Speak
FRIENDS
Rachel is with me in the bathroom. Edit that. Rachelle is with me in the bathroom. She has changed her name. Rachelle is reclaiming her European heritage by hanging out with the foreign- exchange students. After five weeks in school, she can swear in French. She wears black stockings with runs and doesn't shave under her arms. She waves her hand in the air and you find yourself
thinking of young chimpanzees.
I can't believe she was my best friend.
I'm in the bathroom trying to put my right contact lens back in. She's smudging mascara under her eyes to look exhausted and wan. I think about running out so she can't pull the evil eye on me again, but Hairwoman, my English teacher, is patrolling the hall and I forgot to go to her class.
Me: “Hi.”
Rachelle: “Mmm.”
Now what? I'm going to be completely, totally cool, like nothing has happened. Think ice. Think snow.
Me: “How's it going.” I try to put in my contact, and poke myself in the eye. Very cool.
Rachelle: “Eehn.” She gets mascara in her eye and rubs it, smearing mascara across her face.
I don't want to be cool. I want to grab her by the neck and shake her and scream at her to stop treating me like dirt. She didn't even bother to find out the truth--what kind of friend is that? My contact folds in half under my eyelid. Tears well in my right eye.
Me: “Ouch.”
Rachelle: Snorts. Stands back from mirror, turns head from side to side to admire the black mess that looks like goose poop across her cheekbones] “Pas mal.”
She puts a candy cigarette between her lips. Rachelle wants desperately to smoke, but she has asthma. She has started a new Thing, unheard of in a ninth-grader. Candy cigarettes. The exchange students love it. Next thing you know, she'll be drinking black coffee and reading books without pictures.
An exchange student flushes and comes out of the stall. This one looks like a supermodel with a name like Greta or Ingrid. Is America the only country with dumpy teenagers? She says something foreign and Rachelle laughs. Right, like she understood.
Me: Rachelle blows a candy cigarette smoke ring at my face. Blows me off. I have been dropped like a hot Pop Tart on a cold kitchen floor. Rachelle and Greta-Ingrid glide out of the bathroom.
Neither one of them has toilet paper stuck to her boots. Where is the justice?
I need a new friend. I need a friend, period. Not a true friend, nothing close or share clothes or sleepover giggle giggle yak yak. Just a pseudo-friend, disposable friend. Friend as accessory. Just so I don't feel and look so stupid.
My journal entry for the day: “Exchange students are ruining our country.”
