The Kind of Friends We Used to Be Read online

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The author would like to acknowledge the following people: Lizzy and Barbara Dee, for their help with word choices and titles and for their overall enthusiasm for this project; Sujata Kishnani, for her many title suggestions; Pastor Frank Venable, for providing an excellent role model for certain fictional pastors; Kiley Fitzsimmons, for her editorial insights and kind words; and for Beth Sue Rose, who has always felt sure Kate and Marylin had a story to tell and who has worked so hard to get that story to as many kids as possible.

  The author would also like to acknowledge the usual suspects, who continue to tolerate her silly idiosyncrasies and give her life meaning: Amy Graham; Kathryn and Tom Harris; Danielle Paul; the O’Roarks; the Dowells; the marvelous Jonikas girls; and of course, and especially, Clifton, Jack, and Will (and Travis, too).

  For Caitlyn M. Dlouhy the most fabulous editor ever and a friend beyond compare

  play guitar

  When Kate decided to play the guitar, she realized she would need new shoes. All her life she had worn gym shoes, running shoes, soccer cleats, hiking boots, and red Chuck Taylor high-tops, whatever kind of sports shoe made the most sense at the time. Her mother didn’t even bother buying her dress shoes anymore. A woman she worked with had a daughter with Kate’s exact shoe size who they could borrow from in cases of emergency, such as Kate’s second cousin Janice’s wedding this past July.

  But as a future guitar player, Kate had new wardrobe responsibilities. She knew this from watching the girl guitar players on MTV2 over at Marcie Grossman’s house. She wasn’t allowed to watch MTV2 or regular MTV or any show that was remotely interesting at her own house, so she had to go to Marcie’s to get caught up on significant cultural events. The week before there had been a special on girls with guitars, and watching it Kate got this flying feeling, like she had just discovered a new continent, one where you could say what you wanted or be who you wanted as long as you were holding a guitar. This was her continent, Kate decided. This was where she belonged.

  There were at least two kinds of girl guitar players, Kate noted. There was, for instance, the retro girl guitar player. This was not Kate’s type. Kate didn’t wear 1950s prom dresses, or makeup, and platform shoes or sandals with spiked heels were completely out of the question. She’d tried making pouty faces in the mirror, but mostly she looked like she was going to throw up.

  But there was another kind of girl guitar player. This kind wore jeans and T-shirts and, most importantly, really cool shoes. Sometimes she played acoustic guitar, sometimes electric, sometimes her hair was short and spiky, sometimes it was long and hung in her face. But no matter what, this kind of guitar player girl always had shoes that made you pay attention. Big black shoes, cowboy boots, combat boots, whatever kind of shoes she wore, they were shoes that said, Don’t mess with me, or, You will never be as cool as I am, so don’t even try.

  Kate needed shoes like this in her life.

  The night before she decided to learn how to play the guitar, she’d gone to a Back-to-School party at Marylin’s house. Throwing a Back-to-School party was a very Marylin thing to do, which Kate would know, since she and Marylin had been friends since preschool and had managed to stay friends, even though Marylin was now a middle-school cheerleader and cared too much about her hair.

  Marylin was a big believer that life could be just the way it looked in girls’ magazines, where you and all your Best Friends Forever got together before school started and made crafty decorations for your lockers and traded fingernail polish tips, like throw away any bottle you’ve had for more than a year. Marylin believed that life could be sparkly all the time, even if your parents had just gotten a divorce, which hers had. It just took a little extra work and some lip gloss, and life would be like a TV show everyone wanted to watch.

  Marylin’s party was a sleepover party, so only girls were invited for the whole thing, but boys were invited for the first half. The boys Marylin invited were not Kate’s favorite type. They were boys like Wes Porter and Robbie Ballard, soccer-player boys, boys who did not talk to girls who weren’t cheerleaders. In Kate’s opinion, boys like this should have to do community service at nursing homes or hospitals, where people were wrinkly or covered with bandages on the outside but probably had beautiful souls. Boys like Wes Porter and Robbie Ballard did not think enough about people’s souls, as far as Kate could tell.

  And, it went without saying, they did not talk to girls like Kate Faber, basketball-playing girls with plain brown hair and a jungle of freckles on their noses and cheeks. So for the first two hours of the party, the hours that the boys were there, Kate had watched murder mystery shows on TV in the family room with Marylin’s little brother Petey, who was about to start fourth grade and was actually pretty good company. He knew a lot about solving homicides for a nine-year-old. He kept pointing out stuff to her, like how weasely this one guy looked around the eyes, even though he was very handsome in general.

  “That’s how you can tell who did it,” Petey had explained, his face moon-white in the TV’s glow. “By looking at their eyes. People blink when they lie, so that’s a big giveaway.”

  Kate had tried to get caught up in the shows. The room was dark except for the TV, and it was sort of cozy. If she’d been home, eating a bowl of cereal, her dog, Max, sleeping on the other end of the couch, she would have congratulated herself on finding a perfect way to spend the Friday night before school started.

  But since it was Marylin’s couch, and since there were fifteen people in the backyard who thought that being good-looking was the only valid reason for being alive and weren’t the least bit interested in what Kate was doing or why, Kate did not feel she was having a perfect evening. She was feeling left out by people she didn’t even like. It was insulting.

  It occurred to her then that if she played guitar, she would not have these kinds of problems. She thought of the guitar-playing girls on TV. They didn’t care about cheerleaders and soccer players and feeling left out. All they cared about was expressing themselves with their guitars and their big shoes. They were above middle school and all the stupid things that happened there, which is exactly what Kate wanted to be.

  She’d gotten up early the next morning and carefully stepped over the sleeping bodies of the other party guests, mostly a bunch of skinny, soon-to-be seventh-grade cheerleaders, none of whom had paid any attention to her during the slumber party part of the party either, and headed home in her pajamas so she wouldn’t wake anybody up trying to get dressed. She only lived across the street and three houses down, so if anyone saw her, they’d probably just think she was out looking for Max. What she wanted to do was go home and think about guitars. Just thinking about thinking about guitars made her feel better.

  That early in the morning, she didn’t expect to see Flannery out walking her dog, especially since she hadn’t seen Flannery all summer and had halfway assumed she had moved or become a juvenile delinquent and run away. Flannery had spent most of the year before trying to ruin Kate’s life by making everyone, including Marylin, treat her like dirt, but then suddenly she’d discovered eighth graders and stopped caring about Kate and Marylin altogether.

  Now Flannery had hot pink hair and wore lots of eye makeup. When she saw Kate, she waved. “I like your jams,” she called out. “They’re exactly like you.”

  Kate looked down at her pajamas, a tank top and shorts, yellow cotton printed with red strawberries. How could they be exactly like her? They weren’t exactly like anything, except maybe a piece of strawberry shortcake, which was nothing like Kate, who did not think of herself as sweet, or as a dessert item, for that matter.

  “Why are you
out so early?” Kate asked Flannery, not able to think of anything else to say. Flannery was not in her pajamas. She was wearing a black T-shirt and cut-off shorts and flip-flops. Her toenails were painted silver. She looked approximately twenty-three years old.

  “My mom said if I didn’t take better care of Rocko here, she was going to send him to the old dogs’ home, where they’d probably wait, like, thirty seconds before putting him to sleep.”

  Kate tilted her head to one side and squinted, as if to better study her former enemy. She would not have pegged Flannery as the sort of person who would try to save a dog’s life, especially a dog as drooly and disgusting-looking as Rocko, who clearly had a serious eye-goop problem.

  Flannery hopped up onto the hood of a silver Honda Accord that did not belong to her family and pulled Rocko’s leash toward her. Rocko stumbled a few steps into the grass and then flopped down by a tire, looking relieved to be off his feet.

  “So who do you have for homeroom, anyway?” she asked Kate, and then went on without waiting for Kate to answer. “I’ve got Shearer. I hear she’s super strict and makes you stay after if you’re one second late in the morning.”

  Kate crossed her arms over her chest. She was starting to feel self-conscious about standing in the middle of the sidewalk in her pajamas, especially as people were beginning to drive by on their way to work or the gym. “I’ve got Mr. Stephens,” she told Flannery. “Do you know anything about him?”

  “Yeah, he’s okay,” said Flannery, who was going into eighth grade this year, and who, Kate could tell, clearly thought of herself as an expert on all things seventh grade. “You’re lucky you didn’t get Mr. Meyers. He’s a creep. Not to mention a moron. I had Mr. Stephens for Algebra I. Bad case of dandruff, but otherwise not a problem.”

  “You mean pre-algebra, right? Algebra I is eighth-grade math.” Kate had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Leave it to Flannery to be so dumb about school.

  Flannery chewed on a cuticle for a second. “Um, I’m pretty sure what math I took last year, okay? As it happens to turn out, I’m advanced at math. I bet that blows your mind, doesn’t it?”

  “No,” Kate said lamely. So far this morning she’d had two surprises about Flannery. One, she was nice to animals. Two, she was smart. What was next? She’d spent last year secretly wishing she’d been Kate’s best friend? Given that Flannery had done everything she could to turn Marylin against her, had said mean things about Kate behind her back and to her face, and had led a wildly successful silent-treatment campaign in which no one spoke to Kate for three weeks, Kate found this highly unlikely.

  Flannery tugged on Rocko’s leash, pulling him back toward the sidewalk. “All the sudden I’m starving,” she said. “You want to come to my house for breakfast?”

  Kate wasn’t sure what she should count as the third surprise, that Flannery ate breakfast, or that she would actually invite Kate to come eat it with her. Both seemed equally unlikely. She leaned over to brush some grass off the bottom of her foot, wondering if she should make up an excuse not to go to Flannery’s. Eating breakfast with someone was sort of personal, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to get personal with Flannery. She suspected that might be a dangerous thing to do.

  “My mom’s making pancakes,” Flannery trilled in a singsong voice. “You’ll love ’em!”

  “I guess so, yeah, okay.” Kate shrugged. What else could she say? She was clearly dressed for breakfast, after all. Besides, Flannery was the only person besides Petey McIntosh who’d treated her like a human being in the last eighteen hours. You had to give her points for that.

  Flannery hopped off the car. “Excellent. My stepdad hardly yells at all when we have company.”

  Great, Kate thought, following Flannery and Rocko down the sidewalk toward Flannery’s house. Just what she wanted, to be a buffer at Flannery’s dysfunctional breakfast table.

  It didn’t occur to her until they were sitting down to eat that Flannery hadn’t asked her why she was outside in her pajamas at seven o’clock in the morning.

  Of course, if you were as weird as Flannery, Kate reasoned, everything in the world might seem normal to you.

  Flannery’s stepdad hadn’t even come down for breakfast, so it had just been Flannery, Kate, Flannery’s mom, and her two little brothers, Josh and Bennie. Flannery’s mom was a little too happy to see Kate, if you wanted Kate’s opinion. It was sort of like she thought Kate was there to rescue Flannery from a life of crime.

  “I forgot how nice your mom was,” Kate told Flannery after they’d eaten and were hanging out in Flannery’s bedroom. It had been a long time since Kate had been here, and it looked a lot different from how she’d remembered. Last year around this time, Flannery’s room had had lots of stuffed animals and pink stuff. Now the walls were still pink, but they were covered with posters of bands who looked very, very mean, like they hoped you would fall down and die that very second.

  “She’s okay,” Flannery said. She was sitting on her bed, painting another layer of silver polish on her toenails. “I wish she’d get a job, though. She’s here every single second of the day. It drives me crazy.”

  “My mom works part-time,” Kate said. “I actually like it when she’s home. She bakes a lot. I mean, baking is actually her other part-time job. She used to be a window dresser, but she decided that baking is what she really loves most of all. She does wedding cakes and cakes for parties. So it really smells good when my mom’s home.”

  “You know, a lot of the time you talk like you’re about eight years old,” Flannery told her matter-of-factly, leaning forward so she could blow on her toes. “Maturity-wise, I mean.”

  Okay, this show was definitely over. The night before she’d been ignored, this morning she was being insulted. Kate stood up to leave. She turned toward the door, and as she did she noticed Flannery’s open closet door. There was no way in the world she could keep herself from looking inside it. The floor was a jumble of shoes. All the shirts were hanging halfway off their hangers. And in the middle of all the mess, leaning against the closet’s back wall, was a guitar.

  An electric guitar.

  “Do you play that?” Kate had to know. Was Flannery, in fact, a girl guitar player who knew the secret of how to get through life without caring about anything?

  “A little,” Flannery told her, walking over from her bed to grab the guitar from the closet. “I mean, I know all the chords, but I’m still learning to do barre chords, which is what you have to know if you’re going to be in a band.”

  “You’re going to be in a band?” Kate asked, thinking that would explain all the eye makeup.

  Flannery sat on the floor and cradled the guitar in her lap. “Maybe. Megan Woods and I have been talking about it. Her brother is a drummer, and he said he’d let us use his drums.” She looked up at Kate. “Why? Do you want to be in a band?”

  “I was just thinking I might want to learn how to play guitar. It seems like it would be a fun thing to know how to do.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Flannery said, shaking her head sadly. “That is such an eight-year-old thing to say. Playing guitar isn’t a fun thing to do. It’s a way of life.”

  Kate looked at the floor. “I know that,” she said quietly. “That’s what I really meant.”

  Flannery didn’t say anything for a minute, until finally she looked at Kate and nodded her head. “I believe you,” she said. “I believe that’s what you really meant.”

  And then she handed Kate the guitar. “Take it,” she said. “Borrow it for a few days. Take the amp, too.”

  Kate stared at the guitar for a moment. It felt so natural, the way her left hand fit around the neck, the curve of the body resting in her right hand. “No, I couldn’t,” she said reluctantly. “I mean, I can’t borrow something this important.”

  “It’s no big deal,” Flannery said. “My dad says he’s going to get me a new one.”

  “Really?” Kate asked. “Are you serious? I can borrow this?”


  “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my entire life.”

  Kate looked at Flannery.

  She believed her.

  When Marylin called that afternoon, Kate was busy playing the E-minor chord. In addition to the guitar and amplifier, Flannery had also lent her a book about how to teach yourself to play guitar, and Kate was going through it page by page, looking for the really easy stuff. In Kate’s opinion, E minor sounded great.

  “Where did you go this morning?” Marylin asked. “When I woke up and didn’t see you there, I was worried sick.”

  “So how come you’re only calling me now? It’s after lunch.” Kate strummed another E minor, which sounded satisfyingly dramatic and sad at the same time.

  “Well, it took forever to eat breakfast, because Mazie kept burning the pancakes, and one time the smoke alarm went off, and that made everything completely crazy. And to be honest, it wasn’t until about eleven o’clock that I realized you were missing.”

  “That makes me feel great,” Kate said. “You have no idea how much you’ve just improved my self-esteem.”

  Marylin didn’t say anything for a minute. Kate could practically hear her thinking. Then she gasped and cried out, “You’re right, Kate! You’re right. That’s awful that I didn’t notice earlier! It’s just with everyone running around all over the house, and the alarm going off, well, I guess I must have thought you were in the bathroom or something.”

  For three hours? Kate wanted to ask. But she didn’t. Because from her twelve years’ experience of being alive, she knew that very few people could admit they were wrong the way that Marylin just had. It was a trait you didn’t want to squash out with a sarcastic remark.

  “Anyway,” she told Marylin, flipping through the guitar book to find another easy chord, “I just decided to come home. You were the only person there who’s actually my friend.”

  “That’s not true!” Marylin exclaimed. Then she was quiet again for a moment. “Okay, well, maybe it’s sort of true. But you’re friends with Ashley. You’ve been friends with Ashley since kindergarten.”