Friend Is Not a Verb (15 page)

Didn’t I say I was entitled to a little self-pity every now and then? Good. Now how about a little
Behind the Music
style melodrama to go with it?

Jim Forbes, take it away. (Cue deafening orchestral soundtrack here)
“Hen Birnbaum: A walking tragedy. A cripple, to whom the bully’s rule of the playground no longer applied. The proverbial arm had been hacked off. Only a bloody stump remained for that day and that long, long night: a fitting tribute to the Emma kiss-but-not-a-kiss. Forget rap rock bottom. Not even I, Jim Forbes himself, could do the poor wretch any justice.”

There you have it.

Some details: I couldn’t sleep (big shocker). I told Mom and Dad I had the stomach flu, and then switched the diagnosis to
food poisoning (grosser and more incapacitating, so they’d leave me alone). I emailed Mrs. Abrahmson to say that I couldn’t walk or feed her dogs anymore (good riddance). I left Gabriel a voice mail letting him know I was taking a break from bass lessons (at midnight, when I knew he’d be asleep). I sat at my computer in a daze, waiting for Emma to email or text or call. (She didn’t.) I left only to use the bathroom.

Saddest of all, somehow: Mom placed a little bowl of plain rice and a thermos of ginger ale outside my door, along with a note:

Amazing stuff. The prodigal daughter, on her way home again. Just in time to witness how my joke of a life had finally gone kaput.

And I
still
didn’t know why she’d disappeared and come back and disappeared again.

But, at the very least, I had a hunch she’d tell me now. She’d settled whatever mysterious business needed settling. She’d gone public with herself again. She wouldn’t have friended those guys Tony and Rich if she still had something to hide. Mom and Dad were off the hook.

I checked out the Facebook profiles of Tony and Rich on the off chance that
they
could put the final pieces of the puzzle in place. But like Sarah, they hadn’t uploaded any photos or filled in any vital stats. They were nonentities. Blank pages. Facebook friends in the truest sense: All they offered was connection itself. With whom or with what was anybody’s guess.

Oh, and I almost forgot: at some point during the long miserable night, Petra sent me an email, too.

Wow. Heavy, huh? Part of it made me smile. (George Monroe, you sly dog! I
did
deserve a gold star.) Most of it made me want to pull a Sarah Birnbaum and disappear for a long, long time—maybe never to return. The band could survive without me.
(Their loss, but…) If only Petra knew the truth about Emma. It might have even been funny, if it weren’t.

At ten in the morning, there was a knock on my door.

“I’m still sleeping, Mom,” I croaked.

“It’s Emma.”

The room turned upside down, dumping me out of bed.

I had a hard time with the doorknob. I kept fumbling with it and nearly knocked myself over when I finally yanked it open. My head spun.
Emma—

There she stood.

Dark circles ringed her eyes. Her face was pale, almost snow-white. She probably hadn’t slept, either. She was still wearing the same dress. Her hair looked like a bomb had gone off. She was beautiful.

I opened my mouth. “I—”

She grabbed me and kissed me.

It was more of a lunge. Practically violent. She squeezed her eyes shut. (I knew because mine were wide open.) Then she stepped back.

“Do you know how many times I’ve dreamed of doing that?” she asked hoarsely.

I stood motionless, still scared. “Really?”

“Not just in regular dreams. In everyday daydreams.”

I swallowed. “Since when?”

Her eyes began to water. She sniffed and rubbed them, grimacing. “Since forever. Since we used to play hopscotch.” Her
voice was thick. “Look, do me a favor, okay? Pretend I didn’t just fly to Palm Springs for tear duct surgery. The constant waterworks make me feel self-conscious. You can make fun of the Botox, but that’s it.”

Slowly, slowly—in spite of how hard I tried to cling to the shell I’d spent the last twenty hours tightening around myself—the fear that I’d lost Emma for good melted away. “You have a deal,” I said, fighting to make my voice as dry as possible. “Didn’t I tell you this face-lift was a risk?”

“I know. They made it seem so easy on
Nip/Tuck
. I should have paid more attention to the botched cases.” She stared me straight in the eye, batting her wet eyelashes. “Hen, listen. I know you think that becoming a rock star is a stupid fantasy. But it isn’t. You have to swear it isn’t.”

I shook my head, at a loss.

“Because I have a stupid fantasy, too,” she went on. “A stupid, ridiculous, girly fantasy. I’ve had it ever since I moved next door to you. It’s one of the few things I’ve never told you. You want to hear what it is?”

The golf ball in my throat made it impossible to speak.

“My dad springs for a huge outdoor wedding. It’s a gorgeous summer day, like today. We close off the street, and he gets one of the lame bands he represents to play, and you and I take our vows right on my front stoop. What do you think of that?”

I nodded lamely. I didn’t even know if that was the right response.

“See, if you pretend that your rock star fantasy isn’t stupid, then I can pretend like my wedding fantasy isn’t stupid, either. I
can salvage some dignity. And I promise I’ll never, ever run out on you again like I did yesterday. See,
I
was always supposed to make the first move. That was part of my fantasy, too. But I was never able to muster the courage. I was too scared you’d say no.”

I extended a hand. “I’m saying yes,” I choked out. “And you have a deal.”

She shook it. Her hand was warm. She didn’t let go.

I swept her into a very tight hug.

“I wonder if this is gonna make things easier or harder at school this fall,” she whispered in my ear. “You know, with the troglodytes.”

“Are you kidding?” I breathed. “Much easier. This will
really
confuse them.”

If this were a normal story, that would be a perfect place to end.

Boy makes good with girl next door. Weirdness: over. New phase of relationship: on. A quick montage of bloopers and outtakes as the credits roll. Oh, the hilarity. Oh, the romance of it all. (No, we didn’t
shtup
, if that’s what you’re wondering. What is this, porn? The morning was too pure and wondrous to be cheapened by gratuitous sex. We’re saving that for later.) Cheers to us. Hooray for wholesome, predictable teen cheese.

Unfortunately, having a felon for a sister tends to ruin the possibility for a neat wrap-up. Okay, maybe that’s overstating it. And, in fairness to Sarah, I wasn’t sure if the label “felon” fit. Close enough, though. Actually, it’s amazing how certain disaster areas of your life can seem a lot less complicated when the important stuff is taken care of. I shared this remarkable insight
with Emma, and she agreed.

“She’s really coming home today, huh?” Emma asked. We were lying in a comfy tangle on my bed. “You honestly think she’s gonna spill the beans about everything?”

“I don’t know. It seems that way.”

“Well, it would be nice if she showed up sooner rather than later.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s almost noon. At five o’clock, you’re mine.”

I blushed slightly. “Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

“Please don’t tell me you forgot about the Journey concert, Hen. Please.”

“Holy crap.” I sat up straight and ran a hand through my hair. “That’s
tonight
, isn’t it? I told my parents I’m sick. They think I’m at death’s door.”

“Well, you’ll just have to convince them otherwise. My parents made reservations for the four of us at some swanky steak joint for an early dinner before the concert. Leave it to my dad to be sensitive about your vegetarianism.”

I nodded. “Okay. I need to think. You know…it might be best if I sidestepped my family altogether and snuck out. We can climb down the fire escape. Besides, running away seems to be great reverse psychology with them. Sarah ran away, and they do everything she wants. Maybe they’ll do everything
I
want now.”

She wriggled her eyebrows. “You naughty boy! I like your thinking. Where to? My place? Conveniently, it’s close by.”

My gaze fell to Gabriel’s manuscript, still facedown on the floor. “No. This’ll sound insane, but what do you say we go to Gabriel’s?”

Emma’s eyes widened. “You mean now?”

“Yeah. Right now. You and me. Together. To come clean.”

“Come clean about
what
?”

“To tell him that I
did
steal one of his manuscripts. And to tell him that he was right. See…he knew about us.”

She squeezed my hand. “He did, huh? What did you tell him?”

“I don’t even know. It was sort of like he read my mind.”

“And you really want to tell him you lifted one of his manuscripts? You’re a brave man, Hen. A total wack-a-doodle, but brave.” She let out a deep, contented sigh. “Well, count me in. I’m sort of dying to see what he looks like, anyway.”

As far as supernatural coincidences go, the timing worked out perfectly. I swear; I wasn’t even all that surprised. The subway ride and stroll through the East Village put the two of us at Gabriel’s apartment building at the same moment a taxicab pulled up to the curb—and out climbed you know who.

“Hey, Sarah,” Emma said brightly.

She stared at us as the cab sped off. A faint smile curled her lips. She was as tan and stylish as ever, dolled up in sandals, a wide-brimmed white sunhat, and a silky, pricey-looking aquamarine dress. (Since when had she started caring so much about her wardrobe?) With her little Samsonite luggage on wheels, she looked as if she could have come straight from the set of some glamorous tropical fashion shoot. Wow. That Sarah Birnbaum. She really knew how to live life on the run, didn’t she?

Her eyes narrowed.

“What?” I asked her.

“Why is Emma’s hand in your back pocket?”

Jesus.
Emma wrenched it free. I hadn’t even realized it was there. I guess we’d been doing that corny new-couple snuggle walk since we’d exited the subway…I turned to Emma. Her cheeks looked as pink as mine felt. The Unseen Hand, I thought, and almost laughed.

“Did I miss something while I was away?” Sarah asked.

Neither Emma nor I said a word. We both lifted our shoulders.

Sarah smirked. “Never mind. I can probably figure it out. Man, you disappear for a couple of weeks, and everyone starts falling for each other. It’s a good thing I’ll be staying put.”

“Really?” I asked. “You’re really staying put?”

“I really am,” she said. “Look, Hen…I’m so, so sorry I put you through all this. But I can tell you everything now. I just sold our house in Puerto Plata. I even turned a profit, if you can believe it. I got all the money back to repay Gabriel’s father.”