“Hey,” I said to Cinnamon. “I’m back.”
“What’s Guts?” she asked.
“Just this dumb show,” I said. “Kids, like, ride giant tricycles through obstacle courses and bungee jump into pits of foam.”
“Ahhhh,” Cinnamon said.
“My mom hates it. But she’s not here, is she?” I propped my feet on Ty’s chair. “So what’s up?”
“Oh my God,” Cinnamon said. “I wanted to talk about this afternoon. At lunch.”
“With Lars, you mean?”
“And Dinah. What was she thinking?”
I opened my mouth to agree, then hesitated. Cinnamon wouldn’t do the listen-in thing to me, would she? Just to make sure, I said, “Is Dinah at your house? Is she listening in?”
“Ha ha, very funny.”
“Dinah!” I called. “Are you there?”
“Winnie,” Cinnamon said, “Dinah is not at my house.”
“Do you swear?”
“Yes, I swear. What kind of friend do you take me for?”
“I was just checking.”
“If she was here, I’d have to give her a lecture on how not to be such a . . . I don’t know, not such a—”
“Spaz?” I supplied.
“Exactly. What was her deal? Why was she going on and on about stupid Muffy?”
“Muffet,” I said.
“With Lars right there. Weren’t you embarrassed?”
“A little,” I admitted. “I sort of wish . . .”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?” Cinnamon persisted. It was her “come on, you can tell me” voice. Cinnamon made gossiping fun, even though I knew it was bad.
“Well . . . I guess I wish she didn’t act so young all the time.” There, I said it. “I mean, we’re in the seventh grade, you know?”
“So true,” Cinnamon said.
“In my head I was like, ‘Shut up already! Nobody cares about the Fishy Yum Yums!’ ”
“She’s going to grow up to be one of those spinster ladies with five zillion cats. No one will want to go out with her because all she’ll do is talk about her little darlings.”
I giggled. “A cat hoarder! Her apartment will smell like cat food, and she’ll have a ceramic plaque that says PURRRR-FECT hanging in her kitchen.”
“You know I love Dinah,” Cinnamon said. “But I do wish she’d clue in a little. Like, there’s a time and a place for everything.”
“And today wasn’t the time or place for any of it,” I said. It felt liberating to get it all out. “Bryce didn’t want her there, Lars didn’t want her there, and I sure didn’t want her there. How could she not know?”
A choked cry came over the line, and then Dinah’s trembling voice. “Maybe because no one ever told me—until now!” Then a click. My heart literally and truly froze in my chest.
“D-D-Dinah?” I stammered.
“She hung up,” Cinnamon said, sounding amused.
“But . . . you said . . .”
“I said she wasn’t at my house. You didn’t ask about three-way.”
A sick feeling spread over me. I sat there, clutching the phone.
“Winnie?” Cinnamon said.
I made no sound.
“Oh, relax. You didn’t say anything that bad.”
But I had. In Dinah’s mind, and in my own, I knew I had.
“I’ll call her back,” Cinnamon said. “It was a joke, okay?” Her tone was exasperated, but with an underlying thread of worry, too. She shouldn’t have done what she did. I shouldn’t have said what I did.
She grew brisk. “I’m hanging up now, Winnie. I’m saying good-bye. So take a chill pill—everything’s going to be fine.”
But it wasn’t. The next day at school, Dinah refused to talk to me. As in, nada. Zilch. Not a single “hello” or “bug off” or even “I hate your guts.”
“Dinah, please,” I said when I caught her between classes. “I didn’t know you were on the line!”
She opened her locker, her lips pressed together.
“Don’t be this way,” I said. I tried to angle myself in front of her. “I’m sorry, okay?”
She shut her locker with a clank. She strode down the hall.
“Dinah!”
She didn’t turn around.
Cinnamon said she was being a baby. Dinah wasn’t talking to her, either, but Cinnamon shrugged it off, saying, “Her loss.” I was furious at Cinnamon, but I didn’t know what to do with my anger. I didn’t want to lose both my friends. Although right now, Cinnamon didn’t even feel like a friend. Not only because she’d played the phone trick on me, but because now that she had, there was all this weird space between us. Maybe because she felt guilty? But she wouldn’t say that out loud. Instead she just acted as if I was being stupid.
In English, Louise said, “I hear Dinah’s giving you the silent treatment. What gives?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.
Louise stared at me. There was something hungry about her curiosity.
“Well, she’s being completely immature,” she said, and I felt ridiculously close to crying. Ten to one, she’d say the same thing to Dinah the second I wasn’t around. I hated the fact that other people—Louise—knew our personal business.
It turned out Lars knew, too. He came up to me after French and asked if I was okay. I was slumped at my desk, staring off into space, and I guess I looked pretty pathetic.
“Not really,” I said.
“How come?” he said. “I mean, is it because of your friend? Dinah?”
I lifted my head. His hazel eyes gazed down at me, and part of me was aware that I could take this and milk it, making Dinah the bad guy and me the innocent victim. And then Lars could comfort me, and it would be a way of getting closer.
But I was too torn up to make that happen.
“I did something mean,” I said miserably. “But not on purpose.”
“If it wasn’t on purpose, then why is it such a big deal?”
“Because it is. Because now she won’t talk to me.”
“She’s stonewalling you?” He frowned. “Man, why do girls do that? Why are they always making such big deals out of stuff?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“It’s stupid.”
I knew he was trying to help, but he wasn’t.
“Have you never gotten into a fight with Bryce?” I asked.
Lars shrugged. “If Bryce gets on my nerves, I tell him to lay off.”
I stared at my fingertips, at the dry skin around my nails.
“Just tell her you’re sorry,” he said.
“I did,” I said.
Kids filed in for next period, and Lars shifted his weight. “Well . . . see ya,” he said.
I curved my mouth into the best smile-shape I could, but I could feel that it wasn’t working. “See ya.”
Sandra, when I filled her in on the situation, said the same thing Cinnamon had said to me outside the cafeteria, before all the bad stuff happened.
“You bad-mouthed your best friend?” Sandra exclaimed. “God, Winnie. Grow up.”
Grow up, grow up, grow up. Couldn’t everyone see that I was trying? I blinked back the tears that had popped up out of nowhere, and Sandra softened.
“She won’t give you the cold shoulder forever,” she said. “Just suck it up and tell her you’re sorry, you idiot.”
“I have!” I cried. “A thousand trillion times!”
“Then tell her again,” Sandra said, like duh.
But when I rang Dinah’s house, her message machine answered.
“Dinah, are you there?” I said. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m so so sorry! Please call me back!”
She didn’t. And for the entire next day, she continued to shut me out. She wouldn’t look at me. She wouldn’t talk to me. Between math and history, when I normally saw her in the hall, Vanita ushered her past me with her arm around her shoulders. Dinah kept her head down, and Vanita glared at me with disdain. I
t made me feel sick with shame. Worse than that, it made me feel . . . scared. Heart-racing, shallow-breathing scared. As if everything I knew about myself had been jerked out from under me. As if I’d been standing on firm ground, and then—whoosh! Suddenly I went sprawling.
The weekend came and went with no word from Dinah. In my room, I played a hip-hop CD she’d made for me, over and over. It was a way of feeling close to her, even though there was this one song, “Never Too Late,” that absolutely shattered me. It was about best friends and worst friends, and how “a worst friend is just a best friend who’s done you wrong.”
Which I guess meant that I was both: best friend and worst friend. Or best friend turned into worst friend. The song’s chorus tried to make everything okay, saying you could always pick up the phone and apologize. But I did pick up the phone. I called Dinah fifteen times before I gave up. She was probably with Vanita. They were probably talking about what a witch-with-a-B I was. I imagined the two of them together, maybe eating olives out of a jar, which Dinah loved and I found disgusting. A hole opened inside me like nothing I’d felt before.
“It’s because you’re used to being the more popular one,” Sandra said, finding me huddled in the darkened TV room. I wasn’t even watching a show.
“What are you talking about?” I said. “I’m not more popular.”
“Don’t be coy,” Sandra said. She sat beside me on the sofa, and her weight made me tip. “You’re, like, the one with power. With best friends, there’s always one who’s cooler or prettier or whatever. And that’s you.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say,” I said. My mind flashed to Amanda, back in fifth grade when we were best friends. In that case, she was the one with power.
“But now Dinah’s grown a spine,” Sandra went on. “And you can’t handle it.”
My eyes burned. It was those dumb tears that kept brimming up out of nowhere.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Sandra said.
I saw it now: it was true. I needed Dinah to be uncool, so that I could be cooler. And then I went and made fun of her for it, and I was called out. And now she was friends with Vanita instead.
“I’m an awful human being,” I said.
“Pretty much,” Sandra said.
A sob broke out of me, and she relented. She put her arm around me and pulled me close. The darkness outside had deepened, and I shut my eyes and pressed my face against her shirt. I tried to keep my crying sounds to myself.
“She’ll come around,” Sandra said. “Just next time, treat her the way she deserves.”
“I will,” I whispered. Oh please, please, please. I will.
Monday was Valentine’s Day. That meant carnations. I got one white carnation from Cinnamon and one white carnation from Dinah, which she’d no doubt ordered before I called her a cat hoarder that no one wanted around. I held it tight and blinked. Stupid tears.
I also got a pink carnation from Lars, which did give me a stab of pleasure even though I was so sad. Receiving a pink carnation was a badge of honor. I glanced around at the other girls in my homeroom. Did Gail get a pink carnation? No, she did not. Did Malena? Well, yes, actually. She got four. But, whatever. At least I got one.
“Who’s it from?” Ansley asked, gesturing at my flower.
“Um . . . Lars,” I said.
“Larson Colman? Isn’t he an eighth grader?”
I nodded.
“Why aren’t you squealing your head off? I would be.”
What was I supposed to say? Because I don’t have any squeals left?
The end-of-homeroom bell rang, and my stomach cramped. In a few moments I’d see Dinah by our lockers, and her expression would tell me if she liked me again or not. I knew better than to hope she did—but I did hope it, nonetheless. I would always hope that. For the rest of my life if I had to.
Anyway, I’d done something special to show her how sorry I was. Yesterday I’d gone to Richard’s Variety Store and picked out what I wanted, and this morning I’d arrived at school early and hunted down Eve Smith, the seventh-grade Service Council rep. Eve had been dubious, but finally she agreed to deliver it with the Valentine’s carnations.
I filed into the hall with everyone else. I saw Dinah exiting Ms. M’s room. My blood moved thickly through my veins.
She scanned the hall. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? I lifted my hand halfway in a wave, then changed my mind and drew my thumbnail to my mouth.
She saw me, then turned abruptly and fiddled with her lock. I hurried over before she could do something crazy, like go to class.
“Thanks for the carnation,” I said in a rush. I was just going to pretend she’d meant it, because at one point she had.
She wrapped her arms around her chest. In one fist she clutched three white carnations. I saw nothing in the other.
“Dinah . . .” I said. My voice cracked. “Are you going to hate me forever? Please just talk to me! Please!”
And then, unexplainably, her eyes welled up. “Fine,” she said. “Talk.”
Relief gushed through me. I felt weak.
“I was a bad friend, and I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know why I said those things. I was just caught up in the moment, and—no. That’s an excuse. I mean, it’s true, but—”
“You could have just told me,” Dinah said. Her voice was as shaky as mine. “If you think I’m so spazzy, and that I shouldn’t talk about Muffet, why didn’t you tell me?”
Her question stopped me cold. Why hadn’t I? If I always kept those thoughts inside, how was she supposed to know?
“I just . . .” I said. “I guess I never . . .”
She looked at me, blinking hard. It was real, what was passing between us, and so raw that I wanted to look away. But I didn’t let myself. I wasn’t allowed.
“I never planned on ignoring you,” Dinah said. “It just . . . happened. And then I didn’t know how to stop!”
“I don’t care. I don’t care about anything as long as you forgive me.” I grabbed her hand. “Dinah . . . I do want you around, okay?”
“I know,” she said. “I want you around, too.”
“So you’re not best friends with Vanita now?”
She looked surprised, like it would have never occurred to her to think such a thing. “I’m friends with Vanita, but not best friends. I’m best friends with you.”
I grinned, and it quivered at the edges, and I could feel that it was this close to one of those sobbing grimaces that take over your face and make it cave in. But I was ecstatic that she liked me again. It was huge and glorious inside me.
“But, Winnie?” Dinah said. She fished around in her backpack. “Why did you give me a King Kong saltshaker?” She pulled it out. It was made of shiny black ceramic, and around its neck was the strip of paper I’d attached, just like the ones on the stems of the carnations. I’m ape over you! it said. Your best friend, Winnie.
Seeing it in Dinah’s hand, I felt confused about why I had given it to her. It seemed, well, ridiculous in the bright light of the hall.
“Winnie?” Dinah prodded.
“Um . . . because they didn’t have any Beanie Babies?” I said. “Well, they had puppies and bunnies and a duck, but I wanted to get you a kitten. But they didn’t have any. So I got you him instead.”
King Kong regarded us. His eyes were dark and shiny.
“I thought it would be funny,” I said sheepishly.
Dinah started to laugh.
So did I.
“Let’s go show Cinnamon,” she said.
“Okay.”
The bell rang for first period, and we stopped in our tracks.
“Oh yeah,” I said. “Class.”
“Oh yeah,” said Dinah. “Well, afterward?”
“It’s a plan.”
She made King Kong wave. I waved back with my carnations.
She spotted my pink one, and her eyes grew wide. “Is that from Lars?”
I nodded.
“Winnie, that’s awesome!
”
“I know,” I said, because it was.
March
ON THE FIRST DAY OF MARCH I woke up with a something-special-is-going-to-happen feeling, like on Christmas or Halloween. For a minute I couldn’t figure out why, and then it came to me: it was my birthday month. We’d officially reached my birthday month. I wouldn’t turn thirteen for eleven more days, but that was okay. In fact it was preferable, as it gave everyone time to plan all sorts of birthday secrets. Under my covers, I wiggled my toes.
It was a school day, which meant I’d be seeing Lars, so eventually I forced myself to get up and make myself look presentable. I wore my favorite jeans, which were hand-me-downs from Sandra. They were beat-up old Levi’s, and their rips and worn spots were real, not made by some jean-ripping machine. I paired them with a gray T-shirt with a single hot-pink star, and I finished the look with my flower earrings, the ones I got when I first pierced my ears. It seemed so long ago.
I analyzed myself in the mirror. I looked pretty good, I had to admit.
I turned sideways. Before long I was going to need a new bra, maybe even a B cup instead of an A. Yikes.
At the breakfast table, I broached the topic of my party.
“So, you know it’s March now,” I announced.
“Omigod, she’s learned her months!” Sandra said. “She’s a genius!”
I ignored her. Mom pressed the microwave POWER button to heat up our sausage-and-biscuits.
“I was thinking maybe something small,” I said. “For my party.”
“Small is good,” Mom said. “Ty: chocolate milk or orange juice?”
“Chocolate milk,” Ty said. “With lots of chocolate-y.”
“Just Dinah and Cinnamon, and they could spend the night, okay?”
“I thought Cinnamon was on your bad list,” Sandra said.
“No,” I said indignantly. Cinnamon and I had never talked about it, the whole three-way telephone debacle, but since then she’d said some things that showed she was sorry. Like once during lunch, she’d said, “I don’t know why you guys even put up with me. I am such a dork.” And another time she’d said, “Just don’t listen to anything I say, all right?”
Maybe I should have told her outright that what she did was mean. That I was mad at her for it—or at least, that I had been mad. But I didn’t really know how to tell people that stuff, and anyway, by now things were pretty much smoothed over. Although the incident was something to file away in my brain under the heading of “Cinnamon.”
Twelve (The Winnie Years) Page 14
