Gwendy's Button Box

12

“You looked right at me,” Olive says. Her voice is calm, but her eyes are burning. “I don’t know how you can say you didn’t see me standing there.”

“I didn’t. I swear.”

They are sitting in Gwendy’s bedroom after school, listening to the new Billy Joel album and supposedly studying for an English mid-term. Now it’s obvious Olive came over with what she likes to call ISSUES. Olive often has ISSUES these days.

“I find that hard to believe.”

Gwendy’s eyes go wide. “You’re calling me a liar? Why in the world would I walk right by you without saying hello?”

Olive shrugs, her lips pressed tight. “Maybe you didn’t want all your cool friends to know you used to hang out with other lowly sophomores.”

“That’s stupid. You’re my best friend, Olive. Everyone knows that.”

Olive barks out a laugh. “Best friend? Do you know the last time we’ve done something on a weekend? Forget Friday and Saturday nights with all your dates and parties and bonfires. I’m talking the entire weekend, any time at all.”

“I’ve been really busy,” Gwendy says, looking away. She knows her friend is right, but why does she have to be so sensitive? “I’m sorry.”

“And you don’t even like half those guys. Bobby Crawford asks you out and you giggle and twirl your hair and say ‘Sure, why not?’ even though you barely know his name and could care less about him.”

And, just like that, Gwendy understands. How could I be so stupid? she wonders. “I didn’t know you liked Bobby.” She scoots across the bedroom floor and puts her hand on her friend’s knee. “I swear I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

Olive doesn’t say anything. Apparently the ISSUE remains.

“That was months ago. Bobby’s a really nice guy, but that’s the only time I went out with him. If you want, I can call him and tell him about you—”

Olive pushes Gwendy’s hand away and gets to her feet. “I don’t need your goddamn charity.” She bends down and gathers her books and folders into her arms.

“It’s not charity. I just thought—”

“That’s your problem,” Olive says, pulling away again. “You only think about yourself. You’re selfish.” She stomps out of the bedroom and slams the door behind her.

Gwendy stands there in disbelief, her body trembling with hurt. Then the hurt blooms into anger. “Go to hell!” she screams at the closed door. “If you want to address an issue, try your jealous bone!”

She flings herself back on the bed, tears streaming down her face, the hurtful words echoing: You only think about yourself. You’re selfish.

“That’s not true,” Gwendy whispers to the empty room. “I think about others. I try to be a good person. I made a mistake about Guyana, but I was… I was tricked into it, and I wasn’t the one who poisoned them. It wasn’t me.” Except it sort of was.

Gwendy cries herself to sleep and dreams of nurses bearing syringes of Kool-Aid death to small children.