Free Friend Is Not a Verb by Daniel Ehrenhaft

in response were so cringeworthy that they eventually prompted him to ask, “Do you know the song ‘Jeremy,’ by Pearl Jam?” I told him I didn’t.
    On the glass-half-full side of the situation, he didn’t mention the stolen manuscript. I relaxed enough to convince myself that he still didn’t know it was missing. Finally he stopped playing. We stood like that for a while—facing each other in awkward silence, joined by the cords in his amp—until I decided to take a risk.
    “So, what are those manuscripts piled up over there by the door?” I asked.
    “They’re copies of a very long love letter to your sister,” Gabriel replied.
    I stiffened, accidentally banging my tuning pegs against one of the bare walls. Needless to say, this was not the answer I’d wanted or expected.
    He laughed. “Well, not entirely. I mean, I do want to tell my story. Once I know what it is. I’m sending it out to a bunch of publishing houses, actually. I saw on a literary blog that memoirs are really big now—especially memoirs written by criminals. And given how screwed up the world is, I’m thinking that people might actually want to read it, especially since it’s one of those tell-alls that’s actually true. Plus, it can’t hurt that I’m young. So I want to cash in. Once I do, I can pay my debt for my crimes.”
    I nodded with a sickly smile frozen on my face. I realized now that I was wrong in thinking that my family was certifiable (well, not really). But Gabriel was in a different league. He frightened me. His tone was perfectly neutral, too, so I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Not that I evenunderstood half of what he was saying.
    “You know, I never told Sarah how I felt about her,” he added. “Or she never told me about how she felt about me —and things got out of control because of it. Plus, I fooled myself into thinking I was in love with this other friend of ours, a girl named Madeline…. Well, it’s a long story. You’ll see. Someday.”
    “Can I read the manuscript now?” I blurted out.
    “No, Hen, I’m sorry. Not until it’s finished. That’s only the intro, anyway. Just a teaser that will hopefully get a book deal. Sarah can’t read it until it’s published either. None of us can, because I still don’t know how it’ll end. Look, I apologize if I’m being inappropriate here, but judging from the way you turned red and ran out yesterday…Are you really tight friends with some girl who you have a secret crush on?”
    I blinked. Jesus. Where had that come from? My lips trembled. I felt an inexplicable urge to confess: that I’d already stolen one of the manuscripts and that my brain was short-circuiting not knowing why Sarah and her friends had run away, or why she and Gabriel had inexplicably come back. On the other hand, I didn’t want to admit I was a liar and a thief. And I sure as hell didn’t want to admit to the dream I’d had about Emma. I couldn’t get a grip on what I wanted from this guy. Could it be that in some deeply, profoundly, psychologically damaged way…I wanted to impress him? Now I was frightened. Honestly, who would want to impress this schmuck? Was it because he was so close with Sarah? Or because he seemed to know so much about me, even though he didn’t know me at all?
    “I don’t mean to pry,” Gabriel said.
    “No, it’s just—My best friend is this girl named Emma,” I stammered. “But there’s nothing between us. I swear. She isn’t the love of my life who’s been hiding in plain sight all along. See, the thing is, though, my girlfriend dumped me the other night. The night you and Sarah came home.”
    “I do see,” Gabriel said. “What’s your ex’s name?”
    “Petra Dostoyevsky. Why?”
    “It’s just interesting that you referred to Emma by name and Petra Dostoyevsky by label. I’d say that Emma means more to you—and in all ways. It’s a sign. It’s not the first time you used that line, either, isn’t it?”
    “What