inside. I walk them straight to Kit’s car where he helps Della in, and then jogs around to the driver’s side.
“Night, Helena.”
“Hey, night. And thanks for dinner.”
“Sorry I’m such a lousy cook.” He grins.
“You’re an excellent liar, though. It makes up for it.”
“You’re pretty … excellent.”
I feel so lonely when they’re gone.
There are definite, solid lines in life that should never be crossed. Developing a crush on your best friend’s boyfriend is one of them. Showing up to his job frequently and drinking his fruity cocktails is another. I don’t like him as much as Kentucky Fried Chicken, but hell if that boy didn’t look at me and tell me I was pretty … excellent. Excellent, which is above normal. Like I’m better than regular girls. Not your basic bitch. Finger-licking excellent. I realize I’m vulnerable and most days I feel like a worthless human—someone a guy can cheat on, and call it a mistake. I don’t want to be someone’s ‘girl who got away.’ I want to be someone’s ‘girl who’d I’d never let get away.’ I sign up for another class, and this time I try something a little different: clay. I like the feel of the cool, wet clay between my fingers. Clay is about numbers and proportion that you can control with your palms. I’m better at clay than I am at drawing. My hands feel less clumsy. I make coffee cups, vases, plates, then serving platters. All of them lacking symmetry, but I am so proud of them I throw out the cheap set I bought from Wal-Mart and place my handmade dinnerware in my kitchen cabinets. I paint everything white and splatter them with black paint. I am fighting the Pottery Barn taste that, according to my dream, is set to emerge in ten years. The carefully placed Chinese pots and decorative, stained knots give me hives. All a dream. All a dream, I tell myself. I focus on creating my style out of mess and mixed color. A Pottery Barn girl is for Neil, not Kit. Kit’s girl is color and texture.
When I realize that I’m avoiding Pottery Barn because of Kit, I go to their online store and buy a pair of ceramic French bulldogs. Nothing will control me, not Kit or Pottery Barn. To even things out, I replace my old throw pillows with ones I find at the flea market, but I won’t touch them. Or put them on my couch. I buy replacements at Pottery Barn. I stop drinking wine, too, since that was a manifestation of the dream, but some nights when I’m really sad I sniff an old cork I keep in my junk drawer. It’s not a cork from the wine Kit brought over; I don’t think so anyway. It was something I found near my trashcan. So when I start putting it on the spare pillow and sleeping with it, it has nothing to do with Kit. It’s just a random wine cork I’ve grown attached to. During the day, I put it in my purse where it travels with me to work, then art class. Clay is over; I register for an oil-on-canvas class, hoping for better results than my first class with Neptune.
On weekends, Della insists I tag along with whatever she and Kit are doing. She swears it’s not pity, and I’m no longer on suicide watch, and that Kit genuinely enjoys my company, while she needs me around for moral support.
“Moral support for what?” I ask her.
“Best friend moral support. Like, I just like having you around, you make me feel good.”
I love Della, God I love her. I’ve known her since we didn’t have real personalities, and we relied on Tiger Beat to tell us which boys to have crushes on—JTT for me, Devon Sawa for her. But people grow up, change, they are sorted into different houses—Slytherin for Della, Ravenclaw for me. They become what life dictates, and Della and I took two different routes. Della’s dad won the lottery. I shit you not. Five hundred thousand on a scratch-off ticket during our sophomore year. He doubled his money on investments, and all of a sudden, Della was a rich girl. Vacations to the Greek Isles, Christmas cruises
“Night, Helena.”
“Hey, night. And thanks for dinner.”
“Sorry I’m such a lousy cook.” He grins.
“You’re an excellent liar, though. It makes up for it.”
“You’re pretty … excellent.”
I feel so lonely when they’re gone.
There are definite, solid lines in life that should never be crossed. Developing a crush on your best friend’s boyfriend is one of them. Showing up to his job frequently and drinking his fruity cocktails is another. I don’t like him as much as Kentucky Fried Chicken, but hell if that boy didn’t look at me and tell me I was pretty … excellent. Excellent, which is above normal. Like I’m better than regular girls. Not your basic bitch. Finger-licking excellent. I realize I’m vulnerable and most days I feel like a worthless human—someone a guy can cheat on, and call it a mistake. I don’t want to be someone’s ‘girl who got away.’ I want to be someone’s ‘girl who’d I’d never let get away.’ I sign up for another class, and this time I try something a little different: clay. I like the feel of the cool, wet clay between my fingers. Clay is about numbers and proportion that you can control with your palms. I’m better at clay than I am at drawing. My hands feel less clumsy. I make coffee cups, vases, plates, then serving platters. All of them lacking symmetry, but I am so proud of them I throw out the cheap set I bought from Wal-Mart and place my handmade dinnerware in my kitchen cabinets. I paint everything white and splatter them with black paint. I am fighting the Pottery Barn taste that, according to my dream, is set to emerge in ten years. The carefully placed Chinese pots and decorative, stained knots give me hives. All a dream. All a dream, I tell myself. I focus on creating my style out of mess and mixed color. A Pottery Barn girl is for Neil, not Kit. Kit’s girl is color and texture.
When I realize that I’m avoiding Pottery Barn because of Kit, I go to their online store and buy a pair of ceramic French bulldogs. Nothing will control me, not Kit or Pottery Barn. To even things out, I replace my old throw pillows with ones I find at the flea market, but I won’t touch them. Or put them on my couch. I buy replacements at Pottery Barn. I stop drinking wine, too, since that was a manifestation of the dream, but some nights when I’m really sad I sniff an old cork I keep in my junk drawer. It’s not a cork from the wine Kit brought over; I don’t think so anyway. It was something I found near my trashcan. So when I start putting it on the spare pillow and sleeping with it, it has nothing to do with Kit. It’s just a random wine cork I’ve grown attached to. During the day, I put it in my purse where it travels with me to work, then art class. Clay is over; I register for an oil-on-canvas class, hoping for better results than my first class with Neptune.
On weekends, Della insists I tag along with whatever she and Kit are doing. She swears it’s not pity, and I’m no longer on suicide watch, and that Kit genuinely enjoys my company, while she needs me around for moral support.
“Moral support for what?” I ask her.
“Best friend moral support. Like, I just like having you around, you make me feel good.”
I love Della, God I love her. I’ve known her since we didn’t have real personalities, and we relied on Tiger Beat to tell us which boys to have crushes on—JTT for me, Devon Sawa for her. But people grow up, change, they are sorted into different houses—Slytherin for Della, Ravenclaw for me. They become what life dictates, and Della and I took two different routes. Della’s dad won the lottery. I shit you not. Five hundred thousand on a scratch-off ticket during our sophomore year. He doubled his money on investments, and all of a sudden, Della was a rich girl. Vacations to the Greek Isles, Christmas cruises
Similar Books
