Now I am wondering if there’s any way I can get out of going to school tomorrow. Mom is already starting to think I’m “coming down with something.” Maybe I should just run with that. I know I feel sick. My stomach hurts and my head is throbbing. Now that I think about it, I feel like I might even be running a fever.
Of course, I also feel extremely angry. I don’t ever recall feeling quite this mad about anything before. But I am furious. It’s like I’ve had all this time these past couple of days to really figure everything all out. Suddenly, it’s plain to see that I’ve been the biggest fool ever. I realize now that Jordan has done nothing but use me all these years when she pretended to be my friend.
I can’t believe how easily duped I was. It’s almost funny to think of how I was such a “handy” friend for her too. I mean how stupid is that? But there I was, always available. Always adoring. Always willing to go along with whatever totally lame idea she came up with next. Well, almost always. I guess I didn’t fall for the debate thing or cheerleading tryouts. Although I did go out for the balance beam in gymnastics, but I twisted my ankle at the first practice so that was that. Still, it seems crystal clear to me that I have played her insignificant pawn for a long, long time.
It reminds me of those silly women who keep those goofy-looking lap dogs. They lead them around on rhinestone leashes like little four-legged shadows. That’s how I see myself. I was Jordan’s doting little dog, but the really pathetic part was she didn’t even need a leash for me. I followed her willingly!
Naturally, this whole thing just totally makes me sick now. I think, man, how pitifully desperate I must’ve appeared to everyone all this time. Just faithfully following Jordan around, coming and going at her beck and call. Well, I’ll bet you that none of her cheerleading friends will be like that. It might be time for Jordan to wake up and smell the coffee! I hope she feels bad when she figures it out. I hope she realizes what she lost when she tossed me aside like a worn-out pair of sneakers. I hope she regrets this until the day she dies.
Because I have decided that no matter what Jordan does or says next, I will not, I repeat not, consider her my best friend ever again. I will not fall for her tricks and deceptions. I will not be duped again. I’m not even sure I can consider her a casual friend anymore. Not after this.
I sneaked a peek at one of Mom’s Oprah magazines in the bathroom this afternoon. They’re not so bad really. In fact, I found an article about friends today, and I can see now that Jordan didn’t have one single quality a person would look for in a lasting friendship. But it makes me wonder why I was so pitifully desperate to hang on to her like that. Why did I think that Jordan Ferguson was the best I could do?
Here’s the truth of it: Jordan has brainwashed me over the years. I think she’s like one of those weird cult leaders, like that Jones guy in South America that we read about in humanities class. He somehow managed to make his followers believe everything he said. Like he was a prophet or God or something. I think that’s what Jordan did to me. It’s like I quit thinking for myself. Like when I met her I just handed over my brain and said, “Go ahead and do what you like with it.” Sheesh, I make myself sick!
But then I have to ask, what kind of a twisted person would knowingly do that to someone else? What kind of friend would manipulate you for her own personal benefit? It’s scary if you think about it. I guess I should be thankful I got away when I did.
Still, I don’t feel the least bit thankful. I just feel mad, furious, outraged. And I can imagine myself telling Jordan off too. I can just hear myself saying, “Jordan Ferguson, you are such an egomaniac! You are selfish and shallow and narcissistic and vain! I don’t know how I ever believed you were my friend. But I am so glad that I figured it out. I hope you and your new friends are happy together, because I’m sure you all totally deserve each other!” And then I will turn on my heel and just storm off. Ah, that would be such a good feeling.
However, I doubt that I’ll be able to pull it off. So I will have to console myself with my petty little vengeance daydreams. I have several of them now. One of my favorites is set at a pep assembly. I think we’re actually supposed to have one next week. Anyway, I imagine the cheerleaders doing one of those pyramids. Naturally, Jordan, little sprite that she is, will be on top, but as soon as she climbs up there her pyramid will collapse and she will fall flat on her face, maybe even break her cute little nose. Then Amber will stand up and say, in a very loud voice, “Been putting on a little weight, have you, Ferguson?” And the whole school will laugh.
Another one has Jordan walking down the hall at school and she drops a book. She bends over to pick it up and her jeans are so tight that they just split wide open right down the middle, totally exposing her rear end. And she is wearing these ugly granny panties and everyone just stares at her in horror then laughs.
Okay, I do feel a teeny bit of guilt when I harbor such horrendously mean thoughts toward my ex-best friend. But then I simply remind myself, she deserves it!
Before I go to bed I drop hints that I’m not feeling too well. “I think I’m getting a bug or something,” I tell my mom as I make myself a cup of ginger-chamomile tea. (Mom is always trying to get us to drink this awful stuff when we’re sick.)
She puts a hand on my forehead. “You don’t feel like you’re running a fever.”
“She’s got grouchitis,” says Bree, making a face behind Mom’s back.
“Sometimes people get grouchy when they’re sick,” offers my mom.
I take a sip of tea and attempt to look pitiful.
“What is it that’s bothering you?” asks Mom.
“My stomach and my head. I think I’m getting the flu.”
She frowns. “It seems a little early for flu season, but I suppose . . . ”
“She’s just mad that Jordan dumped her,” says Bree in a taunting tone.
“Shut up!” I glare at her, controlling myself from wanting to reach out and really smack my smart-mouthed little sister.
“We don’t say ‘shut up,’” my mom reminds me.
“Well, I wish she would bug off then.”
“Bree, why don’t you go to your room so Kara and I can talk.”
“Yeah, fine, send me to my room,” whines Bree. “Like I’m the problem here. Well, at least I have friends!”
“Bree!” I hear the warning in Mom’s voice, then Bree’s door slams behind her.
I squirt some honey into my tea, stir it, then take another sip.
Mom sits down at a stool by the counter. “What’s the problem, Kara?”
“The problem is that I feel like crud, Mom.” I say this with all the emphasis I can muster, then set my mug down loudly on the countertop and look at her, hoping I look pretty sick.
“But I can tell that something else is going on, Kara. I’m guessing Bree is right. Does this have something to do with Jordan?”
I make a dramatic groaning sound. “Why do you have to keep thinking everything is about Jordan? Sheesh! Yeah, we used to be friends, but we’re not anymore. It’s no big deal, Mom. Get over it.”
She frowns. “I’m not the one making it a problem.”
I hold up my hands. “Well, neither am I. I’m just telling you I feel kind of sick. You’re the one blowing everything out of proportion here.” I know this is a good tactic to distract my mom. I throw whatever it is right back in her face and often it can really confuse things.
“I’m not blowing anything out of proportion, Kara. I’m just trying to figure this out with you.”
I pick up my tea mug and start to walk away now. “The only thing wrong with me is that I feel sick. Sorry! I guess no one’s allowed to be sick in this place.”
“That’s not it—”
“Well, I don’t know what ‘it’ is then. But I am going to bed. Goodnight, Mother.” We both know that I only call her “Mother” when I’m mad. And I’m mad now. Following my little sister’s example, I too slam my door. Only louder. I feel just slightly sorry for my mom
. I know this isn’t her fault. But at the same time I don’t know what makes her think she can fix anything. All I wanted was a little sympathy and permission to stay home tomorrow. Of course, I realize, my mom can’t actually make me go to school if I don’t want to. And I don’t want to.
I stay up really late. It’s not like I’m doing much of anything, just quietly listening to my Alanis Morissette CD. Jordan can’t stand Alanis, she says all she does is complain, but I happen to like her and relate to her lyrics. Ironically enough, I am also flipping through a stupid Cosmo magazine that Jordan left the last time she spent the night, which must’ve been in August shortly before school started. Finally I open the window and close my heating vents, allowing my room to fill with cold air. Then I actually take off my pajamas and lay on my bed until I am shivering. I am thinking perhaps I can catch a cold. I know that colds are really a result of germs, but I’ve also heard that if you get run down or chilled or whatever, you can wear down your resistance to germs and then get sick. That’s what I’m hoping for—either a cold, or if I’m lucky, pneumonia. It would be so perfect if I were to get pneumonia and have to be hospitalized.
I wonder if Jordan would come to visit me in the hospital. I can imagine her coming into my room with a big bouquet of flowers and balloons, maybe even a stuffed rabbit (since she knows how I love bunnies), and she would stand next to my bed and plead and beg for my forgiveness. But I would just turn my head away from her without speaking. Perhaps I might even breathe my last breath while she was standing there. But I wouldn’t forgive her. No way! I would make her suffer for the rest of her life for hurting me like this.
My teeth are chattering like castanets now and I wonder how much longer I can take this form of freezing torture. But then I realize it’s also a pretty good distraction to the cruddy way I feel inside. Maybe it’s worth it. Now, if only I can wake up half dead!
nine
NO SUCH LUCK. I WAKE UP FEELING PERFECTLY FINE. WELL, AT LEAST physically. I still feel rotten on the inside.
“How are you feeling today?” my mom asks after she cracks open my bedroom door and peeks in.
I am still in bed, tired from staying up so late. “Awful,” I mutter, making my best attempt at looking sick.
She comes into my room and touches my forehead again. I do not understand what makes mothers think they are walking-talking thermometers. But I think somewhere during the process of giving birth and changing diapers, they actually begin to believe they have this supernatural sense.
“You feel normal to me, honey.” She pushes some hair off my forehead and smiles. “But I can make you an appointment with Dr. Peterson if you like.”
Okay, I’m not dumb. Despite that warm motherly smile, I know this is a threat. I absolutely hate going to the doctor. I hate it when I’m sick and even more so when I’m not.
“Fine,” I growl. “I’ll go to school, but if I spread some really horrible disease to everyone, they will all have you to thank.”
“Well, I’ve got to run, Kara. I’m already a little late. Have a good day.”
Have a good day! Yeah, you bet. I grumble all the way to the bathroom. Thankfully, Bree is done now, but she’s left her usual trail of wet towels and shower debris all over the place. I kick them out of my way and growl as I turn on the water. Why is life so unfair?
I realize I’ll have to hurry if I don’t want to be late. And despite my foul mood I don’t really want to be late. I’m not particularly fond of that kind of attention. And so I quickly dress, snatch up my backpack, and dash to school with still-wet hair. Why should I care?
Naturally, I see Jordan (or rather she sees me) in the hallway. Of course, she looks perfect with every hair in place, and wearing what looks like a new outfit. Probably a little something she picked up with her new friends at the mall the other day.
“Are you okay, Kara?” She frowns slightly as she peers at me and I wonder why she can’t manage to come up with something new to ask me. But I feel too much like a sideshow freak to mention this, and besides, I can see some of her friends now eyeing me curiously too, including Ashley Crow. She seemed so nice when I bought conditioner from her on Saturday, but now she looks at me like maybe I have head lice. Jordan shakes her head. “You don’t look too—”
“I’m fine!” I snap at her. “Just late is all.” Then I rush off toward the English department as if I have an appointment with the president. As I speed down the breezeway, I refuse to allow Jordan’s fake interest in my welfare, or more likely my sorry appearance, to slow me down. I cannot afford her brand of pity or concern right now. It’s just too freaking bad if I don’t look cool enough to be seen with her and her new shallow friends. It’s not like they want me around them anyway. What do I care?
I repeat those four words through my mind as I walk. What do I care? What do I care? What do I care? It reminds me of an old picture book that I used to like as a kid. It’s about this little blue engine, but somehow I think I have the words all wrong. What do I care? What do I care? Choo-choo—get outta my way!
I make it to English just as the tardy bell rings, but it doesn’t look like Mr. Parker bothered to mark me late. I slip into a sideline seat and wish I were someone else. I don’t even look up when Jordan and Shawna walk in, even later than I was, but I do wonder if Mr. Parker has noticed. I keep my eyes downward, pretending to focus on our reading assignment although the words look blurry and fuzzy. I vaguely wonder if I might need glasses.
Then, like zombie-girl, I trudge through my morning classes. I cannot imagine going through day after day like this for three whole years! Finally, I’m in art class, and I almost feel like I can breathe again. I am able to forget other things as I find myself getting pulled into my pencil sketch. I just hope that I can finish it before lunchtime.
My subject for this sketch is from a photo I found in Ms. Clark’s “inspiration” box. It’s an old beater pickup that’s partially covered with old vines. I’m sure it doesn’t even run, but something about it intrigues me and I feel a growing connection to this abandoned and neglected truck. I’m working really hard to get the shadows around the fender just right. But I’m still not done when I hear the lunch buzzer.
“That’s pretty good,” says a girl’s voice.
I look up to see Felicia Wong silhouetted by the sunlight coming through the window behind her. I squint to see her, curious as to whether she’s serious. She steps to the side a bit so that I can see her face better, and I think she seems sincere. I’ve known Felicia since around fifth grade. And it’s not that I expect her to be especially rude, but I used to think she was a little stuck-up or full of herself. Maybe it’s because she’s supposed to be so smart. Everyone says she has a genius IQ.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“Do you like art?” she asks now.
“I guess so.”
“You know, some of us stay here and keep working during lunchtime,” Felicia continues. “Ms. Clark doesn’t mind as long as we clean up after ourselves.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Oh, okay.” She steps back now and her face gets this blank look, like she’s trying to conceal something, and I wonder if I’ve offended her. Even so, I say nothing and she quickly retreats to join several kids gathered at the big table in the back of the room.
Now I feel bad and wonder why it is that I think I can act like such a jerk. I wander toward the group.
“You know,” I say to Felicia, “I’d stay and draw during lunch too, but I left home in such a hurry this morning that I forgot to pack anything to eat. Plus I skipped breakfast and am feeling kind of hungry now.” I know my explanation is too long and sounds lame. But it’s the best I can do under the circumstances.
“I’ve got an apple I don’t want,” Felicia offers.
Now Edgar Peebles is digging through his backpack like he’s hunting for hidden treasure. He pulls out a limp-looking package and holds it up hopefully. “I’ve got a string cheese you can have, Kara.” He smiles as he adjus
ts his slightly crooked wire-rimmed glasses.
“Hey, it’s not like I’m a poverty case,” I say, probably too defensively. “I was just in a hurry, you know. Maybe I’ll join you guys another time.”
Felicia shakes her head like she’s thinking I’m pretty weird. “Hey, no problem. Do what you like, Kara. We were just offering.”
“Yeah,” says Amy in a sharper tone. “We don’t need anyone hanging out here who thinks she’s too good for us—”
“Oh, Amy,” says Felicia.
“That’s not it.” I narrow my eyes at Amy now.
But undeterred, she looks right back at me. “Hey, if the shoe fits—”
“Well, think whatever you like,” I say in what sounds like the kind of flippant tone that I usually despise, not so very unlike the girls that Jordan’s probably eating lunch with right now. “I just happen to be hungry today and I don’t particularly want to eat handouts. Thanks just the same.”
Then I get out of there before Amy has a chance to sling anything at me. I’m sure I offended her. I probably offended them all. But it’s like I can’t help it. Then I begin my little choo-choo rhyme again. What do I care? What do I care? I repeat this through my head as I chug down the hallway in search of food.
I buy my “lunch” from the big machine in the hallway. Ironically I choose an apple and some string cheese. These I quietly consume on the other side of the school. I am not going to chance eating on the steps by the art department. I couldn’t endure the humiliation of being found there by Amy or Felicia or even that goofy old Edgar. Who names their kid Edgar anyway? Especially when it’s followed by a name like Peebles. Some people are just nuts!
I manage to make it through my afternoon classes without running into Jordan or her stupid friends once. I am learning how to keep a low profile. I sit close to the doors and exit my classes as soon as the release bells ring. Then I dash, not actually running since that would draw unwanted attention, but I choose the least crowded hallway and head straight for my next class. I keep my eyes downward as I go, just in case someone tries to make eye contact. Not that anyone ever would. But this behavior helps to make me feel slightly invisible. I think I am becoming quite stealthy actually. If I can keep this up, I might someday just vanish into thin air. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing really. I imagine myself like that old movie, except I would be the Invisible Girl. As soon as the final bell rings, I am heading straight for the nearest exit, ready to blow this joint for —
Dark Blue: Color Me Lonely with Bonus Content Page 5
