I was in all through middle school got split up this year. The only one I ever get to hang out with at school is my best friend, Sarah.”
Verbena winces at the phrase “best friend.” “You’re so lucky,” she says after being quiet for a minute. “Whenever I get to a new place, all the good best friends are taken.”
I don’t know what to say, so I start telling her about Sarah, what she’s like, what her interests are, her obsession with ethical chocolate. I notice after I’ve gone on a few minutes that Verbena is frowning, and I wonder if I’ve somehow hurt her feelings by describing one of my friends when she doesn’t have any, if you don’t count me.
“Did I say something wrong? Maybe I shouldn’t be talking about my best friend since you don’t exactly—uh—have one, I guess.”
Verbena examines the Lite ’n’ Rite parmesan bread stick she’s pulled out of a box from her purse, then takes a bite before answering. “No, no. It’s just this Sarah person—I don’t know, she sounds kind of . . . something. Like an overachiever type, I guess.”
“Well, she is, sort of,” I admit. “She’s just really smart. She likes to have a lot going on.”
“But you’re not like that.”
For some reason, that stings. I used to be an overachiever, I’m pretty sure, or at the very least part of the smart-girl group, the straight-A team. Is there something about me that suggests I’m no longer living up to my potential? I sniff the air around me, checking for that telltale sour milk smell, but all I get a whiff of is parmesan bread stick and library paste. “You’ve only known me a little while,” I complain to Verbena. “For all you know, I could be writing some major magnum opus, or curing cancer in my basement when I’m done with my homework.”
“You could be,” Verbena replies, pointing her bread stick at me. “But you’re not. This Sarah person, on the other hand, is probably working on a cure for cancer and the common cold and—oh, I don’t know. Rabies or something.”
It’s funny, hearing someone else’s take on Sarah, someone who’s judging her solely on my description. I feel sort of guilty, both for unintentionally painting a picture of Sarah that turned out to be less than flattering, and also for enjoying Verbena’s negative opinion. The fact is, Sarah is an overachiever—and a know-it-all, and, as I told her in no uncertain terms when we were seven, a bossy-boss.
And, if I’m completely honest, she can get on my nerves. Like this Monday, with Monster. She was treating him like a Jeremy Fitch tutorial. Driving to Monster’s house in his truck—red, ancient, frighteningly rusted—she interrogated Monster about everything Jeremy.
“So what kind of girl would you say he likes? Intelligent, athletic, artsy?” Sarah asked, sounding like she was reading from a quiz in a magazine. “Vivacious, quiet, articulate?”
“I think he likes girls, period,” Monster told her, grinning. “I never noticed him being particular about it.”
“But there’s got to be some special kind of girl—his dream girl, right?”
Monster guffawed. “Dream girl? Ain’t such a thing. You walk, you talk, you got mammary glands, well, that’s gonna do it right there for most guys.”
“You’re not very romantic, are you?” Sarah plucked a small purple rubber frog from a collection of rubber frogs on the dashboard and stretched one of its legs so it was pointing accusingly at Monster. “I can’t believe that guys don’t have particular things they want in a girl.”
“They want mammary glands. Pronounced mammary glands.”
“I bet he likes smart girls.” Sarah brightened. “Musicians like smart girls, don’t they? Look at John Lennon and Yoko Ono.”
“Oh, yeah, musicians are known for bird-dogging intelligent women,” Monster mockingly agreed. “I hear Elvis had a big thing for Madame Curie.”
The conversation petered out after that. Sarah fiddled with the radio, which only seemed to receive static, and I examined the menagerie of critters littering Monster’s dash—besides the frogs, there were several tiny cows, apparently glued down, and a passel of three-inch-high dinosaurs in alarming hues, purples, reds, and one striped brontosaurus—wondering what on earth were we doing. Frankly, I was beginning to question Sarah’s sanity. I mean, did she really think Jeremy Fitch was going to fall for her—for her mind? Or because she was nice, or up-to-date on current events?
Or because she played the bass?
The Jam Band idea seemed crazier to me every time I thought about it. I could understand why we’d gotten