Frenemy of the People

by Nora Olsen

  I felt knocked off my feet and reached out to touch the stall door for support. It seemed, all of a sudden, as though nothing was real. But I could feel the wood of the stall door beneath my hand, anchoring me in this reality.

  “I think there may be a mistake,” I suggested.

  Mrs. Astin’s pitying face was answer enough.

  “I’m afraid not. Your mom sold Sassy to me, and I’m going to resell her as soon as I can. I can’t let you ride her even though I know you’re very safe, just in case anything happened. It’s for insurance reasons.”

  Oh my God, why was she nattering on about insurance? I didn’t care about that. That went on the list with French drains. All I cared about right now was my horse.

  Why would my mom have done this? I hadn’t done anything wrong. I didn’t deserve this. I thought back to the last time I had seen Mom, this morning. She had been quiet, still in her bathrobe when she was usually dressed before I even got up. But she hadn’t seemed like she was in a vindictive, horse-selling mood. I realized I was clutching one of the posts of the stall door so tightly that my knuckles were white.

  “I suggest you go talk to your parents right away,” Mrs. Astin said. “And if you ever need a job, I’d be happy to hire you here at the stable.”

  She left me alone with Sassy then. Probably she expected me to go home.

  But I didn’t go home. I didn’t call my parents either. Instead, I brushed Sassy until I could practically see my face in her side. I carefully combed Sassy’s mane and tail. I brought her new bedding and cleaned out her poop even though that was part of the service provided by the stable and Sassy’s stall was fairly clean. I picked pebbles out of Sassy’s hooves with more care than I ever had before. Then I got an apple from the car, where I kept a whole sack of them for her. While she had her head down, crunching, I kissed the star on her forehead and stroked her ears.

  Only when it was dusk and Mrs. Astin flipped on the lights in the barn did I get into the SUV and head for home. My sadness turned to anger during the drive. When I got home, I ignored Skippy’s happy greeting and stalked straight into the kitchen. Mom didn’t ask me where I’d been. She just looked up guiltily from icing cupcakes.

  “Mrs. Astin called two hours ago,” she said. “I’m really sorry, bug. I just didn’t know how to tell you. There’s a plate of chicken Kiev warming for you in the oven.”

  “How could you do this to me?” I said. “My heart is broken into a thousand little pieces. A million little pieces. If not more! Why did you stab me in the back like this?”

  “You said you didn’t want to do equestrian anymore, so I thought maybe—”

  “Mom. You did not. Buy her back. Call Mrs. A.”

  “Okay, this is the real truth. We don’t have the money to keep a horse anymore. That horse eats a lot.”

  “Are you kidding?” I shrieked.

  “No, I am not kidding. Your dad’s business hasn’t been going very well, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  My dad always had some scheme going, but it seemed like it never worked out the way he hoped. He ran a specialty classic car repair company, for people who had really expensive antique cars that they couldn’t trust just anyone to fix. But because of the economy, things had been slow lately, so he had also been doing some regular mechanic work on the side. My mom had her own little Internet business, selling T-shirts and knickknacks that promoted Down syndrome awareness. Stuff like mugs and teddy bears that said I Love My Nephew With Down Syndrome.

  “I could have helped, if you’d told me,” I said. “I could have worked at the stable. Mrs. Astin just said—”

  “Clarissa. Listen to me now, because this is serious,” Mom said. Her face had gotten all steely. “This is about more than you and your horse. We don’t have the money for anything, not just your horse. We might even lose the house.”

  “I don’t care about the house!” I shouted. “I just want my horse!”

  I stomped upstairs and slammed the door to my room. Desi did that all the time. Under the circumstances, there was no point in acting mature.

  Chapter Eight

  Lexie

  It was crazy. For some reason, Clarissa was in front of a soccer goal in my backyard. I was standing with arms akimbo, shouting at Clarissa. I was getting right up in her face. I had no idea what I was shouting. All I knew was that it was good and loud. Clarissa was wearing bright red lipstick, too red to be real. Then I started kissing her. We were rolling around on the ground in front of the soccer goal. It was a perfect communion between our souls, and it felt electric.

  I woke up gasping. I didn’t even know where I was until everyone started laughing at me. Airless room, chairs, desks, a ring of laughing faces. Einstein poster, Math Squad poster.

  Teacher standing over me. Right, I was in precalc.

  I wiped a patch of drool from the side of my face. With a grim expression, Ms. Cavendish tore off an infraction sheet from the pad. Her pad was almost used up. There must have been a lot of infractions lately. Not every teacher was as infraction-happy as Frog-Eyes Cavendish. It seemed a little unfair since I hadn’t fallen asleep on purpose.

  As I waited in the vice principal’s anteroom to see Mr. Viscount, I shivered, thinking about my horrible dream. Nightmare, really. No, please, no. Please don’t let it be. I had seen that episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer. Not the greatest episode ever, but it looked like it was written by Voltaire compared to some of the terrible episodes in the last season. It was the one where Spike has a dream about kissing Buffy. He wakes up in a cold sweat, realizing he’s falling in love with her.

  Don’t let me be falling for Clarissa. If there is any rhyme or reason in this entire universe, that cannot happen. It would be an abomination, I thought. I would rather fall for bucktoothed, bulging-eyed, menacing Ms. Cavendish than have a crush on Clarissa Kirchendorfer.

  I was going to fight this big time. Just because we were the only two girls who liked girls at Parlington did not mean we should get together. That was ridiculous. I had met other gay girls at punk rock shows at ABC No Rio in New York City. I should like one of those girls instead.

  Mr. Viscount was more subdued today than he had been the day before, but basically he said the same things. He let me go just in time for the next period. But skipping English seemed like a wise decision, since it was the only class I shared with Clarissa. I decided to go to the library and work on my application to Simon’s Rock. I got on one of the computers and downloaded it. There was a fifty-dollar application fee that had to be paid by check or money order. My parents wouldn’t write me a check, but I knew you could get a money order at the post office, and I had fifty dollars, so that was okay.

  At first, everything looked okay. The application had a long list of spaces for extracurricular activities. I didn’t think my one outing with HOLP was going to look too impressive. Then I realized I could write about butterflies. I had spent hours learning about butterflies, assisting injured butterflies, and posting butterfly videos on YouTube. Surely that showed both creativity and self-motivation.

  But then there was a big problem. Parents not only had to sign the application, they had to write an essay too. An essay about my intellect, relationships, and emotional maturity. How was I going to get around this? My parents had said no to this whole idea. It was probably going to take a while to talk them around. There were only a limited number of vacancies available for the spring semester, and the admissions were rolling, which meant there wasn’t a specific deadline. It seemed like it would be a good idea to apply as early as possible. I could imagine tricking my mom into signing the application when she was in a hurry. But an essay? I could not imagine my parents writing a glowing account of me. Ever. Inconceivable. Even if they agreed to let me apply.

  I stroked the straight-edge tattoo on my hand and looked at my many rings, trying to imagine what my parents would say about me if they understood who I really was, if they were like other people’s parents. What would my mom say? I open
ed a new document on the computer screen.

  I am so proud of Lexie, I typed. Even though we don’t always see eye to eye, I respect that she stands up for what she believes in. When she first became a vegan, I bullied her and tried to sneak meat into her food. But now I see I was wrong, and that she was following her heart. I don’t always express it to Lexie, but I really think she is very intelligent.

  I sighed, feeling a liquid glow of contentment. It was great to be appreciated. My mom’s essay was going to be amazing. And it distracted me from Clarissa Kirchendorfer. I was probably never going to think about her again.

  Chapter Nine

  Clarissa

  I sat paralyzed in front of my computer.

  My life was crumbling around me. I had lost my horse, who I now realized was the best thing in my life. I should have appreciated Sassy more. I should have ridden her every single day and been more careful about picking stones out of her hooves. Mrs. A. had said I could come visit anytime, but I was too heartbroken to visit a horse that wasn’t mine. Sassy probably missed me and would never understand why I had abandoned her. I just hoped Sassy’s new owner would appreciate her and treat her nicely. Hot tears dripped down onto the keyboard of my iMac.

  I had also lost my friends, who actually were not very important to me after all. How had I been hanging out with such dud friends for so long? They had known before I did that I’d lost Sassy. And they hadn’t done or said anything even a little bit helpful. Jenna could probably cheer me up if she wanted to. She always knew how. But she obviously didn’t care. It wasn’t so much that I missed my friends, except Jenna a little bit. It was that I had no friends to take their place. I had to eat lunch with Slobberin’ Robert. That was okay in a way, but also not okay because it made people think we were going out again.

  Then there was Mom saying how we had no more money and we were going to lose the house. I didn’t see how you could lose a house, the way you would lose a set of keys or a ChapStick that rolled behind the desk.

  Plus I was eating a lot from all the stress, and I was starting to get a big McDonkadonk butt. Now that I wasn’t riding anymore, it would only get fatter. I didn’t know if my fears about my butt were real or imaginary, and since I had no friends there was no one I could ask. Even our dog Skippy was sick. He was at the vet now, having fragments of a cordless telephone removed from his stomach at great expense. There was nothing I could do about any of this except pray, which I did last thing at night before I went to sleep. Praying in the middle of the day was for total fanatics, in my opinion. So I was trying to forget about it all.

  What was troubling me now—to the point where I had completely stalled—was whether or not I should friend Lexie on Facebook. On the screen in front of me was her profile. Her cover photo and her profile picture were both scenes from horror movies. Naturally Lexie couldn’t put up something normal. Her profile picture was the girl from the movie Carrie with her dress all covered with blood and huge flames behind her. Nice, huh? The girl wasn’t kidding about not liking prom.

  The only reason I thought I should friend her was that we had been messaging back and forth about Desi’s campaign. It seemed weird to be messaging someone on Facebook and not be friends with her, like it was violating an unwritten rule. And I had plenty of other friends who I didn’t like that much or I wasn’t really friends with. But I did draw the line somewhere, and in the past that line had been drawn with Jessica Morgenstern, the girl who had pushed Desi off the bus seven years ago.

  Did I loathe Lexie as much as I hated Jessica Morgenstern? Technically I had forgiven Lexie since she had apologized, something Jessica Morgenstern had never done. And if I despised Lexie so much, why was I getting her to help with the campaign? How, in fact, did it help to get the most sullen, bitter, and unpopular girl in the school to help with the campaign? Lexie was ridiculous—she had a tattoo on her hand that said sXe. She couldn’t even spell the word sex right. So should I friend her or not?

  I had been sitting there frozen in front of the screen for at least five minutes. I fiddled with a blown ostrich egg my uncle had given me—he owned an ostrich farm—that I kept next to my computer. It was enormous, a creamy greenish-yellow color, and very smooth to the touch. I usually found it calming, but it wasn’t helping me make a decision about Lexie.

  Desi came into my bedroom and sat on the edge of my bed. I hastily brushed the tears from my cheeks. Our parents were out, so it seemed wrong to tell her to get out of my bedroom the way I normally would. Plus, all morning and last night she had been sulking about something Mom and Dad wouldn’t let her go to with her boyfriend. She could sulk better than anyone I ever met, and I didn’t want to send her back into all that sighing and folded arms and refusing to do everything that wasn’t food-related.

  “What kind of crown does the homecoming queen wear?” she asked.

  “It’s not a real crown.”

  “What do you mean, not real?”

  “I mean, it exists, but it’s not made of gold and encrusted with diamonds. That would be too heavy anyway. It’s a sparkly tiara.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “I’ll show you pictures on the Internet.”

  Desi came to look over my shoulder. “Eew, who’s that?” she asked, pointing at Lexie’s page.

  “That’s Lexie Ganz’s profile,” I said. “But that’s not really a picture of her.”

  I thought about the scene in Carrie where the mother warns Carrie that they’re all going to laugh at her at the prom. Okay, the mother is evil, but she’s also right. They did all laugh at Carrie. Would everyone laugh at Desi at homecoming? Desi didn’t have the ability to set everyone on fire, and she probably wouldn’t anyway. That’s not how you would treat Jesus, setting him on fire. I really hoped Desi wasn’t being set up for a big humiliation. Maybe I should have discouraged her from this whole thing instead of egging her on.

  “I know her,” Desi said. “She has short blue hair in little spikes, right? She came and talked to me on Thursday while I was waiting for the school bus home. The bus was late again.”

  “She did? Was she nice?”

  I bet she wasn’t. I won’t friend her, I thought.

  “Yeah. She said she would help me be homecoming queen. We talked for a long time. She wanted to know why I wanted to be homecoming queen. She said she needed to understand my motivations.”

  “So what did you tell her?”

  “I said I want to be popular and wear a crown. She said I would be better than Heather Barrington as homecoming queen because I am sincere and Heather is phony. I don’t think Heather is phony. Lexie said it’s okay if we disagree about that.”

  I didn’t think Heather was phony either. I got along very well with her. Heather always treated Desi, and everyone else, with friendliness. Maybe it was so she could be popular and well-liked, but who cares why as long as she did the right thing? On the other hand, I couldn’t picture Heather Barrington engaging Desi in a long conversation about her thoughts and feelings the way Lexie apparently had.

  I will friend her, I thought. My mouse hovered over the Add Friend button. But then I thought maybe I should show Desi images of tiaras first and put the friending question off a little longer.

  Then I heard the distinct sound of the front door shutting and someone walking in downstairs. But no one called out. Everyone in my family shouted out when they entered the house unless something tragic had happened, like their horse being sold.

  I glanced at Desi, but she was staring at the screen. Mom and Dad were at an appointment at the bank, and they had said they wouldn’t be back until four p.m. Had the appointment gone wrong?

  “Mom?” I called out.

  No one answered. But there was a sound of footsteps. Heavy footsteps.

  “Dad?”

  No response. I ran to the window and peeped out. My parents had taken the SUV. And the Beemer was at the shop; it had broken down like it did every few months. But there was a black van parked in the d
riveway. The intruder must have thought no one was home. Now they had heard me, though.

  “Desi, go into my bathroom,” I said in a harsh whisper, pulling my startled sister off my bed and shoving her toward my en suite bathroom. I rammed my cordless phone, the one Skippy hadn’t eaten, into Desi’s hands. “Lock the door and call 9-1-1.”

  “What?” said Desi, blinking. It often took her a while to process instructions.

  I grabbed the phone back and dialed 911, then put it back in Desi’s hands. “Talk to them. Tell them there’s someone in the house.” Desi’s eyes widened. “But don’t be scared.”

  I slammed the door on Desi’s terrified face. “Lock it. Lock it!” After a moment I heard the little click.

  As I crept out of the bedroom and toward the staircase, I hoped it was just Dad in some loaner car and that I would be humiliated. I tried to walk down the stairs silently, but they kept creaking. I had read somewhere that if you step on the sides of the stair instead of in the middle it won’t make a sound. But it turned out that wasn’t true.

  Downstairs I didn’t see anyone. Had I imagined it all? Oh God, and Desi was talking to the police right now. But then I heard the sound of cupboards opening in the kitchen. What the hell, was the intruder making himself a bowl of cereal? Then I heard whistling. Cautiously I made my way to the kitchen. I swung the door open but stayed concealed at the side of the door.

  When I saw the man in the sport coat, I was so scared I almost peed myself. It was one thing to think there was an intruder and to hear strange sounds. It was another to actually see a stranger standing casually in the middle of my kitchen. He was squat and wide, wearing nice but strangely ill-fitting clothing. A digital camera was in his hands and he was snapping pictures. He took detail shots of the cherry cabinets, the countertop, the island. Then he opened another cupboard and began fingering Mom’s wedding china that she never used but kept in the front of the cabinet because it looked good in the glass doors. He kept whistling.