cast my lot with Maura—who seems completely willing, for reasons I cannot comprehend, to add me to her posse—I can have unprecedented freedom. My mother handed me her debit card only a few hours ago to send me off to the mall. She watched me get into Katherine’s car, the very car we have seen peeling out next door countless times, even though she’s never met Katherine’s parents, or Katherine for that matter. All that freedom just because I am becoming friends with Maura. I wonder what else I might get away with if I make a habit of this.
Chapter 7
I know I can be judgmental, but it isn’t my fault. I learned from the best. Look at my mother. She so seldom finds anyone who meets her standards. It’s amazing she’s ever had a friend in her life. I try not to be judgmental, but sometimes I just fall into it before I even know what I’m doing. Maybe I see an overweight woman eating a sandwich and I think, “Yeah, that’s what you need. Bread and mayonnaise. Pile it on.” Or I see some kid with acne and in my head I name him “pizza face.” Or I see a gorgeous, thin girl in stylish (that is, skimpy) clothing and I think “slutty bitch” without ever even talking to her.
At least I try not to let these thoughts influence my actions. I try to be nice to people even when the thoughts going through my mind are nasty, not like my mother who thinks anyone in cut-off jeans is trash and not worth her time. It’s just when I notice the thoughts that play in my head, I feel like such a bitch. The more I get to know Maura and her friends, the more I think maybe I’m the bitchy one, not the other way around. As long as they’re willing to make a new start with me, I figure I can give them the benefit of the doubt, too.
Missy—in typical friendly, optimistic Missy fashion—agrees. If they are extending friendship, why not take them up on it? I’m hesitant to bring Missy into the group, though, and I am disgusted with myself to admit the reason. I’m afraid they’ll like her more than me. Who wouldn’t? She’s beautiful, funny, outgoing. Her only flaw that I can see is her incessant chatter, and that isn’t enough to make her hard to like. But I got Missy an invitation to Maura’s birthday bash, so at least for one night I will try to balance both friendships.
Missy comes over in the afternoon before the party to get ready. My parents are taking us, and afterwards Missy is going to stay at my house. Another first for me—I haven’t had a sleepover before, unless cousins count. I would rather stay at Missy’s house, but that is out of the question. Even if my parents had met hers, they’d never allow it. How could they trust me if I am out of their sight all night? I am still finding ways to delay our parents meeting, and I know I can’t keep it up forever. For now, though, having Missy stay at my house is already a huge step forward.
When we are all dressed and ready to go, we stand side by side looking into the mirror in the bathroom. Missy slips her arm around my waist.
“We look fantastic,” she says. “We’ll be the belles of the ball.”
“ You look fantastic,” I say. Beside Missy, I look like a sad sack destined to become a lonely old maid.
“So do you!” Missy says. “Stop frowning!”
I give a half-hearted smile.
“More,” Missy commands.
I force my face into a close-lipped smile.
“For real!” she says, poking my ribs.
I laugh and crack a real smile.
“See,” she says. “A smile makes all the difference.”
“That’s really corny,” I say.
“But true. Wait, I want to take a picture,” she says, dashing to my bedroom to find her cell phone.
I follow her into the hallway. “We can probably find a better place than the bathroom,” I say.
We take one of the classic long-armed shots in which Missy holds the camera away from us and snaps the picture. It is slightly off-centered and charming for that. Then, we get my dad to take some better ones so
Chapter 7
I know I can be judgmental, but it isn’t my fault. I learned from the best. Look at my mother. She so seldom finds anyone who meets her standards. It’s amazing she’s ever had a friend in her life. I try not to be judgmental, but sometimes I just fall into it before I even know what I’m doing. Maybe I see an overweight woman eating a sandwich and I think, “Yeah, that’s what you need. Bread and mayonnaise. Pile it on.” Or I see some kid with acne and in my head I name him “pizza face.” Or I see a gorgeous, thin girl in stylish (that is, skimpy) clothing and I think “slutty bitch” without ever even talking to her.
At least I try not to let these thoughts influence my actions. I try to be nice to people even when the thoughts going through my mind are nasty, not like my mother who thinks anyone in cut-off jeans is trash and not worth her time. It’s just when I notice the thoughts that play in my head, I feel like such a bitch. The more I get to know Maura and her friends, the more I think maybe I’m the bitchy one, not the other way around. As long as they’re willing to make a new start with me, I figure I can give them the benefit of the doubt, too.
Missy—in typical friendly, optimistic Missy fashion—agrees. If they are extending friendship, why not take them up on it? I’m hesitant to bring Missy into the group, though, and I am disgusted with myself to admit the reason. I’m afraid they’ll like her more than me. Who wouldn’t? She’s beautiful, funny, outgoing. Her only flaw that I can see is her incessant chatter, and that isn’t enough to make her hard to like. But I got Missy an invitation to Maura’s birthday bash, so at least for one night I will try to balance both friendships.
Missy comes over in the afternoon before the party to get ready. My parents are taking us, and afterwards Missy is going to stay at my house. Another first for me—I haven’t had a sleepover before, unless cousins count. I would rather stay at Missy’s house, but that is out of the question. Even if my parents had met hers, they’d never allow it. How could they trust me if I am out of their sight all night? I am still finding ways to delay our parents meeting, and I know I can’t keep it up forever. For now, though, having Missy stay at my house is already a huge step forward.
When we are all dressed and ready to go, we stand side by side looking into the mirror in the bathroom. Missy slips her arm around my waist.
“We look fantastic,” she says. “We’ll be the belles of the ball.”
“ You look fantastic,” I say. Beside Missy, I look like a sad sack destined to become a lonely old maid.
“So do you!” Missy says. “Stop frowning!”
I give a half-hearted smile.
“More,” Missy commands.
I force my face into a close-lipped smile.
“For real!” she says, poking my ribs.
I laugh and crack a real smile.
“See,” she says. “A smile makes all the difference.”
“That’s really corny,” I say.
“But true. Wait, I want to take a picture,” she says, dashing to my bedroom to find her cell phone.
I follow her into the hallway. “We can probably find a better place than the bathroom,” I say.
We take one of the classic long-armed shots in which Missy holds the camera away from us and snaps the picture. It is slightly off-centered and charming for that. Then, we get my dad to take some better ones so
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