Lia Marcus?” she asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “She lives there.”
“Oh,” I say, glancing over at the house.
“We used to be best friends,” Eden tells me. “Sleepovers-every-weekend, finish-each-other’s-sentences best friends.”
“Yeah?”
“We’d walk to each other’s houses and watch soap operas every afternoon.”
“Not anymore?” I look over at her. I’ve noticed that even though she tries to fit in with Challis’s friends, she always seems to be on the outskirts.
But she stares out the window at the porch lights of passing houses. “Not since I came out.”
My gut feels like I swallowed an ice cube. “Ouch.”
“Yeah. At first she pretended to be cool with it—kinda So you like girls, who cares? —but I could tell it bothered her because she wouldn’t change her clothes in front of me.”
“People are weird like that,” I say. “If you like girls in general, they think you like them in particular.”
“Ew!” Eden says. “That squicks me out. She was my best friend.”
I might not be on the honor roll, but I get her gist: Kissing your best friend sometimes has the “ew” factor of kissing a sibling. I think of Mason and his slow-motion smile, the shape of his lips. Too bad I didn’t get that brand of squick.
“. . . making excuses not to sleep over,” Eden says.
I scramble to catch up on what I might have missed.
“And inviting lots of friends when we slept at her house—as if she didn’t want to be alone with me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“I saved her the trouble of breaking it off. I stopped returning her calls. It was just too humiliating.”
“Humiliating?”
“To have someone pretend to be your friend when they really don’t want to be.”
The ice cube feeling spreads to my chest as I imagine how awful that must have been. I read about friends fading away in one of those self-help books for gay teens that Frank bought me in ninth grade, but I never knew the people involved. Now, knowing about Eden and Lia, it all feels more real. More like it could happen to me.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
FOURTEEN
Monday, the Redneck parks his truck next to my car in the student parking lot. I take my time getting my phone and car keys in all the right pockets, but he doesn’t leave. He stands there with a scowl etched across his forehead.
So I take a deep breath and say, “Hey, Nick.”
“’S’up, Fagmag?”
I wince at the sting of my new nickname. “Can’t believe it’s Monday already.”
“You weren’t supposed to show it to anyone,” he says, the words coming out in one long grunt.
“Sorry about that. I dropped my books. Eden picked it up.”
“That’s what she said.”
“It got in,” I tell him, trying to cheer him up. “You’ll get that extra credit from Taylor.”
He doesn’t cheer up, just changes the topic. “I know what you two are doing.”
Crap.
“And if you think that pretending to be unfagged is helping my sister see straight, you got another thing coming.”
Huh? I didn’t understand a word of that.
“Got that, Fagmag?” he asks about my non-answer.
“Got it, Nick,” I say even though I don’t. “No problem.”
He stops to tie his boot and I walk faster. There’s a reason I’ve been running a mile in gym class. It might come in handy someday. Soon.
That afternoon, at the Gumshoe meeting, I proceed with my carefully planned tactics. I show DeMarco, Lia, Holland, and Michael how the dummy with Challis’s graphic short has more variety and more visual interest. Holland nods right along.
“I don’t know, Jamie. Maybe we shouldn’t do a comic. We didn’t have one last year, and we won the award anyway,” DeMarco reasons.
“But it looks amazing—adds visual variety,” I say, purposely ignoring their previous comments about the story being fluffy and plotless.
“It’s not how it looks
“Oh,” I say, glancing over at the house.
“We used to be best friends,” Eden tells me. “Sleepovers-every-weekend, finish-each-other’s-sentences best friends.”
“Yeah?”
“We’d walk to each other’s houses and watch soap operas every afternoon.”
“Not anymore?” I look over at her. I’ve noticed that even though she tries to fit in with Challis’s friends, she always seems to be on the outskirts.
But she stares out the window at the porch lights of passing houses. “Not since I came out.”
My gut feels like I swallowed an ice cube. “Ouch.”
“Yeah. At first she pretended to be cool with it—kinda So you like girls, who cares? —but I could tell it bothered her because she wouldn’t change her clothes in front of me.”
“People are weird like that,” I say. “If you like girls in general, they think you like them in particular.”
“Ew!” Eden says. “That squicks me out. She was my best friend.”
I might not be on the honor roll, but I get her gist: Kissing your best friend sometimes has the “ew” factor of kissing a sibling. I think of Mason and his slow-motion smile, the shape of his lips. Too bad I didn’t get that brand of squick.
“. . . making excuses not to sleep over,” Eden says.
I scramble to catch up on what I might have missed.
“And inviting lots of friends when we slept at her house—as if she didn’t want to be alone with me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“I saved her the trouble of breaking it off. I stopped returning her calls. It was just too humiliating.”
“Humiliating?”
“To have someone pretend to be your friend when they really don’t want to be.”
The ice cube feeling spreads to my chest as I imagine how awful that must have been. I read about friends fading away in one of those self-help books for gay teens that Frank bought me in ninth grade, but I never knew the people involved. Now, knowing about Eden and Lia, it all feels more real. More like it could happen to me.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
FOURTEEN
Monday, the Redneck parks his truck next to my car in the student parking lot. I take my time getting my phone and car keys in all the right pockets, but he doesn’t leave. He stands there with a scowl etched across his forehead.
So I take a deep breath and say, “Hey, Nick.”
“’S’up, Fagmag?”
I wince at the sting of my new nickname. “Can’t believe it’s Monday already.”
“You weren’t supposed to show it to anyone,” he says, the words coming out in one long grunt.
“Sorry about that. I dropped my books. Eden picked it up.”
“That’s what she said.”
“It got in,” I tell him, trying to cheer him up. “You’ll get that extra credit from Taylor.”
He doesn’t cheer up, just changes the topic. “I know what you two are doing.”
Crap.
“And if you think that pretending to be unfagged is helping my sister see straight, you got another thing coming.”
Huh? I didn’t understand a word of that.
“Got that, Fagmag?” he asks about my non-answer.
“Got it, Nick,” I say even though I don’t. “No problem.”
He stops to tie his boot and I walk faster. There’s a reason I’ve been running a mile in gym class. It might come in handy someday. Soon.
That afternoon, at the Gumshoe meeting, I proceed with my carefully planned tactics. I show DeMarco, Lia, Holland, and Michael how the dummy with Challis’s graphic short has more variety and more visual interest. Holland nods right along.
“I don’t know, Jamie. Maybe we shouldn’t do a comic. We didn’t have one last year, and we won the award anyway,” DeMarco reasons.
“But it looks amazing—adds visual variety,” I say, purposely ignoring their previous comments about the story being fluffy and plotless.
“It’s not how it looks
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