Be the Girl(82)

It takes me a second to jump onto her new train of thought and think of a suitable answer. “Lots of people go without a date. Friends go together.”

“See you tomorrow, Cass!” a girl with long white-blonde hair and bright green eyes calls out as she strolls by.

“Oh, bye, Allie! See you tomorrow!” Cassie’s blue-gray eyes follow the girl, her wide smile back in place. “She’s nice to me.”

“She is.”

After a moment, Cassie adds in a deadpan voice, “She knows how awesome I am.”





“I took ten, see, AJ …? AJ …? AJ …?”

“Hold on …” My eyes are glued to Emmett as he speeds and weaves with quick hands around first one player, and then another, before stopping and passing the puck to his teammate, who shoots.

The puck sails into the net as Cassie’s elbow prods my side.

“What?” She is so impatient!

Unbothered by my sharp tone, Cassie holds her palm out to show me the Junior Mints cupped within. A ring of hot chocolate surrounds her lips. “I took ten. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” I dismiss her, my attention back on Emmett, who’s bumping gloved fists with his teammate.

“These are my favorite, too.”

“Watch the game, Cass.”

She shoves the entire handful of mints into her mouth, and then shifts her focus to picking at her fingernails for the rest of the game, not uttering a word until five minutes before the end of the last period, when she inhales sharply. “Holly!” She grins and waves.

I follow her gaze and find Holly sitting on the other side with a few girls. “What is she doing here?” I mutter.

“Watching hockey.”

“Yeah, but why? This is Emmett’s game.”

Cassie shrugs. “She’s his friend.”

“No, she isn’t,” I say evenly. “They broke up and they’re not friends anymore.”

“So, they’re enemies?”

I stifle my groan. Emmett wasn’t kidding—everything is black or white with Cassie. “They’re just not friends anymore, okay?”

Cassie shrugs, the eager smile on her face falling with each moment she watches Holly and Holly ignores her.

“Didn’t Emmett tell you not to talk to her anymore?”

Cassie goes back to picking her fingernails, mumbling, “But she’s my friend.”

“No. She isn’t. Holly was pretending to be your friend so she could get close to Emmett.”

Her fingers pause as she glowers at her hands. “She’s not my friend.”

“No. And she’s not a nice person.”

More picking.

I cringe as the sight of her nails, ripped off to the quick, her cuticles torn and bloody.

“Are you my friend?” she asks suddenly.

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Will you still be my friend next year when Emmett is gone?”

When Emmett is a sixteen-and-a-half-hour drive away—I mapped it out of curiosity—at college, with college girls and college life. I can’t help but hear another meaning behind her words: when Emmett and I break up, because I’d be a fool to think we’ll last. My chest tightens with that thought.

But that’s not even what she’s asking. Cassie wants to know if I’ll still walk home with her after school every day, if I’ll watch movies with her that I miss half of because I’m answering her bizarre questions; if I’ll still tolerate her mindless chatter and scattered conversations.

If I’ll still be nice to her.

This girl who speaks slowly and runs awkwardly, who can only manage short spurts of eye contact and stiffens under anyone’s touch, who struggles to match appropriate emotions with situations.

Who finds joy in the simplest things, who will never sit at a cafeteria table or in a bathroom and say mean things behind people’s backs.

Who understands more than most people give her credit for.

Whose heart can’t seem to hold animosity, even toward those who have been cruel to her.

Who has only ever wanted to be a friend to me since the moment she stepped out of her mom’s car with a bag of cookies.

“Of course, I will,” I promise.

“Yeah, okay.” She finally looks up to offer me a wide grin and a nod. “Are you going to eat those Junior Mints?”





“Three more slides, and then you can have another kiss.” I roll off Emmett’s bed and plant myself on the floor, my lips still tingling.

“Are you make-out bartering with me now? Is that what this is?” he says, flashing a lazy smile, his voice laced with amusement.

“I just want to get this done.” I pull his computer onto my lap. “And the sooner we finish, the sooner you can get back to explaining those hockey plays,” using his fingers as players and the full canvas of my torso as the ice rink. Cassie and Heather are at swimming, and Mark is camped out in his office on another conference call with Vancouver, so, while our shirts have stayed on, our hands have wandered liberally.

He groans and rolls onto his side to rest on the edge of his bed, his fingertips toying with my hair. “Okay. I think we should focus the last three slides on why kids bully, why the victims don’t report, and possible solutions.”