Rich people are so weird. When Kylie gets tired of her old clothes, she has a closet sale in her room. Me and Madison and Rachel Kramer go over and buy her clothes for way less than they cost at the mall. She only keeps stuff like jeans and boots for like a year, then she sells them. Most of her stuff is still better than mine, so it’s a good deal for me. Her parents have yard sales, too, in the summer. My parents never have yard sales because nobody wants to buy our stuff. We use it until it’s too old for anyone else to want.
It’s the same with my clothes. I couldn’t sell my clothes to friends because they aren’t that exciting. They’re just plain and boring, like me. Every time I try to wear something like a flannel shirt with a scarf and big sunglasses, I just feel dumb. And I guess I look dumb, too, because Maya wrote “poser” on my locker that one time.
Nobody except Conor was in the yearbook office when I went in yesterday to process some photos. He was on the computer looking at pictures he took of Kendra and the other cheerleaders. I put my backpack and camera bag down and got out the Nikon that Mr. Fallon, the yearbook adviser, lets me use. It belongs to the school. I really don’t know how to work it unless Conor changes the settings for me. I’m not a very good photographer and it’s not because I don’t know what makes a good picture. It’s because I can’t work the camera.
Conor was using Photoshop to lighten Lacey Rudolph’s hair so her roots didn’t look so much darker than the rest of her hair.
“I wish I looked like Lacey Rudolph,” I told him. Lacey has long blond wavy hair and a perfect body.
“She’s nothing special,” Conor said. “She’s cuter than you, but she’s not perfect.”
I got my camera and sat down at one of the other computers and started processing my photos. They were awful. I didn’t get one good picture of the Key Club kids ringing bells at the Salvation Army kettle drive kickoff. Most of the pictures were blurry. I am a loser. I’m not pretty. My clothes are boring. I can’t even take a good picture with the school’s really nice camera.
“Are you pouting?” Conor asked me.
“What I said.”
“I’m fine,” I told him, but my voice cracked and I started sniffling and had tears running down my face.
“God, Lucy, what am I supposed to say every time you talk about some other girl being pretty? Do you want me to say you’re perfect? You wouldn’t believe it if I did.”
“You don’t have to say anything, Conor. You don’t have to say everything you think. You’re more like a girl that way, you know? Maybe that’s why I’m your best friend.”
“Yeah, because Josh doesn’t like to talk all the time, does he? He likes doing other things, right, Lucy?”
I told Conor about how Josh and I don’t really like the same things and Josh just wants to make out all the time. Last week, Josh and I broke up because I bought us tickets to go see “The Hunger Games” and he bailed out on me to go to a shooting range with his dad and uncle. I told him that was a jerk thing to do because I already bought the tickets. He said it was the only weekend his uncle would be in town and they had to practice before hunting season. I said hunting is stupid and he said if I think hunting is stupid then I shouldn’t like “The Hunger Games” because Katniss is a hunter.
Conor always brings up stuff that I told him and uses it against me, which is why he brought up Josh.
“You act like a girl sometimes, Conor,” I said. “You’re mean like a girl, not mean like a guy. Maybe that’s why you don’t have any friends except me.”
I grabbed my backpack, left the yearbook office and went into the bathroom to cry. I like to cry in bathrooms. I was so mad. I didn’t care if I ever talked to Conor again.
After school, I went straight home instead of going to Kylie’s to eat Skittles and talk about her closet sale, which is this weekend. She’s having us over for a sleepover and she’ll do the closet sale then.
I decided to run on my mom’s treadmill for twenty minutes because Dr. Hirsch said it would be good for me. My mom thought I might need medicine because I can’t sleep sometimes, so she took me to a psychiatrist. I tried two medicines, but one made me feel like I was going to throw up and the other made me sleep all day. I told Dr. Hirsch I didn’t feel any better after I slept all day than I did if I got up at 4 a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep. He said if I would just run three times a week I wouldn’t need medicine.
So I guess Conor was right. I do need to run track like him. But I’ll never run a six-minute mile and I’ll never take pictures like Conor’s and I’ll never look like Lacey Rudolph.
After I ran, I started feeling sad about what I said to Conor, so I texted him and told him I was sorry.
He didn’t text me back at first so I texted him again:
“Did I ever tell you you’re my hero?”
He finally wrote back to me:
“You were right. I talk too much. Words are very unnecessary. They can only do harm.”
Something about that didn’t sound like Conor and I bet it was a line from some ‘80s song. Conor has a thing about ‘80s music and movies. He is a dork, like me. That’s probably why we’re best friends.