Unfriended (9 page)

“Thanks,” she said as we headed back toward her house. “That was really beautiful, what you said.”

“Oh,” I said. “Okay. Good.”

She held the back door open for me. “Is this the worst afternoon of your life?”

“It's . . . different.”

She laughed a short blurty laugh and then snorted it in.

We waited out front for my dad to pick me up. I sat between my stuff and Hazel. We both kicked the backs of our feet against the stone wall. When my dad's car pulled up, I turned to Hazel. “Happy half-birthday,” I said.

“Thank you,” she answered. “Kind of hard to have a happy half-birthday when tragedy intrudes, but thank you for the thought.”

“You're welcome.”

I grabbed my stuff and ran down the steps to my dad. I slipped into the front seat of the car, buckled my seat belt, and leaned over to get my kiss.

“Did you have a good time?” Dad asked.

I shrugged. As we pulled away, I looked out the window. Up the hill, on the front lawn, Hazel was running around in big, loose circles, her arms spread straight out.

NATASHA

TO CELEBRATE GETTING
the okay on our History Day projects, and just because it was a random Tuesday, a bunch of us decided to walk into town after school.

“Walk?” Truly asked, her gray eyes going wide. “Into town?”

“You don't have to if you don't want to,” I told her. I smiled, though, to stop myself from saying,
Could you just cool it about your stupid freaking knee already you spoiled baby you are not the first person on the planet ever to get stitches.

“No, I want to,” she said. “I just, I have to call home and ask.”

“Her parents are very overprotective,” I explained to everybody.

“Cool,” Brooke said. “Whatever. We could just ditch the town thing if that's a problem.”

Everybody smiled at Brooke. Like she was the only considerate person. Like she really was George Washington, not just playing him in our stupid History Day play that Truly was somehow the boss of, when she was supposed to be like the little worker bee. Hooray for Brooke, the nicest person in the country. When I'm the one who had just said two nice things to/about Truly.

“Hi, Brooke,” called the weird green-haired girl I rescued Truly from.

“Hey, Hazel,” Brooke said. “All good?”

“I'm managing,” Hazel answered, schlumping past us.

“Her pet bird died,” Brooke explained.

“Aw,” Lulu said. “Poor thing.”

“That sucks,” Evangeline said. “Any pet dying. And a bird . . . huh. Does it just, like, fall off the perch or what?”

“It was stiff in the bottom of the cage,” Brooke said.

“Ew,” Clay said. “You saw it?”

“I helped bury it,” Brooke said.

“Seriously?” Lulu asked.

Brooke nodded. “She's . . . unusual, Hazel. But . . . interesting. Kind of deep. And funny.”

“Maybe she's just a wacko,” I suggested.

“Nice,” Clay said. “Way to care. Her pet just died.” Then he looked over to where Truly was standing, hunched over her phone, her face near the bricks of the school.

“Meanwhile,” I said, in my most sympathetic voice, all full of
awww
like Lulu was for the weird girl, “poor Truly. Her parents. Seriously, I'm surprised they don't send her to school wrapped in bubble paper.”

“We'd pop her all day,” Theo said.

“Step back,” Jack said. “Don't be a creeper.”

“What?” Theo said. “I wasn't trying to—bubble paper. Who can resist popping bubble wrap?”

“Not me,” Mike Shimizu said. “I'd stomp that stuff anytime.”

“Pigs,” Lulu said in her squeaky voice.

“What?” Theo protested. “I don't get it.”

“You guys have dirty minds,” Mike said. “We're actually talking about bubble wrap.”

“Speaking of—I need some serious bubble tea,” Evangeline said. “Have you guys tried that place yet?”

“Gross,” Clay said. “I tried that this summer! It's horrible. It's like gobs of goo and they shoot up the straw into your mouth like snot bullets.”

“Snot bullets,” Lulu shrieked. She started laughing her squeaky, snorty laugh. “Now I definitely want some.”

“Who looked at tea,” Clay asked Lulu, “and thought, you know what this stuff needs? Snot bullets.”

She doubled over squeak-laughing at that.

“Seriously,” I agreed, trying to be positive. Lulu is not the only positive person on the planet. “And then the snot bullets smack your . . . you know, when you suck them up the straw and, wham, they hit your . . . you know.”

Everybody looked blankly at me.

“The little dongy thing in the back of your throat,” I said.

“You have a dongy thing in the back of your throat?” Evangeline asked.

“Thanks for sharing,” Lulu said. She was acting all rude to me, I knew, because she got stuck being the French guy in the History Day play. Lulu's dad is a marine, so she fully did not want to be the French traitor, but tough. Could be worse; Truly took the lousy housemaid part for herself. I'm not the one in charge of giving out parts, obviously, though, so if Lulu wanted to be pissy she should take it out on Truly.

“Dongy thing,” Theo said. “Heh heh heh. Dongy thing.”

Oh, please.

Truly limped back to us and hovered at the edge of the circle, quivering like a hummingbird. I turned to her and smiled. “Everything okay, Truly?”

“I can come!” Truly said. What a triumph. Hurray. “My mom said she'll pick me up at five thirty at the pizza place, is that okay?”

“Sure,” I said. “Hey, Truly, what's the little dongy thing in the back of your throat called?”

“The uvula?” Truly answered.

I put my arm around Truly but said to Brooke and Clay, “I told you she's smart.”

“I knew it was a uvula,” Theo told Lulu, behind us. “But I like the sound of ‘dongy thing.'”

“You would,” Lulu said. But then she squeak-laughed. “Dongy thing. That is pretty excellent.”

As we started off toward town, I heard Jack asking Truly if she wanted him to carry her books for her.

“Oh, puke,” I whispered to Brooke. “What is this, 1958? Carry her books for her?”

“Ha,” Brooke said, but not enthusiastically.

Okay. “Plus, she got stitches in her knee; she didn't have her hands both amputated. Get a grip, people.” I couldn't tell if Brooke thought that was funny, and was maybe just holding in her laugh. “Too soon?” I asked.

Her older brother always said that last year. He was a big fan of Too Soon, and Brooke is a big fan of her brother. Well, all her siblings. They're like a cult or something, how they stick together and have inside jokes.

But Brooke didn't laugh. She walked away instead, up ahead with Clay and Evangeline. Come on, it was just a joke. I wasn't suggesting we actually amputate Truly's hands. What is wrong with everybody lately?

Both Jack and Clay were practically walking into telephone poles every time Truly blinked. She should just tone it down before she embarrasses herself. Maybe she just doesn't realize. Good thing she has me looking out for her.

Me, full up with
awww
and sympathy.

HAZEL

I DID NOT
expect to
like
Brooke. She was supposed to be a shallow plate so I could feel confirmed in my superiority to Truly, who was following Brooke around like a late-afternoon shadow. Or, if Brooke had any spark of intelligence at all, I'd make her realize how meaningless her perfect plastic life is, and she'd be shocked, crushed, her reign as queen of the school doomed to collapse. Either outcome would be fine with me. But then she had to go ahead and be subtly funny. And worse: actually nice. It was messing me up.

If I wanted to be friends with Brooke, what did that make me? The same sad wannabe as every other pathetic girl in the school.

To get over my self-hatred, I had to take action.

So I did something perfect. I was certain of both the righteousness of it and the necessity. Then I wrote this letter explaining, which of course I have no intention of ever sending. But in case I die suddenly and tragically, this letter will be found along with the others among my personal effects and the truth will be discovered. I think the truth remains important.

Dear Truly,

Remember when you and I were best friends? Ahhh, so many memories. Here's one: last month, we mocked how every year at school they go on and on about how we should keep all our passwords private. Remember? You and I were like, what is the deal, here? They tell us to trust one another, to turn to one another for support. They encourage us to be worthy of the trust our friends so rightly place in us. But then they add, don't tell your friends, even your best friends, your e-mail and phone passwords, or your locker combinations. Why? Because in fact you can't trust anybody. Remember that?

Yeah. Turns out, they have a good point.

They should probably emphasize more the trick of don't make your password for your e-mail and all your social media stuff just be your locker combination, or, for example, locker143542, if that happens to be your locker combination.

It is just too easy for somebody who used to be your best friend (until you dumped her) to guess such a thing, Truly, especially if you already told her (that is, me) your locker combination. And gave her (me) your password on a Post-it note.

Because then it is way too easy for that person, even a very nice person, if she is a person with any computer skills—a person like, say, me—to hack into your account and for example send Brooke a copy of an e-mail that Natasha sent you today.

I have to admit I was nauseated when I read that e-mail. It was the one about Henry and Molly. You must know the one I mean.

I knew Natasha was awful but I was unprepared for that level of despicableness, despite the fact that none of her e-mails (all of which I read, of course) were the slightest bit interesting or kind.

But after the particular e-mail in question, even though I am not particularly close with Henry and I get the sense Molly thinks I'm weird (she always asks about my hair), I honestly wanted to go over to Natasha's house and kick her in the large teeth.

Then I thought of a better plan.

As you may have guessed, Truly, it was the e-mail about how you act all innocent but obviously you're scheming to make Clay like you. She knows you're awkward with people, just like your brother who has Asperger's and your sister who has behavior issues. Obviously social disability runs in your family, so she is just trying to help you learn how to act normal.

It was like a clinic, that e-mail; a perfect machine gun spraying bullets of insult on you and your brother and your sister, all at once. I was just about ready to erect the barricades to fight for you all. Even if they weren't both so intelligent and interesting, they wouldn't deserve to be insulted like that, by that judgmental lemonhead who was just trolling you, anyway. And I knew where to get backup.

You may be surprised to learn this but I got to know Brooke somewhat intimately, very quickly, three days ago. So I can say with some confidence that I had already gotten some deep insight into Brooke's character. Due to her presence at one of the worst moments of my life (at the death of someone very dear to me; I'm not ready to discuss it) I had learned that Brooke was someone of rare sensitivity and morals.

I knew in my heart that Brooke would want to know what Natasha wrote to you. I was certain that Brooke was someone who would not like one of her friends (that is, Natasha) treating another of her friends (meaning
you
) like that. I also suspected that she would not approve of her supposed friend being nasty about neurological or psychological or learning differences. Not just because her younger brother goes to resource room, where I volunteer after school on Tuesdays, and where he struggles mightily (though of course adorably) let me tell you.

Just generally, too. I think people don't realize what a good person Brooke is. They think she's pretty and cool only. They sell her short, in my opinion.

Since I was certain Natasha would feel worse about whatever Brooke decided to do to her than she would about anything I could do, even kick her in her large, expensive teeth, I realized that the best course of action would be just to alert Brooke. To the facts. No elaboration required. I could stay here in the shadows, unseen, unnoticed as usual. No suggestions of how to handle what she read, no parameters of punishment. Just let Brooke see the e-mail from Natasha to you, and Brooke could decide what was required as a response. I had an extremely strong feeling that Brooke would want to take some action to punish Natasha for what she had written.

And I guess I was right.

As I tend to be.