Please Don't Tell - Laura Tims Page 0,56
texting my friend and making her turn that shade of red.” She skims it. Her eyebrows fly up. “Levi? As in the new kid Levi? As in Adam Gordon’s half brother?”
“He’s tutoring me in American History. It’s nothing.”
“Yeah, I’m sure your American History homework was to go watch a shitty movie and ‘get blushy.’” Her knuckles tighten on the phone. “What’s he want with you?”
“He’s nothing like Adam. At all. He didn’t even know Adam.” I’m babbling. “He’s just new. We’re temporary friends, like you and Cassius. He’ll make better friends soon.”
“Better friends?” November repeats, and starts laughing so hard she doubles over.
“What?”
“You’re not good at much, you know that?” she splutters. “You’re shit at grades, you’re way too aggressive at sports—remember when you tried to join the soccer team and kicked the goalie in the face? You suck at art, your fashion sense blows. . . .”
“That’s what I meant.” I stick out my tongue at her. “He’ll find better friends.”
“That’s why I’m laughing.” She flicks my hair affectionately. “You are the best friend. That’s the one thing you’re good at. I’ve never met anybody who obsesses over doing right by her friends as much as you.”
I tense. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m actually a selfish bitch,” I say lightly.
She bursts out laughing again. “You’re cheering me up.”
I smile, but my heart is pounding. “Everything I do is selfish. I do nice things just to feel better about myself. I’d probably throw somebody in a shark tank so I could be the one to pull them out. Best friend ever.”
“I know you’re kidding. But there’s a good and a selfish reason for everything, and the fact that the selfish reason exists doesn’t cancel out the good reason.” She rolls her eyes. “Senior wisdom from November Roseby. So are you gonna go hang with the new kid at the movie theater or what?”
“You’d let me?”
“What do you mean let you? I’m not your babysitter.” She snorts. “If I am, I’m a cool babysitter with a radical taste in music.”
“I just meant . . . you didn’t like Adam.”
“I of all people understand that people aren’t clones of their family members. In fact, I think people tend to swing the complete opposite way. So by that logic, Levi’s a saint.”
“I won’t hang out with him if it makes you uncomfortable.”
“You’re ridiculous. I am not an asshole.” She hands my phone back. “Plus, you’ve been stressed, even if you won’t talk to me about it. It’s okay to take a break to do something that makes you happy.”
“I don’t want to go off and see a movie when you’re bummed.”
“I’ll get over it. You can be happy. It’s not cheating. Go to the movies or I’m going to be pissed at you.”
“But—”
“Go. Leave. I’m not saying another word to you.”
I open my mouth again, but she mimes zipping hers shut.
So I go. Just this once. Just so Levi has an excuse to get out of the house.
As I walk across the playground, I hear her mutter to herself, “Better friends.”
And she starts laughing all over again.
The movie’s long, boring, a chance for me to doze off, shut down, not think. It’s like being in the auditorium—a cool dark place with Levi next to me. It’s probably why people go to the movies so much, even though they’re expensive and you can watch them all online. It’s an excuse to sit in the dark next to somebody nice without worrying about messing it up with words.
When Levi and I walk out, it’s dark. He buys us two sodas and we sit by the fountain outside the shopping center.
“I don’t remember anything from that movie,” I confess.
“Guts everywhere and explosions. That’s what I remember about Adam when he was nine, how he loved that shit, how our dad loved that he loved it. Like he was doing manhood right. I cried through those movies.” He laughs. “This is how I make girls like me. I tell them about all the times I cried.”
“That’s the only time you told me about when you cried,” I point out.
“Are you asking about other times?”
I shrug, but I am.
“I’ll tell you, because I want to pretend you’re interested. Let’s see. The last Harry Potter book, obviously.”
“There’s got to be more than that.”
“You are interested.” He smirks. “I can’t think of any. I told you about the movie thing—now you think I’m a crier. But I don’t cry. I’m very manly.”
Talking to him is so easy. He doesn’t expect