If You Only Knew (13 page)

As she straightened my pillows, Mom asked, “So? What are you putting in besides your toe shoes?”

My project for school, which I was supposedly working on, is to choose ten things that represent who I am and put them in the paper bag Mrs. Shepard, my English/social studies teacher, gave out Friday. Bring Yourself in a Sack, Mrs. Shepard called it. Of course the first thing I thought of was my new toe shoes. I hadn’t gotten much beyond that with fifteen hours left before school tomorrow. There was a lot else on my mind.

“Um,” I said, trying to think. I’m not a really quick thinker. “Well . . .” I slipped the toe shoes inside my Sack, on my desk.

Mom waited patiently. When I started going to Speech in first grade, Mom and Dad learned to wait patiently without helping or encouraging or even nodding.

“My ring,” I said, holding up my left hand. My new friendship ring had slipped a little to the side, so the knot was hiding against my pinkie. I fixed it.

Mom came over and took my hand in hers. “Let me look at it again.”

Of course, she had already inspected it thoroughly, as soon as she picked me up from getting them with my new best friend, Zoe Grandon, this afternoon. “It’s so beautiful,” Mom said again, just like she had this afternoon. I didn’t mind, though. Every time I look at it, that’s what I think, too. It’s so beautiful.

I asked Mom, “You really think so?”

“Definitely,” she said, wiggling it on my finger with her thumb over the knot. “I like that it’s so strong-looking, like a boat knot—what’s it called?—nautical, like you would tie with a really strong rope to hold a boat to the dock, but at the same time, it’s delicate, the silver, so feminine.”

I smiled at the ring. “Mmm-hmm.”

“You must be so happy,” Mom said softly. “I’m happy for you.”

I nodded.

“Who chose it, you or Zoe?”

“Both,” I said. “The other, other rings were too, I don’t know—fancy. This one is just . . .”

“Perfect,” Mom finished for me.

“Exactly. Yeah. So, I’ll put in my ring, and . . .”

“Really?” Her eyes were open wide, like she was trying to look all innocent, but I knew what she was thinking.

“Zoe is putting hers in her bag,” I explained. “She’d feel pretty stupid if I didn’t.”

“Uh-huh,” Mom said, biting her lip.

“You . . .” I tried not to get angry.

“What?” she asked, like she didn’t know.

I stamped my foot. “You . . . you’re the one who-who-who didn’t want me to be best friends with Morgan anymore.”

“C J!”

“What? You, you never even liked Morgan at all, you were so happy I was getting to be best friends with Zoe, and now, what? You don’t want me to?”

“I didn’t say anything!” Mom protested.

“Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

“I am happy for you.”

“But?”

Mom shrugged. “I was just imagining how Morgan might feel.”

“Morgan?”

“She thinks she’s still your best friend, right?”

“That’s, that’s not . . .” She was right, Morgan had no clue that Zoe and I had bought these rings together today.

“So how will she feel, sitting there in English when you and Zoe . . .”

I slapped my hands against my thighs, wishing I could explain or get her to stop saying that, at least.

She shook her head, bouncing her soft curls from side to side. She is so beautiful it really ticks me off sometimes.

“You just, you . . . fine. Fine!” I yelled. “You don’t want me to put my ring in?”

“That’s not what—”

“Fine! I won’t. I won’t even wear it.” I pulled the ring off my finger and threw it down onto my floor. It clanked, bounced, and rolled under my bed.

“C J,” Mom said, reaching toward me.

I pulled away. “What? Does that satisfy you? You don’t want me to play soccer, you don’t want me to have friends, you don’t want me to have any best friend except you, that’s what I think!” I never talk to her like that. She looked as surprised as I felt, standing there absolutely shaking with I don’t know if it was fear or rage or what.

“What?” she asked, her hands up like surrendering. “I didn’t . . .”

I punched myself in the thigh. “You always keep saying I’m your best friend!”

She shrugged. “You are.”

“How do you think that makes me feel?” I yelled.

“Good, I hope.” She smiled a little, tilting her head.

“Yeah, except, you know what?” I asked her, starting to cry. “You’re not in seventh grade! So what am I supposed to do at lunch?” I held onto my head, which felt like it might blow up.

“C J, I think it’s great that you have other friends. Really. It doesn’t take away from us. I have other friends, too—Aunt Betsy, and Dad, and . . .”

“Yeah, but. . . .” It’s really hard to argue with Mom. She agrees with you, which turns a person around so much, you forget what your point was. But I wasn’t giving up this time, for once. “And then, then”—I wiped my eyes quickly with the heel of my hand—“then you keep saying how Morgan isn’t a real friend to me.”

She opened those beautiful green eyes so wide again. “I do not.” My dad says he fell in love with her the minute she laid those beautiful green eyes on him.

“You do so!” I stamped my foot again. “You say it.”

“C J.”

“All the time, you say it, you know you do! You make that face when I ask can she come over!”

“Morgan is here all the time,” Mom protested.

I wiped my runny nose on my sleeve. “But you make that face,” I said, and when she looked at me like she had no idea what I was talking about, I wanted to smash her. “Don’t! You know you-you-you bite your lip and you say, ‘Well, if you want to.’ Right? You know you say that!” I imitated her voice. “‘Well, if you want to.’”

Mom breathed out hard. She couldn’t deny it.

“Right?” I asked. “And now when I’m finally like, OK, fine, so I’ll be best friends with Zoe, who you think is so great, it’s still not enough! I get friendship rings with Zoe, and you-you just, you don’t even want me to put it in my bag! What do you want from me?”

“I just . . .”

The tears were pouring down my face. I didn’t even try to wipe them. “Fine!” I yelled. “So I won’t have any friends, if that’s what makes you happy!”

I had to get away from her. I wanted to stomp up to my room, but we were already in my room. So I left my room and slammed the door. I stood in the hall, listening to the slam echo, thankful for the sudden silence. I’ve never yelled at my mother like that before. I don’t think I’ve ever said so many sentences in a row before.

I stood there for a minute not knowing what to do. It was a sort of awkward situation. Even though I was still crying, I almost cracked a smile at the thought of Mom standing in the middle of my room, tilting her pretty head and biting her lip, not knowing what to do. Just like me, on the other side of the door. But then I realized she’d probably have to come out soon, and so I quickly slammed myself into the bathroom.

Some cold water on my face felt good. I looked at myself in the mirror—pointy nose, dark circles under my green eyes, nonexistent lips, pulled-back frizzy brown hair—and got really depressed. I’m not beautiful like my mother. I look like a gerbil. Especially when my eye rims are red from crying. Tommy must be blind or stupid or into rodents. Yuck.

After a few minutes I heard my door open. I locked the bathroom door, but Mom didn’t try to come in. I heard her footsteps on the stairs going down, and then her voice in the backyard with Dad and Paul. They were all laughing, having a great time as if I didn’t even matter.

Every girl has her own story.
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