Dear Albert: Fundamentally De-friended

“Moral dilemma: Is it wrong to kill bees?” I ask Braden.

A fat bee loops around the near-empty newspaper room. Man, bees! Braden seems not to notice it. He’s reading through the giant stack of letters I’ve amassed with Renee’s help. Letters from witnesses who saw me get hit in the face with a stapler. I’m not exactly thrilled that the entire school seems to like me solely for being the victim a crime involving an office supply.

“Sam, focus. You’ve got something really special here,” he says, not looking up. “All these letters. All this support. You’re becoming a brand.”

“A brand?” I ask. “What am I, a Frosted Flake?”

“Half right,” he says, and looks at me. The bee comes between us and my eyes follow it.

“We’re not killing the bee,” he decides. “If I were you I’d run for student council next semester.”

“Have you for-for-for-gotten about my little problem?” I ask, stuttering on purpose.  “Me speaking in front of a crowd is the equivalent of you… um… God Braden, what are you bad at?”

“Terrible BINGO player,” he says without pause. “Just awful. It’s humiliating. And Paper Scissors Rock, pathetic, forget about it. But I’d throw a million rocks in a row if it meant getting to be on student council. You could actually do something, Sam.”

A jolt of energy courses through me. Not because I could “do something,” but because I could “do something, Sam.” I hate to admit it, but it’d be nice to change things more… directly. As in, not through Albert. It’d be nice to get some credit for my ideas for once.

But, no. Who’d vote for a stuttering scarface?

“I’d help you,” Braden says, reading my thoughts. “I mean, I’d try to help you get over public speaking. You could practice in front of The Hubs.”

Braden coaches a little kids’ soccer team called The Hubs, because of course he does.

“I can’t,” I say.

“Can’t, or don’t want to? Did you know that there are no official rules about bullying in our handbook? Do you know the school’s not obligated to do anything about this?” Braden asks.

I do, from Anna’s op eds.

Braden points to his computer, where this week’s Dear Albert column is up for editing. “Isn't this the kind of guy who would take a chance if it meant he could help this school with the bullying problem?”

“I’m not Albert! That’s why Albert is Albert!” I shout. Where did this anger come from?

“You ARE Albert,” Braden says. “He’s fearless. You have that element in you.”

“’Element’ is the ke-ke-key word here.” I’m getting worked up. “Everybody is fear-fear-fearless sometimes.”

“Look, I wouldn’t be having this conversation with you if I didn’t know you could do it,” he says. “So will you think about it?”

Yes.

“No,” I say.

Yes.

“I’m ju-ju-just going to hide behind stupid Al-Al-Albert until I graduate,” I say.

But the thought of this—cheesy as it sounds—makes me want to cry.

Braden shakes his head and buries himself in my column—the better version of myself, the one everyone wishes were real.

Dear Albert,

Methinks I haveth a problem. There's this person that goes to my school. (We'll call him Tom.) When my long-term boyfriend broke up with me last spring, Tom and I started talking online. We became amazingly close friends (i.e. texting or otherwise communicating from the time we got up to the time we went to bed pretty much nonstop). We discussed literature, politics, religion, everything. We both love to debate, so naturally, we were each other's favorite partners. Then he asked me for girl advice. On how to ask out the most vapid, skanky girl in my grade, (he's two years older), and his creepy friend asked me to prom. Tom encouraged me to say yes....so I did. Then Tom and I danced at prom, Tom's friend got really mad, and that was that. Tom and I were still really close. Until Tom just stopped talking to me. Out of the blue. Apparently his friend took it really hard when we didn't become a couple. Tom blames me for this, and "fundamentally" dislikes me. Now he won't talk to me. What should I do?

Fundamentally De-friended

Dear FunDeFri,

See what I did there? Funny, right? No? Okay. Moving along.

Let's talk about double standards, as I'm an expert in all things double: double dipping, double rainbows, and of course leading a double life. But that's nary hither nor thither. THIS is the double standard you're up against: Everyone seems to think that girls should date, make out, special touch, etc. only if they're truly in "like" with the guy. If they're not, people call them "skanks," "tramps," and a lot worse. But when someone wants to hook you up with a friend, you're expected to turn into a walking, talking makeout toy. Suddenly your feelings don't matter, and you're just supposed to be with some guy to keep the peace among your friends.

Bologna, I say! Bologna a billion!

In other words, you did everything right, and Tom, well, his vending machine is full of turds.

But! You have an aching need to resolve the issue. I feel ya, and I think the instinct to find some sort of closure is probably a good one, though I actually have no idea if it is because I don't know anything about psychology or anything else at all, ever. Regardless! I think you should write him a letter. Tell Tom how much your friendship meant, and that though it's too bad that you and his creepy friend didn't hit it off, it would be worse for everyone if you lied and said you did. Note: Don't actually call his friend "creepy" in the letter.

Then you'll have done all you can do to make things right, and my guess is you'll feel relieved.

And if Tom ever stops acting like a giant, Number 1 Butt Clown (sorry, Tom), he'll respect your honesty and humility, and be pointing his foam finger in your direction in no time.

Wow, that was a disgusting analogy.

Shaking my head at myself,

Albert

Braden looks up, and I wait for his verdict on the column.

"Do you think you could write one column without talking about butts or barf?" he asks.

"Probably impossible," I say.

"You won't be able to talk about butts in your campaign speech, you know."

He looks at me and half-smiles.

“You're killing me here!,” I say, laying my hands out on the desk. “But fine, I’ll think about running.”

"It's the right thing to do," Braden says.

And then the bee loops back, lands on my hand, and stings me.

Read Dear Albert from the beginning here.

What is Dear Albert? It's a fiction experiment on SparkNotes about a guy, Sam, who writes a secret advice column under the name Albert. The "experiment" part is this: His story is a mesh of pure fiction, and YOUR input. Want to participate? Leave a question or a message for Albert in the comments (real, or totally fake)!

Special thanks to louiemonster11 for providing this week's question!!!