Mom has to literally drag me out of bed on Monday morning. She shovels Cocoa Puffs into my mouth and even goes so far as to try to dress me in this hideous last-season tracksuit she dug out of the dregs of my closet. I snap out of it long enough to throw on jeans and a tank top instead.
I’m almost out the door when I decide that a little makeup wouldn’t hurt. And what the hell, why not wear some cute sunglasses and those wedge sandals I bought last week? I mean, just because my boyfriend cheated on me, my best friend betrayed me, Bishop deserted me, I might be a witch, and evil sorcerers could try to kill me with the Bible they stole from my family doesn’t mean I can’t look good, right?
I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder and venture outside for the first time in days.
It should be raining. That’s how it works, right? Bad day / rain? Well, I guess L.A. didn’t get the memo, because the sun sits high in a cloudless blue sky. A warm breeze flutters the fronds of the palm trees along Melrose Avenue, and at a stoplight I swear I hear birds (birds in L.A.!) chirping a tune eerily similar to “Walking on Sunshine.” And it’s just so, I don’t know, uplifting, that I get to thinking that today might not be as bad as I thought.
But my feet haven’t even passed through the doors of Fairfield High when the staring starts. And by staring, I mean necks practically snapping as people trip over each other to get a look at me. My cheeks burn under my oversized sunglasses. I mean, I knew people were talking about me. After ripping apart Bianca’s collage of us, I deleted all my pictures of her and Devon from Instagram and Facebook. And while doing that, I couldn’t help but notice the one topic that everyone couldn’t stop talking about: me. I also couldn’t help noticing how many times Bianca and Devon mentioned how sick they were after the party, because they were sooo drunk. Yeah, sure. But all that’s beside the point—doesn’t anyone have anything better to do than analyze my life?
Tilting my chin up, I march into the school like a zillion eyes aren’t following me. And the fake confidence actually works. I find myself thinking, Who cares? This’ll all blow over.
But my attitude only lasts until I reach my locker. I’m unloading my next-period textbooks when I hear my name. I look over my shoulder, and when I do, I find the Amy/Ashley twins whispering from their post by the water fountain. They look away once they realize I’ve heard them, which just confirms that they are in fact talking about me. And that’s when I lose it. My blood turns cold even as my pulse races. Sure, we’re not exactly best friends, and yeah, I’ve snickered along when Bianca mocked their style choices, but where is the squad loyalty?
I’m considering putting my newfound offensive tackle to use when one of them—God knows which—breaks apart from the other and walks over to me. I stand, shoulders pushed back, prepared to deliver a scathing retort should she (a) deny she was just talking about me, or (b) bring up the party.
“Hey, Indie.” Amy/Ashley smiles brightly, then glances behind her as if to confirm with her twin she’s doing okay. Seriously, get an independent brain cell. “So I was just wondering … you know that guy you were with at the party? Is he, like, single?” Her cheeks flush pink, and she giggles.
Bishop? She’s asking me about Bishop right now?
It’s so totally not what I expected to hear that I’m shocked into silence. She shifts her weight from foot to foot and starts wringing her hands. “I mean, I saw you guys leave together, but I figured you were just friends, you know, because of Devon”—her entire face goes the color of a ripe tomato—“but if you’re together or something, I totally understand.”
“No,” I say quickly. “So not together.”
“Oh!” She exhales, looks behind her, and gives her sister the thumbs-up. “So, you wouldn’t, like, mind if I went for him?”
“Mind?” And I guess I must have said it a little more tersely than I’d intended, because Amy/Ashley’s eyes couldn’t be rounder.
Get a grip, Indie. Who cares? “Not at all.” I smile wide for proof of my lack of interest in Bishop. “Please, have at him. Little warning, though.”
She nods eagerly and leans forward so I can whisper in her ear. “He’s really into the Betty Boop stuff.”
Her eyebrows knit. “Like, what do you mean?”
“You know, dress-up, role-playing … he’s pretty kinky like that.”
“Really?” She smiles and lets out this delighted little laugh.
So not the reaction I was going for. I huff and walk around her.
“But wait,” she calls after me, “I need his number!”
As I take my seat in homeroom and wait for class to start, I realize that I haven’t seen Bianca yet. Which is weird. Bianca has this way of making her presence known. Hope blooms in my heart that maybe, just maybe, a bus struck her on the way to school. The thought alone makes listening to Mrs. Davies at eight-thirty in the morning slightly bearable.
Biology is uneventful, but the next period is math. I couldn’t be more grateful when the spot next to mine—which might as well be reserved with a little Bianca place card—remains empty after the bell rings. But that’s when my luck runs out.
Devon jogs into class ten minutes into the lesson. He sends me one of his trademark lopsided smiles, and my heart gives a painful thump in my chest. I bury my scorching face in my notebook under the pressure of twenty-eight stares.
Apparently the universe hates me, because today is also the day we start trigonometry, and Mr. Lloyd is so lost in sine-cosine heaven that he doesn’t notice Devon stealing away from his spot at the back of the class approximately every three minutes. I won’t even look at my ex as he whispers (and by whispers, I mean talks in a slightly less booming baritone than usual) all these excuses and apologies: Not his fault. He was drunk. Seriously, why don’t I just look at him? I’m the one who’s been acting so weird lately. Don’t eight months together mean anything? He loves me.
You know, the typical cheating-douche-bag kind of stuff.
I stare straight ahead, even when the urge to punch him is almost unbearable.
The lunch bell rings.
It’s only once I’m in the cafeteria, piling my plate high with carbs as the heat of hundreds of stares bore into my back, that I realize today would have totally been a good day to eat out. But it’s too late now. They’ve seen me. And the only thing more humiliating than having your boyfriend cheat on you with your best friend would be to take your tray into the hallway to eat.
I’m almost at the lip of the dining room entrance when, at the last minute, I lop off half the mountain of mashed potatoes. (I don’t want people thinking I’m eating my feelings—it has absolutely nothing to do with stalling.) And then I make my way to the Pretty People table. With each step, the din of the cafeteria quiets further. I pretend not to notice, though all the while my heart’s clanging so hard it hurts. Devon is in his usual spot next to Jarrod at the end of the table, but I refuse to look in his direction, just focus on taking steady, even breaths, on making sure my hands don’t shake as I lower my tray to the table and take a seat.
And it is more than awkward the way everyone refuses to make eye contact with me, as if they’re just far too preoccupied with their trays of cafeteria food. Everyone except Julia. She holds her head high with this irritatingly satisfied smile on her face. I pretend it doesn’t bother me, because that’s what she wants. The girl would probably die and go to heaven if she could steal my spot next to Bianca.
After a few painful minutes, the clatter of dishes and peals of laughter return to a normal decibel. When the guys at the end of the table start loudly talking about their NFL fantasy draft, Thea takes one for the team and leans across the table.
“Indie, are you, like, okay? I saw you run out of the party. You looked pretty upset.”
On cue, the rest of the girls edge in to hear my response. I look around at the fake-concerned faces and come dangerously close to crying. Because I realize I have no friends. The only real friend I have is sitting over at the loser table eating french fries with Jessie Colburn.
A hush falls over the cafeteria. At first I think, What now? Do I have mashed potatoes on my chin? but when I look up I find that no one’s watching me. They’re all looking at Bianca as she walks toward our table. I almost don’t recognize her. She’s sporting a pair of big sunglasses, which would be strange enough since we’re inside, but she’s also wearing a sweat suit. Okay, so it’s a supercute sweat suit that hugs her shapely body, and since her hair is perfectly styled and her face applied, she pretty much rocks the look, but still. It’s a sweat suit. And it’s Bianca.
She falls into the seat next to mine, and it’s so dramatic that it cannot be natural. She pulls off her sunglasses and gives me a sheepish smile. Or at least, that’s what she’s trying for. It sort of looks like she’s constipated.
“Are you still not talking to me?” she asks carefully. “Because you didn’t return any of my calls …” She looks into her lap, but her eyes shift to gauge my reaction.
There are a few ways this can go down.
OPTION ONE:
Me: You’re a nasty little bitch, Bianca. Now come here so I can drag you around the cafeteria by your cheap extensions!
Me: What calls, Bianca? I got three texts from you. Three! Which might as well be none. After nine years of friendship, I think I deserve a little more than that. [Followed by a breakdown (and I’m not a cute crier, as Bishop can attest).]
OPTION THREE:
Me: You don’t know this, Bianca, but I’ve recently discovered I may be a witch. So I’d watch out a few days from now. You may receive an unpleasant surprise in the form of whiteheads and cellulite.
When I look around the table, I find that everyone’s waiting with bated breath to see how I will react to Bianca’s sort-of apology, and I know that I’m going to have to go with Option Four.
I turn to Bianca. She blinks her big eyes at me, waiting for a response.
I think about the nine years of friendship we shared, from the first grade, when we were completely inseparable, right up until last year, when it was so painfully obvious we were drifting apart. I think about the Pretty People Club and cheerleading and my reserved table at lunch and all the parties, and of how hard we worked to get to this place on the social ladder—and suddenly I couldn’t be more tired of it all. The worst part is that I’ve known our friendship was over for a long time. I just didn’t want it to be true. And if I really think about it, it’s the same thing with Devon. It’s like I was just waiting for them to screw up because I wasn’t brave enough to end things on my own. Or didn’t know how to do it.
But suddenly it’s very clear what I have to do.
I pick up my tray.
“Where are you going?” Bianca asks.
A low murmur runs through the cafeteria. My heart beats so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it as I walk across the dining hall, but it’s not because I’m scared I’m making the wrong choice. Not at all. I know even before I thunk my tray down next to Paige’s that I’ll never regret it.