Megan and I have been friends since our first day at secondary school, when our teacher sat us next to each other. I’ll be honest: at first this friendship was formed out of fear. I’d spent the entire summer holiday worrying that no one would want to be my friend and I’d be destined to spend SEVEN YEARS drifting from classroom to classroom alone. But it wasn’t long before our friendship changed from desperate to genuine and all of my fears faded away.
My favorite memory of me and Megan was when we were twelve and my dog Milo had just died. (Milo dying is not my favorite part—obviously—that was one of the worst things that ever happened to me.) But, when she found out, Megan came around to my house with a little goody bag of gifts, including a poem she’d written about Milo called “Cutie Paws” and a framed photo of me chasing him around the park. That’s how she used to be—kind and caring. But then she got into acting and it totally changed her—especially when she got her first TV role. Megan calls it a TV role but actually it was for a TV advert for GlueStick. She had to stick two pieces of card together and smile at the camera and say, “Wow, it’s so sticky!” She was only on-screen for about five seconds but the way Megan talks about it, it’s as if she’d been cast in the lead role of a movie. And ever since then it’s like she thinks she’s better than everyone else. Including me. Now, every time I’m with her I feel as if I’m being interviewed for the job of best friend and I spend the whole time dreading I’m going to say or do the wrong thing. Like right now.
“So . . .” I say. “What would you like to do?”
“Dunno.” Megan looks around the room and her gaze comes to a rest on one of the photos on my wall. “Oh my God! Why have you taken a photo of a stone?”
I get a weird squirmy feeling in the pit of my stomach. The photo is of a snowy-white stone with three holes in it. According to Elliot, stones with holes in them always used to be considered lucky charms. “It’s a lucky stone,” I say.
“Why’s it lucky?” Megan stares scornfully at the picture.
“Because it has holes in it. Fishermen always used to take them on their boats with them, to keep them safe.”
Megan smiles a tight little smile. “You’re so quirky, Penny!”
Usually, I like the word “quirky.” But whenever Megan says it about me it sounds like the worst thing in the world and it makes me want to punch her. I hug a cushion to me and sigh. I can’t face an entire night like this. I have to do something to rescue the situation.
“Do you want to do face masks?” I ask hopefully. “I’ve got a couple of those strawberry peel-off ones we used to use.”
Megan shakes her head. “No thanks.”
I glance at the wall and wonder if Elliot is sitting on his bed too. It feels horrible thinking that he might just be a couple of feet away from me and yet I’m trapped here—unable to see or talk to him—in this Sleepover from Hell.
I’m about to ask Megan what she’d like to do again when she kicks off her shoes and wriggles back on the bed.
“What was up with you yesterday in the diner?” she asks, staring pointedly at her missing false nail. “Why did you act so weird?”
I think about coming up with an excuse. Then I remember my last blog post and how good it felt to open up about my panic attacks. I haven’t mentioned them at all to Megan. But maybe it will make things a bit easier between us if I’m honest.
I take a deep breath. “You know I was in that car accident with my parents a while ago?”
Megan looks at me blankly for a second. “Oh, yeah.”
“Well, ever since then, I’ve been getting these weird panic attacks and I feel just like I did when I was trapped in the car. Like I get all kinds of hot and feel as if I can’t breathe and—”
“Oh my God, do not talk to me about getting panicked!” Megan interrupts. “I can’t believe there’s only two days till the school play. I am so scared I’m going to mess up.”
“You won’t mess up. You’re the best one in it.”
“Really?” She looks at me, widening her chocolatey-brown eyes. “It’s just so much pressure, though, knowing that the success of the show is riding on my shoulders. Jeff said that I remind him of a young Angelina Jolie, which is, like, super-cute of him but it just makes the pressure even worse.”
“Right. Well, I’m sure you’ll be fine.” I feel a sour mixture of anger and hurt. Yet again, she has turned the conversation back on herself—even when I was trying to tell her something private and serious.
“I’m so glad I have such great chemistry with Ollie,” Megan continues. “Jeff says we’re like Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt in that movie they did together—you know, when they first fell in love.” Megan looks at me and gives me another of her tight little smiles. “Ollie tells me everything, you know.”
I feel a bit sick. “Oh, so you—you know about tomorrow then?”
She frowns. “What about tomorrow?”
My face instantly flushes. “He’s asked me to meet him for lunch.”
It’s almost as if I can see the cogs in her brain whirring as she processes this information. Clearly she didn’t know. Clearly Ollie doesn’t tell her everything after all.
“He’s asked to meet you? Where?” She’s still smiling but it’s so forced it looks as if her jaw might crack from the strain.
“At Lucky Beach around midday.”
“What? Just you?”
There’s something about her shocked expression and the way she says “just you” that makes me really mad. I know that Ollie is way out of my league in the stupid School Leagues of Attractiveness and General Greatness but if a boy has asked you out for lunch, shouldn’t your friend be happy for you instead of gaping at you like a goldfish? Unless . . .
“Do you like Ollie?” The question pops out before I have time to censor it.
Megan looks at me coldly. “Of course I like Ollie.”
“No, I mean, like like?”
Megan throws back her head and gives a fake little laugh. “No, of course not. He’s way too young for me.”
I stare at her and all I can think is, Who are you? Megan might have been one of my closest friends for six years but right now it’s like I don’t know her at all.