Page 67 of Five Stolen Rings
“That’s Jack’s house,” Stella’s voice says brightly, interrupting my concentration. Just hearing her say my name makes me smile. “Jack Piorra. He’s a grade above us.”
“He’s the guy you talk to all the time, right?” the other voice says, somewhere between intrigued and scandalized. “The one who dresses in black all the time like a creepy Grim Reaper.”
“I—he’s not creepy,” Stella says after a second. I can picture the little frown on her face, the lines in her forehead, the pucker of her lips. “He wears the uniform.”
“Yeah,” her friend says, sounding skeptical. “With black underneath, and black pants, and black shoes.”
“He’s not creepy,” Stella says again. “He’s just—different.”
It sounds unconvincing, even to me; I glance down at my black pants and black t-shirt, now smudged with dust.
“That’s what people say when they’re trying to be nice,” Stella’s friend says with a little snort. “He’s weird.”
“Don’t talk so loud,” Stella says, sounding nervous now. “He might hear.”
Her friend laughs outright at this. “So?” Then she sighs, which I probably wouldn’t hear if it wasn’t so loud and exaggerated. “Listen up, Stella. If you want to fit in, ditch the goth guy. Okay? Do you want to make friends here?”
“I—of course.”
“And do you want people to like you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then stop hanging out with him so much, or people are going to think you’re weird like him.”
Stella’s voice is so small I can barely make out her response. “I’m not weird.”
“Iknow you’re not,” the girl says in what I think is supposed to be a soothing voice. “But other people don’t know that. So hang out with me more, okay?”
“I—okay.”
“Yay!” Then comes the sound of scuffling footsteps, maybe like she’s skipping, because when Stella’s friend’s voice comes again, it’s further away. “Come on!” she calls. “Get away from the house so it doesn’t infect you with weirdness!”
Stella’s reluctant giggle is the last thing I hear before they’re gone, out of earshot.
I look down at my clothes again, something ugly twisting in my stomach.
Does Stella really want to be like all these other kids?Why?And why didn’t she stand up for me more? She let that girl all but throw me under the bus.
I dig in my pocket until I find the friendship bracelet, pulling it out and holding it up to inspect. It’s not much to look at—a small black braid, really—but it doesn’t look too bad, does it? Would Stella even wear it?
A hot prickle of anger washes over me as the sound of her reluctant laughter rings in my ears.
Maybe she’s not someone I should be giving a friendship bracelet to after all. So I slip the bracelet on my own wrist instead and squeeze my eyes shut. They’re watering from all the dust in this stupid treehouse in this stupid tree at this stupid house.
From now on, I’m my own best friend.
STELLA
“Were you really going to give me a friendship bracelet?” I say, my eyes wide. I can feel them prickling, and I blink impatiently.
“Yeah,” Jack says—more of a grunt, really. “I ended up keeping it for myself. That black one I always used to wear.”
We’re sitting at his kitchen table, and for the moment, all talk of stolen rings has been put on hold. I remember the day he’s referring to; the girl was Halyssa Vancouver, someone I haven’t thought of in years, and she was catty and exclusive—mean.
When I hung out with her, I was mean, too.
I remember the sick swirl of guilt as I laughed that day; I remember making myself laugh anyway.
