Class Favorite (8 page)

Do You Know Who You Can Trust?

You really need to talk to your best friend about the latest development in the ongoing saga of your love life, but she's not at school today. Instead, there's Veronica, a relatively new girl you've become friendly with. What do you do?

a) Tell her your problem, automatically assuming that she'll keep the information mum.

b) Tell her your problem, but make her swear on her cat's life that she won't tell a soul.

c) Wait and call your best friend when you get home—you'd rather not take the risk.

 

In English class the next morning, I couldn't even look at Arlene. I felt sick to my stomach with worry, thinking that maybe, just maybe, she was out to get me. Despite Kirstie's advice to just leave it alone, I really wanted to ask her if she was planning on pulling
any little pranks on me. I was sure she'd tell me she didn't know what I was talking about—and would mean it. Still, our lack of any kind of confrontation or miscommunication over the years had left me not knowing exactly how to approach her. So, I stalled. I didn't even wait for her outside the caf like I normally do.

Holding my lunch tray, I stood before the half-filled tables, people talking and laughing, and the occasional fry flying across a table. I saw Jason Andersen's table, which was completely full but for one seat . . . right next to him. To his left was Jessica, who had movie star–blond hair and dated Richie Adams; she and Kayla were laughing with their heads close together. Jason sat quietly, almost alone in the midst of the chaos of the lunchroom table. I thought of what Kirstie had said about sitting at his lunch table and faking confidence. For a daring moment I considered just plopping down at that one empty seat next to him and saying, “So, whaddaya think of that book we're reading in English? You ready for the game next week?” I wondered how Jason and the others at the table would react.

Maybe I should try it
, I thought. I was looking pretty okay that day. When I woke up that morning, instead of stressing over Arlene, I thought about Class Favorite-dom. With the stat girl thing from Elisabeth in the works, I decided to glam myself up, like Kirstie had suggested. I snagged Elisabeth's powder, mascara, and lip gloss from her makeup bag while she was in the shower and did my best to apply it all correctly. As
soon as I had gotten the mascara on both eyes—after stabbing my eyeball twice—I promptly sneezed, squeezing my eyes and smearing mascara all over my upper and lower eyes. I had to quickly scrub it all off and start over again before Elisabeth got out of the shower, and then I had to keep my head down and avoid looking at her or my mom for the rest of the morning. Trying to be pretty was very exhausting.

Just as I lifted my Ked-clad foot to walk over to Jason's table, Richie Adams came through the open doors of the cafeteria and sat next to Jason, slapping him on the back as he took that last seat. So much for my few seconds of bravery.

After I'd stood holding my tray long enough to look weird, I glared toward the FFA table. Ellen wasn't there, but the other girls and guys were, all in Wranglers and Rocky Mountains, big belt buckles and Ropers. The girls probably spent Saturday nights discussing cow feed while not washing their hair, I thought bitterly. But maybe that was better than staying home alone.

I took a deep breath and started toward the FFA table.

“Sara, wait up,” Arlene called from behind me.

For a brief moment I was glad to have been stopped. I felt that if I sat with the FFA kids, nice as I'm sure they were, I'd never be seen as the sophisticated woman who was on her way to Class Favorite glory. I still wasn't exactly sure how I was going to achieve my nomination goal, but I was pretty sure it didn't involve cows and goats.

I turned to face Arlene, my lunch tray heavy in my hands. Her blond hair was tucked behind her ears, and her cheeks had a fresh, rosy tint to them. My heart raced.

“What?” she asked. When I didn't say anything—I was trying to think of
what
to say—she said, “I was waiting outside for you. How come you didn't wait for me?”

She'd been my best friend for so long, and I really loved her, but when she wanted to know why
I
wasn't waiting on
her
, I got angry. I'm not sure if I was angry at myself for not having more friends, or angry at her for expecting me to always be around. I had so many conflicting emotions swirling around my head as it was, and when she stood before me, acting like I needed to wait on her, I just snapped. There was no equality in our friendship, I thought. It was always me following her, or waiting on her to grace me with her presence.

“Why should I always have to wait on you?” I heard myself say.

Arlene looked taken aback. “You don't,” she said. “But your class is closer to the caf than mine.”

“Well, maybe I'm tired of waiting around on you while you take your time, chatting with all your little friends along the way.”

“What's wrong with you? Are you mad at me about something?”

Friends have fights, I told myself. I was allowed to be angry with her if I wanted to be. And I certainly had the right to
confront her. I tried to keep my confidence up when I asked, straight up, “Did you tell anyone about the roses, Arlene?”

“The roses? From Friday? You're still thinking about those?”

“I asked you a question,” I said, and I have to shamefully admit that seeing her look so confused and even a little scared made me feel that much more in control even though, deep down, I was more afraid of losing Arlene than anything else. “You swore to me you wouldn't tell anyone.”

“You think
I
told people about them?”

“No, I don't. I don't think you told anyone about it, just like you didn't tell anyone about my basketball tryout disaster.”

“Wait, this is too random. First of all, the basketball tryout thing wasn't exactly a secret—there were fifty other girls there.”

“I told you not to tell my sister, and you did.”

“Secondly,” she forced, “I already apologized for that. I really didn't think it was a big deal.” Arlene took a deep breath. In a calm voice she said, “Look. I know Friday was awful, and I'm really sorry. The truth is, no one even cares anymore. Most people care more about who didn't get flowers. Did you hear that Richie sent Jessica
carnations
? They say she's thinking of breaking up.” I glared at her, and she said, “You're totally overreacting. Those flowers are so over.”

“That's easy for you to say. Everything's been working out perfectly for you since we left elementary school.”

Arlene huffed and said, “What exactly are we talking about?”

“You and your big mouth. You can't keep anything a secret. You gossip with people just to get them to like you—like all those loser softball girls.”

Arlene shook her head and said, “I've never done anything mean, Sara, and you know it.”

“When it's not happening to you, I guess I could see how having the entire school knowing my private business isn't anything mean. It's not like you're the one who has to sit through class while people throw tampons at your head.” I slightly exaggerated on that last bit, but Friday's algebra class didn't feel far from that.

“Look,” she said, clearly more annoyed than sympathetic. “I'm really sorry about Friday. I'm sorry some immature jerks were mean to you. And I'm sorry your mother sent you roses that happened to come from my mother's shop. If you were so upset with
me
over all this, I wish you would have just said something.”

I gritted my jaw and shifted the lunch tray I still held in my now-sweaty hands. I was angry that Arlene was angry, but at the same time, I knew this was more than just a spat between friends. Testing the state of our friendship, I said, “Do you want to come over on Friday and watch the new Razzie worst picture winner? You said you wanted to see it before our regular Saturday night thing.”

Arlene looked off toward the athletes' table; some girl whose name I didn't know waved at her. She looked at me
and said, “You know I have games on Fridays. Maybe I can come over after. . . .”

“Forget it,” I said quickly. “I don't even care.”

“Look.” Arlene's eyes began turning dark. “I've already apologized to you for about ten things. I said I was sorry for things I didn't even do. What's your problem?” She stood, defiant, waiting for an answer.

“You are.”

“We're supposed to be best friends,” she said.

“Exactly.”

“Well, if we are,” she said, her voice rising, “then I'd think you'd believe your own
best friend
when she tells you she didn't tell anyone about your stupid period flowers!”

“God, Arlene, I don't think the cooks in the back of the kitchen heard you!”

“Sara, are you okay?” asked a voice from behind us. We both turned to see Kirstie standing just off to the side, her thin arms folded over her stomach. She walked toward us but kept her eyes on Arlene. The sort of comfort Kirstie's presence gave me right then was exactly what I needed.

“It's okay,” I told Kirstie.

“Well, look who it is,” Arlene said, and I hated the accusing tone in her voice.

“Yeah, look who it is,” I said to Arlene. “My friend.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Arlene's eyes were filled
with confusion. I stared back at her, trying not to cry.

“Let's go, Sara,” Kirstie finally said, taking my tray and dropping it on a nearby table. She gave my arm a tug and guided me out of the barfeteria. I wanted to look back at Arlene. But I didn't.

 

“Just forget about her.”

That's the advice Kirstie had for me when she called me that night. The truth was, I was completely shaken up by the whole encounter with Arlene. I'd never spoken to Arlene—or anyone—like that before. I don't think I believed half the things I'd said to her. All I had really wanted to do was ask her if she had any pranks planned against me, and it'd all gotten so out of control that I hadn't even asked her the one thing I wanted to know. I was embarrassed by how immaturely I had handled myself, and how I'd treated my best friend. More than anything, I was confused by what I felt and what I believed.

“If you were my best friend,” Kirstie continued, “I'd never break your confidence. Not even once. I didn't even really think she was the one who had spread the word, but if she's the only one you confided in, that pretty much speaks volumes. Don't you think?”

My mind was wandering, but when I realized she expected a response, I pulled myself out of it. “Yeah, I guess,” I muttered. I'd been sulking in my room since dinner and didn't plan on coming out until the next morning. I wished that Elisabeth
was the kind of sister I could talk to about this stuff, but since she was never home it wasn't worth trying. Mom was always around, but between her and Dad, Dad was easier to talk to. If he still lived here I could probably find him out back inspecting the yard. It was just so hard trying to process what was happening with Arlene, and I couldn't imagine a world where she and I wouldn't be friends—and, worse, one in which she could screw me over big-time. I guess nothing felt right lately.

“I'm really sorry about the whole mess,” Kirstie continued. “You can always call me if you need anything.”

“I know,” I said. “Thanks.” Even in my daze, I still wondered why Kirstie was being so nice to me. The truth was, with everything in shambles, Kirstie was all I had. I decided to not read anything into her friendly gestures.

“Oh! How could I forget,” she said suddenly. “Next week for spring break, Mother is taking me to Aspen and said I can invite a friend. And since you're pretty much my only friend, it'd be so fun if you came. We'll even pay.”

I should have been flattered, but the truth was, Kirstie and I barely knew each other—our friendship seemed to be moving pretty quickly. Besides, Arlene and I had planned a marathon viewing of Razzies for the break—we already had five movies picked out, but with what had happened, I could forget that now. Maybe going on a trip with a new friend wasn't such a bad idea. Plus, I secretly thought, having some exotic travel stories
would make me seem like a woman of the world. Very Class Favorite-ish.

“Wow.” I tried to force enthusiasm into my voice. “Totally. I'll ask my mom.”

“The best remedy for a broken heart is distance,” Kirstie said. I got the feeling that, in all her moving from place to place, it was something she knew a lot about.

 

Over the next couple of days, Arlene tried to call me a few times, but seeing her number on my caller ID, I ignored it. It was hard to know what to say when I still didn't know what to believe. Every time I told myself she hadn't leaked word, I reminded myself that she was the only one who knew—and that she had told stuff about me in the past. Still, the thought of our friendship being ruined for good always sent my mind reeling.

Soon, Arlene began ignoring me too, and I took her silence as guilt. I didn't want to stay mad at Arlene forever, but every time I saw her, she seemed to be having so much fun with her other friends that I realized she wasn't even missing me. Her ease at forgetting me—at not even needing me—really burned. I didn't know whether to be hurt or just plain angry. I was glad to have Kirstie around. At least I wasn't lonely.

I decided that since Arlene was obviously upping her status in school with her athletic friends, I would finally try to move out of wallflower-dom and get some good recognition. I
decided to talk more to Kirstie about making the Class Favorite list—maybe she could help me come up with a real, concrete plan of how one could go from nothing to something in a matter of a couple of months. We never did make that list we had talked about for Class Favorite qualities, but I wanted to do it.