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danger of losing it, but Zelia didnât even crack a smile. The pizza guy just kept answering all her questions. I guess it doesnât hurt that she is totally gorgeous.
Mostly I still canât believe that Zelia has chosen me, Sophie Keller, to be her friend. Best friend, even. Last week after we had laughed until our faces hurt over the pizza place thing, she suddenly grabbed my arm and got all serious. I was frightened for a second, not knowing what was wrong. She just stared at me kind of solemnly with those blue eyes, and then she whisÂpered that we were going to be best friends forever. I whispered it back to her:
best friends forever.
The last time I had a best friend was in grade seven. Patrice Low. Two weeks into grade eight she dumped me to hang out with Chloe Rankin and the rest of the gang who went on to make my life hell in grades eight and nine. Iâm trying to forget those years. Itâs easier to keep things secret if I pretend they never happened.
Zelia and I have all these private jokes and games we play, like the name game. Nathan and Gertrude were just the beginning. Girls who are all about clothes and shopping are Madisons; fat women are Berthas or Brendas; bimbos are Tiffanys. Uptight older teachers or librarians are Mildreds or Georges. Clones are just Clones.
One day in the second week of school, Zelia decides that losers will be called Ermentrude, after a slightly chubby girl in our class who wears thick glasses and jeans with a really high waist. Zelia pretends to hike her own pants up to her armpits and does Ermentrude impersonations. Zeliaâs funny, but I have to fake my laughter. It reminds me not to let down my guard, not to let her know anything about who I used to be.
Sometimes I wake up after a bad dream and sit in sweat-soaked and tangled sheets, trying to figure out what is real and what is not, what was then and what is now. Sometimes I dream that Zelia is calling me Ermentrude, saying Iâm fat, laughing at me for believing that she really liked me. I have to get up and splash cold water on my face, stare at my gray eyes in the mirror and feel my newly sharp bones to remind myself that I am safe and that everything is different now. Zelia and I are friends.
I ride Keltie after school a couple of times a week, but on the other days Zelia comes home with me. We hang out in my bedroom, which is small and square, with three walls painted white and one deep red. Granâs quilt covers the bed in a pattern of soft greens and blues, and there is a large round mirror above my dresser, its glass half-covered with photographs of horses Iâve ridden. I have hidden away all the school yearbooks and the photographs of myself from the last couple of years. The books and cdâs that line my shelves have been carefully selected to bolster my new image. Any music I am at all unsure about is hidden under the bed, along with a teddy bear Iâve had since I was a baby and all my poetry books. Still, I am nervous the firstfew times Zelia comes over. I canât shake my fear that someÂthing ugly might sneak out from the past and spoil everything.
The first day of October dawns gray and rainy, but during the afternoon the wind picks up and clears the skies. When I leave school at 3:30, it is cold and bright. I wait in the schoolÂyard, looking around for Zelia, and my breath forms plumes of mist that hang in front of me. Everything looks sharp and clear, as if the air is thinner than usual. When I look back on this day, I will remember it as the time everything began to fall apart.
Four
ZELIA WANTS TO go to the drugstore on the way back to my place. I know my mother wonât like my being home late, but I donât say anything. I walk quickly and hope Zelia wonât take too long.
There are some of those gumball-type vending machines just inside the door. Zelia points at one filled with gaudy jewelry.
âCheck this out,â she says, laughing. She
Mostly I still canât believe that Zelia has chosen me, Sophie Keller, to be her friend. Best friend, even. Last week after we had laughed until our faces hurt over the pizza place thing, she suddenly grabbed my arm and got all serious. I was frightened for a second, not knowing what was wrong. She just stared at me kind of solemnly with those blue eyes, and then she whisÂpered that we were going to be best friends forever. I whispered it back to her:
best friends forever.
The last time I had a best friend was in grade seven. Patrice Low. Two weeks into grade eight she dumped me to hang out with Chloe Rankin and the rest of the gang who went on to make my life hell in grades eight and nine. Iâm trying to forget those years. Itâs easier to keep things secret if I pretend they never happened.
Zelia and I have all these private jokes and games we play, like the name game. Nathan and Gertrude were just the beginning. Girls who are all about clothes and shopping are Madisons; fat women are Berthas or Brendas; bimbos are Tiffanys. Uptight older teachers or librarians are Mildreds or Georges. Clones are just Clones.
One day in the second week of school, Zelia decides that losers will be called Ermentrude, after a slightly chubby girl in our class who wears thick glasses and jeans with a really high waist. Zelia pretends to hike her own pants up to her armpits and does Ermentrude impersonations. Zeliaâs funny, but I have to fake my laughter. It reminds me not to let down my guard, not to let her know anything about who I used to be.
Sometimes I wake up after a bad dream and sit in sweat-soaked and tangled sheets, trying to figure out what is real and what is not, what was then and what is now. Sometimes I dream that Zelia is calling me Ermentrude, saying Iâm fat, laughing at me for believing that she really liked me. I have to get up and splash cold water on my face, stare at my gray eyes in the mirror and feel my newly sharp bones to remind myself that I am safe and that everything is different now. Zelia and I are friends.
I ride Keltie after school a couple of times a week, but on the other days Zelia comes home with me. We hang out in my bedroom, which is small and square, with three walls painted white and one deep red. Granâs quilt covers the bed in a pattern of soft greens and blues, and there is a large round mirror above my dresser, its glass half-covered with photographs of horses Iâve ridden. I have hidden away all the school yearbooks and the photographs of myself from the last couple of years. The books and cdâs that line my shelves have been carefully selected to bolster my new image. Any music I am at all unsure about is hidden under the bed, along with a teddy bear Iâve had since I was a baby and all my poetry books. Still, I am nervous the firstfew times Zelia comes over. I canât shake my fear that someÂthing ugly might sneak out from the past and spoil everything.
The first day of October dawns gray and rainy, but during the afternoon the wind picks up and clears the skies. When I leave school at 3:30, it is cold and bright. I wait in the schoolÂyard, looking around for Zelia, and my breath forms plumes of mist that hang in front of me. Everything looks sharp and clear, as if the air is thinner than usual. When I look back on this day, I will remember it as the time everything began to fall apart.
Four
ZELIA WANTS TO go to the drugstore on the way back to my place. I know my mother wonât like my being home late, but I donât say anything. I walk quickly and hope Zelia wonât take too long.
There are some of those gumball-type vending machines just inside the door. Zelia points at one filled with gaudy jewelry.
âCheck this out,â she says, laughing. She
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