Never Said by Carol Lynch Williams Page B

we’re in school. I never really thought about how life goes on when I’m not there. How Dad goes into the office. How Mom stays at home.
    We park the car and go into the Krispy Kreme store that smells so yeasty and sweet my mouth waters. Order tea and three doughnuts (each!) and eat one standing at the counter.
    â€œNow where?” Annie says. “We’re killing time. We don’t have to do anything unless we want to.”
    â€œI know.” I lick glaze from my fingers. Peek in the bag at the remaining doughnuts. Hesitate before I speak. “It’s like Before. Or before Before. You know, when we were friends.”
    Annie hugs me. Not a one-armed hug, but a tight, close-to-her embrace. “I don’t know how it happened,” she says, “but I’ve missed this, this being with you.”
    â€œMe too.”
    My sister kisses my face, pushes my hair back. “Let’s get out of here.”
    I grab her hand and we slip and slide outside, all the way to the car.

annie
    Here’s what I think. What I know.
Popular people feel
    lonely heartbroken sad stressed used tired
angry bullied frustrated annoyed isolated broken-
hearted abused anxious overworked
    the same as anyone else.
We aren’t allowed to show pain.
If you complain
you’re made fun of.
If you say you’re too tired
too bored
too far behind
someone will say “Suck it up.”

annie
    Making a change now
could be
dangerous.
Could be bad
for my health.
Losing weight.
fewer doughnuts
less candy
no nighttime snacks
empty drawers
    I think of that thin girl
in the reflection
at school,
the thin me.
Then I think of Tommy
and
others
the
Other
and I’m scared. Scared.
Today
I don’t want to be with anyone
except Sarah.

annie
    â€œTell me how this all
started with Tommy,” she says.
    Tell me.

sarah
    W e’re sipping tea. Eating the last of our doughnuts. Annie speaks. The kind of monologue where I can tell she’s not saying everything.
    First it’s, “We’re not going to Dad’s dumb party.”
    She sounds eight years old and I laugh, relief flooding through me. No violin! No duet! No people to push through, be introduced to, to try to talk to.
    â€œIf you don’t,” I say, “I won’t either.” I sit back in the seat. Close my eyes. Taste sugar on my lips.
    Wait.
    â€œGuys,” Annie says. “They’re so dumb. Even Garret.”
    Even Alex? I almost want to ask Annie what she thinks but this is her time. Her story. And for once I don’t mind hiding my own from view.
    â€œYes, Sarah,” Annie says. Her eyes are so green in this gray world. She’s finished that second doughnut. She swirls her tea around in the cup. There’s a dark red lipstick print on the lid. “Garret was a fool. Is a fool. He doesn’t deserve you. To dump you because his mom said so. You two had a great thing.”
    My heart has moved into my throat.
    â€œI’m sorry it happened.”
    An older lady pulls up next to us in the parking lot. She hason a cream-colored coat (is cream even a color?) and she seems like the only bright bit out there today. She walks into Dillard’s.
    I’m so grateful to hear Annie say this about Garret. How I didn’t do anything wrong, I don’t know whether to bawl or laugh.
    â€œJared had a crush on me.” Annie looks out the window like she’s driving. Hands on the steering wheel and everything. “The guy from your sign language class?”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œAnd Ben was always there. Whenever Jared talked to me, there was Ben. It was strange.”
    It’s snowing now. Icy sleet, really. A truck sails out of the parking lot and to the red light, almost rolling into traffic.
    â€œGuys,” Annie says. “They can be real jerks. Young and old. All of them.”
    And our talk is done.

annie
    They were Dumb and
Dumber
Bumbling around
And I shouted no
shouted at Jared to