towards Jena so their shoulders touch. “Anyway, I wasn’t being judgmental or anything. I was just saying what everybody else thinks. If you want to go out with Josh Shine, that’s your business. Don’t let me influence you. I won’t say another word.”
“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” Jena quickly assures her. “I’m not interested in him like that. We’re just friends.”
“Well, that’s all cool,” says Tilda. “So long as you’re sure.”
Jena nods. “Oh, I’m sure.”
If she wasn’t before, she definitely is now.
Zugzwanged
So now Josh and Jena are friends.
Not friends like Jena and Tilda, of course. Tilda is Jena’s official best friend. She sleeps over and shares secrets, cosmetics and clothes. Tilda’s the friend who discusses things like sex, periods and breast implants with Jena. If they were flowers they’d both be roses. Not only do they look as if they belong together, when they are together they never stop talking, and when they aren’t together they message and text all the time. As if even an hour with no communication between them would end life as we know it.
And not friends like the other kids who make up Jena’s social life – Tilda’s crowd – the movies-pizza-bowling-party crew. The kids who make teenagedom look cool and fun.
Josh has nothing to do with Tilda or her bunch. Which breaks no hearts on either side. Despite that, he has grown as close to Jena as it’s possible to get without being either her boyfriend, a relative, or Tilda Kopel. He’s the friend whose clothes Jena wouldn’t want to borrow, who would undoubtedly be shot by her father if he even thought of staying overnight and who would rather have a mouse ear grafted to the top of his head than get involved in a conversation about sex, blood or breasts with anyone, especially Jenevieve Capistrano. He’s the friend who never hangs out with everyone on weekends – the mainly indoors, private, at-home friend (though because of Ramona’s tendency to look out her window the home is as often his as Jena’s). The one who is always available, even at short notice, to run errands, watch a movie, or help with homework. Or just be there when no one else is around.
Being a human isn’t easy. Give a dog a bowl of food and a pat on the head, and he’ll be wagging his tail. Give a cat your chair by the fire and a few treats, and the purring will begin. People, however, are far more complicated. Liable to create problems for themselves or make worse the ones that exist. People are full of contradictions, as straightforward as a maze. As an example of this, Josh should be pretty pleased with things right now – or at least grateful to the kindness of the cosmos. He got what he thought he wanted, and a lot more than he thought he would get. Unofficial back-up best friend. Who could have predicted that? Who dared hope?
And is he happy? Does he look up at the sky every night and thank the stars?
No, he isn’t. No, he does not.
Before that fateful Saturday night, Josh was interested in Jenevieve the way a poor man might be interested in expensive cars – turning his head to look when one passes, occasionally letting out an if-only sigh. Now, however, Josh is officially smitten. Smitten – from the verb “smite”, to strike with a hard blow. Smite, smote, smiting, smitten. She couldn’t have struck him a harder blow if she’d smashed him over the head with a mallet. The only time Josh ever felt worse than this was when his dad died. He locks himself in his room, playing heartbreak songs about unrequited love (of which there are several thousand more than you might have thought). When he looks at the stars, it isn’t because he is sleepless with happiness but with hopelessness – the last thing on his mind is thanking them. For although Jenevieve Capistrano is nothing like the Devil – no horns, no hooves, no tail, and a much nicer nature – Josh feels as though he must be in Hell. If he walks her home
“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” Jena quickly assures her. “I’m not interested in him like that. We’re just friends.”
“Well, that’s all cool,” says Tilda. “So long as you’re sure.”
Jena nods. “Oh, I’m sure.”
If she wasn’t before, she definitely is now.
Zugzwanged
So now Josh and Jena are friends.
Not friends like Jena and Tilda, of course. Tilda is Jena’s official best friend. She sleeps over and shares secrets, cosmetics and clothes. Tilda’s the friend who discusses things like sex, periods and breast implants with Jena. If they were flowers they’d both be roses. Not only do they look as if they belong together, when they are together they never stop talking, and when they aren’t together they message and text all the time. As if even an hour with no communication between them would end life as we know it.
And not friends like the other kids who make up Jena’s social life – Tilda’s crowd – the movies-pizza-bowling-party crew. The kids who make teenagedom look cool and fun.
Josh has nothing to do with Tilda or her bunch. Which breaks no hearts on either side. Despite that, he has grown as close to Jena as it’s possible to get without being either her boyfriend, a relative, or Tilda Kopel. He’s the friend whose clothes Jena wouldn’t want to borrow, who would undoubtedly be shot by her father if he even thought of staying overnight and who would rather have a mouse ear grafted to the top of his head than get involved in a conversation about sex, blood or breasts with anyone, especially Jenevieve Capistrano. He’s the friend who never hangs out with everyone on weekends – the mainly indoors, private, at-home friend (though because of Ramona’s tendency to look out her window the home is as often his as Jena’s). The one who is always available, even at short notice, to run errands, watch a movie, or help with homework. Or just be there when no one else is around.
Being a human isn’t easy. Give a dog a bowl of food and a pat on the head, and he’ll be wagging his tail. Give a cat your chair by the fire and a few treats, and the purring will begin. People, however, are far more complicated. Liable to create problems for themselves or make worse the ones that exist. People are full of contradictions, as straightforward as a maze. As an example of this, Josh should be pretty pleased with things right now – or at least grateful to the kindness of the cosmos. He got what he thought he wanted, and a lot more than he thought he would get. Unofficial back-up best friend. Who could have predicted that? Who dared hope?
And is he happy? Does he look up at the sky every night and thank the stars?
No, he isn’t. No, he does not.
Before that fateful Saturday night, Josh was interested in Jenevieve the way a poor man might be interested in expensive cars – turning his head to look when one passes, occasionally letting out an if-only sigh. Now, however, Josh is officially smitten. Smitten – from the verb “smite”, to strike with a hard blow. Smite, smote, smiting, smitten. She couldn’t have struck him a harder blow if she’d smashed him over the head with a mallet. The only time Josh ever felt worse than this was when his dad died. He locks himself in his room, playing heartbreak songs about unrequited love (of which there are several thousand more than you might have thought). When he looks at the stars, it isn’t because he is sleepless with happiness but with hopelessness – the last thing on his mind is thanking them. For although Jenevieve Capistrano is nothing like the Devil – no horns, no hooves, no tail, and a much nicer nature – Josh feels as though he must be in Hell. If he walks her home
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