Eric Lindstrom - Not If I See You First

“She means the way she talks,” Sarah says. “And yes, it’s absolutely hard to stay friends with her talking the way she does.”

“Ouch,” I say. “But it’s what people need; that’s why they come to us. They don’t have months or years to do it the old-fashioned way, professional-like. So Sarah starts it off right and then I cut to the chase.”

“How did this even start?” Molly asks. “You guys sitting out here … How do people know?”

I wait for Sarah to answer. She doesn’t.

I pivot my head to face her. “Go on, Sarah. Tell her.”

“God,” Sarah says in her eye-rolling voice. “The bitchiness I have no problems with … but the smugness … ugh …”

I grin.

“Fine,” she says. “One of the unexpected side effects of Parker going blind was how she got … less and less sensitive about what she said to people because she couldn’t see them flinch. Then freshman year a few people came back and thanked her for being so blunt, saying they later realized she was right and it really helped them. And here we are, two years later.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” I turn back to face Molly. “She even sold herself short. We’re a team because those things I say to people, most of them I wouldn’t even know if Sarah didn’t tell me. It’s like I said, she’s the eyes and the brains, I’m just the loudmouth.”

“Wow, you’re like Good Cop, Bad Cop Psychologists,” Molly says. “You should charge people five cents a session.”

“Yes!” I say. “We used to put out a coffee mug with Lucy on it saying The Doctor is IN , but it broke a while ago.”

“Maybe it’s time for a confession,” Sarah says without sounding at all remorseful. “I broke that mug on purpose.”

“You did?” I’m genuinely shocked. “Why?”

“She’s right about what she says to Charlie Brown but she’s totally heartless about it. That’s not us. Lucy’s a bitch.”

“But that’s perfect for you guys,” Molly says. “Each of you are half of Lucy. You’re the insightful psychologist half, and Parker, you’re …”

I laugh. Can’t deny it. Don’t even want to.

*

My locker combination is easy: zero-zero-zero, and there’s a bump on the dial by the zero. I have a separate padlock that takes a key since I can’t tell if someone’s looking over my shoulder. I asked them to disable the combination lock but they said they couldn’t without damaging it—which I don’t believe—so I asked if they could at least make it the easiest combination. Now I get the joy of unlocking two locks every time I want in my locker.

“Hi, Parker.”

It’s Faith. She doesn’t normally just say hi out of nowhere anymore so I wonder what else she wants. I’m not worried, though; school’s out and Molly has plenty to do in the library till I get there.

“Hey, Fay-Fay, how are you today?” It’s an old rhyme from when we were kids. She probably doesn’t like that nickname anymore but I’m in a good mood and she’s never told me to stop using it.

“You want to go to the mall this weekend?”

There were ninety-nine things I thought she might say—that wasn’t one of them.

Faith and I don’t hang out, mainly because we have almost nothing in common anymore. We act like we don’t get along but we’re the opposite of frenemies; we’re friends who pretend to be enemies. I guess that makes us enemends . We share a lot of serious history without any bumps in the road and were there for each other through the worst of it, just not so much day to day.

“It’s only Monday,” I say, buying time. “You really plan ahead.”

“I go to Ridgeway every weekend. I just thought maybe you’d like someone else to pick out clothes with besides Sarah ‘Sweatpants’ Gunderson for a change.”

“I guess she’s not invited.”

“She can come.”

“We don’t shop together,” I say. It’s never really occurred to me to wonder what Sarah wears all the time. “Does Sarah wear sweatpants a lot?”

“Only on days ending in y . Do you want to go?”

I don’t. And, well … I kind of do. I don’t want all the hassle, or pressure to get clothes that are too showy or aren’t my style, but … since Dad died I haven’t done any shopping besides the shoes yesterday. Shoes are about the only things I don’t need some amount of help with.

“Don’t you usually go with Lila and Kennedy?”

“Not always. It’s okay if you don’t want to.”

I wonder if this is one of those times I should just go with it without overanalyzing everything.

Nope.

“Why are you asking now?”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve never been shopping together and suddenly, on a random Monday afternoon, you want to go, but not till next weekend. What made you think of it?”

“Like I said, if you don’t want to …” she says.

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to.”

Silence.

“Nothing’s easy with you, Peegee. Not one thing.”

She sounds resigned, not angry. I feel a twinge because I know she’s right. Then a thought occurs to me. “Is this because I’m an orphan now?”

Sigh. The kind that tells me how burdensome my friendship is to her.

“Yes, Parker, it’s because you’re a hopeless charity case.” She closes her locker. “You just have to dissect everything around you like dead frogs.”

I laugh. “Today’s the first time since we met in kindergarten that you ask me to mall crawl and you’re surprised I want to talk about why?”

“Did I say I was surprised?” she says. “Fine, I saw you in the mall yesterday buying shoes.”

“Oh, you … Why didn’t you say something? Ah … the Dynamic Trio.”

She clears her throat—she hates that name. “I was alone. You were talking to a cute guy. I didn’t want to break the spell.”

“He was cute?” I say.

“Do you care?”

“Ha! See, you do know me. Wait, you were shopping alone?”

“There’s a time for everything. But I bet you think all shopping should be solo because you don’t want anyone’s help. Am I right?”

No way I’ll ever admit that. “You’re telling me you trust Lila and Kennedy’s opinions about clothes more than your own?”

“It’s not just about being helped. It’s nice. It’s fun.”

“Nice? Fun?”

“You know what? I’ve changed my mind. You do have to go. Sarah and Molly, too. You can’t walk around claiming to know everything if you’ve never even gone out shopping with friends. We’re going this Saturday—it’s decided.”

Nobody, but nobody tells me what to do. Nobody.

“All right, then,” I say.

hen I hear Aunt Celia’s car I say goodbye to Molly and walk to the curb. I open the door and plop my bag on the floor and hop in. “It’s me,” Sheila says. “My mom couldn’t come. My dad has work people coming over, so she’s making a big dinner. Not for us, though—we’re eating pizza in the living room.”

It bugs me the way she always says my mom and my dad. I mean, whenever I talk to anyone about my parents, R.I.P., it’s always my mom or my dad because it’s not their mom or dad; but Sheila and I are cousins and even though her mom and dad aren’t mine, I know them and we live together now and it just sounds weird. I don’t know, it just bugs me.