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let it bother me.
    It’s hard when friends go in different directions, Mom was saying.
    â€œI get that,” I said instead of
thank you, Captain Obvious
. “And it’s probably that much harder because Hazel hates Natasha.”
    â€œDoes she?” Mom asked
    â€œTotally,” I said. “She has told me on many occasions that she can’t believe I used to be best friends with Natasha when Natasha is such a shallow plate.”
    â€œA shallow . . .”
    â€œPlate. I know. Whatever that means. One thing I am not missing so much now that Hazel isn’t talking to me is her weird expressions.”
    Mom laughed at that. I like making her laugh.
    That only thing that has me worrying that maybe Hazel is right, that I am spoiled and a not-nice person, is: Natasha used to say stuff like that to me about myself, too. One person could be just striking out, trying to say a hateful thing. When it gets to be a chorus, maybe they’re telling the truth?
    Well, but. The fact is, Natasha used to say that critical stuff to me anytime I didn’t want to play exactly what she wanted me to play. I had my suspicions I was not the one who was acting spoiled. According to Mom, Natasha was definitely the one who was spoiled when she made me cry so often in early elementary. But then again, Mom only heard my side of the story. And she was not used to dealing with friendship traumas because Henry is more of a keep-to-himself kind of kid.
    I read some books about highly sensitive kids, and it’s true I can’t stand tags in my clothes or sudden noises and tragedies, so maybe Natasha wasn’t completely wrong. Or Hazel either.
    It’s funny they hate each other when they have some important points of agreement over my faults. Or they used to. Natasha and I have made up now. Which feels really good. For almost two years I’d watch her in the halls and know she was going to pretend not to see me. I spent so much time, and so many fallen eyelashes and birthday candles, wishing it would not feel so awful between us anymore.
    I went over to her house yesterday and it was such fun. We danced around in her room and took silly pictures of ourselves. The two of us dressed up in some of her dresses. She made me try on the pink and white one she wore to her aunt’s wedding last spring. She stuffed socks in to make me look all filled out like her. It was hilarious. She asked me if I like Jack. Jack? I told her I’ve never had one conversation with him. She said she caught him smiling at me a few times today. “No way!” I shrieked, and we laughed about how silly Jack and I would look as a couple, him so tall and strong and me looking like a baby. We put on lipstick, full eyeliner, and tons of mascara and pretended to be seventeen, heading out to clubs, sticking out our tongues at the camera, pressing our faces cheek to cheek, pouting our lips. It was like a replay of being little kids playing dress-up, but the teen version.
    â€œIf you posted any of those,” I told her, “my mom would kill me.”
    Natasha laughed and kissed my cheek. “No worries. Show me your sexiest pose!”
    I tried.
    â€œYou are too pretty!” she yelled. “Why are you so photogenic? It’s disgusting! I hate you!” But she was totally smiling and kidding. It felt really good, like my life was finally back on its track.
    So today, I kept reminding myself of all those nice things Natasha said yesterday and told myself
Stop being oversensitive!
I have to toughen up if I want to chill with Natasha and those guys. Suck it up, Evangeline says, if anybody whines about a grade or catches a ball funny and jams her finger on the playground: suck it up and deal.
    So I was telling myself
Suck it up!
after Natasha asked me “Talk much?” as we were leaving social studies this morning.
    I had raised my hand in class a bunch and got called on three times. Maybe that’s too much