“Jesus, Ashley, what's on your pizza?”
  “It's only pasta, calm down, Marie.” Ashley says, in between bites.
  “Pasta? That's ridiculous. Why don't just get something normal?” Marie replies. Ugh. Do they always bicker this much? Did I bicker like they do, before?
  “'Cause I'm not boring, Ashley. Why don't you get pasta on your pizza?” Ashley lets out a short, annoyed breath. “Look, even Jess has some weird stuff on hers.” Ashley turns to me. “What is that, anyway?” She wrinkles her nose. I smile, but it doesn’t sit right on my face.
  “It's anchovies. My father used to get them on his pizza.” I laugh. “Actually, he used to go to the store and buy anchovies, every single time we ordered pizza.”
  “Oh, that’s right! I remember I stayed over one night, and you didn’t want to order pizza because then we’d have to go to the store.” Marie says, beaming. She’s so moody. One minute, she’s fighting with Ashley; the next, smiling at me like I said something amazing.
  “Your dad was so weird.” Ashley says, but her words are kind, fond. I nod.
  “He was.” I say. My smile vanishes. “He was weird. Before he died.” Marie purses her lips, pitying me. Ashley looks for an escape route, to prevent yet another tearfest.
  “Anyway, Marie,” Ashley begins, “I was saying, it's only natural for me to have pasta on my pizza. I'm Italian. Pasta plus pizza? Double Italian.” They shift back into their natural state of being.
  “Why should I have it, then?” Marie replies, her words tired. “I'm not Italian.”
  “Well, I’m not asking you to have it. I’m asking you to be respectful to my own decisions about my own food and mind your own business. Not everything has to about you, Marie.”
  They don’t notice me slip to the bathroom.
  We three have been best friends for since fourth grade, and their squabbling has only increased since we entered high school. Once upon a time, I was the mediator. That was before my father helped me. That was before my father died.
  I never used to be so moody, or quiet. I was cheerful, bright, annoying, like my friends.
  They were my friends. They were my friends for years. But they’re so annoying to me now. They’re just like the people my father used to tell me about. Those toxic people, the ones that you should get rid of.
  I look in the mirror at my sallow face, my dark eye circles, my hallow cheeks. There are tears on my cheek, but I don’t feel them. I am tired. I am so tired.
  I need to get them out of my life.
  From my bag, I pull out my father’s knife. I’ll be alright when they’re out of my life.
  Holding it in my hand, with a smile that didn't fit, I speak.
  “When they’re gone,” I breathe.
+ + +
Marie and Ashley are still barking at each other when I rejoin them. God, their screechy voices are repelling. They don’t notice me; they don’t notice the knife.
  Then, they do.
  Their eyes are glued to the knife, each other, the knife again.
  “Jess?” Marie asks softly. Calming a wild animal.
  I smile, but now I feel the tears on my face.
  They see me now, they noticed me when my knife has pierced Ashley’s torso. Why didn’t she move? I wasn’t close to her; she saw me approach – why didn’t she move? It’s her own fault, then, it’s her own fault. My heart is heavy in my chest, my breath is ragged – I have never felt more alive, more awake.
  Oh my god, cried Marie, again and again, oh my god, she screamed. Ashley screamed without diction or grace. If she spoke words, they were indecipherable. She screamed and screamed endlessly. Will she ever stop?
  I am smiling now.
  Am I happy now?
  Another jolt of the blade.
  Ashley stopped screaming.
  But not Marie, Marie wasn’t gone yet.
  What have you done, oh my god, what are you doing, what's going on?
  Marie had the sense to question but not the sense to run. This is interesting, because Marie is on the track team. Marie, you run a seven-minute mile, why won’t you run for me? Maybe she wants to finish her pizza. I laugh.
  This laugh feels right. This laugh fits my mouth. I smile, and it is the smile I was meant to wear.
  Marie is stone white.
  Marie isn't laughing or screaming or bickering now.
  I sigh. I’m awake, I’m alive, but still, I am tired.
  “I’m sorry, Marie.” I say, but still I have a smile, and still she doesn’t run.
  She doesn’t get to finish her pizza.