Being Friends With Boys by Terra Elan McVoy Page B

about fifty times.
    While Oliver’s singing “Foreign Tongue,” I forget myself and start singing some harmonies, which are easier to find with Fabian playing along. Eli likes it so much we decide I’ll do it for real. When I sneak a glance at Fabian, we both break into grins.
     
    After practice, Trip texts to see if I want to go catch a movie or something. Surprised but thrilled, I negotiate with Gretchen and even get the car. Trip and I decide to see the new zombie apocalypse one, mostly because there isn’t that much else playing. We laugh our heads off during most of the gory scenes (much to the annoyance of the people in front of us, who actually get up and move seats), and afterward we go to Java Monkey and crack ourselves up again, practically acting the entire movie out for each other.
    When I drop him off, he reminds me about aikido starting this week, that his practices and my practices are going to dictate our lives. I suggest we plan to hang out every Saturday night, then, because this was so great. He smiles at this, and I do too. When we wrap each other in another good-night hug, I can’t remember why I ever thought anything might go wrong.

Chapter Eight
     
    I t’s Thursday when things get bizarre.
    First of all, when Oliver and I get into his car to head to rehearsal after school, he goes, “Just so you know, Whitney and I are finished.”
    “Wait, what?”
    He jerks one shoulder up around his ear in response. So that’s why we were walking so fast after school—he didn’t want to chance running into her.
    “When?”
    “This morning.”
    “Hang on. You broke up with Whitney this morning ? Why?”
    “Why are you freaking, Spider? You hated her. Everyone did.”
    I hadn’t realized I was that unsubtle. “I didn’t hate her. I just—”
    “You did and it’s cool. She’s an albatross, anyway. I just got sick of her shit.”
    “Her usual shit, or extra shit? I mean, is it about the band?”
    He lets out a long, irritated sigh. “Just shit , man. She’s not my girlfriend anymore, so I don’t see why we need to talk about her any further.”
    This is one of the extremely irritating aspects of being friends with boys: their utter refusal, or perhaps inability, to divulge any kind of important information when it comes to matters like this. Whenever Lish broke up with someone (and when Clay finally dumped me last year)—we went over every single “he said” and “I said” and “then he,” not to mention analyzed every heartbroken (or angry) text that came after that. But boys, they’re just so maddeningly unresponsive. Oliver dumping Whitney before school is a perfect example. Even though I can’t stand Whitney, that is complete and total ouch . A girl would have thought for days about exactly how, when, and where to do it. And she would’ve been a little more considerate. But maybe Whitney did something in the parking lot that pissed Oliver off and he just snapped? Who knows, since we’re not allowed, apparently, to talk about it. Still, I can’t wait for rehearsal to start so I can text Trip the news.
    That Oliver wants the subject to be dropped, however, doesn’tseem to matter much to Whitney, because about twenty minutes into practice, Mrs. Drake comes to the top of the rec room stairs and tells Oliver he has a guest.
    “I’m practicing,” he says in that pouty way he has with his mom.
    “Yes, dear, I can see that. But if you could just—”
    I love Mrs. Drake, because she is so perfect and polite all the time, but you still can tell when there’s something she dislikes. I picture Whitney at the door, makeup dripping down her cheeks. Oliver’s mom would definitely find that unpleasant.
    Abe and I swap smirks behind Oliver’s back.
    “What’s that about?” Eli wants to know as soon as Oliver’s gone.
    Abe shrugs. “Ex-girlfriend hysteria.”
    Eli shakes his head. “Bitches, dude. You can’t keep them around long or they go sour on you, you know? Oh—” He