Friction Read online

  “Stick with her,” Simon goes. “You two just need to wrestle things out.” And he scoots over and pulls me into a roughhousing headlock. Three things happen right then that fill my gut with jackhammers: Simon’s hand brushes my chest accidentally; Tim’s wave freezes in the air; and Stacy plants her hands on her hips, raises her eyebrows, and mouths, I told you so, through the glass wall.

  I pull away fast from Simon, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He just pushes my head playfully toward the door and then turns to lift his bike off its hooks.

  * * *

  It’s dark out, and I’m supposed to be in bed, but instead, I’m bobbing in my rocking chair, nervous. For one thing, I’m worried about what Tim and Stacy are thinking. Tim must know it was just an accident. It’s Stacy who will try to make a big deal out of it. After it happened, I couldn’t catch up to either one of them because Simon asked me to carry some recycling crates from the upper school to the lower school. So I have to figure out what to do if Stacy brings it up. I don’t think trying to ignore her is going to work.

  I tip the rocker back and forth, feeling my nightshirt sliding over my skin. And now my mind wanders to something else. Something I haven’t been able to get out of my mind. Just this little thing: the way it felt when Simon’s hand brushed my chest. Warm and soft where it touched, but then, just for half a second, a kind of melting and sliding everywhere else.

  It’s not like I have much. I don’t even wear a bra yet, mostly because I don’t need one. But something funny happened when he touched me there anyway. I wouldn’t admit it to anybody because it’s gross thinking that feeling came from my teacher. Still, the feeling itself was nice. I’d like to have it again. Just not with Simon.

  * * *

  “You look pooped,” my father tells me at the breakfast table. He’s pulling on his socks and shoes. My parents don’t really eat breakfast. The kitchen is just where they finish up getting ready for work so they can keep me company while I eat. The rule is I have to eat something. They don’t. Typical.

  My mom comes down the back stairs, strapping on her watch and checking out my face at the same time.

  “Are you okay?” she asks. She rests the back of her hand on my forehead.

  “I guess I didn’t sleep so good,” I say. I’ve got a bowl of Rice Chex all poured with milk in front of me, but I’m not very hungry.

  “Maybe you were too cold,” my mom goes. “You don’t feel sick, though.”

  “I wasn’t too cold. I’m fine. I just . . . I was thinking a lot.”

  “What were you thinking about?” my mom asks. I want to try to explain what’s been happening. But some of it’s sort of personal, plus it’s hard to describe, especially to your parents.

  “It’s that new girl, Stacy,” I start anyway. “She’s still being disgusting.”

  “What’s she saying now?” my dad asks.

  “She’s sort of . . . It’s like . . . Well, first of all, she acts kind of older than the rest of us. I mean, she is older, because she’s fourteen, but—”

  One of their beepers goes off. They both pat their pockets, and my mom pulls hers out and looks at it.

  “Oh,” she goes, biting her lip. She glances at my dad. “It’s Martha.”

  “Alex, listen,” my dad says. “That’s the patient of mom’s who’s really, really sick, the one with the kids.”

  “The addicted one?” I go. “The thief?”

  “She doesn’t beep us unless something is very wrong. Like an emergency.”

  “We want to hear what’s going on,” my mom adds as she heads for the garage door. “We truly do, sweetie. So let’s talk again tonight, okay?”

  It’s not like I have a choice. Some addict woman with little kids is dying and everything, and my problem is so small, I don’t even know how to put it into words.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”

  * * *

  We don’t do flash cards in the morning because we’re supposed to spend the whole day preparing for our camping trip. Tim, Stacy, Sophie, and I are organizing the rappelling equipment, which includes picking knots out of the ropes and then coiling each line, all neat and even and everything. I slide my hand from one end of a line to the other, so I can smooth it as straight as possible before I start to coil. Tim does the same thing, using his thumb and index finger as a loop. Stacy watches him and lifts her eyebrows up under her bangs, which are combed forward today.

  “Friction,” she goes.

  “Yeah, right,” I say.

  “Here’s more,” Sophie tells us, and she puts a pile of tangled ropes on our table.

  “I bet Simon loves friction.” Stacy smirks, running her tongue ring across her lower lip.

  “It was an accident,” I go.

  “What was an accident?” Sophie asks. Not nosy. Just curious.

  “He felt her up,” Stacy says.

  “He did not!” Tim goes.

  Walk away, I tell myself. Walk away. But I can’t. “It was a mistake,” I say to Sophie. She picks out one of the tangled clumps from the table and starts to work on it, all casual.

  “I’ll get this one,” she goes, like she isn’t even hearing this.

  “Quit making stuff up, Stacy, or I’m not talking to you anymore,” I say. “I swear.”

  Stacy snorts.

  “I mean it!” I leave my ropes alone and stare her in the eye. She stares right back, and I will myself not to blink. Finally she looks down.

  “Okaay,” she groans, and I think I’ve won. But when almost all the lines are neatly coiled, Stacy starts up again.

  “I just think it’s kind of strange that a grown man wants to spend his weekend with a bunch of kids.”

  “We’re not a bunch of kids,” Tim goes. “We’re his kids.”

  “We are not his kids,” Stacy says. Tim stops working with his rope. I glance over at Sophie. She’s staying quiet.

  Stacy runs her hands up and down a line. It’s nasty the way she’s doing it. She’s purposely making it nasty.

  “You watch,” she tells us. “How much you want to bet Simon ends up sleeping next to Alex?”

  “He has his own tent!” I go.

  “Oh, please,” Stacy says, rolling her eyes. Sophie stands up and walks away.

  “You are so full of it,” Tim tells Stacy.

  “You are,” Stacy says.

  “Why don’t you ever try being human?” Tim goes.

  “Forget it, Tim,” I say.

  “Why don’t you kiss my ass?” Stacy goes right back at him. “Simon’s a pervert, stupid!”

  “Stop,” I say.

  “You’re the pervert!” Tim tells her, pushing out his chair and jumping to his feet.

  Stacy leans back, crossing her arms, all calm. “Screw you,” she goes.

  “Stop it!” I say again.

  “Just shove it, Stacy!” Tim yells, and he grabs a rope and snaps it hard on the floor. It cracks, loud, and Stacy leans forward and slams her hands on the table.

  “You shove it and die!” she yells back at him.

  And the next thing I know, I’m standing on top of the table between them, shouting, “Stop it! Stop it!” over and over, and then Simon is there, and he yanks me down, and Tim and Stacy are so surprised at me that Tim drops the rope and their mouths stay closed tight all the way to the principal’s office.

  * * *

  “I want that glass sparkling,” Maggie orders us, handing over buckets, rags, and a step stool. She’s talking about the round windows. They’re high up off the ground and four feet in diameter. Four feet from any edge to any opposite edge. Huge. Like big, round eyes, wide open, just begging you to daydream right through them. The windows aren’t so great, though, when you have to wash them.

  “By the time that glass is clean,” Maggie’s telling us, “I want to know the three of you can work together in peace.”

  I grab a bucket and stare at the carpet. Tim and I have never, ever gotten into trouble.

  “This is illegal,” Stac
y complains. “Making us do the janitor’s job.”

  “Would you rather I call your parents?” Maggie asks. Parent, I want to say. “Because I will if you feel you’re being treated unfairly.” Stacy glances at me and then grabs the other bucket.

  “Whatever,” she goes.

  But when we’re almost finished with the first window, she can’t help herself.

  “This is all your fault,” she accuses me. She flicks her rag at Tim’s leg. “Right, Tim?”

  “My fault?” What is she talking about?

  She begins to giggle. “Yeah, because you’re such a troublemaker.”

  “Bull,” I tell Stacy. “It’s your fault.” I look up at Tim, who’s on top of the step stool. “Yours too,” I tell him. And it’s true. He didn’t have to go ballistic like that.

  “Me?” he goes. “But Simon is not a pervert!” He glares at Stacy. “Right?”

  “God,” Stacy moans out. What does that mean? I try to catch Tim’s eye, but he’s looking at her instead of at me.

  “It’s her fault,” Stacy says again, nodding toward me and smirking. She really is full of it. But Tim cracks a grin.

  “Huh,” he goes, like he’s thinking about it, and he hops down. I don’t get it.

  “Huh is right.” Stacy nods.

  Tim looks at me and shrugs. “Maybe.” Which makes Stacy snort. I can’t believe it. Stacy flicks her rag at Tim’s leg again. He flicks her back.

  “You guys better quit it, or Maggie’s going to make us clean the whole school,” I warn them.

  “See?” Stacy goes. I don’t see, but now Tim’s sort of laughing too.

  “Yep,” Tim goes.

  “Stop it!” I tell him.

  “Sorry,” he says, but when Stacy snorts again, he starts laughing for real.

  “Tim!”

  “Tim!” Stacy mocks me. And now they’re doubled over. I whack both of them on the legs with my rag, pretending as hard as I can to think they’re funny.

  8

  USUALLY I’M SO excited on the morning of our camping trip that I can hardly stand it. But everything starts off bad this time.

  “See you,” I go to my dad, hoping to get out the door before my mom gets downstairs and the two of them start grilling me.

  “Wait,” my father says, trying to help me hoist on my backpack, even though I didn’t ask him to. “Aren’t we driving you? This thing is really heavy.”

  “Nah,” I say. “I want to walk.”

  The truth is, I don’t want my parents to find out about the fight yesterday, and also, I don’t want to cry in front of them. Which is what’s going to happen if I have to talk about Stacy’s bull and Tim messing with me the way he did, right along with her.

  “We never really finished that conversation from yesterday morning,” my dad says. “About your new girl. It seemed kind of important.”

  “Everything’s okay,” I lie. “Except I’m going to be late if you don’t say good-bye already.”

  So he says good-bye and yells up to my mom, who runs down half dressed to tell me to have a good time, and now, feeling guilty and bad and all messed up in the head and sweating like crazy, I practically fall down the last stretch of wood trail onto Maple Avenue’s shoulder. I have to stop and take my backpack off to adjust the straps and then get the thing back on again, and by that time I just want to scream.

  “Tomy,” Simon’s saying as I walk into the upper school. To cut, I automatically think.

  “Whose oral report today?” I ask Tim, sliding into the seat he’s saved for me. It’s the only seat left, or I might not have even taken it. I’m glad Stacy’s not sitting next to him.

  “Teddy’s,” he goes, passing his paper forward. Flash cards are over. “Where were you?” I shrug. “Stacy’s doing it again,” he whispers.

  “Doing what?”

  “Saying things about you and Simon.”

  “What things?”

  “You know,” Tim goes. “People are starting to believe her.” That’s what you get for egging her on, I want to yell. But he looks so worried. Just like how I feel.

  “What should I do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I try to tell myself nobody’s going to buy Stacy’s stories over the truth. Still, I don’t like it. I don’t want people to think about Simon like that. Or about me like that either. It’s too disgusting.

  Teddy waddles in from the back hallway to the science counter in front of the room. He’s guiding a shorter, rounder version of himself by the neck. For a second I forget about Stacy.

  “This is Joey,” Teddy tells the class. We’re cracking up. “He’s my little brother. He’s nine years younger than me.” Joey looks exactly like Teddy. Chins and all. He’s glancing all around, kind of scared. I don’t blame him. When I was in the lower school, I was kind of scared of the big kids. Now, I guess, my whole class is the big kids.

  “How old are you, little Joe?” Teddy goes.

  “Four,” Joey says in this squeaky cartoon voice. Teddy smiles. He seems different up there today. Fatter or older or something.

  “Joey’s a fundamental part of my life because he’s my little brother and brothers are ineffably important.” Teddy lets go of Joey’s neck and puts his arm on Joey’s head. “He’s my oral report.” The whole class is going nuts. Stacy’s laughing so hard over at her table, she’s having trouble staying in her chair. She’s wearing a headband. When she finally notices me, I glare at her, to let her know she better stop making things up. With all her clowning around, though, I’m not sure she gets it.

  I look for Simon at the back of the room. He’s not laughing at all. He has an expression on his face that’s sort of twisted and familiar. It’s the same one I saw that day with the candle, when he first told me and Tim about his brother, Andrew. It’s this kind of confused, alone look. It crushes my stomach and makes me want to walk over and say something, anything, to Simon. Or just to sit next to him. Only now, because of Stacy, I can’t.

  * * *

  We get in one quick game before it’s time to load up the cars and leave for Storm Mountain. And things get more complicated on the soccer field.

  “What’s the deal with you and Simon?” Danny asks, tipping the ball to me for the kickoff. His hair’s growing out, so you can see the black roots underneath the blue.

  “There is no deal,” I go, passing back to Tim and thinking that if I say it extra loud, nobody will hear my heart butting at my chest.

  “Stacy says Simon made a pass at you,” Danny says as Teddy tries to beat me to a throw-in. Teddy’s fast, for a fat person, but I win the ball and kick it hard, right between his legs. Teddy doubles over and makes that auugghh sound guys make when they get clocked in the crotch.

  “Dead babies!” Danny yells, and everybody runs over to Teddy. The game automatically stops when someone gets hit in the balls. That’s because the hit person usually ends up curled in a sideways bundle on the ground, and the other boys get all tense and can’t play for a few minutes. I watch Tim wince and cross his own legs. Viv gets on his knees and talks to Teddy.

  “Try to breathe, man,” Viv goes. “Just try to breathe it out.” Viv is always so calm.

  “You really nailed him,” Tim tells me.

  “It was an accident,” I lie.

  “So?” Danny asks me, quiet, while Teddy tries to sit up.

  “So?” I go. “What?” But I know he still wants to hear about Simon.

  “Is it true?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” I say. “Stacy makes things up.” Danny doesn’t look so sure. “Anyway, Simon’s a man,” I say. “I’m just a girl.”

  Danny raises his eyebrows and looks right at my chest. Then he leans in close to my ear. “Not for long,” he whispers. And even though he hasn’t touched me, I’m scared I’ll get that soft melting feeling right here on the soccer field, and they’ll all be able to tell. So I shove him. But before he can shove me back, these three workmen show up. They’ve got spades and rakes and a bunch of ot
her tools, and when I glance down to the parking lot, I see two trucks.

  “Sorry, kids,” one of them says. “But you got to clear out of here.”

  “Oh,” Viv goes. “I forgot.”

  “Forgot what?” Tim asks.

  “My dad’s donating sod for the soccer field. I guess before they put it down, they have to do stuff to get the field ready.”

  “What’s sod?” Tim asks.

  “It’s grass that’s already grown,” Viv says. “It gets cut into these longs strips, and then you just roll it on the ground like a carpet.”

  “We don’t need grass,” Danny goes. “We need real goalposts and nets. Why doesn’t your dad just buy us that stuff instead?”

  “My father didn’t buy the sod,” Viv says, real even. “He got it for free from a friend. My mom wanted it for our backyard, but I asked if we could have it instead.”

  “We do so need grass,” Teddy goes to Danny. “The ball moves different on a good grass field than on dirt. It’s a totally new game then. And if we want to be halfway decent in the league next year, we better get the feel of it.” Teddy turns to Viv. “It’s cool of your father to give it to us.”

  “Yeah,” Tim goes, and he flips the ball right onto Danny’s jerk head. “Idget.”

  * * *

  Most of the others are pulling away in Teddy’s dad’s SUV while Tim helps Sebastian into the backseat of Simon’s car. Stacy holds the front passenger door open for me.

  “Why don’t you sit up front” She smirks, and I want to strangle her.

  “You can,” I say.

  “No, thanks,” she goes.

  “Go ahead,” I say. “I don’t mind.”

  “No, really,” Stacy goes, “I don’t mind.”

  “Would one of you get in already?” Simon goes.

  Stacy beats me to hopping into the back, between Sebastian and Tim, and I don’t say anything to her for the whole ride. She tries to get me to, once. She leans forward from the backseat behind me and pats my head. “Your hair smells like a fruit salad.”