Authors: Emily Franklin
“Never would have taken you for a Neil Diamond fan,” Eddie says, full of mock scolding.
“Don’t ever doubt the Diamond,” I say. “‘Forever in Blue Jeans’ is one of the greatest songs ever written.”
“Story at eleven,” Eddie comments. “Is that song on your grab-bag mix?”
“Nope.” I keep singing.
He does a silly dance and I do one, too, lost in the music and the emptiness of the room, that loose feeling that takes over once you’ve completed all the work you can do on a project.
We’re laughing and in mid-dance when the door opens. Jockorama Josh charges in with Leyla in tow. She’s holding his hand but not looking too thrilled about it. She eyes me and Eddie and gets closer to Josh, who pulls her under his arm protectively.
“Hey.” Josh gives Eddie the guy nod. Eddie runs his hands through his hair and nods back.
“I think we’re all set,” I say to Eddie and busy myself with piling papers as the song ends. Leyla looks at me, her eyes questioning.
Did you tell him?
Eddie grabs his jacket and heads for the door with his backpack slung over one shoulder. “See you guys at the auction, I guess?”
Leyla sighs, knowing I haven’t. Josh rummages through a file near The Heap and I whisper to Leyla, “I can’t.”
She holds up her hands. “Forget it, Cyrie.” She glances over her shoulder at Josh. “I thought you were different, you know, back when we became friends? You seemed so confident, so much like you couldn’t care less what other people thought. But it turns out I was wrong.”
“No—I am that way,” I hiss back to her.
“You aren’t. You just want to be.” She crosses her arms over her chest. She’s wearing the Wendy Von Schmedler group uniform, designer duds and matching accessories.
“Oh, and you’re back with Josh? That’s original.”
Leyla looks at me with the kind of look that Wendy gives me whenever I enter a room—like I’ve degraded the whole place. “At least I have someone.”
I can’t believe things have sunk so low with Leyla that we’re throwing insults at each other. “I thought
you
were different,” I tell her. “Not like them.” I thumb at Josh as though he represents the entire Wendy crowd, the PBVs, except not just vapid. Thoughtless and mean as well.
“Guess we’re both disappointed,” she says. When Josh returns to her side, she takes off.
Despite the neat room and the tidied table, I don’t feel any less cluttered inside.
“I
T’S A HUGE SUCCESS
!” Mr. Reynolds beams at the
Word
staff. “This auction is the best in Weston High history. And I’m not just saying that.”
“Come on, you probably say that every year,” I reply. We’re clustered by the apple cider in the far corner of the barn, making sure that the tallies are correct, that people are paying by cash or check, that no one forgets to bid high and bid often.
Our setup really is pretty spectacular. Bales of hay spill from a huge wooden wagon, pumpkins dot the windowsills, bright fall leaves crunch underfoot, and the air smells like cinnamon (thanks to freshly baked sticky rolls from Any Time Now). Wilson Farms is a vision of autumnal glory—caramel apples and scarecrows, wreaths and cornucopias bursting with produce.
“We’re raking it in with the sporting goods,” Josh says, his eyes on the bidding list in front of him, but his hand is on Leyla’s shoulder. She sits next to him, subdued.
“And with the beauty and spa offerings, too!” Jill shows us the sheet.
“I was worried people would bail on the grab bag,” Mr. Reynolds points to the pumpkin-shaped bag set to the side of the entryway.
“But people are really taking part,” Linus says.
I glance over at it, wondering which bag, box, or pocket my CD will go into tonight. At the evening’s end I’ll close my eyes and dip my hand in among the plastic covers, hoping for the best—whatever that means.
People mill around, eyeing the items, wandering from table to table as the silent auction continues. I walk around, ignoring my guilt about Leyla and wondering where Eddie is. When I spot him jotting something down, I go over to see. He’s putting in a bid on one of the auction items, entering his name on an already filled-up sheet. (I always feel bad for the places like Mr. LawnCare, which has no bids at all.)
“The lake house?” I ask.
“I thought it’d be a good graduation party place.” Then he explains. “Not like I was stealing it from you …”
I shrug. “You can’t steal something that someone doesn’t have, right?” And I don’t have it—or him—or my friend. “How come no one bids for Mr. LawnCare? I mean, everyone has a lawn that needs care.” I’ve put just a bit too much emphasis on this and close my mouth, afraid to be revealed.
“See? You didn’t have to worry,” Eddie says, pointing to another paper.
I don’t know if he means about being lonely, or him not returning my feelings. Turns out he means neither. “Linus bid—and won.” Eddie picks up the clipboard that has my auction item attached. The time limit for bidding on it has expired, and Linus’ name is circled in red as the final—and highest—bidder.
“Looks that way,” I say. I should feel good about it, but it only adds to my confusion. The past few weeks have made me lonelier than ever—with Leyla retreating and Eddie and me hanging out as much as we have. I wouldn’t trade the time with him, it’s only that I know it doesn’t mean to him what it means to me. You’d think that just being with him would be enough. It used to be. Only now, it feels only part real, as though I’m playing hide and seek and waiting to be found.
The letters were so much easier. I look at his hands and think about his fingers on the keyboard, typing to me when he thought he was typing to her. Maybe the solution is to reread the emails tonight and see if I still feel the same way.
The auction continues, with parents bidding and students dressed up, and Wendy Von Schmedler’s brother’s band playing covers of songs that don’t deserve replaying, as we raise thousands of dollars for the scholarship fund.
“You should all be very proud of yourselves,” Mr. Reynolds says when the night is drawing to a close.
“We got it!”
Shrieks come in a wave from Wendy and her groupies. “Can you say New Year’s?” she asks Jill.
Jill nods. “New Year’s!”
“It wasn’t a command.” Wendy rolls her eyes. Announcing for the entire world (or at least those gathered at Wilson Farms) to hear, she says, “New Year’s Eve—my house. At the lake.”
“You bid on your own house?” Leyla asks, more incredulous than confused.
“Are you as thick as you seem?” Wendy laughs. Josh laughs, too.
“She wasn’t being thick.” My voice is stern. “It’s just—it’s your own house, so why bother paying for it?”
Wendy tosses her hair. “Out of school spirit.” Can’t argue with that. Maybe Wendy’s got more charity in her than I thought. She smooths her dress. “Plus, I don’t want someone else calling the shots up there. The lake house is my turf.” She shoots me a look. “Of course, everyone’s invited.”
“Everyone with an invite, you mean,” Leyla says, standing up. She pries Josh’s arms from hers and defends me like I defended her.
“Of course,” Wendy snorts. She looks at me and shakes her head, letting me know that yet again I will not be on her special list.
“Don’t you know? Invites are so last year.” Leyla grins at me and goes to check on the desserts.
I’m impressed with Leyla’s retort, with her defending me, even if it doesn’t wind up scoring me an invite. I don’t need to go, but I do need Leyla. I find her by the individual cups of pumpkin pudding no one seems to want to ingest.
“Thanks for that,” I tell her, and try a bite of the mushy stuff because I feel bad for it. Yes, I have special feelings for inanimate objects. Then again, it doesn’t take a therapist to figure out that perhaps I identify with the pumpkin pudding. “Am I like this gross stuff?” I offer Leyla a bite and she shakes her head.
“You know you’re not.” She takes a piece of carrot cake and forks some into her mouth. The frosting sticks to her lip. “I’m so glad that, you know, everything worked out.”
I nod, then wonder exactly what she means. “With the invitation thing?”
She shakes her head. “No, with you finally—FINALLY—telling him.”
The noise swirls around us, causing distractions and jostling. I try a bite-sized piece of pumpkin bread. “Telling who what?”
Leyla leans in. “What’d he say when you told him? Rox. I’m sure he—”
I put the pudding down and look at her. I can’t help but focus on the misplaced frosting. “I didn’t … I just—”
“I thought I saw you with him tonight.” She tugs at her hair. “You were talking so close I just thought—”
I shake my head, my eyes sorry. “It’s never gonna happen. What would he say? It would ruin everything. And it’s better to just keep—” I want to say
friendship
or
things the way they are,
but Leyla interrupts.
“Keep the fantasy?” She pushes back from me, our closeness evaporating yet again. “No way. You think you’re playing it safe, Cyrie, but really you’re worse than all those fake girls you hate so much.” She looks over her shoulder, at the Schmedler in her party-planning revelry.
“I don’t hate them, I just—”
“Pity them?” Leyla’s eyes are ablaze, her cheeks flushed. “Now I see why.”
Back at home, I can’t believe I thought Leyla and I were back on track after our weeks of growing silence. I want to call her and say sorry, but I don’t know why I have to apologize to her for living my life the way I want. She can’t make decisions for me. I never asked her to do that. Besides, if she’s with Josh, she’s hardly one to talk about doing the right thing.
All I have for consolation tonight is an unmarked CD I grabbed from the mix bag on the way out of the auction. I did check to make sure mine wasn’t left behind, and it was in fact pocketed by some Westie who will hopefully find a new appreciation for Depeche Mode, the Smiths, the Cure, and even Neil Diamond (after hearing “Forever in Blue Jeans” in the
Word
room, I just had to sprinkle some in; too many people don’t know the Diamond’s magic).
I trudge up to my room and slide the new CD into my stereo, expecting greatness. The first song’s not bad, some uptempo tune about a girl with “mahogany hair.” Usually new music makes me feel better, but this doesn’t. My melancholy mood isn’t even alleviated by the success of the auction, of all that hard work paying off. As I wander around my familiar surroundings, I suddenly realize why: all those hours, the frantic planning, the meetings, the jocular idea sessions—they’re done. No more auction sessions with Eddie. Once the snow falls, no more running. And what else? No Leyla. No Leyla, no Eddie—at least, not the way I want him.
I just want things back the way they were—with Leyla being my friend and Eddie being the friend-that-I-want-to-become-more. All those words he and I exchanged, the visions I had of us. With a sigh, I decide that all I can do to quench my dreams is look at everything, all the correspondence, for the last time. All the emails all in a row. Once more. And then say goodbye to them. My mother always says not to live in the past, and maybe this is one step I can take to move forward.
I sit at my desk with my feet tucked under, longing for the familiar fonts, the words I’ve come to rely on. I’ll log on, reread the emails in the Sumbodee account—for the last time. I will print them (just for my own benefit) and delete all evidence of the extra correspondence Eddie and I had. We’ll put the past in its place.
In my comfy pajamas and a sweatshirt Eddie lent me after running last week, I log on to my regular email and find nothing except an “incomplete” notice from the college counselor, who insists that I must complete the essay about my greatest flaw by Monday. I sigh about that, and feel my insides swirl when I think about rereading Eddie’s letters. I turn my printer on, ready to keep safe the words I’ve cherished.
Only, when I log on to the Sumbodee account, my pulse races—things aren’t the way they should be. The account is blank. My heart dips in my chest, my fingers shake. The emails are gone. Everything I’ve saved is nowhere to be found. In its place is just a single, unread message:
Just when I was about to call you and say sorry about the auction, I find out about this. How could you keep this from me? Don’t I mean anything to you?
I’m short of breath. First I think it’s from Eddie. Then, with growing pangs, I realize it’s from Leyla. That she checked the account, erased everything, and left this for me. I wonder if I should write back. If I do, she’ll know I was lame enough to log on again. If I don’t, how will I repair—or try to repair—the damage I’ve done?
I stare at the screen for ages. Then I lie in bed, my heart as empty as the email account—devoid of all the words I worked so hard for, all the feelings I tried to hide and then revealed.
W
INTER COMES ON WHEN
I’m not looking. Drifts of light snow replace the fall leaves, leaving a desolate landscape across the football fields. I walk home from school—alone yet again—and stare at the empty goals. Up ahead, on their way to the diner, a group of PBVs giggle, their pom-pom hats bobbing as they walk.
“It’s going to be awesome!”
“And she’s getting, like, two bands and—”
“Catering by that fancy place in New York!”
I can tell they’re referring to the New Year’s Eve bash at Wendy’s lake house. It’s all anyone seems to be discussing lately—who will get an invitation and who won’t. There’s not a doubt in my mind that my locker will be on the “no” list. Without Leyla pulling for me, what little hope I had for attending seems to have vanished. I kick my boots along the sidewalk and try to make myself feel better by remembering Wendy’s Halloween party, how silly it was, and unfun, with everyone talking and dancing and my own costume-less state. Her bathroom had more beauty products than a department store.
I could head to Any Time Now but it’s still closed for refurbishments, so I go instead toward Main Street to browse for holiday gifts and any last-minute inspiration for my one remaining essay. I bypass WAJS radio station, ignore Buggy’s Gifts, and find myself in the Apothecary, amid the vials of perfume and the shelves stocked with bubblegum body balm and mint foot scrub. And lipsticks. Maybe I need some makeup to cover my “greatest flaw,” and then I’d know what to say.