Free Being Friends With Boys by Terra Elan McVoy Page B

start to put my hand on his arm, to apologize and tell him what I really want is for us to still be talking about songs and music, that I don’t want everything to be so weird. But he steps away from the wall, away from me.
    “I gotta go,” he says.
    When I slide into my desk, the only thing that’s worse than discovering I only finished five of the ten questions we had to answer for today is realizing I also didn’t give the notebook back to Trip.
     
    “I can’t make it to practice this afternoon,” I tell Oliver outside of psych.
    He is immediately annoyed. “Why not?”
    “Well, I just—to be honest, I need time to write. I’m just not used to having to do this, you know, on demand. By myself.”
    He jerks open the classroom door so that he doesn’t have to look at me. He waits, holding it. I have no other choice than to walk past him into the room.
    I hate Oliver being in a mood. I hate anyone being in a mood, really. Trip was enough for one day. I need to turn this around, for both of us.
    “It was easier for me when this was just, you know, a hobby. And not some actual, really happening rock band that is going to rocket to immediate glamour and fame. It’s hard to write when I’m all busy going, ‘What will Coldplay be like when they open for Sad Jackal?’” I’m tapping my finger against my chin, gazing at the ceiling dreamily. Making myself the fool is the only thing that works in this situation.
    And it does. Work. He twists a reluctant grin at me. “Cold-play’s lame.”
    “Maybe it’ll be easier when I can write in my limo. Or on the tour bus.”
    “Shut up, Spider.” But he is chuckling.
    “You guys should just have some get-to-know-you time, anyway, without a girl around.” I lower my voice as Ms. Neff comes in, balancing a big stack of folders and her ever-present travel mug of coffee.
    He slits those blue eyes at me, sly-grinning. “ Are you a girl?”
    “Enough of one for Whitney to be jealous,” I retort.
    Oliver’s lips puff out, sighing at the mention of his girlfriend. “That girl, man.”
    I don’t say anything back. I don’t have to.
     
    “I thought you were riding with Oliver today,” Gretchen says when I catch her at the car after school. “You’ve been so attached lately. I feel like I’ve barely seen you.” We stand together against the back of the car, waiting for Darby to finish saying good-bye to all her fellow freshmen. I want to point out that the reason Gretchen’s barely seen me is that she’s been with her boyfriend, and that I’m not any more attached to Oliver than I was this summer, but since she’s being nice, I decide to be, too.
    “The band’s been practicing a lot for the Halloween dance.”
    She’s impressed. “Oliver and them are playing?”
    I nod, trying to be cool about it.
    She whistles. “Now I really have to get Max to go.”
    “Where is he, by the way?” I ask, making sure to sound neutral.
    She groans. “Wrestling’s started.”
    She launches into all the reasons why she thinks wrestling is completely stupid, but I only half listen. Instead I’m scanning the parking lot crowd: kids hanging out in groups around each other’s cars, other bunches of them walking away together, up to the square. I don’t see Lish but I do see her friend Kiaya with Bronwyn, walking together, probably up to the Yogurt Tap. Far off, near the back fence, I see Trip, too. Beside him Chris Monroe is laughing, both of them surrounded by several other people I’m not sure I know. The way Trip just walked off like that today, the way he wasn’t there before psych—it burns in me. Fine , I beam in laser thoughts toward him. Smoke and drink with your new friends, you big asshole. Waste your potential for all I—
    And then there’s Benji’s clattering Volvo, slowing down. He’s got one hand draped over the steering wheel, a cigarette between his fingers.
    “’Sup, Coastal,” he says, winking at me.
    I feel Gretchen beside me, suddenly