Playing Nice

by Rebekah Crane

  But then I'll see him and he'll walk straight past me like I don't exist and I get all mixed up again.

  Maybe the stupid leaf should just stay green

  And wait for college to have sex.

  ***

  Ms. Everley takes the entire English class down to the computer lab to work on our final assignment for The Catcher in the Rye. We have to write a literary critique of the book citing previous reviews that support our conclusion.

  I'm still not sure how I feel about Holden Caulfield and all his swearing and hookers. But a part of me is beginning to understand how it must have felt for him to be lost in a world he didn't like and how sad he was that his brother was gone. I'm beginning to think that literary heaven is a mess, all full of insane characters like Holden and Randle Patrick McMurphy, guys who really know the meaning of life, who get that we're all just crazy.

  "Can I ask you something?" Alex says as I take my seat in the middle row behind an ancient computer that hasn't been replaced since the 90's. The room smells like melting plastic.

  "Sure," I smile. He's wearing his red and white Minster High football jersey with a sleeveless undershirt. I force my eyes to his face, away from the hair sticking out of his armpit.

  "Did we go out last Saturday? Because that's what I'm hearing."

  My jaw drops open and I stumble over my words. "I... umm... well."

  "I'm not opposed to it. I mean, you smell really good. I just feel like I would remember something like that." Alex scratches his chin.

  "I am so sorry." It's all I can think of to say.

  He leans down toward my ear, his usual scent of Old Spice and freshly-cut grass filling my nose. He smells good, too.

  "Whatever we did or didn't do is okay with me. As far as I'm concerned, we went to a movie and I stared at you the whole time because you looked so beautiful."

  I smile and exhale. Beautiful. There's that word again.

  "Thanks," I say to Alex, my cheeks getting hot just like last year when he said "beautiful" to me after my last performance of Guys and Dolls.

  "Are you going to the Hot Shot dance?" he asks.

  "Of course. I'm in charge of it," I pull my shoulders back and sit up straighter. President Hart at your service.

  "Well..." Alex runs his fingers through his curly brown hair. His blue eyes sparkle even in the dim computer lab. "Since we did go to a movie last Saturday, and you let me put my arm around you, maybe we could..."

  "Nice jersey, Jock Strap." Lil cuts him off and casually takes the seat next to me. Alex blinks, surprised. He looks at Lil, and then back at me, a deer-in-headlights kind of look on his face. His shoulders fall a bit.

  "Thank you, Lil. You look nice today as always," Alex smiles at her and says in a bold voice, "Thanks for going out with me last Saturday, Marty. I hope we can do it again." He winks and walks over to his seat.

  I giggle, the nervous bubble in my stomach deflating. I think kissing Alex would be nice. He probably tastes like apples and his lips are never chapped and I bet he'd run his fingers through my hair just like I've always wanted. We could go out on dates and he'd hold my hand and kiss me on the front porch while my parents peered from inside the house, thinking, Marty's finally found the perfect boyfriend.

  But what if that's not what I want anymore? I touch the black jelly bracelet Matt gave me. Insta-goosebumps.

  "Oh my God, could he have a bigger boner for you or what?" Lil turns on her computer. I look at her out of the corner of my eye. Her red sunglasses are propped on top of her head, even though it's raining out, and she's looking straight ahead.

  Did she just say the word boner?! You can't just say things like that out loud!

  "Be quiet," I whisper, my heart picking up speed.

  "What? Would you prefer I call it a chubby?" Lil speaks even more loudly. Pippa Rogers turns around and rolls her eyes. My face heats up a thousand degrees. I can't believe Lil is saying this. To ME. I breathe, trying to calm my insides.

  You are in a class, Marty Hart. Eyes on the board.

  "Lil," I bark through my teeth.

  "Or maybe purple-headed yogurt slinger!" Lil's voice is on the verge of yelling now and half the class is staring at her.

  My mouth has fallen open, a gaping hole the size of the Grand Canyon. I can't believe her ability to say things that should never be spoken aloud.

  And then I feel it. It starts with a sniffle that moves to a hiccup that becomes a giggle that explodes into an all-over, body-convulsing fit of laughter I can't control that makes me want to scream BONER at the top of my lungs.

  "Is everything okay, Marty?" Ms. Everley asks. I've caused such a commotion that she can't start the lesson. I stare at her and the white line of chalk across the crotch of her black pants. Is everything okay? I'd like to know the answer to that question myself. For the past few days, I haven't felt right in my own skin and all of a sudden Lil says some inappropriate words and I'm free and laughing and utterly embarrassed at the same time. What's happening to me?

  "It's just a tickle in my throat," I say, and cough.

  "Why don't you get a drink of water."

  I walk out of the computer lab and breathe. It felt good to laugh, but my mom would be appalled.

  When I come back to the classroom, I keep my eyes focused on the computer. But I smile in Lil's direction, just a little bit.

  ***

  Halfway through class, my phone dings with a text message. We're not supposed to text in school. It's the rules and as my mom would say, it's highly rude and inconsiderate. Those teachers spend hours developing lesson plans and I expect you to pay attention.

  My mom studied education in college, even though she hasn't worked a day in an actual school, and she considers herself an expert on teaching. I have a hard time believing Ms. Everley spent hours on today's lesson plan about how to Google.

  So when my phone buzzes in my purse, I pull it out, worried there's some sort of emergency. Sarah has been in full-blown disaster mode after hearing about a girl in eighth grade who plays the flute like Bach or Mozart or one of those other classical music people. I can't keep all their Germanic names straight.

  I glimpse at my phone's screen and my stomach falls to my toes. This is not happening. This is not happening. Pulling the phone ever so slightly away from me, I glance down at it again. Oh no. This is happening.

  A text waterfall has only occurred one other time that I can recall in Minster High School history. Someone got a picture of Kevin Paterson, captain of the football team, making out with McKayla Ernie, a girl who knew the entire baseball team's balls too well—and was definitely not Kevin's girlfriend. They were behind the football shed after a game. His mouth was all over hers. It spread like wildfire, everyone forwarding the picture to their friends until there wasn't a soul left in school who didn't know what happened. Kevin was branded a cheater, but people forgot about that a few months later and his girlfriend, Lisa, took him back. McKayla was branded a slut and transferred schools after Lisa keyed her car and etched the word CUNT so far into the paint it couldn't be fixed.

  My heart pounds as I look at the picture that just popped up on my cell phone. It's a forward from Sarah.

  Looks like ur gf is cheating on u :)

  Above her text is a picture of Lil and creepy-pencil-thin-mustache guy at Lake Loraine. His hand is up Lil's shirt and from the look of the picture, Lil doesn't care.

  I gape at it. All the fear I felt that night, seeing him yank Lil's hair and bruise her arm, floods to the surface. The caption on the photo reads: slut ... just like her mom.

  "That's not what happened," I whisper.

  "Did you say something, Pollyanna?" Lil's face is fixed on the computer screen.

  My foot taps under my desk as I look around the classroom. Half the students have their cell phones in hand. This is bad. This is really bad. I want to scream that it's not the truth. That Lil was drugged. That she was almost raped!

  "What is it?" Lil looks at me, the intense blue in her
eyes reflecting off her black shirt. She wasn't back to her pale normal self until yesterday. It was like a sheen of sweat covered her skin for days. I see the bruises on her wrist, his fingerprints, and want to throw up.

  "Nothing," I say in a high-pitched voice. It doesn't work. I should know better than to lie to Lil. She sees through me every time.

  "Give me your phone." The words come out through clenched teeth.

  "No," I whimper.

  People in class are turning to look at us. Some smile with wicked grins; others are waiting to see what Lil will do, like she's a caged lion and we've thrown her a slab of meat.

  "Give it to me."

  I place my phone on the desk, screen down. My heart races as Lil picks it up and looks at the picture. A picture that's inaccurate. A picture that makes her something she's not. A picture that captures a moment in her life I'm sure she wants to forget. Now she never will.

  Lil's eyes get huge and a darkness I've never seen on anyone before creeps into the bright blue. She looks around the room. Everyone's staring at her. Pippa Rogers and Eliza Moore giggle through their perfect teeth. Teeth my dad cleans every six months. I clutch my stomach, the urge to vomit slowly choking its way up my throat.

  Lil slams the phone down and storms out of the computer lab. I stare at her empty seat for twenty seconds, counting in my head as I try to calm down. Then I decide better and run after her.

  ***

  It takes me ten minutes to find Lil hiding in the bathroom in the second-floor Math wing. Black combat books with purple tights stand inside the stall, unmoving.

  I turn on the water and wash my hands, taking time to lather the soap and sing my ABC's to make sure all the germs are killed, just like my dad taught me.

  "What did your mom do?" I ask over the running water.

  Lil doesn't answer.

  "It's only a text." I turn off the faucet and look past my reflection to the stall behind me. My words are lies and Lil knows it.

  "Leave me alone, Pollyanna." Her voice is flat.

  I run my fingers through my hair, pulling all the way to the end and letting it fall back down to my shoulder blades. So pretty. I lift it up again and look at my reflection. What if I cut it all off? Sarah would tell me I looked terrible. My mom would insist I grow it back. But Lil...

  I realize in this moment that if Lil didn't have a nickname for me, I'd be sad because that would mean I wasn't important to her. And I want to be important. To her. I want to know her, the her underneath the dark clothes and curt words.

  "I'm not leaving." I say it with as much force as I did when I saw her on the edge of the lake Saturday night. "I want to be your friend."

  An eternity of silence follows. My words hang in the Clorox-mixed-with-poop-mixed-with-cigarettes air. I wring my hands together, worried Lil might not believe me. Years of niceness are backfiring; the one time when I mean it, every word I say will be seen as a lie. This must be what breaking up feels like. Someone taking themselves out of your life when things are incomplete and all you want to do is make them stay.

  The stall door creaks open an inch at a time and Lil steps out. Her eyes are clear. No tears have cracked the surface. I have a feeling it would take a lot more than a text message to make her cry.

  "Even if the whole town thinks your friend prefers to make out with crusty, old Parisian-looking guys who dabble in date rape?" she asks.

  I nod. "Even if."

  CHAPTER 9

  Lil and I stare at each other. I don't know what to say.

  "Well, now that we've had our Thelma and Louise moment, I'm gonna get the hell out of here." Lil nods at me.

  I want to ask her who Thelma and Louise are and if she thinks the gross smell in the bathroom will stick to my clothes, but I don't. Instead, I say, "Do you want me to walk you to your car?"

  "Do you ever want to be by yourself?" Lil asks, a grayness still filling her blue eyes. I nod and think to myself: almost every day, and yet, it's my biggest fear.

  She walks out of the bathroom, head up and chest out. I don't move. Instead, I stare at myself in the mirror again. At the purple dress I have on, the one my mom bought me for Christmas two years ago. It makes your eyes pop! she yelled, and clapped her hands together when I held it up to my chest. I smiled and wore it all day, thinking I was pretty.

  I lean in closer, widening my eyes and searching them for something more. Do my eyes pop solely because purple goes with hazel? Or do they pop because every word that swarms in my heart sparkles in their reflection? If my mom bought me a dress that matched my insides, it would be a tangled mess, every color of the rainbow swirled together. Then she'd complain that nothing matched me and make me take the outfit back.

  The bathroom door swings open and three girls walk in, laughing. I pull back from the mirror and blink.

  "I heard she flunked out of her last school," one with dirty blonde hair says. I think her name is Katy or Kathy or Missy. Something with a Y that matches the flouncy tone in her voice.

  "What's the saying?" the other girl laughs, pulling a paddle brush out of her bag and running it through her long black hair. "You can take the girl out of Dicksville, but you can't take the dicks out of the girl? I'm sure this isn't the first dude over the age of eighty she's slept with. She should be arrested."

  "Statutory rape works the other way," I butt in, fire rising in my throat. "The older man is the one who goes to jail."

  The three girls stare at me, eyes bugging out of their heads.

  Katy or Kathy or Missy says, "Whatever."

  The black-haired girl goes back to brushing. The mute girl adjusts her bra so her boobs pop further out of her v-neck shirt. I just stare at them, wondering if they even know that moments earlier the girl they're trashing was standing in this bathroom. If they would even recognize Lil when they saw her.

  I leave as the final bell rings, making my way to my locker. My head and my heart hurt, both pounding like an alarm waking me up for the first time.

  And then my phone buzzes. Not again, I think.

  Sarah: Not taking the bus 2day. Still on for shopping 2morrow?

  I glare at the text. Anger at Sarah rolls through me. My fingers hover over the N and O on the keypad. I want to press down so badly. Instead, I scroll up to the picture text of Lil and gross-out guy. Clicking on the image, my phone asks what I want to do. Save or delete? I press so hard my fingerprint might never swipe off the screen. DELETE.

  But I can't ditch Sarah. She's my best friend. She didn't start the text waterfall. She just forwarded it. It's not her fault. My head gets it, but my heart wonders if what I'm thinking is true. Guilt by association is still guilt, right? Or is it?

  Marty: Sure.

  I press my temples and try to clear my head. Homework for tonight. Math. I grab my Pre-Calc book and shove it in my backpack. Physics. Already done. English ...

  "You forgot your purse in the lab." Alex is standing next to me, holding out the purple clutch that matches my dress.

  "Did you look through it?" I snap, grabbing it from him. Instantly, I feel guilty. "Sorry, that wasn't very nice."

  "Don't be. Purses scare me too much to open."

  "They scare you?" I zip up my backpack and close my locker.

  "Well, tampons scare me and they're usually in purses." Alex shrugs. I try not to be grossed out by the fact that he just said tampon. "Aaaand I just said tampon in front of you. My brother would be so disappointed."

  "What?" I ask.

  "He has a list of things you never say in front a girl. Tampons, PMS, periods, poop, babies, wedding, panties." Alex looks at me, eyes wide. "Now I've said them all." He's turning tomato red. "My brother's not very smart."

  "Actually, I think he might be on to something," I smile.

  Alex looks at his feet and runs a hand through his hair. "Is she okay?" He asks.

  My eyes follow his glance down to the red Converse he's wearing. I clutch my phone tight to my chest. "Why red?"

  "I have this weird thing abou
t matching clothes with shoes. I know I shouldn't care because I'm a guy, but I do. I can't help it. The red matches my jerseys."

  I nod. I don't know what else to say because Alex is so nice and he brought me my purse and he says things like, you look beautiful. But I can't talk to him about Lil.

  "I better go. My brother's waiting."

  "The one with the list?" I ask.

  "No, that one's off at college making love to a tube sock or something." My mouth falls open and Alex's eyes get big again. "I'll add tube sock to the list," he whispers.

  "Good idea." I smile at him.

  He turns to walk away but stops. "Tell her I don't mind that she calls me Jock Strap. I do wear one. Oh, and Ms. Everley wanted me to tell you that Margaret Thatcher would be proud, but you're still way cuter than she was. I added that last part." Alex winks at me, a smile as big as the moon on his face.

  I laugh and feel bad at the same time as he walks away, his matching shoes bright in the hallway. I wish I could be into Alex. My parents would like him.

  Everyone on the bus is talking about the text. I plug my ears with headphones and listen to Bob Marley on full blast. One love, My Hart, let's get together and feel all right. I force myself to remember the good parts of Lake Loraine. The hips and sweet whispers.

  At home, I concentrate on my homework, but it's no use. Giving up, I pull out my box of poems and leaf through them before adding another to the pile.

  In kindergarten we learn to get in line,

  Walk straight,

  Follow the leader,

  Earn a yellow star,

  But where does that line lead?

  To the same place everyone else goes,

  What if I went in another direction?

  Would I find new people to follow,