“Or did she?” our mother asked, wagging a finger.
Addie shrugged. “All her friends were staying behind. It’s completely natural for Mary to want to be with them.”
“Sometimes past associations hold us back. Nostalgia can be a trap. Don’t confuse loyalty and sentimentality,” Mom spoke in her most oracular tone, as though dispensing obscure bits of wisdom from a mountaintop grotto, but we all knew she was talking about Anjuli.
I fought the urge to bang my forehead against the table. “That won’t be an issue anymore.”
“Out with the old, in with the new.” Dad raised his glass to me.
The problem was that theoldin this equation was me, since I’d been jettisoned like so much trash. My family’s helpful advice only served to remind me of that fact. It was like the time I’d had my wisdom teeth removed. I wanted to pack the wound with gauze and forget it was there, not poke around to find out exactly how much it could hurt.
Jasper cracked his knuckles. “I’m going to go nuclear when I get to Millville High. This year is just a warm-up for the real action.”
Sadly, I suspected he was right. Between the curls and the big dark eyes, he’d always gotten away with murder around people who didn’t know him well enough to be on their guard. Plus, he had a cool name, which probably counted for a lot. No one would spurnJasperon his first day.
“And we all live in fear of that day,” our mother chided. “Did you find the copy ofDeath in VeniceI left you?”
“The one on my pillow? Yes, yes, I did. Even though I’m just a boy, it turns out I’m not blindanddumb.”
Dad raised both hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Jasper, you know we have faith in your intellectual potential. A number of men have made important contributions in serious fields of study. If you work hard, there’s no reason you can’t keep up with the girls.” Dad pretended not to see our mother’s dubious expression.
Yarb the cat, whose name came from our father’s favorite Gogol novel, yowled from the next room, a long and variegated complaint.
“I’ll let him out.” I jumped up before anyone could revisit the subject of my ex-friend, new school, or social prospects therein.
Dear Diary,
Confession: I never reread the depressing parts of books. The first time I’ll make myself slog through the wretched childhoods and tragic mishaps, but once I know about the floods and bankruptcy and scarlet fever, I skip straight to the first signs of hope, like when the orphan gets a bit of bread, or the hero and heroine exchange meaningful glances.
I wish there was a way to do that in real life. Flip a few pages and boom! Everything’s better.
M.P.M.
Chapter 6
It’s a big place.
No one knows who you are.
As long as you keep moving, who’s to say you don’t have scores of friends waiting around the corner?
This was my internal monologue as I walked to my locker the next morning. Meanwhile, another voice sang counterpoint:
Everyone else has friends.
The reek of loneliness is rising off you like a noxious cloud.
People are staring.
The internal clamor made it difficult to concentrate on anything else, including the sound of my name. In the time required to pause, play back the tape in my head, and confirm that yes, someone had been calling “Mary,” my brain conjured a vivid fantasy. Anjuli, waiting with a penitent expression. When I turned around, however, it wasn’t my former friend.
“Arden,” the other girl reminded me.
As if I could have forgotten, even without the scarlet locks. It was almost funny that she thought me less likely to rememberherthan she was to rememberme. Not that I was in the mood to laugh.
“Guess what?” she asked, with an air of barely suppressed excitement.
I could only shrug.
