Just Friends Page 8

  “Weirdos?” If Jena sits up any straighter she’ll be standing. Tilda has rolled her eyes or made a give-me-a-break face when Josh said something outrageous in class, but until this moment Jena had no idea that on Tilda’s personal popularity list Joshua Shine might well be somewhere below boiled cabbage and pleated skirts. “Josh isn’t weird.” Under the isn’t-he? gaze of her best friend in the world, Jena shifts uncomfortably. “I mean, he’s a little different – he’s not like Anton…” Anton is the high-school hero type. “But he’s not weird.”

  “Isn’t he?” Tilda asks this as if she is genuinely interested in what Jena has to say, and not about to answer her question herself. Nevertheless, before Jena can manage even a quick No, he isn’t, Tilda launches into a long list of Joshua Shine’s aberrant behaviour that begins in elementary school and marches resolutely into high school. “And I don’t know if you know it or not,” says Tilda, “but last year he tried to get the Christmas dance cancelled!”

  This is something Jena didn’t know. “He did? Really? But why?”

  “Yes, really. How bizarre is that? And don’t ask me why. I don’t have a twisted mind like that. Maybe because he couldn’t get a date – I mean, who would go out with him? – so he didn’t want anybody else to have fun.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t sou—”

  “Whatever.” Tilda waves Jena’s doubts away. “He’s always coming up with bizarre ideas like that. What about his latest brainwave? I mean, come on. You can’t believe that’s something a normal person would think of. Instead of going to see a regular play we should go to one for deaf people?”

  Mr Burleigh’s reaction to Josh’s suggestion (I think we should stick to the original plan, Mr Shine) was mild compared to Tilda’s.

  “I think he figured it’d be interesting,” defends Jena. “You know, broaden our horizons. And anyway I thought he said it’s not just in sign language. There’s speaking too.” Jena didn’t think it was as bad an idea as some people. Though this is not an opinion she expressed before; and not one she is planning to express now.

  “Whatever.” Tilda dismisses this with another wave. “Thank God Mr Burleigh vetoed it. Even some boring Shakespeare play’s better than that.” She takes her own soda from the table on her side of the bed. “So what about the Pod Squad. Did they come over too?”

  “The Pod Squad?” repeats Jena.

  “It’s what everybody used to call Josh, Carver and Sal.” Tilda explains about the debate in eighth grade. “It’s not just Shine. His friends are just as weird as he is. I know you know Sal from the drama club, but have you ever met Carver? All he ever talks about is how the world is coming to an end because we’re destroying everything.”

  “Well, lots of people agree with him.” Jena isn’t arguing so much as mentioning. “Not my dad, the General says it’s all hogwash, but lots of scientists and—”

  “Get real, Jen,” orders Tilda. “I mean, look around you.” She waves towards the window. “Does it look like the end of the world?”

  “Well, no, I guess—”

  “Of course it doesn’t. It’s exactly how it’s always been. Only better. And what about Carver blowing up the science lab? You don’t think that’s seriously strange?”

  “I thought it was an accident.”

  “That’s their story.” One that Tilda doesn’t seem to believe.

  “Sal’s not weird like that,” says Jena. “I know he’s pretty intense and kind of hyper, but you said Mr Boxhill really rates Sal. You said he thinks Sal’s like some kind of genius.”

  Mr Boxhill did say that, and Tilda did repeat it. But there is no positive quality that can’t be made negative in the right hands.

  “It’s a known fact that people who are really smart can be crazy,” Tilda tells her. “And if you ask me that describes the three of them. I mean, what about that documentary Sal and Josh made last year? What about that?”

  Here is something else of which Jena wasn’t aware.

  “That’s no surprise,” says Tilda. “Everybody wants to forget it. The two of them went around asking people stupid questions just to embarrass them.”

  “People?” echoes Jena. “You mean at school?”

  “Yes, at school.” Sal was writer, cameraman and director. Josh was the interviewer. They randomly stopped students to ask them questions about current world events, geography and history. “And then they actually showed this dumb movie in assembly. Like it was some big joke.” Some interviews were funnier than others, of course; Tilda’s got quite a few laughs, her knowledge of current world events, geography and history being considerably less than her knowledge of fashion, popular movies and music. “I don’t know why the principal let them show it. And God knows why I let them con me into being interviewed. I know they’re nuts. But they made it sound like it was going to be a survey, you know? Like what’s your favourite lipstick and what movie star would you like most to date. Stuff like that. Instead it was all stuff like who’s the President of Canada and can you find Cameroon on a map. Like anybody’s even heard of Cameroon! If that’s not insane I’d like to know what is.”

  Is Josh crazy? wonders Jena. Is that why he’s so different?

  “I guess…”

  “It’s, like, totally true.” Tilda leans towards Jena so their shoulders touch. “Anyway, I wasn’t being judgmental or anything. I was just saying what everybody else thinks. If you want to go out with Josh Shine, that’s your business. Don’t let me influence you. I won’t say another word.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing like that,” Jena quickly assures her. “I’m not interested in him like that. We’re just friends.”

  “Well, that’s all cool,” says Tilda. “So long as you’re sure.”

  Jena nods. “Oh, I’m sure.”

  If she wasn’t before, she definitely is now.

  Zugzwanged

  So now Josh and Jena are friends.

  Not friends like Jena and Tilda, of course. Tilda is Jena’s official best friend. She sleeps over and shares secrets, cosmetics and clothes. Tilda’s the friend who discusses things like sex, periods and breast implants with Jena. If they were flowers they’d both be roses. Not only do they look as if they belong together, when they are together they never stop talking, and when they aren’t together they message and text all the time. As if even an hour with no communication between them would end life as we know it.

  And not friends like the other kids who make up Jena’s social life – Tilda’s crowd – the movies-pizza-bowling-party crew. The kids who make teenagedom look cool and fun.

  Josh has nothing to do with Tilda or her bunch. Which breaks no hearts on either side. Despite that, he has grown as close to Jena as it’s possible to get without being either her boyfriend, a relative, or Tilda Kopel. He’s the friend whose clothes Jena wouldn’t want to borrow, who would undoubtedly be shot by her father if he even thought of staying overnight and who would rather have a mouse ear grafted to the top of his head than get involved in a conversation about sex, blood or breasts with anyone, especially Jenevieve Capistrano. He’s the friend who never hangs out with everyone on weekends – the mainly indoors, private, at-home friend (though because of Ramona’s tendency to look out her window the home is as often his as Jena’s). The one who is always available, even at short notice, to run errands, watch a movie, or help with homework. Or just be there when no one else is around.

  Being a human isn’t easy. Give a dog a bowl of food and a pat on the head, and he’ll be wagging his tail. Give a cat your chair by the fire and a few treats, and the purring will begin. People, however, are far more complicated. Liable to create problems for themselves or make worse the ones that exist. People are full of contradictions, as straightforward as a maze. As an example of this, Josh should be pretty pleased with things right now – or at least grateful to the kindness of the cosmos. He got what he thought he wanted, and a lot more than he thought he would get. Unofficial back-up best friend. Who could have predicted that? Who dared hope? />
  And is he happy? Does he look up at the sky every night and thank the stars?

  No, he isn’t. No, he does not.

  Before that fateful Saturday night, Josh was interested in Jenevieve the way a poor man might be interested in expensive cars – turning his head to look when one passes, occasionally letting out an if-only sigh. Now, however, Josh is officially smitten. Smitten – from the verb “smite”, to strike with a hard blow. Smite, smote, smiting, smitten. She couldn’t have struck him a harder blow if she’d smashed him over the head with a mallet. The only time Josh ever felt worse than this was when his dad died. He locks himself in his room, playing heartbreak songs about unrequited love (of which there are several thousand more than you might have thought). When he looks at the stars, it isn’t because he is sleepless with happiness but with hopelessness – the last thing on his mind is thanking them. For although Jenevieve Capistrano is nothing like the Devil – no horns, no hooves, no tail, and a much nicer nature – Josh feels as though he must be in Hell. If he walks her home after school because Tilda’s busy, or goes to the grocery store with her because the Capistranos have run out of the General’s favourite cereal, he has to fight the temptation to take her hand as they walk. When it’s his turn to choose a movie he always picks something that might scare her enough to grab hold of him. Heads together over a tricky math problem, he smells the peppermint shampoo she uses and wants to put his face in her hair.

  And then there was that sudden storm. He’d gone with her to the dentist because she’s afraid of the dentist and didn’t want to go alone, but Tilda is even more afraid of dentists so Josh was the default choice. On the way home the sky suddenly went black and it started to rain as if it meant to wash the planet clean. Jena wasn’t dressed for bad weather. The day had started mild and sunny, and she was wearing a cotton dress and a sweater. They ducked under a tree for shelter. Josh took off his jacket and draped it over their shoulders and heads, just like in a movie. She was as close to him as skin; so close he was sure she could hear the racket his heart was making. Do something, he told himself. Kiss her. She was looking at him as if maybe he was going to kiss her – as if maybe she might even kiss him back. Or was she? It would have been a good time to be a boy who acted before he thought, but, of course, that boy isn’t Josh. He didn’t act; he thought. He thought that her look might not be saying, Are you going to kiss me? It might be saying, I can tell from your breath what you had for lunch. The moment passed like all the others.

  Nonetheless, he is always on the verge of making a move. Do it! He urges himself. Put your arm around her … hug her … kiss her … for God’s sake, at least tell her you like her a lot… But those are things he only does in dreams. Some might compare him to Tantalus. In Greek mythology, the gods punished Tantalus by making him spend eternity in a pool of water that receded every time he tried to take a drink, and underneath a tree that moved out of reach every time he tried to pick a piece of fruit. Josh thinks of himself more as someone standing at the door who can’t bring himself to ring the bell.

  He doesn’t know what to do. Should he tell her how he feels, or should he keep his mouth shut? Should he rock the ship of friends or should he stay seated with his life jacket on, knowing that if he rocks the ship there’s a high risk of falling into the icy, oceanic waters of used-to-be and drowning?

  Josh doesn’t know who to talk to. Who can give him useful advice? He trawls through his mother’s magazines but the agony aunts and unhappy uncles don’t seem to be covering unrequited adolescent love this season. His father is dead; his mother is out as an option. She’s always said that Josh can talk to her about anything, that’s what she’s here for, but he prefers to think that she’s here to make sure he lives to adulthood and knows how to cook and change a washer, not act as a consultant on intimate relationships. They’ve had a few parent–son conversations about sex, girls and STDs – all of them initiated by her, and all of them embarrassing enough to cause him physical pain. He’d sooner talk to Dr Wanneski, the school psychologist, and he’d have to be seriously out of his mind to do that. First choice has to be Carver. Not wanting to add to his mother’s unhappiness, it was Carver Josh went to when his father’s heart gave out in the parking lot of Food World, where he’d stopped for ice cream on his way home from work; Carver who sat up weekend nights watching movies with him and acting as if he didn’t notice Josh’s tears; Carver who went to the funeral and sat on one side of him, Ramona on the other, each holding his hand.

  He waits until they’re alone. Carver’s sisters ensure that the Jefferson house is always filled with noise and activity and teetering on the edge of chaos, but in Carver’s room calm and order reign. The only sounds are the classical Spanish guitar music playing softly in the background and the click-clack of the counters as Carver lays out his pieces on the backgammon board.

  “I have something I need to talk to you about,” says Josh to the top of Carver’s head.

  Carver looks up, curious. “What is it?”

  “It’s nothing really. It’s…” Josh gazes at the board. “It’s just…” He straightens one of his rows.

  Carver gives the table a shake. “For Christ’s sake, Joshua, what is it?”

  Josh meets his eyes. “There’s this girl—”

  “I knew it!” crows Carver. “I told Sal something was going on. You’ve become very unreliable lately.”

  “I have?” This is news to him.

  “Yes, you have. Something’s always coming up at the last minute.”

  “Always?” It isn’t always; Jena has a busy social life. It’s barely sometimes. “I think that’s an exaggeration.”

  “Okay, maybe not always,” Carver concedes, “but a hell of a lot more than it used to. The only time I remember you ditching movie night at the last minute was when you got that bug and started projectile vomiting. But this fall you’ve bailed a couple of times.” He winks. “Not that anybody’s counting.”

  “And what’d Sal say?” Sal’s been talking to Ramona; has Ramona been talking to Sal?

  Carver grins. “Oh, he agreed. But Sal never bought your ‘this is just in general’ crap. He always thought it was about a girl.” It’s a Cheshire-cat grin. “So who are we talking about here? Is it anyone I know?”

  “No, it isn’t anyone you know.” So far he hasn’t told anyone about his friendship with Jena. Ramona knows, but she obviously hasn’t said anything either. “It’s just this girl I kind of, you know, like.”

  “Right.” Carver taps a checker against the edge of the board. “This girl you kind of, you know, like.” He looks at Josh as if he’s checking a water sample for pollution. “But you won’t tell me who it is. Can I guess?”

  “You don’t have to guess. It’s not important. I’m just not sure what to do, that’s all.” He turns back to laying pieces on a point. “What if it was you? What would you do?”

  “I’d ask her out.”

  “But that’s the thing. I can’t just ask her out.”

  “Can’t? Why not?” Carver looks as if he can’t decide if he’s bewildered or simply amused. “You mean because you don’t speak the same language, you don’t actually know her, she’s just some girl you saw in a movie, or because she has a boyfriend who could make you wish you’d been born in a Middle Eastern war zone?”

  “She’s not seeing anybody – obviously, I wouldn’t even think of asking her out if she was seeing somebody. I’m just really afraid I don’t stand the chance of a baby turtle in a major oil spill with her.”

  “Why not?”

  “What do you mean ‘why not?’?”

  “Why do you think you don’t stand a chance? Do you know she doesn’t like you? Did she tell everyone in sixth grade that your grandfather was a Black Panther and had done time?” That would be Tilda Kopel because she was jealous that Carver had his picture in the paper for winning first prize in the statewide science fair. God knows how she knew his grandfather was a Black Panther and had been inside, but everyone
thought she meant the animal so the ridicule was aimed at her – which made her like Carver even less. “Did she try to drown you?” That was at the class picnic in seventh grade. Carver was going on about the toxic chemicals in make-up and Olivia Fenster dumped a glass of juice over his head. Carver’s track record with girls is poor; maybe he was the wrong person to confide in.

  “No, nothing like that,” Josh assures him. “I am friends with this girl. I know she likes me. And so far she hasn’t tried to humiliate or physically hurt me. But I can’t get up the nerve to say anything.”

  “Irrational terror,” says Carver. “Fear of the unknown. But if you’re friends—”

  “Absolutely. We’re friends. But I don’t know how to move to the next level. Or if I should. I mean, maybe there isn’t a next level. This may be as far as it goes.”

  Carver glances at the white disc in his hand. “Right. So you’re friends with this girl but you can’t ask her out.” He sets down the piece and looks up. “I’m sorry, but I truly don’t see the problem. You already have your foot in the door.”

  “But what if she doesn’t like me like me? What if she breaks my foot slamming the door in my face?”

  “Ah, I get it. Shit-scared of rejection.” He fingers another checker. “So ask her. End the suspense.”

  Everything is easier when the problem isn’t yours.

  “Okay. But one of the things is that this girl is really attractive. All the guys notice her. She’s a stand-out.”

  “Right. Really attractive.” Carver’s mouth doesn’t move, but he manages to look as if he’s chewing something. Slowly. “Kind of like, say, Ramona? Really attractive like that?”

  “Ramona?” How did Ramona get into this conversation? “No, not like her at all. Guys notice Ramona because she’s taller than most of them.”

  Now Carver only looks amused. “I don’t think that’s the only reason, Josh. Ramona—”