A Tale of Two Besties (4 page)

“Is that Jessica Samuels and Stephanie Adler?” Harper brought the screen closer to her face and frowned. “No way.”

Stephanie and Jessica were girls in our class who were kind of nice, but also kind of NOT nice. We ate lunch with them, but they were mostly Harper's friends from growing up. Until last year, they dressed the same, did their hair the same, they even laughed the same flittering snicker-giggle. Last fall, though, Stephanie's style all of a sudden got all Coachella-street-blogger, while Jessica was still wearing Lacoste Polo shirts and Uggs and doing her hair in tight, Ariana Grande–style ponytails. Then one day, Jessica wasn't even sitting with us at lunch. You could see her blond tresses, finally relaxed from their tight bun, draped over Matt Musher's shoulders as she lovingly fed him French fries dipped in ranch sauce.

“You stole my boyfriend, you slut!” One of the girls—it was hard to tell with all the Shaky-Cam—screamed at the other. “I can't believe you kissed . . . *garbled*. You were my
best friend
!” Here, the angrier of the girls had wrestled her way on top and bent her former bestie's arm back, punctuating her words with a quick, upward yank.

The other girl howled, and the video cut off after some fumbling by the intrepid cameraman.

“Wow, did Steph . . . hook up with Matt?” Harper asked, sounding confused on multiple levels. Matt Musher was a boy in our class who was okay-cute, but kind of a jock.

This was exactly why I hated the Internet: Clicking a link allowed you to peer into someone's personal humiliation file, making you feel dirtier than if you were the one who made out with your best friend's boyfriend. We couldn't think of much to say after that, so I put my head down and closed my eyes, pretending to take a nap. Harper picked up her book and turned over to tan her back.

That afternoon, the minutes flew by between us. I was unable to keep them there, though I wished they'd come back. I wish I could have gathered up those minutes like flowers to hang upside down in my room, until they were dried out: less fresh, but more permanent. So they'd stay with me forever and never die and never hurt.

But instead I could practically hear the countdown clock ticking: eighteen hours, forty-five minutes and thirty seconds till Pathways. Make that twenty-nine seconds. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven. Twenty-six.

It must have been a little bit later—but not too late, because the sun was still out—that I heard a strange, sad call coming from underneath the boardwalk. A chill coursed through me.

“Whoa,” said Harper. “Is that an owl?”

“Yeah, we used to have a lot of them in Maryland.”

“What is it doing up so early?”

I sat up, remembering something. Something foreboding. “Harper, have you ever heard of the owl of Minerva?”

Harper sighed and lay down next to me on the blanket, folding her arms above her head and closing her eyes. “I love story time.”

I continued.

“Okay, so this owl flew around, crying out warnings for travelers who'd stayed out in the forest past dark, and so were in great danger of getting lost there forever. But the thing is, the owl always flew super close to nighttime, so by the time you saw it, it meant you were already doomed. Harper, what if that's
our
owl of Minerva? What if we're already doomed?”

I knew how intense I sounded, but sometimes intensity is the way to the truth. Or maybe I was just FREAKING OUT.

Sixteen hours, ten minutes, and eleven seconds. Ten seconds. Nine seconds.

“Lily, you've got to snap out of it!” Harper was using her annoyed voice. “We are
not
doomed. We're just freshmen! But it
is
getting late, and we still have two items on the agenda.”

“You'd be a great events planner,” I said, only half-sarcastically, because Harper is actually fantastic at remembering all the details that I'd never remember. Like: Turn off the lights when you leave the house. Don't put on lotion right before you put on jeans and don't fall asleep with your hairband on if you don't want to lose circulation for like ever. Don't leave KIND bars in your backpack for too long or they'll turn into a sticky, backpack-ruining mess.

Like: Oh man, Harper's birthday was coming up. And I knew she was about to ask me about PuppyBash. Every year, on the night before her birthday, Harper arranges for one of the volunteers from PuppyTales, a rescue organization for strays, to drive up to a park or some other public location with about fifteen dogs in mobile cages. We take turns playing with them and giving them exercise, and instead of presents, Harper always asks for donations to PuppyTales. Last year our neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Beatty, even took home a puppy to adopt: a tiny little Shih Tzu named Maxine. It was brilliant. I guess you could call us activists, kind of.

Actually, please call us activists, it feels very grownup.

“At least you have PuppyBash to look forward to! And whatever else we do . . .” Harper said.

She was always so obstinately vague about her birthdays. She always goes all-out planning PuppyBash, but when it comes to her
real
birthday celebration, it's always up to me.

“Yeah, there's always that,” I said, trying to cheer myself up, at least for Harper's sake. “That will be fun!”

When I didn't say anything else, Harper dropped the subject, turning her back to me and rustling my wings. “Ta-da! Here! All better!” She had bandaged up the broken parts with the gauzy fabric of the scarves, turning them into something a winged Katniss might wear.

“Oh my god, they're perfect! You made them perfect again!” I tried to hug her but of course I almost smooshed them all over again, so I had to just be okay with spiraling into a sea of
thank you
s, over and over.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” Harper asked softly. I tried not to concentrate on anything else but the sound of my best friend's voice. This seemed important in an all-new way, and for a moment the sound of my mental clock ticking its countdown faded into the gentle roar of the ocean's surf. I buried my feet in the cooling sand, wishing I could grow roots. “How it was true bestie love at first sight?”

“Of course,” I said. My skin was pricked with goose bumps. “Everyone remembers the day the weirdo girl in a fairy costume showed up to be eaten alive by the sharks of Beverly Hills.”

Harper grinned, digging her feet into the sand next to mine. “I remember it as the last day before I realized life could actually be magical.”

“Um, I have told you I don't actually grant wishes, right?” I teased.

“Dummy.” Harper gave me a light punch. “The magical part was that I met my best friend that day.”

“Come on, the magical part was where the coolest girl in the Hills decided to talk to me.” I tried to say it lightly, like it was a joke, but it was how I really felt.

Harper pulled her feet out of the sand, showering us both in grainy clumps. She turned toward me and pulled her legs up to her chin. “For the billionth time, being cool has nothing to do with how many people say hi to you in the hall. Being cool means saying hi to people and not caring if they say it back.”

“I care!” I protested, feeling the well-worn tread of this debate we had at least once a month. “It's not like I try to stick out. I just do. I can't help it.”

“Um, exactly.” Harper shook her head, exasperated that I wasn't understanding her. When it came to most things, we were on the same page. But this was one topic we could never see eye-to-eye on. Secretly, I knew Harper was giving me too much credit for being “unique” when really I wasn't trying to make a statement or anything. I just liked the way the wings looked. It reminded me of Gram, who had been a dancer in a traveling vaudeville group when she was younger and was the most glamorous person I'd ever seen.

Harper tilted her head, regarding me with a crinkled eye. “Okay,” she said, fake-breezily. “I've got an idea. Let's make a pact.”

“A pact? You want me to join your cult or something?”

“No! A non-creepy pact.”

“Oh, well if it's a non-creepy pact, then sure. But please tell me it involves ritual animal sacrifice.”

I tried to laugh it off as a joke, but Harper grabbed my hands and looked at me straight in the eyes. “I know you're nervous about Pathways, but you know that a school can't change you from being yourself, right? Promise me we're not going to fall into this
Pretty Little Liars
-y trap where one moment everyone's best friends and the next everyone changes. We're not going to give in to that basic stereotype, right?”

I shrugged. I didn't have as much faith in me as Harper did, but I guess that's what best friends were for: to believe in you when you didn't even believe in yourself.

“Since we're not going to be around to help one another every second of every day anymore,” she continued, “we need to solemnly swear that we're not going to be one of those kids who do this dramatic makeover or have a personality transplant the moment they get to high school. That stuff only works in the movies, anyway. You're the Gawkward Fairy. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise.”

I looked off to the water and thought about Harper's words and what they really meant. “Okay,” I said slowly. “Then you've got to swear something to me. That you're not going to go to Beverly High and forget all about me. That while I'm ‘being me' you're not going to go off to bonfires on the beach and not invite me to come along to document everything. That you won't ever start doing duck-face selfies with girls who all have the same messy-perfect hair as you and you won't start dating some guy named Thad or Chaz or whatever and totally stop texting.”

Harper's smile broke open wide, and my heart along with it. “Only if you promise not to read from the Pitchfork comment board in a silly accent without me.”

“Promise. Pact made,” I said, offering my hand for a business-deal shake. “But only if you know that you're getting, like, the raw end of the deal. You'll be stuck with me by your side forever!”

“Okay. Promise,” said Harper, shaking my hand and immediately enveloping me into a big hug.

We sat like that, eyes half-closed, listening to the waves crashing louder and louder as the light grew dimmer.

“Hey,” Harper said gravely, the first to pull back. “I didn't mean to sound like you had to walk around high school in your wings all the time, if you don't want to.” Why did she have to say that? Did she know something I didn't? Was Pathways really anti–fairy wings or something? Was there some rule in the dress code I didn't know about?

She must have seen the worried look on my face.

“Stop spiraling!” She admonished. “I can always tell when you are overthinking things! I just mean, wear what makes you feel comfortable, not what makes you look like everyone else. Listen, as long as we are our dope selves we are ALL GOOD. And I'm sure you will find some magical creatures there and I'll have to get my own wings just to fit in with you guys. And maybe our mission in high school is to help people break free of the stereotype that all high schools are just made up of mean girls, jocks, and nerds. Between PuppyGirl's Empathy powers and the Gawkward Fairy, we help those in social distress. We use our powers for good, not evil.”

“Oh, darn, and here I was, planning to become a super villain the moment your back was turned.” My voice was sarcastic, but I was still spiraling: Why would Harper even say that thing about bullying? Did she think I was a monster? I had never made fun of anyone, ever, but now that she'd mentioned it, I wondered if Harper was secretly scared that without me, she'd become one of the mean girls.

We sat a little longer, but the magical moment had passed. It was getting dark and cold. I could almost hear my own personal Minerva hooting in my ear, and there was nothing more I wanted in that moment than to run off toward the amusement park, away from the Pier, out of California forever, only looking back to cry over my shoulder, “Too late! Too late! Too late!”

Someone should make a reality show about the first day of freshman year. You can get sixteen contestants from all over the country, force them to wake up at six in the morning, get dressed in their most stunning casual outfits, and go face the world sitting down at a desk for the next eight hours. There can be a challenge called “Lunch,” where you have to tell yourself “I'm not
not
here to make friends.” There can be elimination rounds based on how much chemistry and calculus you can do. And then at two p.m., when that final bell rings, you can stop smiling and pretending that it was “
so
great to
see
you!” to the same group of Traumas—the Murderers and Spirals and Emotional Vampires—that you've known since you were six.

Sorry, let me explain the Traumas to you.

Traumas are basically the people who need to be avoided at all costs, because they will turn your life into a nightmare and never, ever let go. Luckily, Traumas are very easily broken down into the following types, making it very simple to spot one right away:

1. Spirals. A Spiral is a girl who is constantly freaking out over one specific thing, but also everything. If she stains her shirt with cafeteria food, it will remind her how it was her favorite shirt, which, oh
   no
   , she can't replace because she bought it on vacation in Morocco with her mom and dad and now her parents are divorced and what's the point of living if she knows she's just going to flunk the SATs? SHE CAN BARELY WEAR A SHIRT, HOW CAN SHE BE EXPECTED TO TAKE A STANDARDIZED TEST TO DETERMINE HER FUTURE??
   
2. Emotional Vampires. Emotional Vampires are basically people who will bleed you dry of all your love of life in order to feed their love of drama. They will drain you of your heart and soul because they don't have any themselves. You guys will fight and make up and fight and make up and then fight and fight again and then not talk and then you'll hear through someone else that's she's spreading rumors about you, so then you fight some more. Repeat pattern till the end of time.
   
3. Murderers. Murderers are not actual murderers, but people that show no empathy. They are the closest thing we have to a super-villain, because Murderers have absolutely no capacity to relate to anyone besides themselves. They're not being mean, they're being “honest.” And they “wouldn't have to lie to you so much if you didn't get so hysterical all the time.” Hanging out with Murderers turns you into a Spiral.
   
4. Emotional Volcanoes: Oh, Emotional Volcanoes might seem drama-free on the surface, but they're actually dormant. Things are going peachy until you walk by their desk and accidentally knock over their Nalgene bottle. Then it's like, don't bother even running for cover—you're Pompeii, and they're erupting all over you with fiery, irrational anger.
   
5. Thirsty Animals: Thirsty Animals might be the most confusing and cruel of the bunch. Thirsty Animals don't know why they're driven to make your life a soap opera, but research shows that this drive comes from somewhere deep inside their lizard brains, and they are not going to stop texting you until you answer them about whether you are mad at them. And they won't take “no” for an answer.
   

So, yeah . . . first day of high school? NOT the best, as you may have guessed.

It started fine enough. I put on my green Ella Moss dress and spent a half hour in the bathroom giving myself a French braid while watching a Michelle Phan tutorial (how did anyone learn anything before those, seriously?) and then slipped on a pair of Toms wedges. They weren't my favorite but at least they matched. I had no idea how I was supposed to dress today. I wasn't nervous, exactly, but I wanted to make a good impression, especially since I'd be meeting so many new people.

I've never lacked friends, even as a baby, which my mom says is because I'm a good listener. Rachel puts it differently. “Sometimes you can be so
desperate
, Harper,” she says. Sometimes when she is being extra mean she calls me “Despi,” which I know doesn't sound too bad, but when she says it, it can sound like a swear. But even though I have a lot of friends, Lily and I are
best
friends: yin and yang, vanilla and cherry, Converse and no socks, fro-yo and those mochi toppings they try to hide from you but we all know you can get if you just ask. We balance each other out, and that's why we're not just best friends—we are friends who are the best. Well, also because we have superpowers. But I'll get to that later.

In my opinion, everyone should want to be a best friend. Friendship is the most important relationship in the world, just about. It's so funny to see people get so sensitive about it, like the girls who say they couldn't
possibly
like one friend more than another, or that best friends are for babies. It's like, yeah I want to be the
BEST
friend. SORRY I CARE ABOUT HUMAN HEARTS AND SOULS.

But I couldn't be standing around just giving thought speeches all day: I had to move to go to school! With barely a second to spare, I raced down the stairs and ran out to meet Rachel, who was already in the car and lying on the horn.

“If it isn't the Tween Hobo, ready to hop the rails,” said my Twitter-obsessed sister, smirking when I tried to open the passenger door at the curb of our street. “What's the magic word?”

I tugged the handle of Nugget, my sister's gold Prius. “Let me in, Rachel.” I hated sounding whiny, which Rachel knew and which is exactly why she provoked me so much.

“Say the magic word!” Rachel had to shout just to be heard over the engine, which she was revving dramatically with the emergency brake on. Luckily all that car noise brought my dad to the door. He was still fixing his tie for another day “with the suits” at the record company he co-owned with Mr. Slater, my friend Tim's dad.

“Rachel, you are going to burn the brakes doing that!” he yelled from the driveway. My dad always looked a mess, which Rachel says he does on purpose and is just one more sign that he's a corporate hipster
poseur
. She gets a dreamy look whenever she says “poseur,” which means she's thinking about her boyfriend, Jacques the Jock Itch (aka Jacques the Jerk, Jacque in the Box, “Jacques-ooze me, have you seen that name of some obscure band around here? I must have dropped it.” That last one is Lily™.).

“I'm not burning the brakes, I'm testing them to make sure they work! I'm driving my precious little sister to her first day of high school, after all, and we need to be safe!” Rachel winked at me through the window.

“What?” Dad shouted over the engine's roar.

“Nothing!” Rachel sighed. She popped the lock and I scrambled in, pushing aside an accumulated lifetime's worth of empty organic juice bottles, melted protein bars, and Rite-Aid receipts for sparkly eyeliner. In the backseat, several old bottles of nail polish clanged noisily as Rachel put the car into first gear and a couple tumbled over the seat onto the floor. I picked one up. It was a muddled brown with bright red and blue glitter in it, like bedazzled cow poop. Rachel had the weirdest taste in polish.

Rachel backed out of the driveway, and I waved goodbye to Dad as Katy Perry played on Kiss FM. Rachel claimed to hate Top 40 music, but she didn't change the station, and I caught her singing along under her breath when we stopped at a light.

“So,” she said as she adjusted her pout in the rearview mirror, “Let's talk about your first-day-of-school outfit. What's the vibe you are going for here? TALK ME THROUGH THIS, HARPER!” She patted my leg.

“There's no ‘vibe,'” I said, pulling out my iPhone. “I just like this dress.”

“Okay, fair enough. So. You pumped yet, Harpo? Freshman year is kind of the worst.”

“Sure,” I muttered. “Thanks for the pep talk.” Even though I knew Rachel was just giving me a hard time, she was still making me sick with nervousness. I needed to feel on my A-game, so I texted Lily. “I love you more than all the possible emoji options that exist and will exist.”

Two seconds later I got a reply: a Lily-Selfie original of her in the car to Pathways! It was just a shot of her wings, which I guess she'd decided to wear, but underneath she had texted “Holding my breath until you pick me up. Turning blue. SOS.”

Before long we arrived at Beverly Hills High, which from the outside looked like the world's sunniest maximum security prison. I scanned the crowd of kids as we pulled into the parking lot, but I didn't recognize anyone. They must have all just appeared from another galaxy and landed here. I hoped they came in peace.

“Okay, hop to it little dawg,” Rachel smirked. “Woof-woof!”

On the inside, Beverly Hills High didn't seem so bad, but it WAS laid out in the dumbest way possible. I eventually broke down and used Google Maps to figure out how to get to first period, but that didn't help because the GPS lady told me I needed to turn around and get back on the freeway, which seemed maybe not right.

I finally found my locker, which was located directly behind an acne-ridden Goth couple making out. “Um.” I cleared my throat. “Excuse me?” I tried to put on my best smile as the boy un-suctioned his face from his girlfriend's lip ring and glared at me. “I'm sorry, but that's my locker. I just need to get in there for a second!” The two slunk off, leaving a trail of black smudged lip liner and angst.

I had managed to shove my backpack into the ridiculously shoebox-sized cubby when the first bell rang. It was my first day, and I was late. I turned to bolt in the direction I hoped would lead me to class, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up and saw a man with a bushy mustache frowning down at me. “Are you lost, young lady?”

“Actually, I kind of am.”

The man's face twitched under his mustache and he blinked his tiny eyes from behind horn-rimmed spectacles.

“I'm Mr. Hamish, sophomore English teacher.” He pointed at the classroom full of chattering kids just behind us. “So, you're not where you need to be?” he asked.

I shook my head. “That's just the thing! I have no idea where I'm supposed to be. Well, I know what class I have—freshman history—but I can't find it. This campus is so big. It's going to take me four years to figure out, and I'll probably need a trail of bread crumbs just to find my way out.” I expected Mr. Hamish to laugh along with me, but he looked more irritated than anything else, puffing out his cheeks and checking his oversized Swatch.

“Mrs. Miller's room is all the way on the eastern quadrant, second floor,” he grumbled. “If you hustle, you'll only be five minutes late.” An older, lanky boy with a pile of books under his arm sauntered past us into the classroom. His free hand was up, fiddling with his headphones, which Mr. Hamish clearly misinterpreted as an invitation for the world's most intensely awkward high-five.

“Young sir Travis,” Mr. Hamish said with an uncomfortable amount of gusto. “I'm so glad to see that you've decided to take advanced English after all. As Shakespeare said, ‘There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.'”

“Cool,” Travis said, backing into the room slowly. “Yeah, that sounds right.”

Another bell rang, ominously long this time. A group of older boys ran by, snickering. The shortest one snapped his head back toward me and made an impromptu bullhorn with his hands, yelling “Get to class!” The boys rounded the corner, their laughter echoing in the hallway.

Mr. Hamish frowned, making him look even walrus-ier. “Where was I? Oh, yes: We pride ourselves here on the resourcefulness of our students. If you have trouble finding your room, you should pair up with someone older who can show you the ropes. We call it the Buddy System.”

“Oh,” I said. “That's . . . cool.” Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Travis blowing spitballs at the blackboard. What
was
this place?

“It
is
cool.” Mr. Hamish remained oblivious. “Why don't you flag someone down and ask for directions, maybe make a new friend while you're at it? And remember, as Shakespeare said, ‘Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.'”

“Oh yeah, that sounds . . . just like him.” I prayed we were done with this excruciating interrogation. If high school was Wonderland, I'd just met that pretentious caterpillar guy.

Luckily, the final bell sufficiently distracted Mr. Hamish, and without another word, he turned around and entered his waiting classroom. “Okay, guys, listen up. Fair warning: You'll be hearing the name ‘Holden Caulfield' thrown around a lot in this class, but if I'm using it to refer to you, please don't interpret that as a compliment!”

I finally made my way to history class, no thanks to Mr. Hamish. Usually Lily and I try to get to first period early so we can scope out the good seats and charge our phones, but the teacher, Ms. Miller, was already calling names in the front of the room by the time I arrived, so I grabbed the first available seat . . . directly in front of her.