Looking At Us

14. shain

This was my weekend: I made cookies Saturday morning, filmed a show for my job Saturday evening, and spent the hours between Saturday and Sunday with a fever. Sunday morning, Megan called, just as my mother stuck a thermometer in my mouth. 

     ‘‘Hi,’’ she said. ‘‘Guess what?’’ 

     ‘‘Mmmmm,’’ I replied. 

     ‘‘You’re sick, aren’t you?’’

     ‘‘Mmm-hmm.’’ 

     She laughed. ‘‘Good for you, Shain. Good for you.’’ 

     I tried to tell her to shut up, but it came out as, ‘‘Mmm mm.’’ 

     Later, when I called her back, she told me that her and Cris had been texting all weekend and they weren’t planning on stopping. 

     ‘‘All weekend?’’ I repeated. ‘‘Like, since Friday?’’ 

     ‘‘Yep. I think he’s flirting with me.’’

     ‘‘Are you flirting with him?’’

     She was silent for a moment. ‘‘Maybe.’’ 

     Mom brought me a glass of ginger-ale and I listened as Megan read me the conversations between her and Cris. A lot of them were innocent teasing and flirting, some were serious, and others were educational or just plain random. 

     ‘‘Listen to this,’’ said Megan. ‘‘Hey, do you have a band-aid? ‘Cause I scraped my knee falling for you.’’ 

     The pros and cons to being me: I can do really complicated stuff, like play guitar while explaining why Harry Potter ‘died and came back to life’ in the last film, but it takes me a few seconds to understand jokes and catchphrases. 

     Megan was used to this. ‘’Do you get it?’’

     ‘‘Umm . . .’’ I stared at my ginger-ale. Then: ‘’Oh! Yeah, I get it. That’s so cute!’’ 

     ‘‘Took you a minute.’’ 

     ‘‘Hey, you know me. I’m a genius for big things but a lamebrain when it comes to little things.’’

     ‘‘With an extremely small ego,’’ Megan added. 

     I grinned. I wanted to say How well you know me, but then I would sound like Sasha. And that would not be a good thing. 

     ‘‘Does Cori know about you two texting?’’ I asked. 

     ‘‘Yes. She’s as mad as shit about it.’’ 

     On the carpet beside me, my younger brother Adam was organizing his hockey cards. He looked up and frowned when he heard Megan swear. 

     ‘‘Hang on,’’ I told her, pulling off my blankets and hobbling downstairs to my bedroom. I’d spent the night on the couch while my fever raged up to 104 degrees, but I was feeling better this morning. As soon as I reached the basement, however, I started shivering. 

     ‘‘Sasha knows too, probably,’’ Megan added, her voice bitter. ‘‘I bet Cori told her.’’

     ‘’I miss Sasha,’’ I said. 

     Once upon a time, Sasha Hawk had been known as the adorable, sarcastic seventh-grader with glasses and a tendency to break bones (in sixth grade she had a broken leg and two broken arms). She wore glasses. She was chubby and short, but she was hysterical and fearless. Through grade eight, the first year of high school, she lost weight and got even more sassy and impertinent. She got rid of the glasses and wore inappropriate clothing. Now, in grade nine, she was sent to the office at least once a week for back-talking to the teachers, stirred sexually with Darrin whenever they were together, even in classrooms, and destroyed the lives of other girls if they got on her nerves. She was the bitch of ninth grade (although I would never say that aloud, because I was a nice person and I didn’t swear). 

     Megan said, ‘‘Sasha’s gone. She’s never coming back, Shain. Get that in your head.’’

     It was déjà vu. Fourteen months ago, my best friend Liam had moved to Australia, and people had said the same thing: ‘‘He’s never coming back.’’ Even Megan had mentioned it to me, and she’d had a crush on him in seventh grade. 

     Another pro to being me: I refuse to believe the negative statements people say about my friends. 

     ‘’He gave me a challenge,’’ Megan said. 

     ‘‘Cris did? What was it?’’

     ‘‘We’re going to hang out tomorrow at break, and if he manages to keep me smiling the whole time, he gets to take me out on a date.’’

     Another pro to being me: I’m an expert on relationships, even though I’ve only been in one myself. I’m a writer; that should explain it all. 

     ‘’He likes you,’’ I said. ‘‘It’s obvious.’’

     ‘’He does not. We were just flirting.’’ 

     I huffed and clicked the Dictionary icon on my computer desktop. ‘‘Megan, the word flirting means to ‘behave as though attracted to or trying to attract someone, but for amusement rather than with serious intentions . . .’ Oh.’’ I faded off, realizing what the sentence meant. 

     Megan laughed lightly. ‘‘For a genius, Shain, you’re really stupid, sometimes.’’ 

     ‘‘I’m glad I can amuse you,’’ I replied. 

     In the background, I heard a door opening and closing, and then a little kid’s shriek. Megan said, ‘’Hi, Jari!’’ Then, to me, ‘’I have to go, Jari’s here. I’ll see you tomorrow.’’ 

     ‘‘Bye,’’ I said, and hung up. I started to feel dizzy; I took another sip of ginger-ale and collapsed on my bed. 

     She’s never coming back. 

     Sasha. 

     He’s never coming back. 

     Liam. 

     I refused to believe in the negative statements people said about my friends. 

     I suddenly wished that Megan hadn’t hung up yet; I wanted to tell her that if things got ugly with all this, I would stand by her no matter what.