We Used to Be Friends Read online

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.

  ISBN 978-1-4197-3866-1

  eISBN 978-1-68335-645-5

  Text copyright © 2020 Amy Spalding

  Book design by Hana Anouk Nakamura and John Passineau

  Published in 2020 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS.

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  To my friends

  Jessica Hutchins

  and Christie Baugher

  CHAPTER ONE

  August after Senior Year

  JAMES

  By the time you realize you’re thirsty, it’s too late. You’re already dehydrated. Therefore, it stands to reason that if you feel the end coming, you’re already there.

  I’ve had four heartbreaks. The first was Tony Aldana, who kissed me at our sixth grade dance and then laughed about it the next day in the cafeteria. Back in grade school, I’d gotten teased—not exactly constantly but enough—for being a girl with a boy’s name, and this dragged into middle school for a while. I might have been worthy of kissing during a semi-dark sixth grade dance, but I was still seen as too much of a weirdo for Tony to be OK with it in the bright sunlight of lunch.

  The story behind my name is so boring that now it’s funny to me that it, briefly, marked me as weird: Mom and Dad expected a boy, and the boy was to be named James McCall the Third. When I showed up a girl, Dad apparently cried about his family legacy until Mom—in an epidural haze—agreed.

  Bryce Bradley was my first real boyfriend, if eighth grade boyfriends count. We went on long walks around our neighborhood after school every night while discussing the day’s events. Dad thought he “seemed like a fine young man.” (Mom merely said, “way to go, James” in a knowing tone I’d never heard from her before.) Then suddenly Bryce didn’t have time for the walks, and our texting looked lopsided in my direction. He didn’t tell me; I had to walk into homeroom and hear Lilah Boyer telling Jessamyn Williams that Bryce had taken her on a real date the night before, and she was pretty sure it was the real thing. In retrospect, she was probably quoting something she’d heard in a TV show, but at the time, between that and her sleek pixie haircut, Lilah was improbably chic and mature. No wonder Bryce was over me.

  Then there was Javier, who showed up the summer before sophomore year. He was staying with his aunt and uncle—our next-door neighbors—and we somehow managed to hit every boy-and-girl-next-door cliché that existed. There were flashlights and signs and climbing up trees to second story windows. We kissed in my bed, under my covers, which felt dangerous and sexy and important, even though our clothes stayed on. I dreamed of scenarios that kept him in LA, but none of them mattered, because two weeks into August he had to go home, back to Texas. I can’t explain why I knew it was over. Phones and social media exist. But when he hugged me good-bye, I knew that it was for forever. I hardly ever cry, but I cried every day of that third week of August.

  I told myself I’d never let anyone get that close again, because the risk was too big. I fell for Logan anyway, which didn’t even matter. I hadn’t been looking in the right direction to know where the real danger was coming from.

  After all, the boys added up—Tony, Bryce, Javier, and I guess Logan, too—didn’t come close to this. There are breakup tunes and lovesick ballads and celebrating-that-he-was-gone anthems. It was easy to believe that romance was the only heartache out there.

  Dad keeps all the yard equipment in neat rows in the garage, so I know where the shovel is. Now that I’m helping to build homes on a regular basis, I even know how to use it properly.

  I remember being fourteen, which felt grown-up at the time, starting high school. I’d dedicated a page in my journal to a list of ideal time capsule contents, while Kat made her choices more impulsively. We laughed later about a future historian finding the box and trying to make sense of this point in history by one very well-organized teen and one who took a much more scattershot approach.

  This printout of Justin Bieber’s Instagram must mean something extremely significant, Kat would say in the voice of a stuffy old man, and before long we’d be in tears from laughter.

  Luke is probably still mad at Kat for burying the newest-at-the-time Game of Thrones book, but our younger selves were convinced that it would be historically relevant.

  But we knew what would actually be the most important later, and we were right. I sweated over my letter to Kat because writing does not come easily to me and laying out my feelings is even tougher. So of course, after unearthing our high school time capsule, it’s the first thing I look for. When I pick up the envelope with my name written on it in metallic pink marker, I see how much thicker it is than the envelope I sealed myself, four years ago.

  Dearest James (ha ha ha),

  OMG can you believe we are 18? I mean, we are 18 now, when you are reading this letter and I am reading whatever you wrote to me, which is probably like Dear Kat, You are a good friend, Sincerely, James because I know you hate stuff like this. This is why you are the greatest friend ever. You go along with all my ideas even when they annoy you because they matter to me.

  I’m trying to picture what we will be like when we graduate. You’ll probably get some special award for being good at sports (or whatever) and I just hope Mom and Dad don’t freak out when I get accepted at a school super far away. (PLEASE LET ME GET ACCEPTED AT A SCHOOL SUPER FAR AWAY.) We’d better both have really good grades AND super cute boyfriends, because both are really important.

  I know it is cheesy, but I seriously think you are amazing, James. Also, it’s sort of a secret you’re so amazing. Ms. Bedrosian always refers to you as my quiet friend, which is pretty weird, but I’m also like, ha ha, if you only knew, Ms. Bedrosian. You’re like an exclusive thing only the coolest people know about, and the coolest person in this case is me. But you are so funny and good at sports and smart about boys AND school. I know this is all still true now, which is the future for me but the NOW for the you reading this letter. Whoa! Just thinking about it is kind of crazy.

  I am so glad that in kindergarten we got paired up for that dorky graduation ceremony and that our moms decided we should hang out. What if I got paired with some random girl and she was my best friend now? Actually I think that is impossible. If I’d gotten paired with anyone else, you and I would have become friends at some point anyway. But everyone loves how cute we were when we were only six wearing those little caps and gowns, and I actually love it, too. I love knowing we’ll have new pictures by the time you read this of us walking together at high school freakin’ graduation!! (I sorta hate those old pictures because that was before I figured out PRODUCT and so my hair looks like a frizzball but it’s adorable we’re holding hands like the besties we were destined to be.)

  S
peaking of that, sorta, thank you for tripping Andrew Mitchell when he called me an electrocution victim after I got that bad haircut. Thank you for shutting down that rumor I went to third freaking base with Caleb Weintraub after his birthday party. Thank you for pretending that Luke doesn’t think you’re cute because it’s super embarrassing. Thank you for being so nice all the time to my parents like THAT is not super embarrassing. (Ugh they’re such dorks sometimes but it doesn’t bother me like maybe it should? Am I destined to be super uncool? OMG since you’re in the future you already know the answer to this. CRAZY!)

  Anyway, I guess I am just thanking you for being my friend. It sounds like not a big deal but you are not a little thing to me! And I am really REALLY excited to watch your face as you read this because you’ll be embarrassed and I’ll already have finished your short little note already and I’ll be waiting. Ha!

  Love, your best friend forever,

  Kat

  I’m not sure what I expected to get out of doing this, but this couldn’t have been a good idea. It’s like pushing a bruise, though; now that I’m in it, I feel the urge to stay here. The dumb mementos and the four-years-yellowed copy of the Burbank Leader and the letters.

  Though—the letters, plural? I’m holding the one Kat wrote, more like clutching it, and it becomes wrinkled and ruined in my hand. I search for the other envelope, a glimpse of my handwriting in sensible blue ink and no sparkles at all. I wish I could remember the letter more, because that would be a glimpse, too. It’s impossible to remember the last time Kat felt like the kind of friend who would write me this letter, and if I’m being honest, I can’t remember being the friend who would get this letter anyway.

  The things I said the last time I saw her weren’t untrue, but I didn’t say them well. Maybe I didn’t say things for so long because that was easier than figuring out how to say them right.

  I dig and dig through the box, and when that proves fruitless, I turn it upside down over my bedroom floor to separate the mess into piles. By now I wish it had stayed beneath the earth. Justin Bieber and Westeros and Kat’s Dr Pepper–flavored Lip Smacker and a tiny scrap of paper where Joel Vega had written cool and approximately fifteen other mementos that meant something then.

  But there’s nothing for them to mean now, because it doesn’t matter how many times you write BFF. Forever can go away before you even know it.

  And I don’t know why the letter is gone, but my stomach clenches at the ridiculous symbolism of it. Whatever I’d written to Kat, four years ago—back before Kat’s mom died, or my mom left—isn’t here. Just like Kat.

  I wonder where she is right now. It’s likely she’s been where she’s been since we met: down the street at her home. Her summer won’t have been practically ruined by this, though. Kat is probably feeling just fine. And a few blocks have never felt so far away.

  Logan stops by while we’re loading Dad’s car and I’m texting Hannah, already making plans for tonight. I hadn’t asked Logan to be here, but I’d be lying to say I wasn’t happy to see him.

  “I got you a gift,” he says, loping up in that casual way of his. Hands in pockets, hair effortlessly shoved to one side. We—Kat and I—used to joke that his glasses would be askew if he could do that and still manage to see.

  “You didn’t have to,” I tell him.

  “Well . . .” He grins. “You haven’t seen it yet.”

  I wait while he takes his hand out of his pocket, and then he places something heavy in my palm and closes my fingers around it. It feels substantial.

  “Oh,” I say as I open my hand. “A roll of quarters. How . . . thoughtful.”

  “You’ll thank me the first time you do laundry,” he says.

  I wrap my arms around him. He feels substantial, too.

  “Sorry I didn’t ask before stopping by,” he says.

  “I know it’s hard for you not to follow rules,” I say, which makes him smile. “So I guess I think it’s cute.”

  “James.” Dad walks up with a stack of my boxes. “Hey, Logan! It’s good to see you, man.”

  They do their usual semi-secret handshake ritual. After all this time, I have no idea when they would have had the opportunity to come up with it.

  “It’s your move-in day, too,” Dad says. “Shouldn’t you be on the road?”

  “Sophomores actually move in next week,” Logan says. “And my trip’s a lot shorter. But I’d make time for James anyway. Especially when she so nicely asked me not to.”

  I elbow him but give up trying to hold back a smile. I’ve been picturing this day ever since I knew what college was, and in my head the send-off had always been much bigger. After this year, I’m honestly glad anyone showed up at all.

  “I don’t want to ruin the fun,” Dad says, “but—”

  “We need to go,” I say to Logan, but as nicely as I can. And he knows anyway.

  We stand there in silence for a second or so before Dad takes a hint, says good-bye to Logan, and gets into the SUV.

  “This is not over,” Logan says, and then at my expression: “I hope not, at least.”

  “We’ll see.” I blink back tears, because Logan has never seen me cry, and I’m not about to start today. “But thank you. For the quarters.”

  He leans in to hold my face in his strong steady hands. I know that he’s asking permission, so I slide off his thick black-framed glasses, and then we’re kissing. We’re kissing like we never stopped, like this year never happened, like I didn’t say any of what can’t be taken back now. The kiss is time travel and infinite possibilities.

  Except when we step back from each other, I have to remember everything else I’ve lost and how kissing Logan won’t bring any of it back.

  It’s certainly not bringing Kat back.

  “Hey.” Logan touches my face, and I realize against all my best efforts, I’m crying. Logan is seeing me cry. “Your future’s bright, McCall.”

  I look away from him and grin. “I’ll text you later.”

  “It’s a date—sorry, it’s whatever you want it to be.”

  “You’ll have to settle for whatever,” I say. “For now, at least.”

  “I can handle whatever.”

  “I hope you’re still in it, though,” I say. “However it works out.”

  “Well, here’s the thing,” he says with a grin. “Stuff goes away, and then, luckily, stuff comes back. Stuff’s cyclical nature and all.”

  “I hope you’re right.” I can tell he thinks this is about us, but I hope that it’s about Kat, too. It still hurts, every day, in a way I didn’t know that it could. I remember the morning after my first Habitat for Humanity build how muscles I didn’t even know I had were aching. Losing Kat is a build, and my heartache is the unknown muscles. But I can already feel that, just like with construction, your body learns how to turn pain and effort into new-found strength.

  “Call her,” he says, because of course no matter how seemingly cocky Logan can appear, he understands other people—maybe especially me.

  “She doesn’t want to hear from me,” I say.

  “Text her, then. Instagram the grossest thing you can order through a drive-through and tag her because you know she’d love that shit.”

  A laugh bursts out of me, even though I didn’t think that was possible on this topic anymore. “We’ll see.”

  “I know she misses you,” Logan says, not with his normal bravado but with a confidential almost-whisper. I don’t want it to, but my heart seems to seize forward to grasp at this possibility.

  “I wish.” Even a month ago, I probably never would have just admitted that. Much less to Logan. It’s so real and eggshell-fragile, and now here it is, just sitting out there, between us.

  “Don’t forget that I’m frequently right,” he says.

  “Normally I’d call you out on that, but my therapist talks a lot about cycles, too,” I say. His ego doesn’t need the rush of knowing he also practically read my mind. “So I’ll let it stand.”

&n
bsp; “Therapy, huh?”

  “I should have started it long ago,” I say. “But Dr. Edelstein keeps saying that it’s not too late.”

  “It’s never too late, McCall.”

  I agree and hope that that’s not only about him or therapy.

  He gives me a gentle hug, and then he’s gone. I turn back and stare at the house. It won’t be so long before I’m back, but I know it won’t be the same. By Thanksgiving, I’ll be a visitor.

  “Kid.” Dad sticks his head out the window. “Are you ready?”

  I appreciate that he doesn’t add a finally to that question.

  “Yes,” I say without even having to think about it. “I am.”

  I get in the car and say it without dwelling on it for too long first. “I know we’re in a hurry, but can we stop by Mom’s on our way?”

  Luckily, he doesn’t make the face that he’s overly proud, and so I don’t feel overly embarrassed. “Of course, James.”

  Even though she isn’t expecting me, Mom answers the door right away.

  “Aren’t you on your way upstate?” she asks.

  I gesture at Dad’s car. “Almost. I wanted to say good-bye in person.”

  Mom does make the overly proud face, but I guess that’s fair.

  “I also wanted to . . . well, do you remember you asked me to challenge myself to something this year?”

  Mom appears to take a huge breath. “Honey . . . I was going through a lot.”

  It hits me how . . . herself she looks. For some reason, I think I wanted Mom’s new life to be a mess of selfishness and destruction, but Mom’s just Mom.

  “No, it’s OK, you—”

  “James, if anything I said made you feel—”

  “You were right,” I say. “I wanted to take photos to show you everything I did, but . . . taking photos of volunteer work seems . . .” I try to find a word that doesn’t sound yanked from Kat’s vocabulary, but it’s the only one that sounds fitting. “. . . braggy.”