“We love you, Gary.”
“Yeah, we still love you, Gary.” One of us has to say it, and then the other one repeats a variation. Gary needs to hear it today.
He’d had so many plans for us, a new restaurant, maybe catch a movie. He’d reserved all of Saturday to hang out, and instead, I dropped the ball. I couldn’t go out after tennis. I had plans with Bianca and Sarah.
I kept missing them when I came home late after Saturday lessons. Even if I beeped Bianca, I didn’t always hear back until it was too close to curfew. They were meeting new boys without me.
These weekend nights are crucial in terms of making connections, and opening doors to opportunities—a boy, just one boy, who might like me. The anxiety of missing a fated meeting tears at my stomach in either direction. Still worse, the fear that I’m losing Bianca and Sarah. Each new private joke I don’t get, each new friend they’d made on a night I missed, tightens the bond between them, pressing out the space where I once belonged.
They’re outpacing me, and the pressure to keep up is too much to ignore. All I want is to eat quesadillas and ice cream cake with Gary and Emma, but that is lazy and immature. It’s how you lose relevance and friendships. It’s how you never cross bases, never grow up, and wind up alone.
So I nix our post-lesson plans, and then Emma says she’s busy, too. Gary turns cold. All the way to Queens, he is quiet—eyes on the windshield. The silent treatment. Emma turns back to me from the front seat and rolls her eyes.
“Come on, Gary. Turn on the radio, Gary.” He does, turning the volume knob up high, but his silence makes it clear he’s just following orders.