My Side

by Norah McClintock

I stand up. I say, “I’m going home.” I leave without stopping at my locker. When I get home, I crawl into bed. I’m still in bed when my mother gets back from the church, but she doesn’t know I’m there. She doesn’t find out until suppertime, when she’s worried about me and comes into my room to look at my calendar to see if I have any after-school events. By then, so they tell me, I’ve cried myself out, I have no appetite, and all I see is darkness.

  Chapter Six

  It turns out Ms. LaPointe called my parents that night. It turns out my parents then watched the video and called the police. It turns out the police told them that no law had been broken, but that they were making every effort to ascertain (cop talk) whether the school computer system had been hacked. If so, they said they would pursue the perpetrator with the full force of the law.

  “I can’t believe they’re going to let those kids get away with what they did,” my mother says, not to me, but to my father and at the top of her lungs. She’s furious.

  “Poor Addie,” my dad says. “I’ve been hoping she would break out of that shell. Then maybe this never would have happened.”

  “You think this is her fault?” my mom asks.

  “No, of course not. But, Leslie, you know things are a lot easier for kids who aren’t so thin-skinned, who don’t analyze every move they make or think that every decision is a matter of life and death.”

  I hear my mother sigh.

  I don’t sleep that night. The next morning, I refuse to go to school. My mom doesn’t argue with me.

  I stay in bed, my eyes glued to my cell phone, waiting for John to call, waiting for Neely to call. I’m not sure which call I wish for more.

  Neely is my best friend.

  Correction. Neely was my best friend up until the beginning of this school year. But Neely was there, holding that light. She didn’t just see what they did to me. She was involved.

  She doesn’t call.

  John does. He swears he had nothing to do with what happened. He says Kayla asked to meet him. I don’t know whether to believe him or not. He doesn’t call again.

  I don’t know how many days pass after that. All I know is that one morning when there’s no one in the house, I go to the bathroom, find a brand-new bottle of aspirin and swallow the whole thing. About an hour later, I panic. I call my mom and tell her what I did. I spend the next two days locked down in the regional hospital, where they monitor my blood levels and where a doctor says, “Maybe you think life sucks, but let me tell you, young lady, life on dialysis sucks a lot more.” It turns out I could have wiped out my kidneys without taking myself with them.

  They make me talk to a shrink before they let me go home. Then I have to go regularly and talk to another one. I lose fifteen pounds. I can’t sleep. I don’t care about food. I don’t care about anything. I don’t think I even realize that I don’t care.

  Neely doesn’t call.

  Christmas comes and goes. And then—I don’t know if it’s the medication or if it’s that a new year has rolled around—I decide to go back to school.

  Crazy, huh?

  So here I am, back.

  And there she is, just like always. Except for the fact that she’s avoiding me, she’s acting like nothing happened.

  I still can’t believe what she did.

  I still have no idea why she did it. Sure, I get that she didn’t want to be friends with me anymore. She couldn’t have made it any clearer. But to do something like that? To humiliate me in front of all those kids just to prove she’s cool? To hack the school computer the way she did, email that link to every kid in school to make sure they saw it, post that video so people all over the world could get a good laugh? That’s hard-core. What did I do to deserve that?

  I stand there. I look at the kids who are looking at Neely—and at me. I wait. But she doesn’t even glance in my direction. She doesn’t acknowledge me. Instead she backs out of her locker and slams the door. She keeps her head down as she threads her lock through the locker loops and fastens it. She turns away from me and walks down the hall. I watch her merge with the mass of other kids until all I see is the back of her head, until she is swallowed up altogether. Then I turn. I walk in the opposite direction, down the hall, down the stairs, past the office and out the big front doors. I am done here. I am never coming back. Why should I?

  Neely’s Story

  Chapter Seven

  There’s no such thing as a free lunch. My dad must have said that a million times. That, and You pay now or you pay later, but you always pay. My mom says he’s cynical. She says he thinks everyone has an angle. Everyone wants something. That’s where the paying comes in. One way or another, you have to pay the price for everything you get in this life. He says once you know that, you know all there is to know.

  Me, I’ve always thought, sure, you have to pay for things. It makes sense, right? And if you’re smart, you know that you get what you pay for, so you’re careful, you go for quality. Right?

  The thing I’ve always wanted, my big-ticket item, is change. You would too, if you were me.

  I grew up in this town. I went to the same kindergarten as every other kid here. I went to the same elementary school too, the same one as Addie. We didn’t have any choice. If you live anywhere in Monroe Township, you go to Monroe Elementary—unless your parents send you to a faith-based school. Our parents didn’t.

  Addie and I met in first grade when we were assigned to the same table at the front of the class. We were both shy. I live on a farm outside of town, and up until kindergarten, I spent almost all my time at home. My playmates were mostly my cousins. Three of them live in a house on our property, along with my aunt, who has multiple sclerosis, and my uncle. Four more live down the road on another farm. I have another aunt and uncle who live ten miles away, in another township. And that’s just on my mom’s side of the family. My dad has five brothers. Three of them are farmers like my dad, one is a veterinarian and one is a surgeon. All but one of them live close by, they’re all married, and they all have kids. All my cousins are older than me.

  Maybe because I’m the youngest by a couple of years and got shut out of a lot of activities, I’ve always been shy. By the time I got to grade one, I’d been asked a thousand times if the cat had got my tongue. After that I was teased for being afraid of my own shadow. It wasn’t all that long ago that my mother told me she’d been worried about me back then. She’d thought I had a hearing problem or maybe some kind of disability. That’s how quiet I was. Like Addie.

  Addie has a brother, but he’s ten years older than her and has been away at school since she was in second grade. He’s some kind of science genius and has almost finished his PhD. Both of Addie’s parents were only children. All four of her grandparents died before she got to elementary school, two in a car accident, one of a heart attack and one of cancer. Her family is as tiny as mine is huge. But for some reason, we hit it off right away.

  Addie was—still is—as quiet as I was. She was—is—much shyer. Even when she was little, she wore her bangs long so that they hung over her eyes, like a curtain. Our second-grade teacher once brought a barrette to school and pinned her hair back. So I can see the girl under there, she said. Everyone laughed at that—everyone except Addie. You know how some people are afraid of snakes? Or the dark? Or whatever it is they imagine is hiding at the back of the closet?

  Well, Addie is afraid of people. She’s afraid they’re watching her and measuring her and finding fault with her.

  She’s deathly afraid of being teased or laughed at.

  But we were buddies. Until we got to high school.

  The high school is a comprehensive located in Monroe. Kids from six different elementary schools get bused in. In grade nine, for the first time ever, I found myself in classes with kids I had never met before. Addie was nervous about that. She spent the whole week before school started freaking out that she and I might have different timetables and not be in all the same classes. That didn’t bother me.


  Confession—I was hoping we wouldn’t be in any classes together.

  Sounds mean, huh? Especially since I just said she was my best friend all through elementary school. But that started to change. It changed for good because of something one of my cousins said to me while I was visiting Boston—her father is the surgeon. She wanted to take me to a party, and I didn’t want to go because I didn’t know what I would say to complete strangers and because I was sure no one would like me.

  She looked at me and said, “You’re my cousin, Neely. But I have to tell you this. I used to think you always acted kind of superior, like you thought you were better than everyone else.”

  “Me?” You could have knocked me over with a feather, as my grandpa would have said.

  “You never joined in. You always said you had something else to do. You’d just sit there and watch. People thought you were stuck up. If you hang back all the time, what are they supposed to think? You should start worrying more about how the other person feels and less about yourself.”

  Was she kidding? All I ever thought about was the other person. Does she like me? Does he think I’m a dweeb? Why doesn’t she talk to me?

  “You can’t wait for the other person all the time,” my cousin said. “You have to include them if you want them to include you. You can’t make everyone else do the heavy lifting.”

  The way she said it, it was like she was accusing me of something, like being self-centered. So I did what I usually did when I thought someone was criticizing me—I started to cry.

  Which led to a massive heart-to-heart with my cousin.

  Which led to her giving me some tips.

  Which led to me vowing to change.

  Which meant making a huge effort to forget my own nervousness and concentrate instead on trying to put other people at ease.

  Which led to my taking some initiative at the party, even though I was sure I was going to throw up.

  Which led to my meeting a nice guy.

  And his friends.

  And having fun.

  All of which led to my promising myself that when I got home, I would be a brand-new Neely.

  Chapter Eight

  I tried to bring Addie along with me. Really, I did.

  But she was too scared to even try most of the time. So I had to go it alone.

  It hasn’t been easy, despite what Addie thinks. She’s made it a lot harder by the way she acts.

  In grade nine, we were in most of the same classes. But this year is different. This year we aren’t in the same homeroom. We aren’t in the same French, history or civics classes either. But Addie is in my English and math classes, where on the first day she made sure to grab the seat next to mine. She’s also in my gym class, where she sticks to me like glue.

  Here’s what I discovered last year. In the classes where it was just me and not Addie too, I could be anyone I wanted. Most of the kids didn’t know me, because most of them came from other schools. In fact, most of them didn’t know most of the other kids either. That meant I could put into practice what I’d learned in Boston. I made plenty of friends in those classes. I’m doing even better this year.

  But in the classes where Addie clings to me, it’s harder. She sucks up my time and energy. She never wants to talk to anyone else—she’s convinced they won’t like her. When we have to break into groups, she stays silent. She hides behind her hair. Now I see how shy she really is. It’s like a disease with her. She can’t seem to shake it off. I’ve been trying to help her. Her answer every time? “I can’t. I’ll just die if I have to.” It doesn’t do any good to tell her that it’s medically impossible for anyone to die of shyness. Or embarrassment. Or being laughed at, for that matter.

  At the urging of my English teacher—and to my surprise—I decided to try out for the school play this year. I tried to get Addie to audition too, but she wouldn’t. So then I tried to get her into doing costumes or sets or something. But she wouldn’t do that either. And, if you ask me, she tried to undermine my confidence by telling me all the time how the popular kids would get the parts, not kids like “us.” It made me mad because I don’t think I’m like her. Not anymore.

  I showed her. I got a part. Not a starring role, but not a walk-on either. I got to play the best friend of the female lead. That’s how I got to know Jen and Kayla and Shayna. Kayla landed the female lead. She was good. She was nice too. At least, I thought she was. And I wasn’t the only one. John felt the same way. That’s John Branksome, the cutest guy in school. The most athletic. The boy who was always picked for whatever production was put on. Everyone likes John. Teachers adore him. Kayla fell for him. They hung together for a while. Then it was over—at least, it was over as far as John was concerned. To tell the truth, I don’t know whether John was really into a relationship or if it was all Kayla. All I know is what happened next.

  Chapter Nine

  “Your little friend is staring at you again.” That’s Kayla. She’s talking about Addie, who she insists on calling my “little friend.” It bugs me, but I don’t know how to make her stop without also causing her to freeze me out.

  We’re sitting in the cafeteria. “We” are Kayla, Jen, Shayna and me. The three of them went to different elementary schools, but they knew each other because they were in the same gymnastics club. They’re all pretty and all skinny, like you’d expect gymnasts to be. They’re the most popular girls in grade ten, and you just know that when the time comes, one of them is going to be prom queen.

  For some reason I don’t understand, Kayla has a real hate on for Addie. She makes snide remarks about her all the time, about how big her nose is (it’s not that big), how she slouches all the time (that’s true—Addie always seems to be collapsing in on herself, as if all she wants is to disappear), how tacky her clothes are (Addie doesn’t make much of an effort to keep up to date) and how she’s so quiet all the time. Jen says Addie reminds her of Boo Radley, the character from To Kill a Mockingbird who you never see and who everyone regards as some kind of ghost.

  “She’s nothing like Boo Radley,” I say. I glance at Addie and see right away that I am wrong. She’s exactly like him—pale, invisible to most people and happiest when she’s in the shadows, unseen. And Kayla’s right—she is staring at me.

  I shake my head at her and don’t even try to hide my annoyance. Confession—I wish Addie would leave me alone. I’m not like her anymore. I’ve moved on.

  “She is too,” Jen says. “She’s a female Boo Radley—quiet and creepy.” She nudges Kayla, and they look at Addie again, only now Addie isn’t alone. John Branksome is standing beside her, handing her something and smiling at her.

  “What the—” Kayla splutters.

  I know what’s going on because Addie told me. John borrowed her history notes to copy. John lives across the street from her. His mom and Addie’s mom are friends. John and Addie have known each other practically since the day she was born. But I don’t tell Kayla that, not when she’s being such a bitch.

  Instead I say, “Yeah, he’s been over at her house a lot lately.”

  “Lately?”

  “You know, since the play.”

  After the play was over, just about the time Kayla was crowing to everyone about her “new boyfriend,” John dumped her. That’s assuming he was ever with her. It still isn’t clear to me. Kayla acted like they were a couple. John, not so much. Sometimes it seemed to me that they were just in a play together.

  “He hangs out with her?” Kayla says, still with plenty of splutter.

  “Forget it,” Shayna says. “Forget him. If he’s interested in her, he’s a loser.”

  This earns her evil eyes from both Kayla and Jen. Maybe I’m wrong, but just the thought that she might have been hanging out with someone who one her friends is now calling a loser seems to get Kayla all riled up.

  “What do you know?” Jen says. Jen is Kayla’s best friend. She sticks up for Kayla no matter what. “He probably just feels sorry for her. I know I
do.”

  “Yeah,” says Kayla, practically choking on the word. “Yeah, that’s probably it.” But she can’t take her eyes off them. When John squeezes Addie’s arm and Addie responds by staring adoringly up at him, Kayla goes pale.

  “Addie’s always had a thing for him,” I say. I’d like to tell you I say it simply because it happens to be true. But really, I say it because I want to make a dig at Addie, just like I made one at Kayla. The truth is, they’re both getting on my nerves.

  “So you know John, right?” Kayla says.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then talk to him for me.” It comes out like a command.

  “And tell him what?”

  “Tell him to call me. Tell him I’m sorry for whatever I did. Tell him I want him back.”

  “Right,” I say. It comes out the way it would if I were talking to Addie, and not at all the way I’ve been talking to Kayla, the suck-up way you more or less have to talk to Kayla. “What good would that do? He’s already made up his mind.”

  “Says who?” Shayna demands.

  “He wants that worm instead?” Jen says. “You can’t be serious!”

  “I just meant—”

  “We know what you meant,”

  Shayna says.

  Kayla looks at me with her bitchy queen look, the one that lets everyone know she is not pleased. Kayla’s parents are divorced, and Kayla lives with her mother in a massive house in what used to be a nothing town. Now it’s filled with the massive houses of rich people who love all the lakes, especially if they can have the only property on one of them. Kayla’s mom “dabbles” (Kayla’s word) in interior design for these people. Her dad owns a bunch of companies and makes sure Kayla gets everything she wants and then some. Kayla says he’s not nearly so generous with her mom and that she’s pretty sure he pampers his princess (that’s what her dad supposedly calls her) as a way of getting back at his ex-wife. Kayla says it’s the best possible position for her to be in—both of her parents are always competing for her loyalty.