The Kind of Friends We Used to Be

by Frances O'Roark Dowell

  Kate rolled her eyes. The problem with being friends with Marylin was that she was such an unrealistic person. She thought cheerleaders and regular people could be friends. True, Kate and Ashley had been friends before Ashley had become a middle-school cheerleader. In fourth grade they had done a science project together, where they used Play-Doh to show the different layers of the earth, brown for the crust, yellow for the mantle, orange for the outer core, and red for the inner core. They’d spent an entire Saturday afternoon at Ashley’s house constructing the layers and making an interesting-to-look-at presentation. Ashley’s mom brought in snacks and lemonade, and her little brother kept stealing bits of Play-Doh to make a Star Wars Millennium Falcon.

  That’s what killed Kate about middle school. You could share a history with a person, know their mom and their little brother and what kind of laundry detergent they used (in Ashley’s case, her family used Mountain Fresh Tide, which smelled a million times better than the baking-soda brand Kate’s mom bought), but the second that person became a middle-school cheerleader, forget it. It’s like all that stuff never existed.

  It was different with Marylin, of course. But that’s because Marylin was the sensitive type. She was the sort of person who got mad if you picked up a daddy longlegs by one of his spindly legs. “You’re hurting him!” she’d yell, like the daddy longlegs was a person. True, she and Flannery had given Kate the silent treatment in sixth grade, a memory that still made Kate go cold all over, but in the end she and Marylin had become friends again. Now their friendship had cracks in places, like a vase that had fallen off a shelf and had to be glued back together. But Kate had a theory: Maybe cracks could make a friendship stronger. Cracks said, We don’t fit together a hundred percent, but that’s okay.

  “What’s that noise?” Marylin asked. “Do you have the radio on?”

  Kate realized she’d been strumming an A chord sort of loud. It was hard not to. The A chord, which was almost but not quite as easy as an E minor, sounded so nice and happy. It sounded like the beginning of a song you’d sing to a little kid, a song about the sun coming up in the morning and the birds flying through the trees.

  “I’m learning how to play guitar,” she told Marylin. “It’s pretty fun.”

  “When did you get a guitar?” asked Marylin. Kate could tell from her tone of voice that she wasn’t entirely sure playing the guitar was such a great thing to do.

  “Flannery lent it to me,” Kate said. “I ran into her this morning.”

  “Is her hair still pink?”

  “It’s even pinker.”

  Marylin laughed. “Can you even believe we used to be friends with her?”

  “You used to be friends with her,” Kate pointed out. “Flannery and I were not friends. In fact, today was probably the second time in my life that Flannery was the least bit friendly to me.”

  “All I’m saying is that she’s really strange.” Marylin paused. “In fact, you probably shouldn’t be borrowing stuff from her. You don’t want people to connect the two of you together. Besides, I don’t know about you playing guitar. It’s sort of... like something a guy would do, I guess.”

  Marylin sounded like a school counselor or an advice columnist, someone who knew a lot about life and was there to guide you along the way.

  “Girls play guitar,” Kate protested. “There are lots of famous girl guitar players.”

  “But not in seventh grade,” Marylin pointed out. “Seventh grade is a time for, I don’t know, hanging out with your group of friends and getting ready for high school. It’s about finding your own personal style. That’s what Mazie says. She says this year we are going to focus on finding our own personal style together.”

  “How can finding your personal style be a group project?”

  “Easy!” Marylin exclaimed, and then she began to tell Kate how each middle-school cheerleader was going to subscribe to a different fashion magazine, and every month they would gather together and look at magazines and give one another fashion tips.

  Kate softly strummed an A minor, which she discovered was as easy to play as an E minor, and just as sad sounding. She liked playing guitar. She was pretty sure she was going to be good at it.

  And, if she was being perfectly honest with herself—and why shouldn’t she be?—she liked the idea that Marylin didn’t like it. Because Marylin might have been one of Kate’s best friends, but that didn’t mean she knew everything in the world. In fact, in Kate’s opinion, Marylin had made some pretty poor choices. Middle-school cheerleading. Mazie Calloway. And now fashion magazine subscriptions.

  In fact, sometimes Kate thought maybe she should be the one giving advice to Marylin. Drop cheerleading. Make friends with people who have good values. Ignore fashion.

  Play guitar.

  Kate and her mom were having a hard time agreeing on what shoes to buy.

  “Let me get this straight,” Mrs. Faber said, rubbing her forehead, like she felt a headache coming on. “You don’t want tennis shoes for school anymore. You want those.”

  She pointed to a pair of black lace-up boots. They weren’t combat boots exactly, but they were close to it, thick and heavy, like they were made for stomping.

  Kate nodded. They were exactly what she wanted.

  “But, Kate, they must weigh five pounds. They look uncomfortable. They don’t go with anything you have to wear.”

  “They don’t have to go with anything,” Kate insisted. “In fact, that’s what I like about them. They’re like the opposite of everything I have.”

  Mrs. Faber took a deep breath, let it out. “It’s happening, isn’t it? You’re turning into a teenager. I need to be calm and not panic. Living with your sister has taught me that about dealing with teenagers: Whatever you do, don’t panic.”

  Kate’s sister Tracie was fifteen. She was a little too girly for Kate’s taste, with a brief cheerleading past and a dresser covered with hairspray bottles and tiny pots and tubes of makeup, all caps, tops, and lids permanently off. She had seventeen pairs of shoes and not one single thick-heeled, lace-up black boot.

  “I need those boots,” Kate told her mom. “They’re going to be part of my new look at school this year. You want me to care what I look like, don’t you? You’re always bugging me to comb my hair.”

  “It’s one thing to comb your hair,” Mrs. Faber said. “It’s another thing to dress like a thug, even if you’re not one. Maybe especially if you’re not one. What kind of fashion statement are you trying to make, Kate? ‘Look at me wrong and I’ll beat you upI’?”

  “Mom,” Kate said, and she could hear the whine in her voice, which sounded distressingly like the whine she’d been hearing in Tracie’s voice for the last three years. She decided to change tactics. Standing up straight, she said, “I’ll pay for half. I’ve still got birthday money, plus some dog-walking money from this summer from when the Weinerts went out of town.”

  “You want those boots that much?”

  Kate nodded. “I really do.”

  Mrs. Faber shrugged, then waved at a salesperson. “If you’re willing to pay for half, I suppose I have no choice. But those are the only shoes I’m buying you, other than sneakers for PE. Is that understood?”

  “Understood.”

  Until today, Kate had never gotten why shopping made people feel so happy. She’d always hated shopping, hated trying stuff on, hated having to parade around in front of her mom, who was always telling her to stand up straighter or pull her tummy in.

  But now, the plastic bag with SHOEVILLE written on it in bright red letters dangling from her wrist, she felt lighter somehow, different. Could shoes really change a person’s life? She was beginning to think they could.

  “Let’s get a lemonade, you want to?” Mrs. Faber asked. “One hour of shopping and I’m completely worn out. We’ll take a little break and then go to one more place, okay? I think that’s all I’m up for today.”

  They found a table at the food court that was only halfway covered wit
h crumbs and spilled soda. Mrs. Faber wiped up what she could with a tissue from her purse, then went to buy their drinks. Kate sat down and opened her bag. She just wanted a little peek at her boots, just a little sniff of the shiny new leather.

  “Hey there, Kate!”

  Kate snatched her hand out of the Shoeville bag, like she’d been caught trying to steal something. Andrew O’Shea stood in front of her, a goofy grin on his face. “I don’t know why,” he said, “but I never thought I’d see you at the mall. The basketball courts, definitely. Shoeville”—he pointed at the bag—“maybe not so much.”

  A girl stood behind him. She was skinny and pale, with the kind of milky white skin you could see the veins underneath, like the little blue highway lines on a map. She had white blond hair, the same as Andrew, and glasses like his too.

  “Is that your cousin?” Kate asked, nodding toward the girl.

  “Becky?” Andrew’s voice cracked on the K and went screeching into the Y. “No, Becky’s my ...” He seemed to be struggling to find the right word.

  “We go together,” the girl said. “We belong to the same swimming pool.”

  “Wow, you must get red as a lobster,” Kate said before she could stop herself. “I mean,” she added, trying to make it not sound like an insult, “you look like you might burn sort of easy.”

  The girl turned pink, but she managed to laugh. “My dad says my skin’s so white, you could lose me in a snowstorm.”

  Once upon a time, Kate and Andrew had almost been boyfriend and girlfriend. Actually had been boyfriend and girlfriend for about twenty-four hours before Kate panicked and shut the whole thing down. So she didn’t know how to feel about this Becky. Should she automatically hate her? Only how could you hate a girl who was nice enough not to take an unintentionally rude remark the wrong way? Who could laugh at her own state of albino-ness?

  “I got some boots,” Kate told the girl. “At Shoeville. Do you want to see them?”

  Becky nodded, stepping toward Kate. Kate pulled the box halfway out of the bag and opened the lid, but didn’t actually take the boots out. For some reason, she wasn’t ready to expose them entirely. Still, you could see what they were.

  “Um, neat,” Becky said, and took a step back. It was clear she did not think the boots were neat at all. It was clear she didn’t get the first thing about them.

  Andrew whistled. “Boys, those are some boots,” he said, and for a second Kate thought that he understood. But then he shook his head. “You’ll sure scare off the guys with those things.”

  Kate shoved the box back into the Shoeville bag. Her face felt as hot as August. “Who cares? Maybe I want to scare off guys.”

  Andrew put up his hands and backed away a few steps. “I’m just saying, they’re not the most girly-girl shoes in the world. But, hey, that’s okay. You’re not really the feminine type.”

  Kate’s throat suddenly felt tight. “Yeah, well, thanks, Andrew. I’ll take that big compliment.”

  Andrew backed away a few more steps, and then he turned and, with Becky, was lost in a river of people and noise.

  Kate hugged the box, still in its bag, to her chest. So what if she wasn’t the feminine type. The feminine type was stupid. The feminine type giggled and pretended that everything a boy said was brilliant. The feminine type had veins you could see through her skim-milk skin, which was pretty gross, in Kate’s opinion.

  Mrs. Faber appeared, carrying two lemonades, two straws, and a wad of napkins. “What’s wrong, Katie? You look upset.”

  Kate looked down at the floor. It was like a circus of straw wrappers and chewed-up chewing gum down there. “Could we just go home? I’m really tired all of the sudden.”

  Mrs. Faber started to say something, then stopped herself. “Sure, honey, let’s go. I’m pooped too.”

  When they got home, Kate went to her room and closed the door. She took a fresh pair of socks out of her sock drawer and put them on. Then she took out her new boots. They were so shiny, so big. Kate thought that in their own way they were beautiful.

  So she put them on.

  And she played guitar.

  the stars fall over

  On the first day of seventh grade, Marylin woke up in a room full of sparkles and light. A magical feeling fell over her as she watched the light dancing upon her walls, and it occurred to her that maybe one of her little-girl wishes had finally come true and she had entered the land of the fairies.

  As it turned out, it was her little brother Petey who had lit up the walls with practically every star in the universe. He’d set up his solar system projector while she was still sleeping, turned it on, and hummed “Mary Had a Little Lamb” until she woke up. “I thought it was a funner way to wake you up than just yelling, ’Wake up!”’ he explained to her when she’d finally figured out that she was not, after all, in a magical fairy realm, but in her plain, ordinary room.

  Marylin had felt disappointed at first, then silly. Fairies! Here she was, about to start seventh grade, and she was still imagining there were fairies.

  She hoped nobody would tell Mazie she’d been that dumb.

  Not that anyone else could possibly know Marylin’s thoughts upon waking up first thing in the morning, but still. Mazie had a way of finding out impossible things.

  After Petey took his solar system back to his room, Marylin got out of bed and began her preparations for the first day of school. She and Mazie and the other middle-school cheerleaders had spent practically the entire night before messaging each other about what they would be wearing and how they should accessorize. Makeup had also been a big topic. Mazie and Ruby Santiago and Caitlin Moore claimed they could wear as much makeup as they wanted, as long as it didn’t look tacky or cheap. Marylin hadn’t known if she should admit that she was limited to clear lip gloss and the tiniest bit of eye shadow. Fortunately, Ashley Greer had been brave enough to IM, 2 BAD MY MOM SEZ NO MAKEUP 4 ME. Then Marylin could message, MY MOM SEZ JUST A LITTLE IS ENUF.

  A LITTLE CAN LOOK GR8, Ruby had written. B-SIDES, U DON’T NEED IT.

  Of all the cheerleaders, Ruby was the nicest. Ruby was the nicest and Mazie was the meanest. So how did Marylin, who considered herself a very nice person, get stuck being best cheerleader friends with Mazie? It was like Mazie had swooped down and picked Marylin up in her claws before Marylin had had a chance to choose.

  If you thought about it, Marylin should really be best cheerleader friends with Ashley Greer. Before they made cheerleader, they had both been in the middle group of girls, girls who were nice and got good report cards, girls who were not the popular girls but in the next group down. Now that they were cheerleaders, Marylin and Ashley had moved up in the ranks, leaving behind Kate and Brittany Lamb and Marcie Grossman and the other middle-group girls. They were the only middle-school cheerleaders who had not always been popular. They were the only ones whose families weren’t members of New Hope Creek Country Club. Really, they had a lot in common.

  But for some reason, Marylin and Ashley barely talked to each other. It felt too dangerous. It was like they didn’t want to remind the others that they hadn’t always been stars.

  Marylin pulled on the red-and-white-striped T-shirt all the middle-school cheerleaders had decided to wear. They’d bought them at Target, where they had met the week before to go back-to-school shopping. Ruby thought it would be nice if they showed school spirit by wearing school colors on the first day of seventh grade, and Marylin had agreed, although she’d agreed quietly. Mazie thought they should buy black T-shirts that had HOT STUFF! written across the front in sparkly silver letters, and you could tell she expected Marylin to be on her side. Marylin had pretended to be checking out sunglasses during the discussion.

  She’d made the mistake of telling Kate about the whole thing the next night, when they’d taken Max for a walk around the block after dinner. They’d been talking about school starting the next week, what their teachers would be like, how seventh grade would probably be different from sixth grad
e. Then Marylin had brought up the subject of clothes and the plan the cheerleaders had made to dress alike on the first day.

  “I won’t even comment on everybody dressing the same for the first day of school,” Kate had said. “I won’t even mention the corniness of wearing school colors on purpose when it’s not Spirit Week. But wanting to buy T-shirts that say ‘Hot Stuff!’—I mean, did you ever hear of not looking totally dumb the first day of school?”

  “Mazie was the only one who wanted to do it,” Marylin had protested. “And besides, it was just for a joke.”

  “I’m pretty sure Mazie Calloway thinks she’s hot stuff,” said Kate. “That’s no joke.”

  “She’s nicer than she seems,” Marylin lied. “You just don’t know her.”

  “Haven’t we had this discussion before?” Kate said. “I don’t want to know her. Don’t you remember that time she completely humiliated Brittany?”

  Marylin played dumb. “No, not really.”

  “Sure you do,” Kate said, sitting down on the little hill in front of her house and yanking Max’s leash to make him sit too. “She taped that note on the back of Brittany’s shirt that said, ‘Be nice to me, I’ve got my period today.’ That was in fifth grade—hardly anybody had their period! I know you remember that.”

  Marylin sat down next to Max and scratched his ears. She did remember that, although it was something she tried not to think about. Her main memory of the event was how relieved she’d been that Brittany had been picked for the joke, not her.

  “Anyway,” Marylin had said, wanting to change the subject, “what are you wearing for the first day of school? Have you picked out an outfit?”

  “We’ve got a week before school starts,” Kate had pointed out. She plucked a piece of grass from the lawn and put it between her thumbs to make a whistle. “I haven’t even gone clothes shopping yet.”