Oh. My. Gods.
Page 54
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“What?” She’s talking to me again. “Who?”
Now she’s lying. To me. Her best friend.
“Justin.” I had so hoped it wasn’t true.
“Why is he in your room?”
“He, uh . . .” She sounds resigned. “Phoebe, I wanted to tell you. Really I did.”
“But?” I ask.
“There just never seemed a good time.”
“For what, Cesca?”
“To tell you that Justin and I have been seeing each other.”
My last hope that this was all some big misunderstanding—that I was totally wrong—vanishes. My best friend and my worst ex are dating.
“You’re right,” I say. “There is no good time to tell me that.”
“Phoebe, I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” I say, stunned. “I’m sorry you didn’t learn from my mistake. You’re too good for him, Cesca.”
“I . . .” Her voices drops to a whisper again. “. . . I know. I just don’t know how to end it.”
“If it’s already over for you why did you tell him what I said?”
“I didn’t.”
“He found out somehow,” I explain. “He tried to post about it in his blog.”
“Well, I didn’t—” She gasps, then shouts—thankfully not at me— “Why you rotten, sneaky bast—”
“What?” I interrupt.
“Hold on,” she says into the phone. Then I hear the click of the receiver being set down on her desk. “How dare you read my private IM chat? You went on my computer and read my personal files, didn’t you?”
“I, uh,” Justin stammers in the background. “No?”
Bad move, Justin. If you’re going to lie, at least do it with conviction.
“Get your privacy-invading stinky ass out of my room.” Cesca is screaming so loud it sounds like she is talking directly into the receiver. “I never want to see you again. When you see me walking down the hall you’d better step out of my way!”
Two seconds later a loud thwack echoes through the phone.
That, I think, is the sound of Cesca slamming the door after kicking Justin out of her room.
“You still there, Phoebe?”
“I’m here.” I’m relieved she sounds back to normal. “You all right?”
“Ugh, yes.” She sighs into the phone. “Can you believe how stupid I was? It’s not like I thought he would change. Can you still be friends with someone so stupid?”
“Hey,” I say, trying to rally her spirits, “you forget you’re talking to the girl who went out with him first. I think I get the stupidity crown.”
We laugh and I’m just thankful that our friendship is back on track. I don’t know what I’d do without Cesca to go to when I have a problem. I can always count on Cesca to set me straight. I mean, I love Nola, but she’s not the most grounded cookie in the jar.
“So,” she says hesitantly, “did he cause major problems for you?”
“No, not major.”
“Oh.”
“Look, Cesca. I really, really, really wish I could tell you what this is all about, but—”
“I understand. Just like I wouldn’t expect you to break my confidence if I had a secret, so I wouldn’t ask you to break someone else’s, either.”
Huge sigh of relief. It’s so much better to talk through things like this on the phone. E-mail is so impersonal—and so open to interpretation. We chat awhile longer—not too long because I know international calls can be astronomically expensive—before hanging up, promising to e-mail at least every other day. And to not keep any more secrets unless they’re somebody else’s.
Mom is waiting for me when I emerge.
“Is everything all right?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “We just had some stuff to talk through.”
“I know how much you miss your friends.” She wraps an arm around my shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll see them again soon.”
Not soon enough.
“At least they’re flying out for the wedding,” she adds.
I force a grin. “Only three months away.”
“Don’t worry.” She gives me a good squeeze before releasing me. “Your friendships will survive the hurdles of time and space.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, not meaning it.
Three months and seven thousand miles is more than I’m willing to put between my friendships.
“Nervous?” Nicole asks as she slides in next to me at our lunch
table. “The big race is only days away.”
“Nah.” I shrug.
On the inside, I’m boiling with nerves at the mere mention of the race. Sure, I’ve competed in dozens, maybe hundreds of races in my lifetime. This one is different.
There is more riding on the outcome. I’m used to racing for myself, trying to beat my time or beat my opponent. This time I’m racing for my racing future. Not just my slot on the team is at stake. If I don’t race well this year then no scholarship. No scholarship, no USC.
Talk about pressure.
But there’s more to this race than staying on the team. In all my years of running I’ve had a pretty easy time. Make a little effort and win the race. This time I’m going to have to exert myself—run all-out. I’m racing against some of the best high school athletes in the world, grounded powers or not. This is my first real opportunity to see what I’m made of on the racecourse.
Now she’s lying. To me. Her best friend.
“Justin.” I had so hoped it wasn’t true.
“Why is he in your room?”
“He, uh . . .” She sounds resigned. “Phoebe, I wanted to tell you. Really I did.”
“But?” I ask.
“There just never seemed a good time.”
“For what, Cesca?”
“To tell you that Justin and I have been seeing each other.”
My last hope that this was all some big misunderstanding—that I was totally wrong—vanishes. My best friend and my worst ex are dating.
“You’re right,” I say. “There is no good time to tell me that.”
“Phoebe, I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” I say, stunned. “I’m sorry you didn’t learn from my mistake. You’re too good for him, Cesca.”
“I . . .” Her voices drops to a whisper again. “. . . I know. I just don’t know how to end it.”
“If it’s already over for you why did you tell him what I said?”
“I didn’t.”
“He found out somehow,” I explain. “He tried to post about it in his blog.”
“Well, I didn’t—” She gasps, then shouts—thankfully not at me— “Why you rotten, sneaky bast—”
“What?” I interrupt.
“Hold on,” she says into the phone. Then I hear the click of the receiver being set down on her desk. “How dare you read my private IM chat? You went on my computer and read my personal files, didn’t you?”
“I, uh,” Justin stammers in the background. “No?”
Bad move, Justin. If you’re going to lie, at least do it with conviction.
“Get your privacy-invading stinky ass out of my room.” Cesca is screaming so loud it sounds like she is talking directly into the receiver. “I never want to see you again. When you see me walking down the hall you’d better step out of my way!”
Two seconds later a loud thwack echoes through the phone.
That, I think, is the sound of Cesca slamming the door after kicking Justin out of her room.
“You still there, Phoebe?”
“I’m here.” I’m relieved she sounds back to normal. “You all right?”
“Ugh, yes.” She sighs into the phone. “Can you believe how stupid I was? It’s not like I thought he would change. Can you still be friends with someone so stupid?”
“Hey,” I say, trying to rally her spirits, “you forget you’re talking to the girl who went out with him first. I think I get the stupidity crown.”
We laugh and I’m just thankful that our friendship is back on track. I don’t know what I’d do without Cesca to go to when I have a problem. I can always count on Cesca to set me straight. I mean, I love Nola, but she’s not the most grounded cookie in the jar.
“So,” she says hesitantly, “did he cause major problems for you?”
“No, not major.”
“Oh.”
“Look, Cesca. I really, really, really wish I could tell you what this is all about, but—”
“I understand. Just like I wouldn’t expect you to break my confidence if I had a secret, so I wouldn’t ask you to break someone else’s, either.”
Huge sigh of relief. It’s so much better to talk through things like this on the phone. E-mail is so impersonal—and so open to interpretation. We chat awhile longer—not too long because I know international calls can be astronomically expensive—before hanging up, promising to e-mail at least every other day. And to not keep any more secrets unless they’re somebody else’s.
Mom is waiting for me when I emerge.
“Is everything all right?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “We just had some stuff to talk through.”
“I know how much you miss your friends.” She wraps an arm around my shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll see them again soon.”
Not soon enough.
“At least they’re flying out for the wedding,” she adds.
I force a grin. “Only three months away.”
“Don’t worry.” She gives me a good squeeze before releasing me. “Your friendships will survive the hurdles of time and space.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, not meaning it.
Three months and seven thousand miles is more than I’m willing to put between my friendships.
“Nervous?” Nicole asks as she slides in next to me at our lunch
table. “The big race is only days away.”
“Nah.” I shrug.
On the inside, I’m boiling with nerves at the mere mention of the race. Sure, I’ve competed in dozens, maybe hundreds of races in my lifetime. This one is different.
There is more riding on the outcome. I’m used to racing for myself, trying to beat my time or beat my opponent. This time I’m racing for my racing future. Not just my slot on the team is at stake. If I don’t race well this year then no scholarship. No scholarship, no USC.
Talk about pressure.
But there’s more to this race than staying on the team. In all my years of running I’ve had a pretty easy time. Make a little effort and win the race. This time I’m going to have to exert myself—run all-out. I’m racing against some of the best high school athletes in the world, grounded powers or not. This is my first real opportunity to see what I’m made of on the racecourse.
