Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

“You still there, Phoebe?”
“I’m here.” I’m relieved she sounds back to normal. “You all
right?”
“Ugh, yes.” She sighs into the phone. “Can you believe how stu-
pid I was? It’s not like I thought he would change. Can you still be
friends with someone so stupid?”
“Hey,” I say, trying to rally her spirits, “you forget you’re talking
to the girl who went out with him first. I think I get the stupidity
crown.”
We laugh and I’m just thankful that our friendship is back on
track. I don’t know what I’d do without Cesca to go to when I have
a problem. I can always count on Cesca to set me straight. I mean, I
love Nola, but she’s not the most grounded cookie in the jar.
“So,” she says hesitantly, “did he cause major problems for you?”
“No, not major.”
“Oh.”
“Look, Cesca. I really, really, really wish I could tell you what this
is all about, but—”
“I understand. Just like I wouldn’t expect you to break my confidence
if I had a secret, so I wouldn’t ask you to break someone
else’s, either.”
Huge sigh of relief. It’s so much better to talk through things
like this on the phone. E-mail is so impersonal—and so open to
interpretation. We chat awhile longer—not too long because I know
international calls can be astronomically expensive—before hanging
up, promising to e-mail at least every other day. And to not keep
any more secrets unless they’re somebody else’s.
Mom is waiting for me when I emerge.
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