I don’t say anything about how much it hurts, the way Chicky and I drifted apart. For years, I’ve pretended it didn’t matter, that it was just something that happened. But it’s like all the hurt I pretended wasn’t there is rearing up all at once.
“Then there’s Junior,” Cole says. “He thinks you’re . . . well, he definitely thinks you’re entertaining. I’d count him as a friend if I were you.”
“Junior,” I say, realizing something.
“Yeah . . . ,” Cole says slowly.
Chicky and Junior.
If I can’t get anything else right before I leave this planet, I can help get them talking again. I can at least get them in the same part of town enough to give them a chance.
It’s one thing I can do, something good I can leave behind.
Chicky
MY PARENTS CLOSE the diner the next day. For the first time in living memory.
So when Junior Cortes knocks on my door, I answer it despite the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s not like things can get worse.
“Hey,” I say, looking for evidence of Hair Pony. Glitter, or a scrunchie on his wrist, or a lipstick smear on his cheek. I don’t find anything, and I tell myself it doesn’t matter.
“Hey,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes.
We stand there in awkward silence for a minute that feels like a year.
“So, you came to my house.”
“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “So check this out, I worked the early morning shift at the museum and the weirdest guy came in . . .” He looks at me now, looking for permission to tell me the story. To pretend things are normal.
And even though I’m mad, and hurt, I’m also lonely, so I let him. Even though the pit in my stomach doesn’t go away.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Well, you always know it’s gonna be a weird one when the guy is wearing a tinfoil hat.”
“Oh, here we go,” I say. More of Junior’s stories than you’d think begin with a tinfoil hat. “Was this one for enhancement or blocking?”
“Blocking,” he says, laughing. “He didn’t want any interference.”
“Of course not.”
“So he steps up to the door and requests permission to come aboard . . .”
I can’t help it. I laugh. And despite everything, it feels good to laugh with him.
“And then I realize he’s not just wearing the hat, he’s in a full-on Next Gen costume, with the Enterprise jumpsuit and one of those brutal-looking sash things that Worf wears?”
Junior’s dad is really into Star Trek: Next Generation, so not only have we seen almost every episode, we had the benefit of his near-constant commentary too.
“Wait, aren’t those things like thousands of dollars?”
“Oh yeah,” Junior says. “And it was one of the nice ones, too, like the one I tried to sell lemonade to buy before seventh-grade Halloween?”
“I remember,” I say, and I do. How we were going to be Worf and Deanna Troi, but then we watched an episode where they kiss and I pretended to be sick to get out of it.
“Anyway he requests a private audience . . . with the rock.”
“No!”
“Oh yes. So I get a soda and stand in the other room, close enough to jump in when things get weird.”
“Which they always do.”
“Right. So this guy pulls out, like, an official-looking scroll of paper, unrolls it, and starts reading from it in Klingon, with pauses for the rock to talk back.”
“Oh man, too bad we didn’t go to that summer camp at the Klingon Language Institute,” I say, getting into it now. “You could have understood every word!”
“Trust that I regretted that decision for every minute this dude was talking,” he says, shaking his head. “Especially because he walked out a few minutes later looking super happy, like, just won the lottery happy, and he saluted me before ‘departing the bridge.’”
I’m laughing for real now, and so is he, and the feeling in my stomach is almost gone.
“If that guy disappears it’s all your fault,” I say when I catch my breath.
“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe they’ll put my picture in the tabloids.”
“Isn’t that everyone’s ultimate goal in life?” I ask.
“Probably not people who don’t live in a hotbed of extraterrestrial tourism, honestly.”
“Good point.”
The silence settles again then, and with it the sick feeling comes back. And suddenly, as quick as a lightning strike, I’m more than sick. I’m mad. I’m mad at him for doing what he did, and for trying to act like everything’s normal. I’m mad at myself for letting him.
“Just say it,” he says. “Whatever it is. I can’t stand this.”
“Fine,” I say, a Fresa-like flare of recklessness pushing me on. “You’re a jerk.”
“Is that all?” he asks, trying and failing not to look offended.
“You’re a jerk because . . . ,” I begin.
“Really?”
“. . . because you’re my best friend.” I say. “And like, the only person in this town who doesn’t look at me and think I’m less or different than I should be.”
He unfolds his arms, but his eyes stay straight ahead, like he’s counting every leaf on Mr. Jacobs’s prized corkscrew willow tree across the street.
“I know. I messed up. It’s just . . . I look at you and I see . . .” He tugs on his hair, and suddenly I’m remembering her pushing it out of his eyes, and I don’t know if I’m ready for what he’s gonna say, but I also can’t stop him. I don’t want to stop him.
Unfortunately, he stops himself.
“What I’m trying to say is I’m sorry. You’re my best friend, and I pushed you, and I made what I wanted more important than what you needed, and that’s not okay. You’re enough, just like you are. So don’t worry about it. It won’t happen again.”
He’s saying all the right things, offering our friendship back to me without all the complications of growth spurts and puberty and stupid hormones. I should be thrilled, right? And I am. Thrilled. But under it is something just a little sad. Like a star that died millions of years ago finally disappearing from the sky.
“Look,” I manage. “I know you have a girlfriend now or whatever, but I don’t want to just be some girl you used to watch Star Trek with, and . . .”
“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he blurts out, interrupting me.
“What?” I ask, but in my mind’s eye the Hair Pony is prancing into the white-hot center of the sun, and I know. It’s not very feminist of me, and I’ll unpack that later. But for right now I’m thrilled.
“I kind of asked her out to make you jealous, and I feel terrible about it. It was such a bad idea, and we had a terrible time and had nothing to talk about, and I wanted to tell you like five minutes after I got there.”
My eyes get big, it’s what Junior calls my judgy face, but I can’t help it.
“It’s not who I am, okay?” he says. “It’s not who I want to be. I just felt so . . . bad. And I did a dumb thing, and I’m sorry.”