Chapter 7
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!” Frannie says as we cross the front lawn toward the school parking lot.
“Eh, it wasn’t a big deal. It’s not like we were ever serious.”
“Still! A breakup is a big deal whether it’s with a soulmate or a Randy Julep,” she says, then she stops and grabs hold of my arm to stop me, her doe eyes even wider than usual, and her tone gets grave. “Waldo, you’re my best friend…”
I cringe at the term that she weaponizes so skillfully, that she wields as a threat like the creepy doll that comes alive at the end of the horror movie, walking toward you with predatory green eyes. MY. BEST. FRIEND.
“…and best friends tell each other every-theen.”
I cringe at that too, the way she drops the g from the backs of her words. “Everything” becomes “every-theen.” “Thinking” becomes “think-een.” “Wondering” becomes “wonder-een.” I used to find it endearing. Now I find it grating. Grating. With a g.
When we met we were inseparable. I went to Frannie’s house every day after middle school.
I loved how big and clean and safe it felt, with the vaulted ceilings and the fancy alarm system and the appliances that blended in with the cabinets.
We sifted through Frannie’s mom’s crafting collection and made beaded necklaces and popsicle-stick catch-all trays, tie-dyed shirts and friendship cards.
We set up a Slip ’n Slide on the grass and got welts on our bellies from sliding on it so many times.
We pitched a tent in the backyard and camped there for three nights.
We sold lemonade on the corner of her street in the summer and hot cocoa in the winter, a buck a cup. Things were good.
Until a sleepover at Frannie’s house early in the ninth grade.
Mom left on a last-minute trip to Vegas with her then boyfriend so I went to stay with Frannie for the week.
By this point, I was used to the inclusion of church activities.
Didn’t really mind. Sure, bowing my head for family prayer three times a day gave me a neckache and I never knew any of the references when we played Book of Mormon charades for Family Home Evening, but it wasn’t a big deal.
But this time I actually went to church with them.
Borrowed one of Frannie’s puffy-sleeved pastry dresses that itched all through Sacrament meeting.
Then I attended class with her. And the lecture was on befriending the friendless.
And how generous that is. What good charity work it is.
How you curry favor with God for doing it.
And I looked over and Frannie’s eyes were lit up with recognition, hearing herself in the words as she sat at the edge of her seat, almost falling off from sheer, eager, do-gooder-ness.
I realized I was the friendless she had befriended.
A hole-punch on her God stamp card. A fixer-upper to her savior. I was charity work.
I wanted to scream in her face that she didn’t have any friends either, that she’d have to eat lunch sitting in the cafeteria alone too if she didn’t have me.
But then church class was dismissed and Frannie stood in a semicircle swapping Bible verse bookmarks with her classmates. Her friends. I guess she did have them.
“Well, if you need a shoulder to cry on or you just wanna talk, know that I’m here,” Frannie says.
“Sure, thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Frannie releases my arm so we can resume the walk to our cars. She digs through her backpack for her car keys and I catch a whiff of her Glossier fig lip balm and Aesop geranium leaf body wash that smells like a rainforest. I’ve always liked the way she smells.
“Well, I’m this way…” Frannie motions to her car, a sparkling vanilla MINI Cooper that her parents bought her for her sweet sixteenth.
“I’m that way,” I say, nodding toward mine, a beat-up 2001 Toyota Camry that cost me eight hundred bucks and some free babysitting work.
“See you later,” she says, then she turns back. “And hey, seriously, I’m here for you. Call me and we can talk more about it.”
“I will,” I say, even though I won’t.
And we head to our cars in their opposite directions.