A Tale of Two Besties (16 page)

And to think, none of this would have happened if I hadn't been trying so hard to help Derek. The cops didn't hide their surprise when they saw the crazy girl in the kitten shoes stomping out of the shadows, screaming “Hey! It's cool! That's my bike! I'm not drunk! I'm completely sober! Breathalyze me! Breathalyze me!” And oh, god. The look on my face. A robust mix of sheer panic, desperation, and terror. I'm sure it was the same face I made the next morning, when Tim called to alert me to the video of my “drunken” ramblings all over SchoolGrams. It was posted anonymously, but it was pretty clear who the cinematographer was. Apparently, Derek's film project was more of an unscripted reality series kind of thing than a stand-alone feature. Starring me.

“Hey. You down there,” Kendall snickered. “Um, Earth to BasicWear.” Great, a new nickname. I guess she was confusing the true meaning of the term “basic” with the fact that I usually only wore “basics,” as opposed to her current ensemble: a hot pink mesh onesie and an oversized gold-plated shark she wore on a tiny choker chain. I'm pretty sure I knew who would win in a “being basic” contest.

“I
said
, I'm so glad to see you're doing better after such a sloppy night.”

I wanted to respond with something vicious, like “Have you caught any fish in all that mesh you're wearing?” Or something else that I could imagine easily coming out of Kendall's mouth. But who was I to cast stones, when I could so easily see myself hiding behind those bushes with Kendall and her friends, shivering and feeling bad for Derek.
Derek
, who formerly held the title of Dirtiest Kid in Class, but who now seemed kind of sweet and maybe also a little bit sad in a way that I somehow found endearing.

Just then, a familiar voice sounded out behind me. “Hey, what the hell, Kendall?” For a second I thought it was Tim, but then I realized that he was bending down right there next to me, busy helping me clean up the aisle. I shoved one last box back on the shelf and stood up, turned to meet my savior . . . and grimaced in embarrassment the moment I saw who it was.

Derek
. The same Derek who had studiously avoided acknowledging me in any way at school ever since he posted the video of my “performance.”

“Hey Derek,” Kendall cooed, immediately adopting a less sociopathic tone. “I was just saying hi to our friend here. We haven't had a chance to catch up with Harper since . . . well, since after the police dropped by the ranch for a little visit!” She shot me the coldest warm smile ever. “God, I mean we were seriously wasted
,
weren't we? Derek could barely work the video function on his phone. Luckily, he got some great footage anyway.”

I was such an idiot . . . hadn't he told me his dreams of being a revolutionary filmmaker? And now the whole school was seeing me in
Spring Breakers 2: Sober and Stupid.
Except, you know, I wasn't as cute as Selena Gomez.

“Hey,” Derek mumbled in my direction, practically an admission of guilt. I wanted him to look at me, but he kept his eyes on the ground. Clearly he was too ashamed . . . was it because he was sorry about releasing the video? Or because he was embarrassed to have kissed the girl who freaked? It was probably the second—I hadn't turned out to be the cool girl he believed me to be, and he felt like he had been tricked into putting his lips on a phony, lying loser like me.

I didn't need to be judged by Derek or Kendall; I knew that I was better than that. I was still trying to think of something cutting to say when I realized where I was: out of breath and in the parking lot. I guess I had unconsciously followed one of those patented MomTips that I thought would never come in handy: If you can't change the room, change the location.

I didn't even know I was running until Tim grabbed me in the parking lot, saying “Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry, Harper.” Right then I needed my Lily more than anyone in the whole world, but she wasn't here. I also needed human contact from anyone with an actual heart and soul who didn't see me as a total joke. I collapsed into Tim and let him wrap his arms around me and I closed my eyes and felt nothing but the relief of not falling.

“Hello, Pathways!” I sang-yelled into the old-fashioned microphone to a small test audience of a select group of NAMASTE members. It was our first public performance, and I was kind of freaking out—but in a good way! We were stuck in the music room, where the acoustics were pretty awful, but we'd been booted out of the auditorium, this time by the Pathways Improv Dance Troupe, who were practicing some sort of gyrating adaptation of
Pippin.
“We are your entertainers this evening! Allow me introduce you to the one, the only . . . the Jug Judies!”

Our first couple songs were a little shaky—our version of Haim's “My Song 5” wasn't quite as subtly haunting as we would have hoped because my soft vocals were totally overpowered by Drew's enthusiastic tooting. Our “Anything Could Happen” by Ellie Goulding was actually coming together, though, and Jane was killing it on Miley's cover of “Team,” now re-covered by us, with just me on the ukulele and some very enthusiastic jug playing—but we didn't really hit our stride until everyone had finished the tempeh stir-fry from our favorite food truck, which Drew had hired to cater the event.

“This next one is also a cover of one of my favorite artists, Katy Perry,” I said cheerfully, announcing my lead-vocals debut. I was getting friendly with the small crowd, marveling over the fact that I, Lily Farson, was
actually
telling an audience information about our music! That I was playing live for real people! And they were listening to me! Sing one of my favorite songs! AH! Yikes. Maybe this was actually a mistake? But before I could lose my nerve I saw Nicole flash a thumbs-up sign from the back of the room—her new purple hair unmissable even in a sea of totally unique faces and a few fluttering wings. Nothing to do now but perform.

“This one I want to dedicate to Nicole and NAMASTE,” I said. “For helping me realize my best self is me!” Drew counted off—“One-Two-Three!”— and then suddenly, I was singing.

I used to bite my tongue and hold my breath

Scared to rock the boat and make a mess

So I sat quietly, agreed politely

I guess that I forgot I had a choice

I let you push me past the breaking point

I stood for nothing, so I fell for everything

When filtered through our homegrown sound, the music was like a playground rhyme set to a lullaby.

I got the eye of the tiger, a fighter, dancing through the fire

'Cause I am a champion and you're gonna hear me roar

Louder, louder than a lion

Cause I am a champion and you're gonna hear me roar

As soon as it had begun, the song was over. Everyone cheered and the applause was deafening, thanks to the room's weird acoustics.

“Fairy girl! Fairy girl!” Started a chant from the back of the crowd, and pretty soon everyone was calling out “Fairy Girl! Fairy Girl!”

Jane, Drew, and I took our bows, and I squeezed their hands as tight as I could. I couldn't believe how different everything was. How different being popular . . . or, not popular . . . but being
liked
was! Even though we had yet to play a real show that was open to the whole school, it seemed that everyone was interested in us and wanted the chance to talk to the Jug Judies. For instance, everyone knew about the party Jane was throwing to celebrate the re-launch of her FancyFashionFeminist blog, and at least twenty people had already asked if I was going, and if the Jug Judies were going to play. Even now, as we packed up and walked down the hall toward the Lane, a couple of junior girls who spent all their time in Cinema sessions asked where they could get wings like mine. Two freshman girls I hadn't met before approached shyly and asked if I would pose for their drawing session. It was the same day as an environmental nature walk I was taking with NAMASTE, so I told them that I'd have to think about it. A boy in a plaid shirt and adorable Harry Potter glasses asked if he could get my autograph.

“Seriously?” I laughed.

Even when I wasn't hanging out with Nicole or Jane or Drew, kids in the Lane would call me over and ask if I wanted to eat lunch with them. (“Can't, going to band practice!” “Next time, then?
Ciao
, Lily!” “NAMASTE!”)

“Great job, Lily!” Jane said, putting her arm around me. “You really are this beaming ball of good energy.” I blushed . . . no one had called me a beaming ball before!

The other good thing about being part of NAMASTE is that even the teachers treat you like you're special. Earlier that week Jamie Godfrey asked me to bring in the film I made with Harper, and we spent a whole session analyzing its themes and our artistic vision. Apparently my movie was a lot deeper than I'd thought: Godfrey said it was “a cinematic interpretation of female colonialism.”

The only part of my Pathways schedule that kind of sucks is the hour I have after lunch, in a session called Life Lessons. It's supposed to teach us about the real world and giving back to the community, but so far it's just like giant group therapy. Our instructor, Bill, always wears wool sweaters, even when it's like eighty degrees out (which is literally always because we're in LA) and is constantly eating beets from plastic Whole Foods containers with his fingers, which in turn are perpetually red. We met in the gymnasium, where everyone sat in a giant circle, about thirty of us of all different grades, and went around the room “sharing” our feelings.

Most of the time kids would just say normal stuff. Like, “My dad decided making an appearance at Cannes was more important than coming to my one-man show” or “I used to be inspired by Bret Easton Ellis but then he decided to remodel the place next to ours and the noise is driving me insane and maybe
Less Than Zero
wasn't even that good?” Once in a while though, someone would say something really crazy. The day of our practice concert, a really tall boy with a voice like a girl's stood up and told Bill he had something to say.

“So I just found this out,” the boy began, his eyes focusing on the ground. “And I don't really know what to think about it yet . . .”

“Go on.” Bill motioned with a beet-stained hand.

“Well, so, I went to the doctor because I was getting all these stomachaches, and I guess they saw something in there, and I was really scared it was going to be cancer.” The room held its collective breath . . . cancer was the kind of serious topic that wasn't joked about in the land of SPF 100. “But when they removed the . . . mass, well . . . I guess what happened was that, before I was even born, I had a twin. And I ate him. Or her. Like, in the
womb
.”

I know it wasn't supposed to be funny, but the combination of his sweet voice and the morbid story it was telling, and then watching everybody's grossed-out reaction, well, I couldn't keep a straight face. I could feel my mouth twitching, and then I caught the eye of that cute senior in suspenders who drove the blue Mustang, and he had his hand over his mouth but I could tell he was smiling. The next thing I knew, I was snorting back laughter with tears streaming down my face. It was the kind of laughter I hadn't busted out since middle school, when Harper and I would come down with daily laugh attacks.

As if on cue, the rest of the class started giggling, too. Quietly at first, but then louder and louder. The tall boy looked surprised for a moment, and then struggled to talk over everyone with his soft voice. “I mean, it was before I was born! When I was in my mom's uterus!” He looked totally mortified, which made me feel bad for a second, and for some reason I was struck by a quick flashback to that day in fourth grade gym class, when I first met Harper. Because I realized that, if Harper were there, I probably wouldn't have started laughing at all. Harper is supersensitive to other people's feelings and never likes to laugh at someone for saying something weird—
especially
when it was something that person didn't have any control over. Neither did I, as a general rule, but . . . “in my mom's uterus” was just too much. Even Bill, trying to get everyone to settle down, was not doing a very good job of hiding a bewildered grin at the absurdity of it all.

After class, though, I felt terrible for being the one responsible for starting a class-wide laughing fit after some poor kid was just trying to get something off his chest. I told Nicole about what happened, hoping she'd say something to make me feel better or give me some pointers on how to make amends, but instead she just started cracking up, too.

“Lily, it's totally fine to laugh when someone says something ridiculous like that in front of a group of strangers,” she told me. “Laughter was your natural reaction, and by acting on it, you were being true to yourself.”

“I guess that makes sense . . .” I said. Maybe, without Harper there to influence me, this was just what I was like. I was a girl who laughed when something was funny, rather than one who analyzed scenarios to death to figure out whether it was okay to laugh.

“Oh my gosh!” a somewhat familiar voice called out from behind me, and I turned around. “Lily? Lily Farson, is that you?”

It took me a minute to recognize Beth-Lynne Jacoby, the daughter of the couple who ran PuppyTales. She was a year older, used to volunteer a ton at the shelter, and had made it to a couple of Harper's PuppyBashes, and although Harper and I weren't that close to her, she was always super nice and bubbly. Even though she was roughly our age, she reminded me of someone's aunt, with large, frizzy hair that was always held in place with the same tortoiseshell clip, and penchant for extra-large flannel shirts and unflattering Levi's. She had a wide, broad nose and a loud, horsey laugh that stopped just short of being startling. But all that could have been excused (and since when did I critique people's sartorial choices like this??), but the worst was yet to come. Beth-Lynne had horrible taste in shoes, as was evidenced by the bright pink Ugg boots she was sporting today.

I had heard from Harper that Beth-Lynne had cut down on her volunteer work last year when she started feeling the strain of high school AP-level courses, but I had no idea she was at Pathways. Don't get me wrong—I liked her a lot—but standing there in the hallway in her signature oversized shirt, workman boots and jeans, she looked about as creative as a Denny's value meal.

“Beth-Lynne? Hey! I had no idea you went here!”

“Yup,” she said. “Since seventh grade. I'm in the Science Tech wing though . . . we pretty much keep to ourselves. We call ourselves Pathways 2.0.” Beth-Lynne cracked herself up, braying with laughter at her own joke. I tried to match her enthusiasm, but my chuckle caught in the back of my throat.

“How are you?” Beth-Lynne asked. “And how's Harper? Still hanging with the bad dogs?”

“Well, you know Harper,” I said weakly. I heard a sound behind me, and turned to see Nicole tapping her toe impatiently and scrutinizing my old acquaintance's get-up. Beth-Lynne, totally oblivious, plowed forward.

“Man, Lily! It's so good to see you! But I've got to ask, girl, are you really still wearing those wings? I remember when you first showed up at PuppyTales when you were eleven in those things! My mom thought you had just come from a rehearsal of a school play!”

“Ahem,” Nicole said, making that throat-clearing noise but not actually clearing her throat. She pushed her way in front of me and looked Beth-Lynne up and down. “Bethel, is it?”

“Uh, it's actually Beth-L—”

“Whatever. How dare you make fun of Lily's iconoclasm while you stand there, encouraging conformity of fashion trends in corporate America with your mall jeans and that hideous Australian footwear. Made in Taiwan, no doubt. Double Ugg.”

Oh my god, what was Nicole doing? Beth-Lynne just stood there, looking totally stunned. A small group had gathered around our little circle, nudging each other and taking out their cell phones to record Nicole's takedown of this hapless girl.

“Lily,” Nicole said, startling me out of the imaginary shell I'd retreated into. “Tell Bathilda here that you refuse to let her shame you into not wearing the wings that are literally the most important symbol of your individuality!”

Beth-Lynne's eyes bulged like she had been slapped. I wanted to tell her to close her mouth, which was gaping open: She wasn't doing herself any favors by just standing there. Even though she hadn't done anything offensive, not really, I felt myself getting unusually irritated at Beth-Lynne. Maybe she didn't mean anything by it, but Nicole was right: She was sort of putting down my look. Ever since I moved to Los Angeles, people have felt like they have the right to just stop and stare at my wings or make comments—“Hey, Tink, got me some magic fairy dust?” “What's with the costume?” “Can you grant me wishes?”—without stopping to think that maybe me wearing my grandmother's outfit wasn't an invitation to question my entire identity.