We Will Be Friends
By: P.L. Jones
Return to Other Short Stories
“What are you staring at?” Julie's cool voice breaks into my thoughts.
I’m not sure how to answer her question because, though I've been staring at the wooden bookshelf on the other side of the Library, I wasn’t really looking at it.
For about fifteen minutes now, I've been pleasantly lost in my own thoughts, daydreaming.
The thing is, I can't tell Julie this because she won't understand my need to stare into space and make up stories.
She'd give me one of her cold, accusatory looks, and I'd feel like a weirdo.
Who knows...maybe it is weird to stand around daydreaming.
But, whatever. Right now, this is who I am...
Since we left New York, I’ve been a pretty epic daydreamer.
I mean, to be perfectly honest, moving to the South hasn’t been the highlight of my summer.
There are lots of cane fields and ...horses. That's nice.
The one other good thing about this move is that without much to do or see, I have plenty of time to sit around and daydream.
But, like I said, Julie wouldn’t get it if I tried to explain this to her.
So, shrugging, I turn to her,
“I don’t know. Just bored I guess, what are you doing?”
I only ask Julie this for the sake of making cordial conversation, I already know what the little ice-queen is doing, I mean, I can see the Library’s calendar on the screen in front of her.
She's obviously updating next month’s schedule of "exciting" Library events.
Please…note my sarcasm as I use the word, "exciting".
Julie stops typing, turns to me, and arches one of her dark, Vulcan-like eyebrows,
“Making next month’s calendar. Mrs. Reed asked me to work on at least ten other projects too.”
I narrow my eyes and for a moment we’re looking at each other like two territorial cats.
This is how it is with Julie and I.
Last week, when my Mom came to visit me at work, I’d introduced Julie as, "my friend”, but even as the word left my lips, I knew it wasn't appropriate.
I see Julie everyday at work, and we're the same age, so after this summer, we'll probably go to the same High School...but she definitely isn't my friend.
It's strange...hanging out with someone and not being able to think of them as a friend.
Relaxing my expression, I force a wan smile and a tiny shrug,
“OK, so tell me what you need help with.”
“Didn’t Mrs. Reed give you anything to do?” Julie demands with her Vulcan eyebrows still frowning down on me.
She's sizing me up, hoping to catch me in some kind of lie.
It’s like she doesn’t trust me and that's what bothers me about this girl.
I just met her a couple of weeks ago, at the beginning of summer, when we first started working here.
It was pretty startling, to have only just met her, and see her looking back at me with so much…distrust.
“Of course she gave me stuff to do.” I tell myself this is true.
After all, Mrs. Reed did ask me to open the door for her as she, staggering on her heels, lugged a heavy box to her car,
“But I’m done with it. So, what do you need help with?”
Turning back to her computer, resuming her typing, Julie frowns into the screen and speaks in a crisp, annoyed voice,
“I don’t need any help but if you need something to do you can call next week’s Story Time Readers and make sure they’re planning on showing up for Story Time.”
I watch her type away, her fingers flying across the keyboard.
I glance at the screen and see that she’s misspelled nearly every word she’s typed.
“Wow, aren’t you the fast typer?” I remark.
I don’t mean to sound condescending, but… I do.
Even so, her fingers don’t skip a beat, soaring from one misspelled word to the next.
“Yes thank you," She stoically replies, "I am a fast typist.”
"Oh yeah." I fake a laugh, "I guess "typer" isn't a real word. Typist, you're a fast typist..."
My voice trails off into silence.
I don’t get it.
Why does this girl hate me?
People tell me I have an honest face, whatever that means, so what does this ice-queen named Julie see in my face that makes her distrust me?
Fiddling with a pen near our shared computer, I bite my lip and try to think of a creative way to ask this weird chick why she doesn’t like me.
Of course, I'll have to ask her the right way.
I don’t want to come off as needy because honestly, I do have plenty of other friends... it’s just that they’re all back home and I’m new in town-
“Do you need me to show you where the call list is?” Once again, her voice interrupts my thoughts.
She’s stopped typing and is looking at me like I have two heads.
I shake my one head,
“Thanks…um, actually I was wondering if you have any plans for the weekend?”
The question surprises me as much as it surprises her.
No, no, no! I don't want to waste my weekend hanging out with this frostbitten southern belle loser! Why'd I say that?!!
“What?!” She asks, frowning.
I’m looking at her, trying to keep the awkwardness out of my expression as I frantically work to invent some reason for my unexpected invitation, when all of a sudden, I see her face relax with understanding.
“On the weekends," Julie looks me in the eye and something in her gaze momentarily softens as she goes on, "we just do regular stuff, like hang out at each other’s houses and then, church on Sunday. It’s not…not too different from what y'all do…I’m sure…”
What?
Decoding her response is making my brow furrow and this time I don’t even bother trying to hide the awkwardness in my, undoubtedly confused, expression.
Julie’s watching me, her eyes a little wider than usual, and then she flushes before turning back to her computer,
“Anyway, um…so what do you guys do on the weekends?”
What is she talking about?
I’m opening my mouth to say,
“Well, I don’t have a boyfriend, so there is no “we”, unless you mean me and my Mom but …”
The Library doors open before I can reply and we both glance up.
I’m silently thanking the interruption because, clearly, that conversation wasn’t going to get any better.
An older lady slowly walks through the doors, fanning herself with a small book.
She turns to smile at Julie and I.
Noticing that the woman’s cotton floral dress is damp with sweat, I return her smile and wonder how long she’s been walking in the heat.
I would’ve keeled over and died.
Thank God Mom bought me a car so I wouldn’t have to walk to work in this heat.
“You mind helping me with something?” The lady asks.
Moving slowly, as if her hips might be bothering her, she approaches our desk.
The Library door swings open and another older lady enters the building.
What is this, Senior Citizen day? I quietly wonder.
Giving Julie and I a slight nod, elderly lady number two politely waits behind slow-moving lady number one as she creeps up to our desk.
“I’ll let you take the um…the first one.” Julie whispers.
“OK.” I agree, and out of the corner of my eye I notice that Julie is blushing.
Wow…maybe she has anxiety issues…or maybe she’s just really weird.
In any case, I’ll never figure this girl out.
Deciding to shrug off Julie’s quirkiness, I turn to the cute little black lady in the cotton dress,
“Can I help-“
All of a sudden, I stop.
The little lady, finally reaching our desk, returns my gaze with a startled expression of her own.
“You alright babygirl?” She asks, her voice kind, in that old-fashioned southern way I’ve only just begun to get used to.
Despite her kindness, I can’t answer her…instead, I turn to Julie.
I watch her chat, animated and comfortable, with her client.
No longer the distrusting, nearly taciturn girl I’ve come to know…it’s as if someone’s flipped a switch and made Julie into a different person.
My eyes dart from her to the short, elderly patron who wears a crisp linen pants suit.
The two of them don’t look anything alike, but they do have one thing in common.
The color of their skin.
I turn to the woman Julie’s requested I make my patron.
“Everything alright?” She asks, a look of concern in her dark eyes.
“Yes.” I nod, but it’s not alright, “I'm sorry...how may I help you?”
Inside, I feel as if I’ve been slapped.
“If you could please, renew this,” She hands me a book and as I automatically reach to take it from her I can’t help but notice that my skin is several shades darker than hers, “book for me.”
The darkest of the dark.
I want to get out of here...I want to go home... back to a city where this didn’t matter so much.
I clear my throat because I’m planning on saying, “Sure thing” but as soon as I open my mouth, I know that if I speak, tears will fall.
So, I nod.
I hate The South.
“Oh would you look at that!” Julie’s patron suddenly exclaims.
The would-be tears are already drying in my eyes and, thank God, not spilling over as I glance up at the woman.
Her bright blue eyes are huge and my heart drops when I realize she’s looking right at me.
Oh no…what now?
“Yes?” I hesitantly ask.
“What a beautiful top, that’s just the perfect color on you!” Leaning against the counter, she grins at me and points to the turquoise blouse I bought from my favorite consignment store a few weeks before we'd left New York, “That is just gorgeous against your skin tone darling. Where did you buy that beautiful top?”
The silence that falls before I answer her question doesn’t last very long, maybe only a few seconds.
But, during those few seconds, I go from shattered confusion to remembering who I am.
I’m Tysha Wright.
I’m from New York City and though I grew up there, with the smells and sounds of the city I so love running through the background of my thoughts, I’m not New York.
I am a girl who loves to shop, daydream, make new friends…and I am who I am no matter what color my skin happens to be.
If I’m the color of eggnog, the color of rich hot chocolate, or as aqua blue as the eyes belonging to this nice lady in the linen suit…my color and other people's perception of it will never change who I am.
I’m still Tysha.
“Thank you, I bought it from a store in Manhattan.” I say.
The nice lady’s smile is infectious and now I’m grinning.
“Well, it sure is pretty.” My patron agrees.
I watch the two elderly women gab on with each other about my top, as if they were old friends.
Turning to Julie, I'm surprised to feel a strange and stubborn sort of determination welling up in my chest.
For my peace of mind, and for her own good…by the end of this summer, we will be friends, I'm sure of it.
Julie glances at me and, meeting her eyes, I immediately smile.
But this time, my smile is sincere.
The Beginning
I’m not sure how to answer her question because, though I've been staring at the wooden bookshelf on the other side of the Library, I wasn’t really looking at it.
For about fifteen minutes now, I've been pleasantly lost in my own thoughts, daydreaming.
The thing is, I can't tell Julie this because she won't understand my need to stare into space and make up stories.
She'd give me one of her cold, accusatory looks, and I'd feel like a weirdo.
Who knows...maybe it is weird to stand around daydreaming.
But, whatever. Right now, this is who I am...
Since we left New York, I’ve been a pretty epic daydreamer.
I mean, to be perfectly honest, moving to the South hasn’t been the highlight of my summer.
There are lots of cane fields and ...horses. That's nice.
The one other good thing about this move is that without much to do or see, I have plenty of time to sit around and daydream.
But, like I said, Julie wouldn’t get it if I tried to explain this to her.
So, shrugging, I turn to her,
“I don’t know. Just bored I guess, what are you doing?”
I only ask Julie this for the sake of making cordial conversation, I already know what the little ice-queen is doing, I mean, I can see the Library’s calendar on the screen in front of her.
She's obviously updating next month’s schedule of "exciting" Library events.
Please…note my sarcasm as I use the word, "exciting".
Julie stops typing, turns to me, and arches one of her dark, Vulcan-like eyebrows,
“Making next month’s calendar. Mrs. Reed asked me to work on at least ten other projects too.”
I narrow my eyes and for a moment we’re looking at each other like two territorial cats.
This is how it is with Julie and I.
Last week, when my Mom came to visit me at work, I’d introduced Julie as, "my friend”, but even as the word left my lips, I knew it wasn't appropriate.
I see Julie everyday at work, and we're the same age, so after this summer, we'll probably go to the same High School...but she definitely isn't my friend.
It's strange...hanging out with someone and not being able to think of them as a friend.
Relaxing my expression, I force a wan smile and a tiny shrug,
“OK, so tell me what you need help with.”
“Didn’t Mrs. Reed give you anything to do?” Julie demands with her Vulcan eyebrows still frowning down on me.
She's sizing me up, hoping to catch me in some kind of lie.
It’s like she doesn’t trust me and that's what bothers me about this girl.
I just met her a couple of weeks ago, at the beginning of summer, when we first started working here.
It was pretty startling, to have only just met her, and see her looking back at me with so much…distrust.
“Of course she gave me stuff to do.” I tell myself this is true.
After all, Mrs. Reed did ask me to open the door for her as she, staggering on her heels, lugged a heavy box to her car,
“But I’m done with it. So, what do you need help with?”
Turning back to her computer, resuming her typing, Julie frowns into the screen and speaks in a crisp, annoyed voice,
“I don’t need any help but if you need something to do you can call next week’s Story Time Readers and make sure they’re planning on showing up for Story Time.”
I watch her type away, her fingers flying across the keyboard.
I glance at the screen and see that she’s misspelled nearly every word she’s typed.
“Wow, aren’t you the fast typer?” I remark.
I don’t mean to sound condescending, but… I do.
Even so, her fingers don’t skip a beat, soaring from one misspelled word to the next.
“Yes thank you," She stoically replies, "I am a fast typist.”
"Oh yeah." I fake a laugh, "I guess "typer" isn't a real word. Typist, you're a fast typist..."
My voice trails off into silence.
I don’t get it.
Why does this girl hate me?
People tell me I have an honest face, whatever that means, so what does this ice-queen named Julie see in my face that makes her distrust me?
Fiddling with a pen near our shared computer, I bite my lip and try to think of a creative way to ask this weird chick why she doesn’t like me.
Of course, I'll have to ask her the right way.
I don’t want to come off as needy because honestly, I do have plenty of other friends... it’s just that they’re all back home and I’m new in town-
“Do you need me to show you where the call list is?” Once again, her voice interrupts my thoughts.
She’s stopped typing and is looking at me like I have two heads.
I shake my one head,
“Thanks…um, actually I was wondering if you have any plans for the weekend?”
The question surprises me as much as it surprises her.
No, no, no! I don't want to waste my weekend hanging out with this frostbitten southern belle loser! Why'd I say that?!!
“What?!” She asks, frowning.
I’m looking at her, trying to keep the awkwardness out of my expression as I frantically work to invent some reason for my unexpected invitation, when all of a sudden, I see her face relax with understanding.
“On the weekends," Julie looks me in the eye and something in her gaze momentarily softens as she goes on, "we just do regular stuff, like hang out at each other’s houses and then, church on Sunday. It’s not…not too different from what y'all do…I’m sure…”
What?
Decoding her response is making my brow furrow and this time I don’t even bother trying to hide the awkwardness in my, undoubtedly confused, expression.
Julie’s watching me, her eyes a little wider than usual, and then she flushes before turning back to her computer,
“Anyway, um…so what do you guys do on the weekends?”
What is she talking about?
I’m opening my mouth to say,
“Well, I don’t have a boyfriend, so there is no “we”, unless you mean me and my Mom but …”
The Library doors open before I can reply and we both glance up.
I’m silently thanking the interruption because, clearly, that conversation wasn’t going to get any better.
An older lady slowly walks through the doors, fanning herself with a small book.
She turns to smile at Julie and I.
Noticing that the woman’s cotton floral dress is damp with sweat, I return her smile and wonder how long she’s been walking in the heat.
I would’ve keeled over and died.
Thank God Mom bought me a car so I wouldn’t have to walk to work in this heat.
“You mind helping me with something?” The lady asks.
Moving slowly, as if her hips might be bothering her, she approaches our desk.
The Library door swings open and another older lady enters the building.
What is this, Senior Citizen day? I quietly wonder.
Giving Julie and I a slight nod, elderly lady number two politely waits behind slow-moving lady number one as she creeps up to our desk.
“I’ll let you take the um…the first one.” Julie whispers.
“OK.” I agree, and out of the corner of my eye I notice that Julie is blushing.
Wow…maybe she has anxiety issues…or maybe she’s just really weird.
In any case, I’ll never figure this girl out.
Deciding to shrug off Julie’s quirkiness, I turn to the cute little black lady in the cotton dress,
“Can I help-“
All of a sudden, I stop.
The little lady, finally reaching our desk, returns my gaze with a startled expression of her own.
“You alright babygirl?” She asks, her voice kind, in that old-fashioned southern way I’ve only just begun to get used to.
Despite her kindness, I can’t answer her…instead, I turn to Julie.
I watch her chat, animated and comfortable, with her client.
No longer the distrusting, nearly taciturn girl I’ve come to know…it’s as if someone’s flipped a switch and made Julie into a different person.
My eyes dart from her to the short, elderly patron who wears a crisp linen pants suit.
The two of them don’t look anything alike, but they do have one thing in common.
The color of their skin.
I turn to the woman Julie’s requested I make my patron.
“Everything alright?” She asks, a look of concern in her dark eyes.
“Yes.” I nod, but it’s not alright, “I'm sorry...how may I help you?”
Inside, I feel as if I’ve been slapped.
“If you could please, renew this,” She hands me a book and as I automatically reach to take it from her I can’t help but notice that my skin is several shades darker than hers, “book for me.”
The darkest of the dark.
I want to get out of here...I want to go home... back to a city where this didn’t matter so much.
I clear my throat because I’m planning on saying, “Sure thing” but as soon as I open my mouth, I know that if I speak, tears will fall.
So, I nod.
I hate The South.
“Oh would you look at that!” Julie’s patron suddenly exclaims.
The would-be tears are already drying in my eyes and, thank God, not spilling over as I glance up at the woman.
Her bright blue eyes are huge and my heart drops when I realize she’s looking right at me.
Oh no…what now?
“Yes?” I hesitantly ask.
“What a beautiful top, that’s just the perfect color on you!” Leaning against the counter, she grins at me and points to the turquoise blouse I bought from my favorite consignment store a few weeks before we'd left New York, “That is just gorgeous against your skin tone darling. Where did you buy that beautiful top?”
The silence that falls before I answer her question doesn’t last very long, maybe only a few seconds.
But, during those few seconds, I go from shattered confusion to remembering who I am.
I’m Tysha Wright.
I’m from New York City and though I grew up there, with the smells and sounds of the city I so love running through the background of my thoughts, I’m not New York.
I am a girl who loves to shop, daydream, make new friends…and I am who I am no matter what color my skin happens to be.
If I’m the color of eggnog, the color of rich hot chocolate, or as aqua blue as the eyes belonging to this nice lady in the linen suit…my color and other people's perception of it will never change who I am.
I’m still Tysha.
“Thank you, I bought it from a store in Manhattan.” I say.
The nice lady’s smile is infectious and now I’m grinning.
“Well, it sure is pretty.” My patron agrees.
I watch the two elderly women gab on with each other about my top, as if they were old friends.
Turning to Julie, I'm surprised to feel a strange and stubborn sort of determination welling up in my chest.
For my peace of mind, and for her own good…by the end of this summer, we will be friends, I'm sure of it.
Julie glances at me and, meeting her eyes, I immediately smile.
But this time, my smile is sincere.
The Beginning