I am a terrible friend. I have no idea what’s going on in Atara’s life, aside from ballet and shopping

To bring it up or not bring it up? That is the question.

I eye Atara sideways; she is listening raptly as Fraidy launches into her “Intro to Curls with Hot Tools.”

I listen with half an ear as the hairdresser debates the merits of Paul Mitchell products, and study Atara.

She looks fine, maybe a little tired, but she looks put together and alert.

Which is more than I can say about myself. I’d been up half the night trying to figure out what on earth is going on with my best friend. Most of the scenarios were not pleasant; some were downright nightmarish. Voice of gloom and doom here, remember?

I had finally drifted off just as the sky was beginning to brighten, when a sudden thought hit me: I am a terrible friend. I have no idea what’s going on in Atara’s life, aside from ballet and shopping. We usually just discuss me and my drama.

Waking up just a few hours later left me nauseous and headachy, but here I am, trying to keep my eyes open as Fraidy intones: “The longer the hair, the bigger the barrel needed. The tighter the desired curl, the smaller the barrel.”

Great. I can’t even concentrate, and I’m going to look so stupid once we hit the practical part of the class.

Atara turns suddenly and winks at me. I blink and then smile weakly back. Oh, shoots, what’d I miss? Did I miss something funny? I can’t focus and my head is spinning and there’s no air in this room. Fraidy turns on a blow dryer, and my head just about breaks in half.

“Be right back,” I whisper to Atara, and then keeping my eyes down, I make my way quickly outside.

Fresh, blessed air. I take deep gulping breaths, and start to feel better, despite the fact that it’s a freezing November day, and I’d left my jacket inside.

“Dramatic exit much?”

I turn. Atara’s standing there, hands on hips, smirking. She, at least, thought to grab her jacket.

I shrug one shoulder, trying to look casual. “I was bored.”

She looks skeptical. “Really. You were bored.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Bored. At a hair tutorial. With Fraidy.”

I fill my cheeks with air until I know I look like a chipmunk and then I let it all out in one swoosh!

“Fine. I wasn’t bored. I’m just tired and I don’t feel well and I want to go home.”

I expected Atara to keep arguing or to shake her head sympathetically. What I did not expect was for her to blow up.

“Typical. That is so, so typical of you, Bella Rena.” Her face is white, aside from a bright red splotch on each cheekbone.

I gape at her, dumbfounded. Typical of me not to feel well?

“We are finally, finally, for the first time in like ten years of friendship, doing something that I’m actually good at, no, doing something that I’m actually better at than you, and you decide you want to go home? You are so immature.”

I think my feet have frozen to the ground. No, literally; if a motorcycle comes tearing around the corner right now from that dirty laundromat down the block, there is no way I can move in time.

“Well, go then. Go home, Bella, go practice your dance solo or win a literary award or maybe go sew a tablecloth for Home Ec. Seriously, just leave.”