“You’re an excellent liar, though. It makes up for it.”
“You’re pretty … excellent.”
I feel so lonely when they’re gone.
There are definite, solid lines in life that should never be crossed. Developing a crush on your best friend’s boyfriend is one of them. Showing up to his job frequently and drinking his fruity cocktails is another. I don’t like him as much as Kentucky Fried Chicken, but hell if that boy didn’t look at me and tell me I was pretty … excellent. Excellent, which is above normal. Like I’m better than regular girls. Not your basic bitch. Finger-licking excellent. I realize I’m vulnerable and most days I feel like a worthless human—someone a guy can cheat on, and call it a mistake. I don’t want to be someone’s ‘girl who got away.’ I want to be someone’s ‘girl who’d I’d never let get away.’ I sign up for another class, and this time I try something a little different: clay. I like the feel of the cool, wet clay between my fingers. Clay is about numbers and proportion that you can control with your palms. I’m better at clay than I am at drawing. My hands feel less clumsy. I make coffee cups, vases, plates, then serving platters. All of them lacking symmetry, but I am so proud of them I throw out the cheap set I bought from Wal-Mart and place my handmade dinnerware in my kitchen cabinets. I paint everything white and splatter them with black paint. I am fighting the Pottery Barn taste that, according to my dream, is set to emerge in ten years. The carefully placed Chinese pots and decorative, stained knots give me hives. All a dream. All a dream, I tell myself. I focus on creating my style out of mess and mixed color. A Pottery Barn girl is for Neil, not Kit. Kit’s girl is color and texture.
When I realize that I’m avoiding Pottery Barn because of Kit, I go to their online store and buy a pair of ceramic French bulldogs. Nothing will control me, not Kit or Pottery Barn. To even things out, I replace my old throw pillows with ones I find at the flea market, but I won’t touch them. Or put them on my couch. I buy replacements at Pottery Barn. I stop drinking wine, too, since that was a manifestation of the dream, but some nights when I’m really sad I sniff an old cork I keep in my junk drawer. It’s not a cork from the wine Kit brought over; I don’t think so anyway. It was something I found near my trashcan. So when I start putting it on the spare pillow and sleeping with it, it has nothing to do with Kit. It’s just a random wine cork I’ve grown attached to. During the day, I put it in my purse where it travels with me to work, then art class. Clay is over; I register for an oil-on-canvas class, hoping for better results than my first class with Neptune.
On weekends, Della insists I tag along with whatever she and Kit are doing. She swears it’s not pity, and I’m no longer on suicide watch, and that Kit genuinely enjoys my company, while she needs me around for moral support.
“Moral support for what?” I ask her.
“Best friend moral support. Like, I just like having you around, you make me feel good.”
I love Della, God I love her. I’ve known her since we didn’t have real personalities, and we relied on Tiger Beat to tell us which boys to have crushes on—JTT for me, Devon Sawa for her. But people grow up, change, they are sorted into different houses—Slytherin for Della, Ravenclaw for me. They become what life dictates, and Della and I took two different routes. Della’s dad won the lottery. I shit you not. Five hundred thousand on a scratch-off ticket during our sophomore year. He doubled his money on investments, and all of a sudden, Della was a rich girl. Vacations to the Greek Isles, Christmas cruises to the Bahamas, a brand new Range Rover senior year. Our Tiger Beat years were replaced with glossy Vogue years, during which Della’s family took me on every vacation, and every outing on their boat. If they bought Della a pair of Kate Spade sunglasses, I would get a pair too. It was fun at first, but then I started to feel like a poor, charity tagalong. I still feel like that.
The only time I didn’t feel their cloying pity was when Kit sent me chapters of his book. Only me. That wasn’t pity; he genuinely wanted to share those with me. I was getting really attached to George, Denver, and Stephanie Brown. If I could put them on my pillow next to the wine cork, I would. Instead I read what he’s sent me over and over. I understand the Twilight craze, the Fifty Shades of Grey craze. For the first time, I am not just reading a book; I am invested in the book. If George, Denver, and Stephanie Brown don’t get their shit together, I am never going to read another book again. Kit enjoys my commitment to their story, but we don’t talk about it in front of Della. Della was part of the Twilight mania, and after reading one chapter of Kit’s untitled manuscript she asked if there were werewolves or vampires in the story. Kit shut her down real fast after that. She pouted but agreed to wait until he was finished to read the rest.
I am at an estate sale with Kit, Della, and our friend, June, who we’ve hung out with on and off since high school. June and I are on the front lawn, looking though boxes of old books, while Kit and Della are in the house looking at the furniture.
“Do you think Kitella will be moving in together soon?” June asks.
I look up surprised. “Kitella?”
“Kit and Della,” she says. “Kitella.” June is an odd bird. I know I’m an odd bird on the inside, but June is an odd bird on the inside and the outside. I eye her floral hat, and the paperclip necklace she’s wearing.
“Kitella,” I snort. “I don’t know. Della’s apartment is so … Della. I can’t see a guy moving in there.”
“They’d change things for sure. Make room. They’ve been together a while now.”
“Only like eight months,” I say defensively. “Not that long.”
“Come on, Helena. Della doesn’t usually make it through the three-month mark. Her wedding board is growing on Pinterest. Those two are serious.”
It is true. She has a menu and flower girl gifts now. Della always found something wrong with the boys she dated. Charles was too needy, Tim was too jealous, Anthony had an annoying twin sister. Kit is perfect; she says it all the time. And they are furniture shopping as we speak.
“Do you like them together?” I ask June.
“Yeah, they’re cute. I think he balances her. He’s not as shallow as some of the other guys she’s dated.”
June wanders off to look at a lamp, and I feel like sinking into the sea of grass. Why did all of that feel like bad news? It isn’t because I don’t want my best friend to be happy, because I do. I just want her to be happy with someone else. I go find them in the house. They’re looking at bookcases.
“You’re pretty … excellent.”
I feel so lonely when they’re gone.
There are definite, solid lines in life that should never be crossed. Developing a crush on your best friend’s boyfriend is one of them. Showing up to his job frequently and drinking his fruity cocktails is another. I don’t like him as much as Kentucky Fried Chicken, but hell if that boy didn’t look at me and tell me I was pretty … excellent. Excellent, which is above normal. Like I’m better than regular girls. Not your basic bitch. Finger-licking excellent. I realize I’m vulnerable and most days I feel like a worthless human—someone a guy can cheat on, and call it a mistake. I don’t want to be someone’s ‘girl who got away.’ I want to be someone’s ‘girl who’d I’d never let get away.’ I sign up for another class, and this time I try something a little different: clay. I like the feel of the cool, wet clay between my fingers. Clay is about numbers and proportion that you can control with your palms. I’m better at clay than I am at drawing. My hands feel less clumsy. I make coffee cups, vases, plates, then serving platters. All of them lacking symmetry, but I am so proud of them I throw out the cheap set I bought from Wal-Mart and place my handmade dinnerware in my kitchen cabinets. I paint everything white and splatter them with black paint. I am fighting the Pottery Barn taste that, according to my dream, is set to emerge in ten years. The carefully placed Chinese pots and decorative, stained knots give me hives. All a dream. All a dream, I tell myself. I focus on creating my style out of mess and mixed color. A Pottery Barn girl is for Neil, not Kit. Kit’s girl is color and texture.
When I realize that I’m avoiding Pottery Barn because of Kit, I go to their online store and buy a pair of ceramic French bulldogs. Nothing will control me, not Kit or Pottery Barn. To even things out, I replace my old throw pillows with ones I find at the flea market, but I won’t touch them. Or put them on my couch. I buy replacements at Pottery Barn. I stop drinking wine, too, since that was a manifestation of the dream, but some nights when I’m really sad I sniff an old cork I keep in my junk drawer. It’s not a cork from the wine Kit brought over; I don’t think so anyway. It was something I found near my trashcan. So when I start putting it on the spare pillow and sleeping with it, it has nothing to do with Kit. It’s just a random wine cork I’ve grown attached to. During the day, I put it in my purse where it travels with me to work, then art class. Clay is over; I register for an oil-on-canvas class, hoping for better results than my first class with Neptune.
On weekends, Della insists I tag along with whatever she and Kit are doing. She swears it’s not pity, and I’m no longer on suicide watch, and that Kit genuinely enjoys my company, while she needs me around for moral support.
“Moral support for what?” I ask her.
“Best friend moral support. Like, I just like having you around, you make me feel good.”
I love Della, God I love her. I’ve known her since we didn’t have real personalities, and we relied on Tiger Beat to tell us which boys to have crushes on—JTT for me, Devon Sawa for her. But people grow up, change, they are sorted into different houses—Slytherin for Della, Ravenclaw for me. They become what life dictates, and Della and I took two different routes. Della’s dad won the lottery. I shit you not. Five hundred thousand on a scratch-off ticket during our sophomore year. He doubled his money on investments, and all of a sudden, Della was a rich girl. Vacations to the Greek Isles, Christmas cruises to the Bahamas, a brand new Range Rover senior year. Our Tiger Beat years were replaced with glossy Vogue years, during which Della’s family took me on every vacation, and every outing on their boat. If they bought Della a pair of Kate Spade sunglasses, I would get a pair too. It was fun at first, but then I started to feel like a poor, charity tagalong. I still feel like that.
The only time I didn’t feel their cloying pity was when Kit sent me chapters of his book. Only me. That wasn’t pity; he genuinely wanted to share those with me. I was getting really attached to George, Denver, and Stephanie Brown. If I could put them on my pillow next to the wine cork, I would. Instead I read what he’s sent me over and over. I understand the Twilight craze, the Fifty Shades of Grey craze. For the first time, I am not just reading a book; I am invested in the book. If George, Denver, and Stephanie Brown don’t get their shit together, I am never going to read another book again. Kit enjoys my commitment to their story, but we don’t talk about it in front of Della. Della was part of the Twilight mania, and after reading one chapter of Kit’s untitled manuscript she asked if there were werewolves or vampires in the story. Kit shut her down real fast after that. She pouted but agreed to wait until he was finished to read the rest.
I am at an estate sale with Kit, Della, and our friend, June, who we’ve hung out with on and off since high school. June and I are on the front lawn, looking though boxes of old books, while Kit and Della are in the house looking at the furniture.
“Do you think Kitella will be moving in together soon?” June asks.
I look up surprised. “Kitella?”
“Kit and Della,” she says. “Kitella.” June is an odd bird. I know I’m an odd bird on the inside, but June is an odd bird on the inside and the outside. I eye her floral hat, and the paperclip necklace she’s wearing.
“Kitella,” I snort. “I don’t know. Della’s apartment is so … Della. I can’t see a guy moving in there.”
“They’d change things for sure. Make room. They’ve been together a while now.”
“Only like eight months,” I say defensively. “Not that long.”
“Come on, Helena. Della doesn’t usually make it through the three-month mark. Her wedding board is growing on Pinterest. Those two are serious.”
It is true. She has a menu and flower girl gifts now. Della always found something wrong with the boys she dated. Charles was too needy, Tim was too jealous, Anthony had an annoying twin sister. Kit is perfect; she says it all the time. And they are furniture shopping as we speak.
“Do you like them together?” I ask June.
“Yeah, they’re cute. I think he balances her. He’s not as shallow as some of the other guys she’s dated.”
June wanders off to look at a lamp, and I feel like sinking into the sea of grass. Why did all of that feel like bad news? It isn’t because I don’t want my best friend to be happy, because I do. I just want her to be happy with someone else. I go find them in the house. They’re looking at bookcases.
