Free Friend Is Not a Verb by Daniel Ehrenhaft Page A

line?”
    “The love of your life who’s been hiding in plain sight all along,” he said. “It sounds rehearsed.”
    It was. There’s a story there. Franklin is a nice, boring, mostly well-adjusted high school, as far as it goes. But it is a high school, so there are a few sad troglodytes who believe that the key to popularity is to be an asshole. Since Emma and I pretty much keep to ourselves, people generally let us go about our silly lives. But every now and then someone—usually an athlete, sad but true (even their identities lack imagination)—will ask us what our “deal” is. Sometimes they’ll ask if we’re “friends with benefits.” To which Emma will reply yes: We both come with dental insurance and a $250 deductible.
    Mostly, however, they’ll accuse us both of being gay. “Are you gay, or what?” (An actual quote, verbatim. Staggering, isn’tit?) A long time ago, we came up with a standard response: Drop our jaws, stare at each other as if we’ve been struck by lightning, and spout a teen movie cliché. “Oh my God, Hen, you’re the love of my life, and you’ve been hiding in plain sight all along!” “Emma, you’re the girl next door, and I totally just realized you complete me.” “You are the cheese to my macaroni.” And so forth. It helps. Troglodytes don’t like to be confused.
    “How about we play ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’?” Gabriel suggested.
    Coming here was a terrible idea. I should have stayed at home and read the stolen manuscript. It was all getting a little too heavy, a little too fast. Yesterday, the proverbial arm was numb; now it was raw and exposed, and I didn’t know why. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Gabriel was a deeply messed-up individual, his criminal past notwithstanding—and he was a joke of a bass teacher, my ostensible reason for being here…plus he suffered from alcoholism and OCD and who knew what else (at least judging from the maniacal schlock I’d read). But he was wise. Wasn’t he? Or maybe not so much wise as intuitive…and definitely scary—but less in a sketchy psycho way and more in a $3.95-a-minute psychic hotline way…or…
    “Look, Hen, you can split if you want,” he said.
    I hesitated, thinking of what he’d written in his diary. “Can I ask you something?”
    “Of course,” he said.
    “Do you believe in the supernatural?”
    He smiled. “It depends. Why do you ask?”
    “See, Emma and I have this weird history of dreaming the same thing. It freaked us out so much that we made a pact not to talk about it. But then she dreamed that Sarah came home, and the next night Sarah did come home. And then last night I dreamed…” I didn’t finish. I could feel my face getting hot.
    For a long time, Gabriel sat very still, staring into space with a glassy-eyed, meditative look. “Sometimes coincidences get the best of you,” he said. “Have you heard about the woman who sold an old grilled cheese sandwich on eBay for thirty thousand dollars?”
    I frowned. “Is there a punch line coming?”
    “No, I’m serious. It had an image of the Virgin Mary burned into it. Think of it this way: I don’t believe that Jesus put it there. Do you? On the other hand, I’ve seen a picture of the sandwich. The burn pattern really does look like the Virgin Mary.”
    “What the hell are you talking about, Gabriel?”
    “Just this: If Emma is so in tune with your dream life and your real life, she has been hiding in plain sight,” he said. “It’s not a coincidence, either. I say go for it now, before it gets too late or too weird or too crusty, like an old grilled cheese sandwich. I didn’t mean to upset you, though, Hen. I know you’re going through a tough time.”
    I laughed.
    “What?” he said.
    “I wonder what my parents would say if they could see me right now.” I looked down at my feet. “You know—if theycould listen in on this conversation.”
    Gabriel took off his bass and placed it on the stand. “Honestly? I