She feels sorry for me? I’m too stunned to even ask what she means. My entire body feels numb as I grab my bag and fling myself out the door. By the time I’m home, being stunned has worn off. It’s been replaced by near-total confusion. All I know is, she’ll call. She will. She’ll call and apologize. I’ll ask what she meant about feeling sorry for me. And I’ll get a chance to explain that I was trying to protect her.
I wait all evening, and she doesn’t call. I finally go to bed but don’t sleep well. I have disturbing dreams that I can’t remember, even when they wake me. When my alarm goes off in the morning, I’m groggy. The first thing I reach for is my phone. There are zero missed calls. No text messages.
Wow. Kiara and I have had squabbles before, but none ever led to her kicking me out of her room. Nor did they last this long. This is bad. I toy with the idea of sending her a text. But what would I say? I could say I’m sorry, but for what? Trying to be her true friend? Which is what I am. A friend trying to save her from trouble.
Maybe she needs more examples of how crappy boyfriends can be. Obviously, I’ve told her all about Sherry’s troubles. But what if she thinks that’s only a Sherry problem? Kiara has a fairly charmed life. She probably believes she’s immune to mayhem of the heart.
I’m not immune. I can’t believe she said that about staying friends because she felt sorry for me.
No, I’m not going to apologize. I need to stand by what I did until she figures it out. She can be stubborn, but so can I. She’s used to getting her way, and now that I’ve done what I think is right, I need to stick with it.
I check my phone again, and there’s nothing.
She avoids me at school. I glimpse her in the hall at lunchtime, walking with a group of cheerleaders. Career and Personal Planning is last period today, so I bide my time until then. Once we’re sitting right beside each other, she’ll cave. I know she will.
But she doesn’t show up for class. Unbelievable. I risk detention poop by sending her a text: Where are you?
I don’t get a reply. I do get the poop. Ms. Kalkat confiscates my phone and doesn’t return it until I’ve passed a dazed half hour after school. I trudge home to our empty apartment. It’s dingy, and the air smells stale. There’s also a lingering whiff of Sherry’s cheap perfume. No warm scent of pecan cookies baking. I open a window and consider making something nice for supper. Meatloaf? Chicken pot pie? Chiles rellenos?
Who am I kidding? I don’t know how to cook those things. And the chances of us having the ingredients are slim. A check in the cupboards confirms this. Canned spaghetti will have to do.
I could catch up on cleaning. I wander into the bathroom, and yes, there are long Sherry hairs everywhere. She has been dying her hair auburn for years. The last time she did it, her hair turned out more orange than auburn. I look at my own hair in the mirror. It’s an ordinary shade of brown, the color Sherry’s would be if she didn’t dye it. I usually wear mine in a braid so I don’t have to waste time on it. I experiment with changing the part to the other side—until I realize I’m doing a Sherry thing, and that’s just wrong.
I’m bored. Maybe I could get a cat. A black one. Or one of those striped tabby cats. Possibly a calico. Pets aren’t allowed in our building, but I decide to look up cats online. Instead I find myself signing into social media. I rarely bother with it (another time waster—so many cat videos), but I have time today. I can also check who else is online. And what their status is.
Kiara has blocked me. How immature is that? I block her too, then immediately unblock her. I refuse to stoop to that level. Instead I read a post by my second-favorite scientist, Neil deGrasse Tyson. My number-one favorite is Jane Goodall. Tyson is writing about how Batman can beat Superman. Hmm. Then I find his list of the eight books every intelligent person on the planet should read. I review the list and find I have a lot of reading to do.
My phone buzzes with a text message. I lunge for it and find a message from Sherry. Hey, something has come up. I’ll be home late. Go ahead and stay at Kiara’s for supper. xo
I groan aloud. Another guy already? It must be. When Sherry says something has come up, it’s her code for a date. She probably thinks I don’t know that, but I do. I swear she must have a sign on her cash register. The sign says, Single and desperate. Or I date losers. Or maybe Take me out on trial.
Whatever. I don’t bother to reply. I eat the spaghetti straight out of the can and try to do my homework. For the first time ever, I have trouble staying focused.