Tell Me Three Things by Julie Buxbaum Page A

something online, be prepared to say it to my face.”
    “Yeah, I guess,” I say, a good waffle. They’ve saved me on more than one of these lost-in-thought occasions. I’m pretty sure I don’t agree with Agnes, if only because she seems to be the type of girl to make all sorts of silly pronouncements. (“Mr. Greene is such a bitch. He said I plagiarized, just because I borrowed a couple of sentences from someone else’s blog post. It’s called
pastiche,
dude.” Or “Only wannabes wear Doc Martens.” Or “Jessie, you’d look so pretty with a little makeup.”)
    “Agnes, sometimes people are shy. She didn’t say anything bad. She just said you hurt her feelings, which you did. Some people find it easier to write than to say it to your face,” Dri says. She looks to me to back her up, and I wonder if my existence is a problem for her friendship with Agnes. Scar and I always sat alone at lunch. We weren’t really interested in talking to anyone else. To be honest, I’m not sure how I’d feel if she had invited some new girl to sit with us. Dri not only invited me, but did so excitedly.
    “Obviously, I don’t know the full story, but I’m definitely like that. I’m so much more comfortable writing than saying things out loud. I wish I could live my whole life on paper.” I consider telling them about Somebody/Nobody. I wish I could explain how “talking” to him is so easy the words flow in a way they never do when I have to talk out loud. I also wouldn’t mind some help figuring out who he is. Then again, maybe I don’t want to know. SN may be right: the not knowing is what keeps us connected. It would be so much harder writing to someone I knew I’d see the next day. And I wonder if it works the other way too. Even though he knows who I am, maybe not having to face me makes the conversation flow for him as well.
    Of course, Agnes is wrong—words are no less courageous for having been written rather than spoken—and I’m all set to say that to her, out loud and with conviction, when I hear my name being yelled from across the cafeteria.
    “Jessie!” At first, I assume the voice is calling someone else—on account of my having no friends at this school—but the voice is so insistent, and even vaguely familiar, that I look up. Shaggy hair and a smile.
    “Hey, Jessie,” Liam says, now next to our table, having jogged over with Earl again thrown over his shoulder. He pushes his bangs out of his eyes and then points to his forehead. “How’s the wound?”
    “Almost gone. But if you bring that guitar any closer, I’m going to have to get a restraining order,” I say, which even to my own ears almost sounds like flirting. I blush. I don’t know how to flirt. I always feel like an impostor. And I don’t even want to flirt with Liam. He’s kind of my boss.
    “Ha. Listen, we’re still on for training this afternoon, right? Expect to be there till closing.”
    “Sure. Thanks again for the job. I really appreciate it.”
    “No problem. Least I could do after maiming you.” He smiles, then does this strange little arm-punch thing, which actually kind of hurts, and then hurries off, Earl flopping behind him.
    “Shut the front door.” Dri grabs my hand in a vise grip. “How do you know Liam Sandler?” she asks. Her eyebrows practically touch her hairline. “No effin’ way. Liam. Sandler.”
    “Relax. He’s not Ryan Gosling.” Agnes rolls her eyes at Dri. “I’ll never understand what you like about him.”
    Dri ignores her. Waits for me to answer.
    “I got a job at his mom’s bookstore, basically because he hit me in the head with his guitar case. Embarrassing but true.”
    “And?” Dri says.
    “And what?”
    “And everything.”
    “And everything like…”
    “What did he say? What did you say? Can you introduce me? Have you heard his band? Oh. My. God. Orgasmville.”
    “Ew,” I say. “I mean, he’s not bad, but really?”
    “No, that’s his band’s name.