Free The Lance Temptation by Brenda Maxfield Page B

wouldn’t you know it, there she was standing at the sink. I breezed past her and headed toward a stall.
    â€œSo, you’re going to pretend you don’t see me,” she said.
    â€œI see you.”
    â€œLook, Emili, I know you’re mad. But the whole world doesn’t revolve around you.”
    Was she saying it to me again ?
    â€œUh, I kind of know it doesn’t, Farah.” I realized I was ready to burst into tears right there in front of her. I swallowed and widened my eyes.
    â€œI thought we were friends,” I said.
    â€œWe are friends. But friends don’t have to tell each other everything. Sometimes, they don’t.” She paused, staring at her feet, then back up at me. After a deep breath, she continued, “We are friends, Emili.”
    â€œWell, I always thought friends told each other everything. I tell you everything.” I realized I hadn’t told her about breaking up with Marc by text, but mentioning it now wasn’t going to help my case. “Why can’t you tell me? Were you with Pete? Where were you? We were all worried sick. Did you know your mom came to my house?”
    Farah’s expression changed then, a blank curtain closed over her face. “I know. She told me repeatedly in her fit of wrath last night. Like it was my fault. I don’t control where she goes. And if you can’t be happy I’m back, then I’m sorry.” She turned toward the mirror and fussed with her hair. The conversation was over — I was dismissed.
    â€œFine. Welcome back.” I almost didn’t recognize my own voice. I’d no idea I could sound so cold. I pivoted on my heel and banged into the stall, locking it tight behind me.
    Late for third period again. Great. At this rate, I’d be written up and get a detention. Mom would be all over me. Farah was in my third period class. We had assigned seats, though, so we never sat together. Besides, sitting by her was the last — and I meant the absolute last — thing I wanted to do anyway. I sat in my usual seat and kept my eyes glued to the whiteboard while Mr. Anthony droned on about the lack of women’s rights in Afghanistan.
    Marcella, a bigger gossip than Jeannie, kept watching me. A couple times I stared back, mustering up my best mean glare. No good. She stretched her eyes like an innocent doe and kept staring.
    Farah was little Miss Talkative all through class — giving answers, waving her hand in the air, calling out when Mr. Anthony hadn’t asked anything. Finally, he’d had enough. “Miss Menins,” he said, in his standard nasally tone, “would you kindly refrain from calling out every three seconds? What’s gotten into you today? Whatever it is, give it a rest.”
    Farah sank back in her chair, as if she were suddenly exhausted. “Sure thing, Mr. Anthony. You’re the boss.”
    I averted my eyes. I couldn’t believe I’d ever considered her a friend. My stomach smoldered. People who don’t care a fig about other people shouldn’t be allowed to be anyone’s friend.
    Time dragged by and I wasn’t sure I could sit there another minute. Thank goodness, the bell rang. I snatched my books and headed for the door.
    Marcella cut me off. “Hmm, could it be trouble in paradise?” she asked, eyebrows raised to her curly brown hairline.
    I tried to push past her.
    â€œSeems your BFF doesn’t want much to do with you anymore. Feels delightful, doesn’t it?” she continued.
    I tilted my head. “What are you getting at, Marcella?”
    Her eyes bore into me, obviously waiting for me to speak. My mind went blank. I couldn’t guess one thing she wanted me to say.
    â€œYou never even think about it, do you?” she asked, her voice dropping off into a whisper.
    I didn’t have time for this. I shrugged, confused, and walked out. Then it rushed over me. Was she referring to the incident