Free Being Friends With Boys by Terra Elan McVoy

“Abe and Eli, you should listen a little more to Fabian, and drop back when he comes forward, but overall you’re working together well. I mean, I like it.”
    “I’m sorry,” Eli says, rubbing his wiry red mohawk into a further state of disturbance. “But can I just—” He gestures over at me, not wanting to be rude, but clearly confused. “Can I ask who she is ?”
    “That’s Charlotte,” Abe says fast. Though of course they already know that.
    “She’s important,” Oliver says, going for his guitar. And I can’t help it—the smile it gives me. “She organizes things for us, writes lyrics.” I think he’s going to explain that part more, but he barely pauses before saying, “So, what next?”
     
    Walking home, I can’t help it. I call Trip.
    “Everything’s going to be okay,” I say to his voice mail. “I think it’s going to be really, really good.” I pause a second. “But it was weird, you not being there. I just wanted you to know both those things.”
    Later, after dinner, I’m falling asleep in the remains of my English reading when my phone rings. Trip.
    “Hey.”
    “That’s so good,” he says, his voice loose. “That practice was good, I mean.”
    “Are you okay?” Something is weird with him. Weirder than today at school.
    “Yeah. I’m fine. I’m just—really glad.”
    I wait to see if he’ll say more. When he doesn’t, I go: “Okay, well, good.”
    “Yeah, it is good. It is. Reading how you describe it, you know, this weekend, it’s all really good. I’m really glad.”
    “You said that.”
    “Well, it’s just because I am, you know.”
    We’re both quiet a minute. I can hear him breathing.
    “Okay,” I finally say.
    “Okay, well,” he echoes. “I guess that’s all I wanted to say.”
    “Got a song for me tonight?”
    He makes a thick swallowing sound. “Too sleepy.”
    I’m disappointed. And also still not sure something isn’t really whack with him. “Okay, well. Good night?”
    “Yeah. G’night.”
    My phone blinks that the conversation has ended. I think, for a second, of calling him back again. He sounded drunk. And sad around the edges. But I’m not sure how far we’d get with any kind of conversation, the way he’s just repeating everything I say.
     
    The rest of the week marches forward as normal. Trip catches up with me in the notebook, and when I get it back I spend all of lunch reading about how his classes are difficult but he feels like he might be up for the challenge. He’s glad, he says, that he isn’t going to be weighed down by the band this semester. When I write back, I tell him about practice (Mondays, Thursdays, and Saturdays is the plan), but I’m also careful, for the first time, about how much I tell him. I’m definitely not going to say anything about Fabian, for example, and how I found myself lookingup famous keyboardists, just so I’d know better what he does. I can’t say, either, how by Thursday, Eli and Fabian already have most of the old songs nailed down and are ready to plunge forward. Which means I also feel weird about mentioning the new songs I’m writing, which is terrible because we used to work on those together.
    Mainly I avoid writing about the band at all, and emphasize other things. (Lish-bashing takes up a lot of space.) In the periphery of the rest of my life, Darby and Gretchen fight and Gretchen spends most of her evenings over at her boyfriend’s house. I walk home by myself again one afternoon, just because I know I can. Hannah makes dinner. Dad comes home and tells us funny stories he heard from his clients. Jilly sends me an email. It’s a pretty regular week.
    Regular, that is, until third period Friday, when Dr. Campbell hands out another take-home test for us to finish by Monday.
    “Aw god,” I groan to Benji, who’s waiting for me outside of class.
    “No sweat.” He tries to take my arm, but I pretend I’m reaching for something in my bag. “So, after school? Or tomorrow