The Six Rules of Maybe

as Saran Wrap over a bowl of leftovers,which meant that Nicole was destined to hide her own body in every way she could.
    “Hey, you look great today,” I said.
    “Really?” I knew from my psychology books that Nicole lacked self-esteem. She was talented and a great writer, especially, but she didn’t believe in herself. It was sad, and I felt sorry for her. We’d been friends since elementary school, best friends, and her dad still thought my name was Sharon.
    “You ought to wear skirts more often,” I said.
    We walked toward the lunchroom, which was full and noisy and smelled like it always did no matter what was on the menu—some combination of gravy and cut apples, Pine-Sol, and the rubber from tennis shoes. It was enchilada day, I guessed, because Leo Snyder shouted to some other guy on the soccer team, “ Pico de gallo is just Mexican for salsa !” and then Renny Williams (who hadn’t legitimately passed a class since elementary school even though his mom was vice-president of the PTA) shouted, “Hey, I still got half a burrito in my car from last night!” and then Leo Snyder said, “Duuum-ass” in a deep, dumb voice and Renny said, “Suck my Pico ,” and everyone at his table hooted those laughs meant to make everyone look.
    “Hopefully Kiley’s there already. You’ve gotta answer your phone, Missy,” Nicole said to me and flicked my arm with her finger. “I don’t like when you leave me. Don’t leave me ever again, okay? Dad bought himself a new car and Mom went nuts. He says he can’t help her pay her bills anymore and he goes out and buys a new car. You’re the only one who understands.”
    “I was busy,” I said. “Showing Juliet’s new husband around.”
    “I can’t believe your sister’s having a baby. Wait, there’s Kiley.” Kiley was already at our table, waving us over with both arms. “See?She really needs someone to listen.”
    The way I’d coped with my term in high school was to find meaningful work, kind of like a prisoner who gets a job in the prison library. I was the Designated Listener, DL, the one who stayed emotionally sober while everyone else was falling apart, letting their feelings out in a way that was sloppy and off balance and dangerous. It wasn’t just my on-the-fringe friends who sought me out either. Casey Chow cornered me in the girls’ bathroom once when her period was late, even though she never spoke to me when anyone was looking. Olivia Gold confessed to me that she hated her perfect life when we used to ride the bus in middle school. I guess I had the kind of face that looked like an open invitation.
    I had read in some of the psychology books about Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs—that we had these life requirements that ranged from the lowest and most basic ones of food and safety all the way up to the highest level of need, something called self-actualization. Self-actualization was the uppermost point, the nothing-else-to-need-now need, and it included things like morality and problem solving and helping others. I liked to picture myself at the top of the pyramid chart I saw on those pages, imagining, truly or not, that I’d risen through the fat horizontal chunks of Safety and Belonging and Love and Self-esteem and had arrived at the smallest tip of Self-actualization .
    It was a fancy rationalization, probably, for saying that being needed sometimes made me feel good. It had a high purpose, anyway. So I listened and advised Kiley to break up with Ben because it wasn’t good to get so serious so young and reminded Nicole that her parents’ problems were out of her control, and then we all tried to tell our friend Jasmine that she should just talk to her parents aboutquitting orchestra if she hated lugging her cello around so much. This, as Custodian Bill walked around the tables, sweeping around us with his big broom as if we were guests in his house and he was anxious for us to finally leave.
    “I can’t believe I almost forgot,” Nicole told us. “I talked to Shy today. Actually talked .” She swirled the tip of her spoon around the bottom of her container of nonfat yogurt.
    “He spoke?” Jasmine said. “I can’t fucking believe it.” Jasmine was a tiny girl with shiny black hair, so small and delicate that she was forever given the kids’ menu at restaurants and asked if she were lost in stores. Jasmine swore a lot, but it was always goofy and unconvincing. I was pretty sure she would start drinking and having sex,