�Your bangs.�
She fixes them, with the quick thrusting movements like a sparrow, and I thank her. What else was I supposed to do, anyway? It�s just hair.
�Soooo.� She says, drawing out the o to a clear-cut stop at the end. It�s a rare foothold in teenspeak, one she conquered years ago. She turns one bright eye to me. �Subway?�
I nod. I�m feeling a bit weird.
We grab healthy food and settle down in a booth with just us and our cells. She looks at me weirdly and asks about how I�m feeling.
How I�m feeling?
Of course I�m not feeling that great, considering what happened last night. Of course, you idiot! Stop fixing your twelve dollar lip gloss and listen to me, you whore!
I don�t really have anything to say. I bite into my turkey sub and then all of a sudden I do have things to say. I�m thinking of the polite way to organize this tricky maneuver of food in my mouth fighting for space from words in my mouth, and then Alison is apologizing to me. Where did this come from?
�Listen, I know what�s going on in your head.� she says, appearing not to notice how terrified I am of this. �It�s all cool, you know? If you want to disown me: go ahead. I�m right here. I�ll listen. But I want you to know that what you saw at the party _wasn�t_ me. That was, like, drunk Alison. And she sucks. Soo?�
I giggle, unexpectedly, sending very small particles of shredded lettuce to splatter the window. Alison looks frightened past all recognition. I discern, under the miles of foundation and concealer, a very slight tint of paleness grace those famously bronze cheeks. �Pass the mayo,� says I, and then Alison Marks and I are friends again. Just like that.
We walk up together, laughing and talking trash about various people, and Alison tells me about her community service project, and I insert the necessary innuendo regarding the tremendous art-geek community that she has serviced, and she whacks me in the stomach with her purse. I think she cracked on of my ribs, but that�s OK for now. We are seniors, still, but I for one feel much older.
When we get to French, I pull out my half-done homework and Madame Getaeu responds with sensible disinterest. Alison helps me shrug it off and we discuss Mme�s hair choices. It�s lighthearted and respectfully low-key. I kind of like this, but this little nagging voice hits my throat like a fishing hook, and I know I can�t really trust this chick.
Sure, she looks cute. Doesn�t she? And you know she gets good grades, and buys her clothes at the spots you find years after she got that top. And she�s nice enough and lends you pens and then all of a sudden she�s asking you Hey, didn�t I see you at and you�re responding, all flattered, maybe, I guess I was there the other week and she starts saying things like No, don�t tell me�.She pulls you down like a giant squid. You start to love her.
I�m thinking about all this and scribbling down notes about the difference between the imparfait and the pass� compose, and Alison is all talking in my ear. I can barely concentrate, but somehow I get out of class when the bell rings and to my locker and I�m grabbing my things. Alison says something about how she�s getting a ride from Tim and I nod.
I�m on the bus, and I glance at my French notes. They�re twisted and odd. I think jumbled things like, �Hey, I didn�t really write..� and some things that aren�t thoughts but rather pictures tossed thoughtlessly into the stewing blend of brain I seem to have going here. They don�t look like my handwriting, but I know that I wrote these words, sitting with Alison boiling through one ear canal and Mme through the other and in my head Xerxes is mumbling about how much beer he�s had.
�The past tense requires a much more bizarre concept of time than the imperfect. Par example: �Je suis tombe�, or "I fell". �I was falling�, by contrast, makes you take the moment and freeze it, scroll back to it, slowing it down to ridiculous lengths. They say the imperfect is a continuing tense, and that makes sense, in an odd way. If you think about the thousands of universes in which you fall, you could easily fall forever. �J�etais tomber��imagine yourself bending down to hit the earth, a leg gracefully stretching out at an impossible angle, fifty miniscule moments frame-by-frame�.