by Robin Palmer
Instead, what I did was go to the girls’ room and cry. That is, I went to the girls’ room after Noelle Cutrona came up to me and told me I could add her to “The Official Period Log of Sixth-Grade Girls at Jefferson Middle School in Northampton, MA” as the twenty-third girl in the grade to get her period. She had woken up with it that morning, so instead of an exact time, I just wrote “sometime during the night.”
Luckily, since being friend-dumped I had gotten really good at crying without sound in the girls’ room, so it didn’t matter that a few seventh graders came in while I was in there. Plus, I had just refilled my knapsack with the good Kleenex, so when I came out, my nose wasn’t all red, and no one could tell. I couldn’t believe that instead of being one of three girls in the class not invited to the sleepover, I was now the ONLY one not invited. Talk about embarrassing. How could I have ever been BFFs with someone who would do something that mean?
“Honey, what’s the matter?” Dad asked on Friday night as he rewound the rubber band around his ponytail as Sarah, he, and I waited for our pizza at Frankie’s. Once when I was overlistening, I heard Grandma Maureen say she thought that the fact that Dad had long hair meant he was unwilling to grow up and be an adult, but here in Northampton, which is full of creative types and hippies, tons of the guys have long hair.
“Nothing,” I replied, dragging my breadstick through the oil-and-mustard dip that Dad and I always made when we came here.
“You know, Lucy, I have an essential-oil blend in my bag that might really help with your carbohydrate cravings,” Sarah said, flipping her long red braid over her shoulder and rooting around in her bag.
“But I like carbohydrates,” I said as I took a bite. “When I eat them, they make me feel better.” And when you were forced to spend Friday night with your dad and his girlfriend because everyone else you knew was at a birthday party, you needed something to feel better. I had told Dad all about the Rachel-Laurel-sleepover mess on Wednesday when we played Monopoly. But I asked him not to tell Sarah because I didn’t feel like having to sit there while she gave me a bottle of essential oil and said, “Here—put a dab of this on your wrist, and it’ll make it so you get your friends back.”
“I must have left it at home,” she said when she came up empty-handed. I squinted as the light glinted over the little stud in the side of her nose. I wondered if they made you get your nose pierced when you became a yoga teacher, because all of her yoga-teacher friends had them, too. “You know, Lucy, I was just reading an article in Oprah’s magazine that said people who talk about their feelings not only get depressed a lot less often, but they also live longer,” she said as she took a bite of her boring salad. All that was in it was lettuce and tomatoes. She never got any good stuff like mozzarella cheese or chickpeas. Sarah was very into being healthy and living as long as she could. She once showed me this picture of an old man in one of her yoga magazines and told me he was 122 years old. I do not understand why would you want to live that long, especially since all your friends and family would be long gone and there’d be no one for you to hang out with.
“I know how sad you must feel tonight being the only girl in your class who wasn’t invited to the sleepover—” she went on.
“Dad!” I cried, shoving more of my breadstick in my mouth. I couldn’t believe he had told her. No, wait—I could. According to Sarah, they told each other everything, which is why they had such a “great relationship.”
He reached out and patted my hand. “Honey, I told her so she could share in your pain,” he replied.
I didn’t even want her sharing my pizza. Not that she would because of the bread thing, I thought as I reached for another breadstick, which made her cringe.
“Girls can be so cruel,” she continued. “I mean, I never experienced anything like this when I was young because I was always very popular, but your dad is right. I can feel your pain. When I was doing my yoga-teacher training, there was this one clique of students and I always hoped they’d invite me to go with them for chai tea afterward, but they never did.”
As I turned my head toward the door so she wouldn’t see me roll my eyes, the door opened and all fifteen girls from Rachel’s birthday party and Rachel’s mom walked into Frankie’s. I bet Sarah could have felt my pain then, because it was like a tidal wave hit me. It wasn’t even like I could pretend I didn’t see them. They were so loud and giggly and seemed to be having so much fun that you couldn’t miss them.
Plus, there was always Marissa to make sure that didn’t happen. “Oh! Oh! Look—there’s Lucy!” she screeched as they made their way to the back room with the giant long table where people always had their birthday parties—the ones I used to be invited to.
“Hi, Lucy. Hi, Mr. Parker. Hi, Sarah!” she babbled as she stopped at the table. The rest of them went on with only a few “Oh, hey, Lucy”s in passing. Nothing from Rachel or Missy, of course.
“Hi,” I mumbled as I slumped down in my chair.
Marissa leaned in close. “Just so you know, I’m not really having a good time,” she said in a whisper so loud it might as well have been a yell. “I’m just pretending to have a good time so I won’t hurt Rachel’s feelings. But since you and I are BFFs, I’d much rather be with you,” she said.
“Marissa, are you coming or not?” Rachel called over her shoulder, annoyed.
“Yup! Be right there!” she called back. She turned to me. “Okaywellbyetalktoyoutomorrowloveya!” she said before she ran over to join them.
Yeah, she obviously really wished she were with me.
The only good thing about being totally humiliated in front of an entire restaurant and feeling like even more of a loser was that Dad said that not only could we go to Scoops after dinner, but that I could get whatever I wanted. Even Sarah was nice and didn’t say a word about how ice cream wasn’t very good for you because of the sugar and dairy and that if I really wanted to be healthy and live longer I’d get some frozen yogurt at Pinkberry around the corner.
I already knew what I was going to get: a large sundae with two scoops (peppermint stick and mint chocolate chip), hot butterscotch and hot caramel, whipped cream, and M&M’s. It’s kind of a weird combination, which is why I was surprised when I overheard the hoodie-and-sweats-and-sunglasses- (even-though-it-was-eight-thirtyat-night-and-there-was-no-one-in-the-place) -wearing person in front of me ordering the exact same thing.
In fact, I was so surprised, I called out excitedly, “Hey—I’m about to order the same exact same thing!”
And I was even more surprised when the hoodie-and-sweats-and-sunglasses- (even-though-it-was-eight-thirty-at-night-and-no-one-was-in-the-place) -wearing person turned around, put the hoodie down, lifted the sunglasses up, and said, “You are?” It was Laurel—with smudges of chocolate on her face, almost like she had already had a candy bar before coming to Scoops. If I hadn’t already spent two (horrible) evenings with her, I probably wouldn’t have recognized her because her hair was kind of greasy and in a ponytail and she had no makeup on. Also, her eyes were completely swollen, like she had been crying. But she was Laurel Moses, so it was probably something like allergies or she accidentally poked an eyeliner pencil in her eye or something.
She looked awful, a fact that, although it probably wouldn’t help me with the karma thing, made me hate her a little less for ruining my life in so many ways. But when I introduced her to Dad and Sarah, she still put on her movie-star smile and said, “Hi! I’m Laurel! It’s so nice to meet you!” By this time, I knew that was what she said to every fan, even though Dad wasn’t a fan. He didn’t know any of her music since he basically listened only to Bob Dylan, Neil Young, and Crosby, Stills and Nash and he had never seen her show because he only liked to watch documentaries, CNN, and a few shows on HBO. Sarah, however, knew who she was.
After they all said hello and Sarah gushed about how much she loved “Broken Promises,” Dad handed me a ten-dollar bill and said, “I think we’ll leave you girls alone to eat your sundaes an
d chat while we go browse in the bookstore for a while.”
What was he doing? He knew that the last thing in the world I wanted was to have to be in the same room with her again. In fact, I had complained about it so much that when he picked me up for dinner he said, “Now, Lucy, I don’t want to spend all of dinner listening to you complain about Laurel.” But before I could say, “Uh, that’s okay, I’ll just come with you,” they were gone.
I ordered my sundae, and Laurel went to sit down at one of the little tables with hers. By the time I joined her, she was almost totally finished
“Wow. I thought I was a fast eater,” I said. It was kind of impressive how fast she could shove the ice cream in her mouth.
“Ice cream’s the only thing that calms me down,” she said with her mouth full. “Fortunately, I have the day off tomorrow, so I can eat it. I can’t when I’m working because it makes my face all puffy and then I look like a chipmunk.”
“Is that why your eyes are all puffy?” I asked. “From the ice cream?”
She shook her head and her bottom lip started to get a little quivery. Was she going to cry? I sure hoped not, because the last thing I needed was to feel sorry for her. Especially because you couldn’t feel sorry for a person and hate them at the same time. And I did hate her.
To stop her from crying, I decided to change the subject. “So where’s Sequoia? My mom told me she was coming up to visit you this weekend?” I left out the part that I had also read it on WeLoveLaurel.com so that she didn’t think I was a stalker or anything.
Unfortunately, my plan didn’t work. Because not only did she start to cry, but she cried so hard that snot came out of her nose and she used the sleeve of her hoodie to wipe if off, even though I offered her a bunch of napkins. I probably would’ve used my sleeve, too, because the napkins at Scoops are almost as rough as the toilet paper at school.
Just great—some of the hate was evaporating, and I was starting to feel bad for her. Leave it to Laurel to make me feel all confused. “Are you okay?” I asked. I knew it was a dumb question, but it was the only thing I could think of to say. “Do you want me to get you anything?”
She dug out a twenty-dollar bill from her bag. “Maybe another sundae? And get yourself one, too, if you want.”
I already felt a little sick from the one I was eating, so I just got one for her. When I came back to the table with hers, she dug into it like she hadn’t eaten in ten years.
“So where’s Sequoia?” I asked again.
A whole new thing of tears started, making me think that was not the right question to ask.
“S-she d-d-dumped me!” she wailed.
“She did?” I gasped, opening up the napkin container and shoving the entire thing of napkins at her. Laurel Moses had been friend-dumped? How did you friend-dump the most popular girl in the world? That had to be scientifically impossible, right?
She sniffled long and loud. “Yeah. She said she’s sick of being friends with someone who’s so weird and that she’d rather hang out with Kimber Hernandez.” She sniffled again. Kimber Hernandez was the star of Kimber in the Middle, the show that came on right after The World According to Madison Tennyson. The show was pretty popular, but I thought Kimber was super-cheesy with her extra-tight jeans and really low-cut shirts. Not only that, but she was kind of scary, like mean-scary. She looked like the kind of girl who didn’t just threaten to beat other girls up but actually did it.
Laurel wiped her nose with her other sleeve. “So instead of coming up here for the weekend, Sequoia’s flying to Miami with Kimber on the Kidz TV private jet, and they’re going to hang out at the hotel pool and sneak into clubs even though they’re totally underage, and if the Kidz TV people find out, they’ll totally get fired.”
“Have you been on the Kidz TV jet?” I asked.
She nodded. “Sure. Lots of times.”
“I bet they serve really good food on it, huh? Like better than what you get on regular planes.”
She thought about it. “I’m not sure. It’s been years since I’ve flown coach, so I have no idea.”
Of course she didn’t. “But why does Sequoia think you’re weird?” I asked. As far as I could tell, the only thing weird about Laurel was that she was freakishly pretty and talented. I mean, sure, she was evil and all, but that wasn’t weird.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. She says it’s because I use so much hand sanitizer. And because I put cotton in my ears when I sleep over at her house because I’m afraid bedbugs might get in them. I also straighten up the stuff in her dressing room as well as mine because of my OCD.” She sniffled again. “But I don’t think that’s so weird. Do you?”
Um, I didn’t think that was so weird—it was really weird. But I didn’t say that. Instead, I just shrugged and said, “No, not really,” because I was afraid anything else might make her start crying again. But then, because it was still on my mind, I said, “How do you friend-dump the most popular girl in the world?” and that did make her start crying again.
“You don’t have to rub it in!” she wailed. “Although you of all people probably think I deserve it,” she said bitterly.
“I’m not trying to rub it in at all!” I said. “It’s just that you never think famous people would go through such . . . normal-people things.” I shrugged. “Plus, I can’t believe we actually have something in common,” I said half under my breath.
She wiped her eyes—which, for some reason, after the crying looked even more blue and more pretty. That was kind of unfair. When I cried that hard, I looked like something out of a horror movie. “What do you mean?”
I took a deep breath. I couldn’t believe I was about to tell Laurel Moses, my archenemy, about the worst thing ever in my life (except for my parents’ divorce, which she already knew about). I launched into the entire story about Missy and Rachel. I had never told anyone—not even Marissa—the entire thing from start to finish. But as I told Laurel everything—from how they didn’t even have the decency to do it in person (they three-way called me from the mall so I could barely even hear them) to how, the day of the Hat Incident, I totally recognized their giggles—I realized that, as bad as it had been to have to be the dumpee in the story, it was a very interesting story. It really kept you on the edge of your seat.
For instance, when I was telling her the part about how once, when Missy was volleyball captain in gym class on a day when I had forgotten my Lucy-is-menstruating note, and it was between me and Marissa, I was terrified I’d be the last one chosen, Laurel literally scooted to the edge of hers like it was a movie or something. (Missy may have hated me, but she was also very competitive and knew Marissa was a horrible athlete, which is why she ended up choosing me so I was only second-to-last.)
Finally, I got to this past week, “And then in class the other day, Rachel passed me a note and I opened it very, very, very slowly because I was terrified of what I was about to read . . .” I didn’t, however, tell Laurel about how Rachel had suggested that I bring her with me. Or that I had kinda, sorta given Rachel the impression that Laurel and I were friends at all.
“Oh. My. God,” Laurel gasped when I finished describing the nightmare of what had just happened at Frankie’s. “Gosh, I haven’t even read a script where the story’s that awful. Not even the Very Special Episode of my show where Madison gets grounded after she and Sequoia get in a big fight and she writes that thing on the bathroom wall about how Sequoia kissed Jason, even though it’s not true, and then gets lectured by her parents about the dangers of spreading rumors.”
I had actually seen that episode, and it wasn’t half as dramatic as my story.
“You know, you’re a really good storyteller. Have you ever thought about writing for television?” she asked.
Wow. That was a big compliment coming from her. “Well, no,” I replied. “But I could.” Maybe I could create my own series about a girl around my age who has an embarrassing incident every episode.
“You’re really brave to eve
n keep going to school. I don’t know if I would have the guts to do that,” she said.
I shrugged. “Well, hopefully I can be an example for other kids who may be dumped in the future. Kind of like, ‘If I can get through it, you can, too.’” I pointed to her sundae. “Hey, do you think I could have a bite of that?” Having to relive the whole friend-drama thing had really zapped my energy.
“Sure,” she said, pushing it toward me.
“But you get to be really brave, too,” I said, trying not to finish the entire sundae off. “I mean, sure, me having to go through this in Northampton is bad, but for you, if any of those gossip blogs find out about how you were dumped, you’d have to go through it in front of the entire world. That’s way more awful than what I’m dealing with.”
I honestly meant it as kind of a compliment, but from the terrified look on her face, I realized she hadn’t thought about that part yet. Before I could apologize, the bell on the door tinkled and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I looked over and realized that the next chapter in my very dramatic story was about to be written. The entire slumber party came barreling through the door.
“That’s them!” I whispered to Laurel. I felt like I was in this very funny movie Groundhog Day I had once seen where the guy just keeps having the same day over and over again. Except my Groundhog Day wasn’t funny. My Groundhog Day was a sixth-grader horror movie.
