown.

  I'm an exception to the rule. I love my hair. God's blessing, as my mother calls it. Not too thick, not too thin, and cut right below the shoulder blades. I blow it dry every morning, brushing each piece with a round brush that curls it ever so slightly at the bottom.

  "Did you hear that Jamie is going to the Hot Shot Dance with Josh Harper?" Sarah says, puckering and applying clear lip gloss.


  "That's surprising." Sarah and I live for dances. It's the only thing that ever happens in Minster, and we have one almost every other month. The Hot Shot dance celebrates the opening of hunting season. It's kind of a big deal, and this year WelCo is in charge. Being president and all, I'm taking it on as my biggest high school challenge. I want everyone to walk into the gym and think Marty Hart has done it again. This is the nicest dance Minster High has ever seen! Next to playing Sandy in this year's spring musical, Grease, the Hot Shot dance will be a defining moment for me.

  "I think he thought it would be okay since Cody's off at college, but it is so not okay." Sarah emphasizes the so, dragging out the O. Jamie dated Josh's best friend for over a year. Once you date someone in Minster, you're off-limits for the rest of your high school career, especially with their friends. It's unwritten dating law.

  "We're still going stag together, right?" I don't think I can handle the stress of finding a date and planning the dance. For Homecoming, Sam Higgins waited until three days before to ask me. I couldn't eat for a week I was so nervous. Finally, he sent me a text. Want 2 go 2 dance? Not the most romantic thing, but at least I wasn't alone.

  Sarah nods and fluffs her hair.

  "Have you decided what you're going to wear?" I ask. The dance isn't for weeks, but I can't stop thinking about my dress.

  "Ugh, I'm so sick of all my clothes. I think we should go shopping." Sarah blows herself a kiss in the mirror. "So what's her name?" she asks as she screws the top back onto her lip gloss.

  "Whose name?"

  "The new girl."

  I powder under my eyes, making sure no bags are showing, and wonder why it's so hard for me to talk about Lil. Why can't I just tell Sarah she'll notice her when she sees a creature like the Grim Reaper approach?

  But there's something about Lil, her blunt questions, her smoking, and the way she talked to Ms. Everley, as if she didn't care what anyone thought about her, that I want to keep to myself.

  "Lily Hatfield," I say, zipping up my backpack.

  "Lily. Sounds pretty." Sarah frowns in the mirror. "Seriously, Marty, I don't know how you live with your boy name. It's like your parents have been trying to torture you since birth."

  "Right," I say. But I love my name. It was my grandma's and now that she's gone, every time someone says it, I picture her standing beside me in her plaid apron, flour on her hands. It's like she's still here on Earth.

  I take one last look in the mirror before heading out of the bathroom. Carefully, I force a smile. Maybe it's the cigarette smoke still lingering in my nose or the dirt I can't seem to brush out of my dress, but something in my reflection looks off. I'm just tired, I tell myself. It's the bags under my eyes that make me look different.

  ***

  I search for Lil all morning, but can't find her anywhere. Every time I hear someone whisper about the new girl, I get anxious, wanting to see her again. Then a pit of guilt drops in my stomach. How could I let her walk away without saying a word? It's my job to make people feel welcome, and all I did was enable her bad habit of smoking, which by every doctor's standards, is horrible and leads to cancer.

  By the time I get to English, I'm starting to worry. What if her day has been terrible and I've failed? What if Lil told Ms. Everley I shouldn't be president of WelCo anymore? What if she wrote on the bathroom wall, "Marty Hart has a rotten, never-been-used vagina that stinks"?

  I walk into the classroom, hoping Lil is already seated, but she's nowhere to be found. Butterflies flutter in my stomach as I play out terrible scenarios of what's happened in my mind. My mom would say my imagination is one of my worst attributes. I make up crazy scenes, like Lil getting arrested for smoking and the principal suspending her and at the last second she screams my name and tells everyone I was responsible. It's irrational, but I like to think it helps me perform onstage. I don't have a problem getting into character. I let my mind become someone else's and pretend life is different than it is and POOF! I'm no longer me.

  "How did the rest of this morning go?" Ms. Everley asks as I take my seat.

  "Great," I say with a little too much enthusiasm. "I think she's adjusting well. I mean, she's quite interesting. Florida and her nose ring and her love for all things black." I'm babbling, trying to act like our conversation was fruitful, when all I really know is the intimate way Lil makes out with a cigarette and her plans to get laid.

  "I knew I could count on you." Ms. Everley smiles and turns toward the chalkboard. With every letter she writes, her butt shakes in her painted-on beige pants. It almost looks like she's wearing nothing from the waist down. I take a deep breath and pull out my homework. We're reading The Catcher in the Rye, and last night I had to write a personal letter to Holden Caulfield. I couldn't write what I really wanted to say, about how stupid I think he is for leaving prep school in the first place and how he should've kept his head down and not bothered Stradlater. I ended up pretending I was Phoebe and wrote the letter from her perspective. I just signed it with my name. I'm sure Ms. Everley will love it.

  I'm digging through my backpack when I hear the boots and the smell of cigarette smoke wafts in my direction. I sit up quickly and see Lil taking a seat at the desk next to mine. Every kid in the classroom is staring at her, but she doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe she doesn't care. The only time I want people looking at me with eyes popping out of their heads is when I'm on stage. Staring is rarely a good thing, unless you're a super model or famous and Lil is definitely neither one.

  "It's good to see you again," I decide to say. It's the line I usually use when I talk to the old ladies at church. The ones that smell like mothballs and spearmint gum. I have to yell just so they'll hear me. I'm never really that happy to see them, but with all the people staring at Lil, this is my opportunity to be a shining example of a nice girl.

  "Don't say things you don't mean," Lil says in a flat, no-nonsense tone. I blink, shocked at being called out so easily, and look around to see if people heard. Pippa Rogers giggles two seats behind me and my face burns raging hot. My mind fumbles with how to recover, but it's as if Lil's words have made everything go blank.

  "I'm sorry, but that's my seat," Alex Austin says to Lil, saving me a response. I take a deep breath and push down the bubble in my gut that makes me want to scream at Lil and smack Pippa.

  "Marty said I could sit here." Lil says it even-keeled and direct. Her tone makes the statement sound true.

  "No, I didn't," I say, and now I'm calling Lil out on her lie. I gape at her, partly mad because she put words in my mouth and partly because she's acting like we're well acquainted. Other than a few curt words and sharing her second-hand smoke, I barely know her.

  "That's okay. She can sit there." Alex grins at me. I don't know if he can sense the tension and he's trying to help, or if he just likes smiling, but seeing his mouth turn up into a rosy-cheeked half moon makes the anger coursing through my veins settle.

  Sometimes I look over at Alex during class and notice he's staring at me. Last year, he came to see Guys and Dolls and told me afterward that I looked beautiful. It's the only time a man has called me beautiful, except for my dad. I'd say Alex likes me, but other than smiling and calling me beautiful, he's never done anything to show interest.

  Sorry, I mouth to him. He shrugs and takes a seat in the back of the room. In a way, I think Alex might be perfect for me. He's strong but not too muscular, his smile is straight with only a slight gap between his two front teeth, and even though his wardrobe consists of way too many flannel shirts, he's a pretty good dresser. But he's a jock, and I just can't date a jock. I hate the smell of sweat.

  I turn my attention from Alex back to Lil and breathe. I decide to take another stab at conversation. It might be a kamikaze mission, but I can't have her walking around school telling people I'm a liar.

  "How has your first day been?" I ask.

  "Just peachy," she says.

  I wait for her to continue. Silence. Lil starts to twist her nose ring ag
ain.

  "Did that hurt?"

  "Not compared to my other piercings."

  "You have other piercings?" I say, a slight wobble in my voice.

  Right after I ask the question, Ms. Everley stands up to start class. My mom would kill me if I pierced my nose or anything other than my ears and something tells me Lil probably has a hidden tattoo somewhere that she got at one of those seedy joints I saw littered all over Florida.

  I force my eyes off her and onto the front of the classroom. I can pretend all day long that I should get to know Lil, but the truth is that tattoos and skull rings and piercings and people who speak exactly what's on their mind scare me.

  "I'd like everyone to welcome a new student to our class," Ms. Everley says. "Lil, would you come up here?"

  Any eyes that weren't on Lil are now. She groans, shaking her head, and mouths the word fuck. I look at Ms. Everley, mouth hanging open, to see if she's noticed but she's too busy fluffing her hair and checking out her reflection in the window. Lil gets up from her seat, boots clanging as she walks to the front of the classroom.

  "Would you like to share anything about yourself?" Ms. Everley asks.

  "No." Lil stares at Ms. Everley like she daring her to ask another question. Chuckles ripple through the classroom.

  "Nothing?"

  Lil stares at Ms. Everley, her blue eyes intense, and then it happens. Someone whispers freak.

  "What was that?" Ms. Everley asks.

  No one in the room says a word. A feather could drop and we would hear it.

  My heart pinches, uncomfortable. It's an instinctive reaction when someone does something mean. I can't help it. It's the nice in me. I turn around to see who said it, and everyone stops giggling and looks down.

  Lil stares forward, not even flinching, and walks back to her seat. By the lack of emotion on her face, I'd assume she didn't hear, but both of her hands are balled into such tight fists that her knuckles have turned white.

  She plops back down in the seat and slouches. I turn and smile at her, hoping that one single act of kindness will wipe away the bad moment. I figure it's the least I can do.