Ghosted Page 10

  As soon as she’s gone everybody cracks up. Almost everyone. I’m not a monster and I certainly wasn’t one in the sixth grade.

  In fact, E@11 rushes out of the bathroom and I follow her. I know that E@11 wants to apologize and that is her plan. But then she sees three seventh graders following Marley and doing her dance and she hesitates.

  I remember this moment, cycling through the options in my mind, trying to weigh potential costs and benefits like an accountant with a spreadsheet.

  E@11 can defend her best friend, but then those other kids might laugh at her, too. Because the cold, hard facts remain: If E@11 associates herself with a nerdy kid, then she’ll be nerdy, too.

  She loves Marley. She truly, truly does. And it makes her feel rotten inside.

  Still … After she’s worked so hard to climb to the top, she can’t let one stupid video ruin her efforts. Not even when this whole situation is sort of her fault. Not even when she is witnessing her best friend’s heart break into a thousand pieces. Marley tries to get away, but these kids are relentless. “Is Toby really the one?” a girl asks.

  Another asks, “Which American Girl doll do you like making out with? Kit is my favorite.”

  And her friend goes, “Let’s hear you belch!”

  Suddenly these two eighth-grade boys jump in front of Marley and say, “Hey, Marley, we made up this dance and we named it after you.”

  One of them starts a beatbox, imitating the sounds of a drum with his mouth. Then the other starts chanting, “The Marley, the Marley, the Marley…”

  And then they both do this totally awkward and embarrassing dance. They trip and stumble and then they try to right themselves but trip again.

  It is horrible, but others find it hilarious. Then, much to my horror, two more kids start doing it. Marley tries to escape, backing slowly away, but the crowd starts to follow her. And then more kids join in.

  Soon it becomes a mob scene. Marley is crying. E@11 is crying, as well. And I feel tears streaming down my own face. It’s too much. Eventually Marley snaps out of her trance, spins around, and makes a break for it. She’s running so fast no one can catch up, and honestly, only a few kids bother to try. More are hunched over laughing and giving one another high fives and fist bumps. This is entertainment in middle school? It’s excruciating.

  Marley is gone. I don’t bother following her. I don’t need to.

  I remember how I felt back then—what I was worried about. That Marley’s dads were going to be so disappointed in me. I figured they would tell my mom the entire story, every last gory detail. The three were so close. And I knew my mom would take Marley’s side and refuse to see my point of view. I sure wasn’t looking forward to that lecture. My mom would probably make me march over to Marley’s house and apologize. Bring her a loaf of sourdough bread or flowers or both.

  A big part of me wanted that, to reconcile with Marley. But then I thought about those laughing girls, how I didn’t want to be pitied. How hard I’d worked to claw myself out from that hole.

  You can’t have everything.

  I planned the speech I would give my mom, the fit I would throw. “I’m old enough to choose my own friends. You can’t control who I hang out with. This has nothing to do with you. So stop trying to micromanage my social life. Dad would never smother me like this…”

  My mom would be mad. Maybe she’d shout back, remind me of all the good times Marley and I have had over the years. How she’s so smart and sweet and wonderful and how easy and nice and lucky it is that I have my best friend living right across the street. How wonderful she and her dads have been since the divorce. How I can’t throw everything away, become a different person and forget my old life, my old friends, like a snake sheds its own skin. I am not a snake. I cannot lose the essential part of myself. My history. My starter.

  Maybe I secretly wanted my mom to force the issue so I could pretend like I had no choice but to apologize, make amends. I sure thought about it enough.

  But she never did.

  A few days passed.

  And then a few more.

  I went to school. I listened to my friends make fun of Marley. I never joined in, but I never stopped them, either. Never stood up to them and defended her.

  Eventually people stopped talking about it. Other stuff came up. Mr. Romero, the social studies teacher, had a heart attack and was in the hospital and everyone organized a bake sale to raise money to help with his rehab. Then Grant Sessions fell off his trampoline and broke both of his legs. He had to go to school in a wheelchair. It was exciting.

  I could’ve texted Marley and told her the coast was clear, that everyone had forgotten all about the stupid video and it was safe to come back to school. Because she’d stopped coming, I’d noticed. And I thought about her a lot. Worried like crazy.

  But I didn’t do anything.

  Not even after Marley started texting me.

  Ellie, can we talk?

  Please?

  We really should talk about this.

  I ignored her efforts, did not reply even once.

  When she tried calling me, I didn’t answer the phone.

  She knocked on my door a couple of times, as well, but I never answered. My mom did try to get me to the phone once, when she called our landline, but I said I was too busy.

  “I’ll call her back,” I said, not even looking up from my homework.

  We both knew it was a lie. I had no intention of calling Marley back.

  Come on, Ellie. We need to talk about the video, Marley texted a few days later. Eventually I blocked her number.

  And whenever she waved at me from across the street, I pretended like I didn’t see her, acted like she didn’t exist. I did that to my best friend.

  Some weeks later, I started hearing about Marley again. That she wasn’t coming back to our school. She’d transferred to a magnet school two towns over. Was it true? Did she transfer schools to avoid me? Or was she too embarrassed to show her face at Lincoln Heights Middle School? Or would she have left anyway? I don’t know and I couldn’t even ask.

  A few months after this whole thing went down, a for-sale sign appeared on her family’s front lawn. The house got snapped up quickly, and suddenly Marley and her dads were gone. They only moved a few streets over. At least that’s what I overheard my mom tell someone. It’s the only way I knew. My mom still got together with Dave and Joe on occasion, but she was always so secretive about it. I never saw any of them again. Marley, either. We never spoke after that day in the bathroom. What was the point? I knew I betrayed her. I knew I was rotten.

  Sure it felt strange, like heartbreak. For the longest time I felt like there was something missing in my life. It’s like a piece of my heart dissolved, just evaporated into thin air. It’s different from the feeling when my father left. That was horrible in another way. My dad’s leaving us was beyond my control. I felt helpless, weak. This was something I did. I tried to deny it, told myself otherwise, but I knew.

  I made a choice.

  This was all my fault. And rather than take responsibility, apologize, and try to make things right, I did nothing.

  I told myself I was being strong, but deep down I knew that what I’d done was cowardly.

  I betrayed Marley. And instead of owning up to that fact, I ghosted her.

  chapter nine

  Next thing I know, I am alone in a gigantic movie theater. No wait, the Girl in Black is here, too, sitting in the front row and holding a bucket of popcorn.

  “Want a piece?” she asks, twisting her body around and shaking the popcorn at me. Obviously she’s mocking me. And I do not find this funny. Not one bit.

  “No,” I reply coldly.

  “Just one kernel. Come on, Ellie,” she teases, a mischievous glint in her blue eyes.

  I shake my head in disgust. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like it. When am I going to wake up from this dream?”

  “Oh, so you’ve settled on a dream state now, have yo
u?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.” I give up and walk down the aisle and sit next to her. The seat is cushy, a little softer than it would be in a regular movie theater. “What’s happening now? I’m not exactly in the mood to see a movie.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry. This isn’t a movie. It’s more like a highlight reel. This is getting old. Dragging you from place to place, year to year, shrinking you down to fit into the snow globe, changing your regular outfit into a bikini for the fish tank, only to go and transform you back to your regular size, etc.… I could go on, but why bother? You know where you’ve been—from one dreary scene to the next. This is much more efficient.”

  I don’t bother arguing with her, and even if I wanted to, I couldn’t, because the movie is starting.

  The lights in the theater dim. Jumpy jazz music fills the room. The screen lights up and flashes a title card. Bold black letters read:

  ELLIE CHARLES, AGES 12–13: THE HIGHLIGHT REEL.

  WELCOME TO YOUR LIFE!

  Amazingly, twelve-year-old Ellie appears on the screen. As weird as this is, it’s also kind of cool. I have always wanted to star in my own reality show—and here it is, already finished. My hair is in a bob and I’m wearing bright pink lipstick. I’m in my favorite store at the mall with my mom. I have just come out of the dressing room wearing the most adorable pair of jeans.

  “Wow, these fit me so perfectly and they look amazing. I have to have them!” I tell her, admiring myself in the mirror.

  As my mom frowns, worry lines appear between her eyebrows. “I don’t know, sweetheart. We got you three new pairs of jeans last week. I don’t think you’re going to have enough room in your closet for these.”

  “Then maybe I need a bigger closet,” I tell her. My voice is singsongy and I am kind of joking, but also not.

  “Oh, Ellie…” My mom sounds tired.

  I cringe. Maybe this isn’t going to be so fun to watch, after all.

  “Anyway, it’s not only your decision,” my younger self reasons up there on the screen. “If you don’t get them for me, I can always use my new credit card.”

  My mom looks tired and slightly annoyed. “Ellie, I know your father gave you a credit card, but that doesn’t mean you can buy whatever you want to buy. That doesn’t mean you have no limits.”

  “That’s not what he says,” I reply. “Dad told me I can have whatever I want. Whenever.”

  Blech! I totally feel like retching right now. I remember this moment and so many more just like it. At the time, I thought I was being completely reasonable. What’s wrong with wanting a cute pair of jeans, after all? But seeing this now? I can’t help but think that I’m so incredibly spoiled. Maybe it’s the camera angle. I wasn’t really this bad. I couldn’t have been.

  “Who are you trying to convince?” the Girl in Black asks, reading my mind yet again.

  “Will you please stop eavesdropping on my private, personal thoughts?” I ask.

  Back on the screen, my mom says, “Honey, I think we need to cut back on the shopping.”

  “And I think I’m calling Dad,” Ellie says, whipping her cell phone out of her purse. She dials the number and miraculously, he answers. “Daddy? I’m getting new jeans. That’s okay, right? Thanks, Daddy. Actually, can I get two or three pairs? Whatever I want? Thank you.”

  She looks at her mom, smirking. “Dad says it’s fine. You can ask him yourself. Want to talk to him?” She holds the phone up to her mom, knowing that her mom won’t take it.

  The screen goes black and then there’s a new title card that reads:

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  I’m home and have just answered my front door. Harper is standing there. She’s wearing a black ski cap and her hair is tucked up into it. “You’ll never guess what I did,” she tells me, exuberant. I’ve never seen her so happy, and this annoys me for some reason.

  “What?” I ask sharply, crossing my arms across my chest.

  When Harper pulls off her hat, her long silky hair tumbles down. She’s a natural brunette, but now, suddenly she has blond streaks. “Don’t you love it?” she asks, so excited. As she shakes her head, her hair literally cascades down her back. It’s so pretty I want to scream. “I couldn’t wait to show you. I knew you’d flip! I still can’t believe my parents let me do it. I’ve been begging for ages and I used every last cent of my babysitting money to pay for it. That was the deal.”

  My eyes seriously bug out. I cannot believe this. Harper looks absolutely stunning—too much so. It’s not simply her hair, it’s the way her entire face lights up. She is radiant and glowing, and it’s killing me.

  I don’t say anything right away. I remember contemplating, wondering, How am I going to play this? This isn’t going to work. No friend of mine can outdo me. I need to be the brightest star in the room.

  Then I see the smile on my face—that metaphorical light-bulb-flashing-in-my-brain moment. I have a brilliant idea.

  “Of course I love it, Harper. But I cannot believe you copied me. What kind of friend are you? Incapable of an original thought?” I ask.

  “Huh?” Harper replies, her features clouding over into confusion.

  “You know I’m getting blond highlights tomorrow,” I tell her.

  “What? I didn’t know,” Harper says, as her expression shifts from slightly nervous to genuine panic. “That’s crazy. I swear, Ellie. Honestly, I had no idea. Wow, what a funny coincidence. Great minds think alike, huh?”

  She keeps running her hands through her hair, as if trying to protect or claim what is rightfully hers, but it’s not going to work.

  This isn’t about who is right or wrong. This is about me getting what I want.

  “Come on, Harper. I value honesty in our friendship above all else. It hurts my feelings when you lie to my face.”

  She bites her bottom lip, which is trembling. She looks down. “I swear I didn’t know. I’m not lying—please believe me.”

  “Oh, I see. So you’re saying I’m a liar?” I ask.

  “Gosh, no. I guess maybe you told me and, and, and I wasn’t paying attention?” She’s so nervous she’s practically stuttering.

  Now I’ve got Harper exactly where I want her. This is almost too easy. I suppress my smile.

  “It’s okay, Harper. I know you don’t have the best memory.”

  Harper stares at me, unsure. Clearly she is not buying this. But she also has no interest in standing up to me. She is weak, putty in my hands! I love that this is going to be so easy. And I justify it by telling myself it’ll teach her a good lesson. Train her to stand up for herself. Not now with me, of course. I mean next time. With other people.

  “So I guess now we’ll match,” she tries, giving me a pathetic half smile, like she knows she’s not getting off this easily.

  I laugh in her face. “Nice try, babe. You know that we’re too old to have matching hairstyles, right?”

  Harper nods, for the moment relieved. “Yes, absolutely. I totally agree with you there.”

  “Good, then it’s settled,” I say. “I’m so glad you can be reasonable about this.”

  “Phew.” She sighs, thinking she’s off the hook. “Hey, did you ever think about dying your hair red?” she asks. “Because that would be super cute.”

  I smile at her, and shake my head ever so slowly. “Oh, Harper. That’s not the answer. My mom already made the appointment, and it’s with the top colorist in town—Hector at Cush Salon. She had to pull a lot of strings to get him to fit me in. His waiting list is six months long. So I can’t back out. It’s way too late.”

  I am making this up as I go along, which is a little nerve-wracking, until I realize that Harper has no idea. She believes me completely. Turns out I am an excellent liar. “Anyway, to make a long story short,” I continue, “you need to get rid of yours.”

  “Wait, what do you mean get rid of mine?” asks Harper.

  Ellie doesn’t say anything at first. Simply smiles at her.

  Harper coughs an
d squirms. “I guess they’ll grow out in time,” she adds.

  “Oh, that’s not going to work. You know I can’t wait that long. Hold on. Let me help you out,” I tell her. I run to my room and come back a moment later with a pair of scissors. “Why don’t we go to the bathroom so you can do this in the mirror,” I suggest, holding them out to her.

  She eyes the scissors warily, not budging. She looks over her shoulder, probably contemplating whether or not she can get away with making a run for it.

  I can’t let that happen. “Come on, it’s only hair, Harper. I’ll help. Follow me.”

  I head to the bathroom and she trails me.

  Let me point out that she follows me—I in no way physically coerce her to go along with the plan. I’m proud of this.

  I stop once we get there, and we both stare at her image in the mirror. “Do you want to do it or should I?” I ask.

  And before she can stop me, I grab a giant hunk of hair on the side of her head and snip. Fast—just like that it’s gone.

  Her eyes go wide and her face turns pale. “Wait!” she yells.

  “Oh, of course. You probably want to do the honors. Silly me,” I say, handing her the scissors.

  She opens her mouth as if to protest but doesn’t say a word. We stare at each other for a few moments. Her expression switches from shock to annoyance to sadness to resignation. She knows better than to challenge me. It’s a harsh reality, yet the reality nonetheless. There is no way out for her. No happy ending to this tale.

  Finally she nods. “Good idea.”

  And I watch her cut off her hair. She does it slowly at first. Her hand trembles and her eyes are moist, but she’s determined not to cry. It’s shaggy and uneven and absolutely atrocious. I’m frankly shocked she’s managing to hold herself together.

  Once she’s finally finished, I clap my hands together and exclaim, “That’s adorable!”

  The entire screen freezes on a close-up of my face. I was so absorbed in the moment I almost forgot I was watching this unfold on the screen.