The Exact Opposite of Okay(42)
4.47 p.m.
Unbelievable. Danny has bought me another gift to apologize for freaking out over the destruction of his previous gift – the tulips – which were also an apology in themselves. I just want to scream at him, “I don’t need gifts! I just need you to stop being a Grade-A bucket of dicks!” but I don’t think that would go down very well. Preserving his trademark Nice Guy image is very important to him.
Anyway, as we’re all walking home together after school – lamenting the bitterly cold wind – he makes the following announcement: “So . . . what are you guys doing on the first weekend in December? Oh, I know! You’re going to see Coldplay live at the arena!”
Oh, wonderful. My inner cynic suspects he probably just wants to sing along to “Fix You” while crying and staring poignantly at me.
Ajita squeals and throws her arms around him. “Danny! That’s so awesome. Thank you! I can’t even think of anything horrible or sarcastic to say right now.”
I attempt to muster some gratitude and deliver a well-intended-but-somewhat-lackluster high five. Lackluster due to my emotional exhaustion and general wariness toward the behavior of Mr Wells, which almost seems to have some kind of ulterior motive.
He purses his lips, clearly put out by my lack of enthusiasm. In his defense, they must have set him back a buck or two of his parents’ cash since it’s been sold out for months.
Again, it kind of rubs me the wrong way, this pattern that’s emerging. It feels like every time he wants me to feel a certain way about him, he throws money at the situation. Milkshakes, Harry Potter merch, tulips, Ferrero Rocher, gig tickets. Almost as if he thinks he can buy my love.
“I wanted to show you how great it could be. If we were together.”
Maybe I’m overreacting. The Coldplay tickets are quite sweet, I suppose. Danny knows Ajita and I love them, and despite the fact he himself is too hipster to allow himself to enjoy their “overrated drivel”, he’s a big enough person to swallow his own taste in pretentious hipster music and attend the concert with us. He is trying to be a good friend at least. In his own way.
I just can’t figure him out at the moment. One minute he’s looking after Ajita and Prajesh like they’re his own family, and the next he’s treating his actual family like dirt. There must be some serious shit going down chez Wells; even worse than the affair, if that’s possible. The thought alone makes me feel bad enough to overlook his weird behavior.
Plus, things are crappy enough in my life right now. And I have the option to forgive Danny’s relentless stream of weapons-grade douchebaggery, and try to rebuild our fractured friendship. All I want is for things to go back to normal, and this seems as good a place to start as any.
So I say thank you and hug him too.
6.58 p.m.
We’ve been playing ping-pong in Ajita’s basement for around eleven minutes, deftly avoiding the nude elephant in the room, when my phone vibrates. Message.
Since I’m in the throes of a heated tiebreak with Ajita, Danny inexplicably picks it up and reads before I can even stop him. “It’s from Carson,” he says flatly. “He wants to see you.”
Shit! I forgot to reply to Carson’s last text!
Shit! Why did Danny read it?
“Oh. Right,” I respond, carefully avoiding Danny’s stare. He wants to gauge my reaction, obviously, and I want to deprive him of that luxury. I pick up the ball to serve, facial expression set to intense mode as though winning this match means more to me than anything in the entire world, even awesome basketball-playing boys who look like movie stars and make me laugh and don’t judge me for screwing up.
“Bow chicka wow wow!” Ajita adds helpfully, despite the fact I’ve told her twice a day for half a decade that nobody says that anymore. “Manning wants round two. Who could blame him?”
I try to serve, but miss the table entirely. The score’s now 22–22.
At Ajita’s comment, Danny goes bright red, hurls my phone at the couch, shoves his feet into his beat-up sneakers and mutters something about seeing us later, which I silently pray does not come to fruition. Within three seconds he’s gone.
For God’s sake. Just when I was ready to move past this confusing episode of unrequited love and emotional manipulation.
I’m so stunned at his departure I allow Ajita to ace me. 22–23. “What. The. Actual. Hell?”
She shakes her head. “I get it. The guy’s hopelessly in love with you. And he knows he’s taken up permanent residence in the Friend Zone.”
“Oh, right,” I snap. “And because he’s spent enough money and inserted enough friendship tokens, the offer of sex and/or marriage should just fall out anytime now?”
Sighing, she bounces the ball up and down, waiting for me to regain sporting composure. “I know. It’s male-entitlement bullshit.”
“But?”
“Still can’t be nice reading that message.”
“Oh yes. Poor Danny. He is absolutely the one we should feel sorry for in this scenario. Did I ask him to read it? No. I know I’m sadistic at times, but masochistic I am not. And this hurts me as much as it does him.”
“Does it really?” she asks pointedly.
“Really what?”
“Hurt you.” She lays her bat down on the table, perceptively realizing I shall not be calming down anytime soon, and takes a swig of cream soda. “You seem to be taking all of this in your stride. The website, the nudes, the whispers in the hallway. Vaughan. Danny. I know you’re a tough cookie, and you’d rather impale yourself on a garden rake than ask for help or show emotion of any kind, but you’re allowed to freak out, you know?”