Friends and Liars

by Kaela Coble

I can’t resist a smile, so I turn my head and then look out the window again. Danny’s face is replaced by a young couple who must be new to the neighborhood, walking their dog and pushing a stroller. A brand-new baby Chatwickian, not yet affected by the oppressive small-mindedness of this town.

  “Oh, fine, I give up,” Nancy says when she realizes I won’t say any more. “Get in the shower, I’ll start breakfast. I picked up some fresh blueberries for your pancakes.” Blueberry pancakes were my favorite when I was five. I’m told for six months that’s all I would eat. When my mother wasn’t in a black period, she was the type of mother who would actually cook breakfast for us every morning—eggs, bacon, pancakes—as opposed to my friends’ moms who worked and barely had time to shove a cereal box and a carton of milk at their kids as they ran around the house with one leg in a pair of pantyhose and one hand applying deodorant. I guess I would rather have eaten cold breakfast, if I could have had a mother who wasn’t completely mental about a third of the time. My friends were jealous my mother was always around, at least when they were too young to realize there was something wrong with her. We always want the other kind of mother.

  “Anything else I can get you?” Nancy chirps, her hands poised in the air like a waitress about to write down my order.

  “Coffee, please.”

  She perks up, glad to be doing something for me. “How do you take it?”

  “Black.” She raises her eyebrows before she stands and leaves the room. I know she’s thinking I’m too much like my father. Living in New York, working too much, not bothering to sweeten my coffee. Next thing you know, I’ll be married to someone with bipolar who uses Martinis as medication instead of lithium.

  As I let the water bounce off my outstretched palm, my hope quickly dashed that she’s replaced the water heater that takes a full five minutes to kick in, I think about Jamie. Unlike my connections here, even after Jamie and I broke up and I moved back to the States, we’ve managed to remain friends. It feels good to picture him with his yellow-lined legal pad, scratching out some prose before committing the words to his computer. It feels good to think about anything unrelated to Chatwick.

  The smell of pancakes drifts up from the stairwell, and my stomach (which I realize has been empty for the better part of twenty-four hours) growls with anticipation. I hurry through my shower and shimmy into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, tying my hair in a knot at the base of my neck and racing downstairs. Nancy clucks her tongue at me. “Sweetheart, I wish you would keep your hair down; you know pulling it back makes your ears stick out.”

  Blueberry pancakes and criticism. A fine way to start the morning.

  “Coffee?” I remind her, not responding to the feedback.

  She pours me a cup from the pot she was given as a wedding gift thirty years ago and starts prattling on in her usual fashion, quickly graduating from the weather, her flowers, and this summer’s disappointing yield from the vegetable garden (too humid); to her sponsor, Harriett, her therapist, Louise; and my father’s workaholism. She works a few of my father’s worst qualities into every conversation we have. She’s so used to her family pointing out her flaws, it’s her passive-aggressive way of maintaining the balance. She needn’t bother; my anger is pretty fairly distributed between the two of them already.

  Nancy is in the middle of explaining why she thinks Louise is secretly working for Dad, and I am in the middle of mentally constructing my To Do list to make up some of the work I’ve missed, when the phone rings. Nancy picks up the receiver, not bothering to pause her diatribe. “—and if he thinks I’m going to edit myself so I don’t hurt his feelings, he is crazier than I am. Hello, St. James’ residence.” Her voice goes from bitter and indignant to syrupy sweet in 0.3 seconds. “Why, Murphy Leblanc, is that you? How nice to hear your voice! How are you doing with, you know, this whole Danny business? What stage of grief would you say you’re in? I think it’s safe to say our Ruby is nestled stubbornly in anger. Surprise, surprise, right?” She lets out a peal of laughter, and I can hear Murphy do the same on the other end of the line. I wonder if there’s ever an age when you cease to feel embarrassed by your parents. I try to pluck the receiver from Nancy’s hand, but she blocks me as she tells Murphy it can take months, or even years, to get to Acceptance.

  “Hi,” I say, when I finally win the wrestling match.

  “Want to come over?”

  “I . . .” What? Come over? I thought we had an understanding, that last night was goodbye. “I can’t. I have to work. I’ve got at least eight hours to make up from yesterday.”

  “Okay. Later then. I’m in the biggest of my parents’ rental properties, top floor. You know the one?”

  He hangs up before I can nod a confused assent.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  RUBY

  Back then

  I scan the cafeteria, deciding against the freshmen and moving on to the sophomores. A fifteen- or sixteen-year-old would be a good fit for Murphy. Young and innocent enough to find him cool and charming, but not so young and innocent it would be gross. After all, Murphy just lost his virginity, so the ship has sailed on having a PG relationship.

  Ally sneaks up on me. “What’s with you?” she asks as she plops her tray down beside me. Even though I’m the only one at the table, she sits beside me instead of across from me, because that’s where she always sits. Tara, Emmett, and Danny sit across from us. Aaron sits on Ally’s other side. Ally is always in the middle, that way she can have one ear in any conversation. Murphy doesn’t have lunch this period, despite his most valiant efforts to arrange his schedule to align with the rest of ours. For the last couple of days I’ve been endlessly grateful to Mrs. Clasky, the guidance counselor, for being one of the few people immune to Murphy’s charms. I used to be one of them, too.

  “Nothing,” I tell Ally.

  “Why are you squinting over at the sophomores? Did one of them piss you off?” Her eyes gleam. She’s ready to slay anyone who’s done me wrong. She also, to be fair, wants a good story. I have one, too, I just can’t tell it to her.

  “No. I’m trying to pick out a girl for Murphy.” I shouldn’t have even told her this much—if I open the door, she’ll kick it in—but I’m distracted. I don’t know any of these girls’ names, but I’ve seen them at parties, sipping on peach schnapps and wine coolers and giggling like idiots. Murphy would do well with an idiot. Not that you’d have to be an idiot to like Murphy. That’s not what I’m saying. He just needs someone fun. Light.

  Ally shakes her head. “You guys are so weird.”

  “Weird how?” I ask.

  Ally sidesteps the question with another question. “Can’t Murphy find his own girls?”

  “Of course,” I say. “He’s just not as good at it as me.”

  She smiles. Ally likes it when I’m cocky. It gives her a specific quote to pinpoint as she’s trying to figure out why she resents me so much. Tara and Emmett sit down and immediately start making out, which puts me off my tater tots. Danny joins the table, asks what’s going on.

  “Ruby is taking it upon herself to find Murphy a girlfriend,” Ally informs him.

  “Hey, no fair. What about me?” Danny asks.

  We all look at him. “What happened to Jenny?” Ally asks. Danny’s been seeing Jenny Albrecht for six months, a long time for him. When Danny actually brings her around, she doesn’t talk much. Actually, she kind of hovers and stares. Actually, she kind of scares the shit out of me.

  “I haven’t seen her much since she dropped out of school,” Danny mumbles. I wonder why anyone would drop out of high school, especially in Chatwick. I mean, what else is there to do in this town besides go to school? Hang out in Barnard Park? Work at the Quik Stop? If you’re lucky I guess you could get a job at the Endless Power battery factory at the north edge of town and hang on long enough to collect your pension after forty years of standing on an assembly line. Personally, I’m getting as far away from here as possible, as soon as possible. I want to experience th
ings—art, music, culture, living somewhere where things are open past 9 p.m. Closest thing you get to any of that in Chatwick is our high school’s Miss and Mister Bobcat talent competition, which I will not be taking part in, no matter how much Ally begs me to do a duet with her. She’s even got Nancy in on it, ganging up on me to discuss costumes. Since my dad’s been back, Nancy’s been on her best behavior, and tailoring is her distraction of choice. Lucky me.

  “So you got dumped?” Emmett teases Danny, coming up for air.

  “Shut up, Emmett,” I say. I never miss a chance to tell him to shut up, but especially when he’s shitting on Danny. He sticks his tongue out at me. Danny reaches around Tara to punch Emmett in the arm. Emmett tries to kick back under the table, but from the sound Tara makes, he missed.

  “Cut the shit, guys!” she whines.

  “So what’s this about you finding a chick for Murphy?” Emmett asks, as if nothing had happened.

  “It’s been like four months since he dated that last one,” I say. “What was her name?”

  “Jenessa,” Ally says.

  “Exactly, Jenessa. And that only lasted a few weeks. He’s over it. It’s time he gets back on the bike. Or the horse, or whatever stupid expression it is.”

  “It’s ‘in the saddle,’” Ally says. We all look at her in amazement. Somehow Ally and I have momentarily switched brains; I’m sticking my nose into someone else’s business, and Ally is correcting me on figures of speech.

  “Are you sure he’s not already in the saddle, Tuesday?” Danny asks. One eyebrow is raised. My heart drops. Oh, crap! He’s looking at me like he knows something. Does he know something? Did Murphy tell him something?

  “I’m sure, Danny,” I say, raising my eyebrow back at him. His expression clears immediately. Maybe I was imagining it.

  Emmett looks between Danny and me. I hold my breath when he turns to me, but instead of pressing the issue, he says, “So can you believe this governor? How does she plan on paying for this jobs program of hers when we’ve got a fifty-million-dollar deficit?”

  The crew groan and roll their eyes.

  I pull into my usual spot in the alley behind The Exchange, which just so happens to share a parking lot with Margie’s Pub. When I open Blue’s rusty door, I catch a whiff of cigarette butts and day-old beer. It turns my stomach, making me think of the nights I’ve been forced to inhale that smell as I wait for Nancy to finish her last drink. It’s not like the smell isn’t also associated with my friends, but somehow it’s different when I’m with them. Maybe it’s because we’re supposed to be messing around with that stuff. And maybe it’s because I know when to put the drink down. Well, except for those few times . . .

  I lift my backpack and see the envelope. Inside contains my entire future, a.k.a. my deposit and commitment letter to New York University. I know for sure this is what I want, but I haven’t mailed it in yet. I don’t know what’s stopping me. None of my friends know I was accepted. I try to pinpoint why I haven’t told them, as I slam closed the metal gate and pull down the wooden doors of the ancient elevator that takes me up to the shop. I’ve talked before about going out of state for college, but I don’t think any of them have taken me seriously. People who grow up in Chatwick generally don’t stray too far. For example, Ally is going to cosmetology school about ten minutes outside of town; Aaron will go to Vermont Tech a few hours south; Emmett’s going to Vermont University in Drummond to study business; and Tara will enroll in the nursing program at Arwell College in the Northeast Kingdom. The two schools are only about two hours apart, but in college that might as well be halfway across the country. They all have plans to come back to Chatwick on weekends. Danny is going to work at Borbeau’s, the mechanic shop where he already works/sells pot most days after school. The most disappointing is that Murphy will work for his dad. With his talent, he probably could have gotten at least a partial baseball scholarship somewhere. He could get out, but he won’t.

  That’s why I have to find him a girlfriend. If he doesn’t have anything else to focus on, we’re going to end up sleeping together again, and then who knows what mess will be made of my plans.

  It was enough of a mistake the first time, although he claims he doesn’t understand why it can’t be an ongoing thing. But it cannot happen again. Murphy is my best friend, nothing more. Granted, before last weekend, we did kiss on two occasions. One was on a particularly rough night, about three months after I lost my virginity to Hardy Crane, when I realized Hardy was never going to leave Brandy for me. Trust me, I know how disgusting that is, on all levels. Hardy is the most grotesque being on the face of this planet, and I’m convinced the only reason I was into him was because of what was going on with my parents. Plus, the therapist my parents forced me to go to when they got back together told me about this bonding chemical that gets released in girls’ brains when they have sex. It’s the same one that gets released when you breastfeed. For a girl who’s never experienced it before, the shrink says, it can be particularly overwhelming. So I blame that. Plus, I was drinking a little more in those days. Ironic, huh? While my mom was drying out?

  Anyway, one night after Hardy canceled plans on me for, like, the tenth time, Murphy literally shook me by my shoulders and told me Hardy loved Brandy, not me, and I needed to get over it because I deserved better anyway. I was so grateful for the truth, I kissed him. But it stopped there.

  The other time was after Murphy got dumped by Charlotte Bicknell. She is a year older, and all the boys were completely infatuated with her (or rather, with her enormous boobs). I didn’t think Murphy even liked her all that much (at least above her chest), but he sat on my rocker, crying. Actually crying tears. I had never seen him cry before. I’d heard him cry, over the phone, those first few months after what happened with Danny and we started talking to each other because we couldn’t talk to anyone else. But I’d never seen him do it in person, and I thought maybe he would want me to pretend like it wasn’t happening. But when I stood up and said I was going to get him a glass of water, he caught my hand and pulled me onto his lap. He kissed me long enough that I forgot about the water. By the time he went home, he wasn’t crying anymore.

  Both times, we agreed it was a huge mistake. We didn’t want to ruin our friendship. So when we woke up the morning after we had sex, I assumed we would be on the same page. Instead, when I said we couldn’t do it again, Murphy seemed disappointed. He said he was thinking it should happen more. Well, of course he thought that. I mean, he is a guy.

  It’s not that the sex was bad. Not like I’m some expert, but it was miles better than the handful of times I was with Hardy. It turns out Ally’s right about sex being better when it’s with someone you care about. But that’s just it. Murphy and I care about each other, and bringing sex into the mix will only confuse things. I don’t want to lose my best friend just because we had a hormonal teenage moment after a couple of drinks and a hit of Danny’s new supply.

  The worst part is, even though the exact details are kind of hazy, I can’t shake something Murphy said when we were lying together after it happened. I was trying to make light of the situation, so I said, “You see? It’s not such a big deal. I don’t know why you waited so long.”

  And then he said it. “I think I was waiting for you.”

  Shit!

  Well, maybe not. He could simply have meant he was waiting for me because we’re friends, and he knew I would be nice, even if he sucked at it. That’s probably what he meant.

  Right?

  As I walk into the shop I’m greeted by Shawna and Donna (yes, they rhyme), who are waltzing to Garth Brooks. The sight is funny all on its own, considering Shawna is five-foot-ten and quite robust in frame, and Donna, the owner, barely clears Shawna’s elbow and weighs about 100 pounds when soaking wet after a hot-dog-eating contest. But the oddity is compounded by the fact that Donna is wearing a purple velvet monstrosity of a hat on her head, complete with rhinestones and fringe. I will excuse that the day’s Ugliest
Drop-Off winner has been chosen without our normal voting ritual, because I can’t imagine anything could top this hideous thing.

  I lean against the door frame, happy to be out of my head and overtaken by something silly. Donna tips her head back, and, finally able to see, spots me. She breaks away from Shawna and shuffles toward me, her hand outstretched. I smile and take it, and she shuffles me back to Shawna and positions our hands together.

  “You need the practice, Ruby,” Donna says. “Prom will be here before you know it!” Donna steps back and waves her arms in the air like the conductor of a symphony as Shawna and I begin to sway, me stepping on Shawna’s toes every five or six counts.

  Crap. Prom! I forgot it’s only four weeks away. Of course Donna would remember. I think she and Shawna are more excited about it than I am. For months, every time I came to work, one of them thrust a formal-wear magazine at me, with the corners turned down on pages of dresses, hairstyles, and makeup they liked. Shawna arranged for the tailoring of the dress I finally selected, and she even spoke directly with Cecile, Murphy’s mom, to tell her what to order me for a corsage. I think Nancy is feeling a little resentful that she’s been boxed out of the process, which makes me feel guilty, and that leads to me feeling angry. Shawna stepped in last minute last year when she realized Nancy was out of commission and it was getting down to the wire. Excuse me for betting on a more reliable horse this time around.

  The radio changes to a more fast-paced Dixie Chicks song, and Shawna and I break apart. The three of us jump and shake our hips and twirl each other around. As always, at work, I feel my burden lighten. With these ladies—Shawna in her early thirties and Donna well into her fifties—I feel my age, instead of the 100 years old I feel compared to my friends.

  Halfway through a mock pirouette, I spot a customer standing in the doorway, looking hesitant to fully enter the shop.

  “Come, come, dear!” Donna says, and leads her into the store. “You don’t have to dance, but you must sing a tune for us!”