“And guess what she said,” Jessi snickered. Everyone but me gazed eagerly at her. I squeezed my eyes shut. I had joined the “popular” group about a month ago and still hadn’t gotten used to it. They had accepted me, although I would never know why.
My friends and I were at what was supposed to be the best sleepover Jessi had ever had. We were scattered around the tile floor of her basement in our sleeping bags, listening to one of her stories about Jasmine. In the short time I’d been friends with Jessi I’d grown used to these stories. I knew every lie that had ever fallen from Jasmine’s lips.
“She says, ‘Jess, I am so good at ice skating, I can do a triple axel,’” Jessi finished. The people around me broke into peals of laughter. I forced a grin onto my embarrassed face. It just didn’t seem fair to talk about people that way behind their backs. Besides, I was exhausted and wanted to plop down on my pillows and collapse.
“Tell us more, tell us more,” the other girls squealed. I covered my head with my hands and wished they would vanish into thin air.
“Lori hasn’t said anything. You should make her tell you a story,” Jessi said smugly. I gasped. Was this Jessi’s way of testing me to see if I was ready to be “popular”?
“Yeah, Lori, Lori, Lori,” the crowd around me started to chant. I searched my mind frantically. I couldn’t make fun of anyone. And anyway, I didn’t know anything about Jasmine to tell!
“Nah,” I mumbled. “Make Sally tell a story. I like listening more.” I was sure they would persist, but they didn’t. Sally took advantage of her moment in the spotlight to begin a story. I silently thanked her.
***
My father and I set out the next morning for grocery shopping. “Milk,” he told me. I knew my whole job for that morning was to load myself with milk, bring it back to the cart, load myself with milk again, and bring it back to the cart again, etc. Dad pushed the cart over to the yogurt section.
My parents are obsessed with calcium.
On one of my many trips between cart and milk, I saw Jasmine and her mother. I paused, almost dropping my three milk cartons. (One in each of my hands and one on my head. I did drop the one on my head.) I put all of them down, except the one I dropped, and that I placed upright and crept closer. This, I told myself, could be my chance to get a story to tell Jessi and prove myself worthy of the popular crowd.
But the story I heard was not one I would ever repeat. It struck me ice cold in the heart. Jasmine and her mother were leaning over the candy bin.
“Lemon drops falling from the sky. Gumdrops coming too,” sang Jasmine in a perfect voice.
“Shut up, child!” her mother whispered angrily. “Someone might hear your awful voice. Now Jason, would you like another chess set?” She smiled at Jasmine’s brother. I suddenly remembered that Jason was a chess prodigy. My heart was suddenly filled with pity for Jasmine. For a split second I hated Jessi and the crowd. For a split second.
***
The next school day my group and I walked to school together. We laughed about Jasmine and a few other “nerds,” as we popular kids called them. With my friends I seemed to be able to joke about people without feeling embarrassed. When Jasmine skipped by, we all stifled our giggles and acted calm. Except me. Upon seeing her, I suddenly remembered what I had seen at the grocery store the day before.
“I’m sorry Jasmine,” I muttered and ran away before anyone could see my tears.
As I fled away I realized what a fool I had made of myself. What was wrong with me? The first good friends I got and I totally embarrassed myself in front of them. “Oh come on Lori, don’t be dumb! Jasmine will never know if you tease her behind her back. Oh please, just try to be like them.” I needed friends more than anything else. Well, if my friends liked making fun of Jasmine, making fun of Jasmine it would be!
***
It was a beautiful spring morning. The birds were chirping in the trees, the sun was shining down on the tulips, and the world was glistening with dew. Our whole bunch was down by the creek, watching the tadpoles dart around. Jessi was complaining that it was boring, and everyone else was agreeing. Except for me, of course, who would rather stay on the riverbank forever than go throw some dumb ball. But I wasn’t about to disagree, so I followed them up the steps and over to the blacktop.
“All right,” Sally began. “Who’s on whose team?”
Slowly, we divided into teams for basketball. It was four against five. My team was short by one person, and I was a hindrance to them. When they passed to me (if I caught it), I would shoot at the wrong basket. If I caught a pass and didn’t go to the basket we were defending, I would usually give the ball to the other team. No, we couldn’t go on like this. We needed one more girl, and she had to be good.
Jasmine came over from the hopscotch. “I see you need one more person. And I’m mighty good,” she said proudly.
I wasn’t sure what to say. After all, if what Jessi said was true, Jasmine was lying. Nonetheless, we needed someone else, and Jasmine did say she was good . . .
I soon found out I didn’t have a say in the matter. My teammates were already murmuring among themselves.
“We can’t let her play, she sucks,” Jessi whispered.
“As if Lori doesn’t,” another kid hissed. I decided to pretend I hadn’t heard.
“Hey,” I said. “If she’s bad, and I’m bad, why not have her on one team and me on the other? We’ll cancel each other out.”
The kid who had said I couldn’t play blushed but nodded her agreement. “All right,” Jessi decided. “Jasmine, you are on their team. Casey,” she said, pointing to a short, brown-haired girl on the other team, “you’re on ours.”
Our opponents groaned. They didn’t want any more than Jessi had to have Jasmine on their team.
The game flew by. I, as always, scored the other team two points and gave them a couple of foul shots. Although Jasmine didn’t do anything despicable, like me, she didn’t help her team much. It was almost as if she wasn’t there. Nevertheless, they won, 22 to 12. It seemed that whatever team I was on, lost. That made sense.
What didn’t make sense, though, was that Jasmine lied. Maybe all of Jessi’s stories were true. I felt anger steaming up inside me. I hated liars.
Soon after our basketball game, the bell pierced the air. We all scrambled inside, hoping our music teacher had suddenly died of pneumonia. Nope. Mrs. Smith was there, half smiling, half sneering at us when we got in the room. I wanted to run out of the room when I saw her face with the ice-cold marbles staring at me. I always do. It suddenly struck me. If I was frightened, what was Jasmine? She had always seemed like a scared person.
I sang first. Our song was one that went terribly high so that my voice creaked, squeaked, and then collapsed at the end.
Jessi rolled her eyes when it was her turn. The teacher didn’t seem to notice. Sometimes I wish I was brave like Jessi. I want to be able to laugh in the face of danger, the way she does.
Then it was Jasmine’s turn. The teacher nodded at her, the cue to begin. She didn’t start. Jasmine froze right in her position. Her mouth seemed to open and close. Every time it was like she hoped for something to come out, but nothing ever did. Everyone turned and gaped at her. No one, no one, ever stopped singing in front of Mrs. Smith. She was quite strict when it came to that, and one of her rules was, “Always participate in musical activities.” Jasmine, everyone knew, was in for it.
Mrs. Smith stood up to her full, imposing height. “I want to hear you sing,” she bellowed. Jasmine opened her mouth, but not a word came out.
“Are you deaf? Mute? Sing child!” As Mrs. Smith said this, Jasmine’s face turned beet red.
“I, I, I w-w-want t-to,” Jasmine stammered. I could tell she was going to cry, but I yearned for her not to. I sat in my hard, yellow chair and tried to send telepathic rays of courage to her.
“Then do,” Mrs. Smith said harshly.
Jasmine croaked the song out, but she sounded dreadful. Worse than I had, and that was hard.
“Good, I’m glad I don’t have to report you to the principal,” Mrs. Smith said. I don’t really think she would have reported Jasmine to the principal. Mrs. Smith is known for trying to scare people.
***
I couldn’t wait until recess. Social studies went by in a flash, although that might have been because I wasn’t paying any attention. I was imagining how lucky I was to have such perfect friends who would play with me at recess.
When lunch break came, I gobbled up my food. Recess came quickly and everyone poured outside, my friends and I discussing whose ball we were going to use for some game that I had never played before. Apparently, Jessi’s ball was the smoothest, but Casey’s was bluest.
After a while of playing with Jessi’s ball, I excused myself. “I gotta go,” I announced. Everyone laughed as if I had just made a hilarious joke. I went inside feeling like a hero.
As I entered the bathroom I heard the most sweet singing. It was “Simple Gifts.” I tiptoed over to where I thought it was coming from, making sure I wasn’t making any noise. I knocked gently on the door. Jasmine came hastily out.
“Oh no, you’re one of those girls, aren’t you?” she said saucily. Although she acted as if she were angry, she looked more like a frightened rabbit. I felt like she would dart away from me any minute. I wanted to say that I wouldn’t hurt her, but that sounded too childish.
“Well, yes, I guess so . . .” I trailed off.
“And you’ve come on a bet, right, to see if you could scare me, right?” Now I could tell by her eyes that she was terrified. I could see her tension. It probably had happened before. My friends would do that sort of thing. Suddenly I realized what my friends were. I shuddered at the thought. At least I wasn’t doing anything as cruel as that.
“Oh no, I hadn’t the faintest idea you were here.” I smiled weakly.
“Good, I guess . . .” she muttered in a way that told me she didn’t trust me.
“Well, um,” I stuttered, trying to think of something to say. “You sing very well.” I had a feeling I wasn’t going to get anywhere.
She shook her head. “No I don’t.”
“But you do!” I said, meaning it.
“No I don’t,” she repeated.
“You sing beautifully, you can’t deny it.”
“My mother doesn’t think so.”
Your mother is a stupid, rotten person, I wanted to say. But I didn’t. “I know,” was all I managed.
“You know, I hate my mother.”
“I can see why,” I said under my breath. She apparently heard me.
“And I hate you! I hate you all! Your whole point in life is making mine harder for me. Don’t you know what I go through? Don’t you care? I hate you. I hate me for hating you. I hate me for hating my mother. I hate you for hating my mother. I hate this whole world! I especially hate myself!”
Suddenly I had an urge to hug her. And unlike everything else I had thought to say or do, I decided to. I threw my arms around her and squeezed.
Jasmine sniffled a little, and then she was calm. “I’m sorry,” she muttered.
“It’s OK.” I felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off my back. I understood Jasmine, but more importantly, I understood me. I realized why I’d wanted to be with Jessi and the crowd. It was because I had no one else. But now I did. I had Jasmine. As I looked at her I realized that she understood. She understood everything.
You can never choose a best friend, they kind of just come to you, and you come to them. I had come to Jasmine that one time in the bathroom, but really, she had come to me.
