Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1668408-Fake
by Ida B
Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Relationship · #1668408
724 word drabble about highschool and a girl who knows when friends aren't real.
“Don’t be an ass,” she says airily as she passes me. I hate how her insults are so smooth sometimes. Like she doesn’t really care one way or another, just thinks that it’s something that you ought to know. I admire her for it too though, because after you’re done being pissed about whatever she said, you realize that it takes some kind of nerve to deliver a slight that glibly.

I think that might be why I still hang around with her. I can’t really say that it’s why I’m friends with her, though. She doesn’t really have any friends, I don’t think. She has people that she’s friendly with, people that she respects, and people that she has fun with, but they aren’t really her friends, whatever they might believe. I’m probably the only one that realizes this, too.

The people that call themselves her friends only think that they can do that because they have either exceptionally thick skins or a fantastic ability to rebound and so are somehow able to ignore the insults …or whatever it is that they do to cope. I’ve noticed that they seem to focus more on the way that she says things than the look on her face when she delivers a nice verbal slap, which could also help their delusions stay afloat.

With her it’s all about the look in her eyes – among other minute details of expression. She’s a master at controlling her voice, or at least as far as I’m able to tell, but she hasn’t quite got the same skill with her face, so I have to look carefully at her eyes, which can get weird if other people catch me doing it.

That’s another thing that I’ve noticed. Most people have a real problem with holding another person’s gaze these days. The way they shift around and try to find somewhere “safe” to look, it’s painfully obvious that they’re uncomfortable with it. I don’t really blame them though. It’s an awfully personal place to look; ranking up there with a woman’s breasts and any other body part even remotely related to sex.

She’s staring at me strangely now, because I didn’t react like I usually do and she thrives on reactions. Or maybe it’s because I’ve just been standing there, staring at nothing, with my head in the clouds. The later could very well fit, actually. I get that stare from her a lot and, as I said, I usually react so she doesn’t get to do it for that reason often.

“What?” I say.

She presses her lips together slightly. “Nothing. You coming over later?”

“Yeah, you still have to help me pick out what I’m going to wear Friday, so I’ll bring a few outfits too, okay?”

She smiles, “Sound’s good. Nothing yellow though, it does nothing for your skin tone.”

I laugh easily, “I don’t even like yellow, you know that.” I don’t actually know if she knows that, but she likes to pretend that she knows everything about her group so I decide to make a potential joke of it, just to be sure. I hate how nice I am sometimes.

Either way, I’ve said the right thing, because she smiles again, laughing a little around her hand. “Oh yeah. Well, make sure you bring some skirts too; you have to give them a chance at least. And I don’t want to hear any bull about how you don’t have any. I’ll give you one of mine if I have to.”

“Oh alright, I’ll suffer them this once.” We share another giggle before parting ways. The bell has just rung and I don’t want to be late to first period.

I can’t help but think about how disgustingly fake she is as I wave cheerily back at her. She doesn’t lie, but a lot of the stuff that she says and does can’t be taken at face value. I can’t say that I completely hate that about her though; it’s nice to have to work for something every now and again and that’s certainly something that she’s good for. I actually rather like her as an almost-friend. Even if she is an almost-friend who sometimes calls me an ass.
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