With Friends Like These …

I didn't see anything funny about my birthday flowers, but everybody else sure did.
by Elesha Hodge

My 15th birthday was one of the worst days of my life, all because of a bright bouquet of flowers.
The flowers arrived at the high school office between second and third period. They looked innocent enough—
white and red and pink with a sprig of baby's breath.
I couldn't imagine who had sent them. Maybe my parents—my dad had sent me good-luck roses the day I tried out
for show choir. Who else would send such a sweet gift?
I cradled the flowers in my arm as I headed toward my locker. Everyone watched me as I walked by, slowly, trying
to read the sender's card without running into a wall (or, worse, a senior).
"Happy Birthday Elesha. Love, Peter."
My stomach sank. Peter was a super-shy guy who'd had a crush on me for months. I had returned his interest for a
little while, but then his puppy-dog persistence started to really annoy me. He wasn't a bad guy or anything, but he
was the last person I wanted to get flowers from. Especially with the word "love" on the card!
Knowing the flowers were from Peter made me want to get rid of them as soon as possible. I was afraid he might see
me carrying them, and then he'd say something, and then I'd have to say something. And I had no idea what I was
going to say.
The truth is, I felt really bad about Peter—or more specifically, about how I had been treating him. When he hadn't
picked up on my subtle hints that we had no future as a couple, I couldn't bring myself to give him the official "just
friends" talk. Instead, I ignored him and hoped he'd go away. That didn't work, so I tried even harder to chase him
off. I acted like I was too cool to talk to him. I made fun of him. And even though he still smiled when he saw me at
school, his eyes showed how much I was hurting him.
When I got down the hall, I tried to stuff the flowers—and the whole situation—into my locker. But somehow, all
my friends knew about my birthday present. Before, after and during every class, someone was asking me what I
planned to do.
Lunch was the worst. The eight-person tables in the cafeteria meant seven of my friends could pester me at once.
"How does it feel to have a guy profess his undying love to you?"
"Why don't you just kiss him and see what happens?"
And the worst question of all: "Why don't you just talk to him?"
That was the only one I'd answer. "I can't." It made me sick to think of sitting down with him and dashing whatever
hopes he still had. Somehow, it was easier to hurt him from a distance. I didn't have the guts to do it face-to-face.
The fact that my friends' questions made me feel more and more miserable didn't seem to bother them. They didn't
notice, or didn't care, that I was too upset to eat. They thought the whole thing was just incredibly, hilariously funny.
Except my friend Leah. She looked almost as uncomfortable as I did, and she hardly said a word. It seemed like she
wanted to tell me something, but she couldn't spit it out.
While I couldn't avoid my friends' questions, I did manage to avoid Peter until fifth-period chem class. I waited
outside the door until the bell rang, then I ducked my head and ran to my seat.
Peter was just one of several guys I knew in chem class. When I walked in, all of the guys except Peter were leaned
in together, laughing. Peter had his head down on his desk. One of my friends saw me, and the laughing stopped.
Any place on the planet would have been more comfortable than that class. I acted like I didn't know anyone in the
room. What am I going to do? I agonized. And why in the world is everyone laughing at me?
I bolted out of class as soon as it was over, the sounds of laughter following me down the hall. I went straight to my
desk in the foreign language room and waited for my French class to start.
Hunched over my desk, letting my hair fall over my face to shut out the world, I went over the day in my mind. I
hadn't told anyone about the flowers, but everyone and their brother seemed to know about them. And they were all
laughing at me, except for Leah, who was way too quiet.
When the bell rang to start class, it was literally like a bell going off in my head. The day only made sense if Peter
didn't send those flowers at all. Then it hit me: The whole thing must have been a big practical joke. My "friends"
had watched me suffer all day, and nobody told me the truth.
I didn't even care that class had started. I got up from my desk and ran out of the room. By the time I hit the hallway
I was crying, hard, from rage and humiliation. I spent the whole hour locked in a bathroom stall.
I refused to look at, speak to, or in any way acknowledge my "friends" for the rest of the day. They had betrayed me,
and as far as I was concerned, that was it. If I had to be a loner for the rest of my high school years, it was better
than spending time with them.
When the end of the day rolled around, I had to go to my locker one last time to get my coat. Three or four of my
girl friends, the ones I usually rode home with, were waiting for me. Leah was one of them. They stood in silence as
I spun my combination and banged open the door.
I grabbed the wilted flowers and took a step back. "There!" I screamed, throwing them down the hall. "There's your
joke! I hate you all, and I'm never speaking to you again!"
When I got home from school, I went straight to my room and locked the door. I knew if Mom saw my red eyes and
cheeks I'd have to tell her the story, and I really didn't want to relive it. When she called me for dinner, I said I
wasn't feeling well but maybe I'd eat later.
Lying on my bed in the half-dark of evening gave me ample time to think. And for the first time since the whole
thing with Peter started, I considered his feelings. From the way he looked in chem class, I could tell he wasn't in on
the joke, though he obviously knew about it. I bet he was even more embarrassed than I was.
At about 8:00, the doorbell rang, and I heard my mom's footsteps coming down the hall.
"Elesha? Leah's here, and she'd like to talk to you."
"I'm not talking to her."
"She really wants to see you. Could you please come out?"
Sensing it was useless to keep refusing, I opened my door and shuffled down the hall. Leah was standing just inside
the front door, soaked from the cold rain falling outside and crying softly. I leaned against the wall in front of her,
with my arms crossed and my head down.
"I wasn't in on the flowers," she said. "I wanted to tell you, but the guys who bought them made me promise not to. I
was so scared this afternoon. I thought you'd really never talk to me again. I don't want to lose you as a friend."
Her words trailed off into sobs. She really was scared. But she had the guts to come over and talk to me about how
she felt. Mad as I was, I had to respect that. Besides, we'd been good friends for a long time. I knew it would be
stupid to let one practical joke end our relationship.
So I forgave her. And I decided to have a talk with Peter. I hoped he'd forgive me, too.