A Tale of Two Besties (20 page)

“Ew!”

“That's the grossest thing you've ever heard, right?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I guess it depends on whether you actually ate that spider. You absolutely did not, right?”

Tim shrugged, which I only noticed as a tremor from inside the giant red egg he was sitting in. Our cafeteria has an outdoor lounge, which was basically just created for kids whose parents only felt comfortable sending them out into the world if VIP seating was available. One of Beverly High's most prized pieces of real estate was in one of the lounge's “womb chairs,” which looked like the Death Star cut in half and resting on a swivel base. You could climb in and spin around or curl up with a book or make out (although they were technically supposed to be used by only one person at a time). But today, during our free period, I was content just to listen to Tim talk about his most traumatizing coming-of-age experiences from inside what was essentially a padded bubble.

I was midlaugh when the last bell of the day rang, which meant that the campus—which normally divided itself up into social cliques better than a red velvet rope ever could—was about to turn into the Wild West. Scruffy outlaws would collide with rich, dashing cowboys, and primped-up debutantes would walk past unkempt ragamuffins and sneer. All bets were off, and it was like Tim and I were sheriffs around these here parts. (Unless Kendall was close by, in which case, I would try to hold very, very still and hope that she had the sensory perception of a T-Rex.)

“Did you really think they would give you superpowers?” I said, trying not to make it obvious that I was checking my phone. Nope, no texts. From anyone.

“It's how Spider-Man got his!” Tim protested.

“No, I believe Spider-Man got his from a
radioactive
spider bite.” Like I
wasn't
the girl who had paid to see Andrew Garfield shirtless three times when that movie came out? “And you were how old then? Seven?”

“No, this was in eighth grade English.” Tim popped his head out from the walls of the womb chair and grinned. Once again I was struck by how much older he looked compared to last spring. No offense to the guy who had spent all of middle school dorkily bent over a sketch pad, drawing Lily and me into his comics, but he'd always given off this baby brother vibe. Now, with his longer hair and striped Uniqlo polo shirt, Tim looked . . . well, I don't know what he looked like. An
older
brother? A cousin? A really, really distant cousin with semi-acceptable taste and surprisingly broad shoulders?

“
Touché
, Harper,
touché
. Okay, so what's the most embarrassing thing
you've
ever done?”

Instead of answering, I stretched out on the cool metal bench that attached to the mod white lounge table, soaking up the last of the day's sun. Tim already knew all the embarrassing things I'd done at this point. In fact, there was an argument to be made that Tim knew me better than anyone else, since Lily still didn't know about my historic Beverly High crash and burn.

“You know, people don't think palm trees have a smell,” I said, changing the subject. “But they really do. You ever notice it? They smell like salad that's been out of the fridge too long. But not like, too-too long. Just a little bit long. Like you'd be on the fence about eating it, but then you'd just say ‘whatever' and eat it anyway.” I was babbling. “The salad, not the palm tree.”

“You're stalling,” Tim said, one of his blindingly white Nikes popping out to nudge me on the leg.

I sat up and took a deep breath. “I don't have any secrets,” I said. “That's my big secret. You know everything about me, which is fine, but just kind of depressing. My secret is that I'm depressed you know all my secrets.” I paused. “Or, no, scratch that. My secret is that my best friend is abandoning me the day of our pre-birthday volunteering ritual.”

“Oh.” I could hear Tim rustling to scoot closer to my prone form on the bench. “I don't want to make you depressed, Harper. And the dog thing—”

“Oh, that's not what I mean, Tim!” I rolled my eyes. Why did he have to take emotional stuff so seriously? “Don't worry about it. We're young, our feelings aren't supposed to last more than fifteen seconds anyway, right? They just die and regenerate, like, really quickly. Like starfish.”

“Sea cucumbers. They do that whole limb regeneration thing, too.” Tim, ever the nerd, had to one-up my WikiFact. I gave a lying-down shrug. “Sponges do, too.”

“Sponge Feelings, now you might be onto something.”

“Anyway . . .” Tim trailed off, thinking about whatever it is he thought about, and I shielded my eyes from the sun with the back of my arm and basked in my lazy lizard feeling. One nice thing about Tim is that, unlike some nerds, he doesn't feel the need to be in front of a screen all the time. He's pretty good at listening, and easy to talk to and, ugh, yeah, a really good friend. I should stop being so mean and selfish and ask him about his problems, I told myself. So . . . what were Tim's problems, again? I realized I had no idea.

“So, young man!” I kicked myself up and swung out my legs. “What were you about to say earlier?”

“About what?”

“I don't know. . . . Lily stuff, maybe? Are you still into her?”

Tim coughed. I wasn't sure if that was one of his tells, or if he legit had something caught in his throat. “No, I like someone new,” he said after a pause.

“Oh!” This I could work with. “Tell me more, tell me more! What's she look like? Show me on Facebook! Can I check her out right now?” I pulled out my phone, barely noticing my lack of texts from Lily.

“No!” Tim shouted, startling me into dropping my iPhone on the ground. I scowled as he picked it up for me, and noticed that his hair was getting a little too long in the back. He needed to have it cut. I resisted the urge to flip over his shirt tag, which was sticking out from the collar, as always.

“You're such a spaz, Tim. What's the issue? OMG, is she too cool for social media?”

Tim scrunched up his nose and didn't even look at me as he handed my phone back. “I don't want to talk about it,” he muttered. It was very unlike him, I thought, to give me such a cold response. Maybe I was getting on everyone's bad side these days. Now, the silence between us didn't feel as comfortable as it did earlier, and I quickly flipped through my mental list of things to talk about.

“So,” he said before I could ask him to explain continuity in the Marvel films, “do you need someone to go with you to do that dog volunteer thing? The . . . PuppyBash?” He sneaked me a look. “That is, if Lily can't go or whatever.”

“It's not like I need someone to go with,” I stressed, even though, emotionally, I really did. “But . . . I guess it would be nice to have company. Why, are you free to spend your Friday night with me and a bunch of mutts?”

Tim grinned, and it was a relief to feel him warm up to me again. God, how desperate was I to be around someone who didn't actively think I was worthless? Who thought I was worth making plans with?

“I can't think of better Friday night company,” he said, and kicked my shoe with his. It connected with a comforting thud.

The day after the photo shoot in the park, I told myself I was going to start a vision board to help me figure out what to do for Harper's birthday party. Inspiration hadn't struck yet, but there was no reason to think it wouldn't. After all, Harper was my best friend in the entire world, and I knew her better than anyone else. So why was I having such a hard time remembering what she
liked
?

My nonproductive reverie was broken when I heard a knock at the front door. Relieved to have an excuse to take a break from brainstorming, I shot up to answer it.

“Lily Farson?” said the large man who definitely looked like he might have a penchant for bear fighting in his spare time. Or
murder
. I started backing away when he brought out a clipboard and requested that I “Sign here, please.”

“Why?” I said. Which was a legitimate question, but then the delivery guy gave me a look that I hadn't seen in a while, that “Are you an alien?” kind of a squinty stare. Then he scribbled something on his sheet.

“Uh, because otherwise I can't give you your package.”

“Oh,” I said. Well, that made sense. “What's in it?”

Another alien stare. It was like we were in an old Western movie and were having a standoff at high noon.

“I don't know what's in the package,” he said slowly. “I'm just here to deliver it.”

“Oh,” I said. “Right. Sure, sure.” After I scrawled my name onto the waiting form, the man handed me a large brown box, complete with one of those bright red
FRAGILE
stickers. It was big enough to hold a large television, or a small person.

I tentatively signed and waited as the man put the package down. “Have a nice day!” I called after him as he trudged back toward his truck. Then, for good measure, I shouted after him, “I hope this isn't a body part because my dad has guns and I know what you look like!”

The bewildered man drove off, leaving me alone with the mystery box. I stared at the package, expecting it to explode at any second, but when it didn't, I started to get excited. I had never had an unexpected delivery before! I almost didn't want to open it, because as soon as I did, this feeling of anticipation would be gone forever. While it was still wrapped, anything could be inside: gold bars, balloons, a musty old manuscript harboring clues that would lead me to unlock the mysteries of the Egyptian tombs, Schrödinger's cat . . . anything! To open it would be a sadness, in a way, removing all the possibilities of what it could be and replacing it with what actually was.

I held out for maybe three minutes, tops, until fantasy gave way to practicality. There was a reason people sent overnight packages, and it wasn't so that the recipients could sit around for days without opening them. I went and got the scissors lying next to the now-forgotten vision board, slit the top open, and peeked down at what was inside.

It was a shopping bag. A glossy, white shopping bag, like the ones Mrs. Carina is always carrying around, or like an oversized version of the kind you get when you buy expensive jewelry wrapped in tissue paper. I pulled the bag out, surprised by its heft. Something inside the bag shifted with a hollow
thwack
. Great, my first surprise gift and I had probably already broken it.

A cream-colored envelope was taped to the top of the bag. Inside was a laminated badge and an invitation printed on thick cardstock. It was hard not to notice the giant fairy wings illustrated on both the badge and the invitation . . . both bore a stunning similarity to my own pair. I read the card.

What in great Zeus was F³? I knew about Art Rebel through my mom. It was an awesome space in Sherman Oaks that hosted things like graffiti parties and supper clubs and theater classes. But what did that have to do with me? I tore through the bag for more clues. Inside I found the following:

1. A gift certificate for a free blowout and makeover at Andy Lecompte's salon.
   
2. A Birch Box filled with a fancy line's entire new fall collection, including bronzer, foundation, concealer, shimmer, lip liner, lipstick, lip shimmer, topcoats, bottom coats, mascara, eyeliner, eye shadow, eyebrow pencils and something called “eyelid base.”
   
3. A gold Uber gift card pre-loaded with $150.
   
4. Two different flavors of coconut water.
   
5. A tub's worth of something called Juice Beauty's Stem Cellular Repair CC Cream.
   
6. An
   iPad mini.
   (Seriously? I couldn't believe it myself.)
   
7. A CABOODLE! (Possibly more exciting than the iPad.)
   
8. A Polaroid Instant camera with the “F³” logo stamped on the side.
   
9. A handbag (well, technically, it was a “Mini Polka Dot Satchel from Z Spoke by Zac Posen” according to the attached tag).
   
10. Cake pops!
    
11. A collection of nail art stickers in leopard print, stripes and French tips.
    

Now that I had reached the bottom of the bag and exhausted its contents, I was still puzzled over my windfall of good fortune. I took out the camera and looked at the logo again . . . F³. . . . Something about that sounded familiar.

A-ha! Of course! F³ was the new name for FancyFashionFeminist, Jane's style blog! I had the vague recollection of her mentioning something at the park about getting some sponsors for the site, but I had assumed that meant she was planning on going door to door to collect signatures, like when you run in a charity marathon. I never would have guessed that she was actually talking about
Apple
. Which I heard doesn't give away free stuff like, ever.

I went through my bounty again and pinched myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming. Was the re-launch really going to feature my fairy wings as part of their rebranding? When Nicole had said she wanted everyone in NAMASTE to get their own pair, I had no idea she meant that everyone who read Jane's blog should get them too! I thought back to Nicole's speech about being “on-message” and my “personal branding” and couldn't help but feel a little overwhelmed by it all. I was a fashion icon! And I was already planning what to wear—something old Lily never would have done, but that I was doing all the time now because not all my clothes went with my fairy wings—and started setting up the iPad when I caught a second glance at the invitation. The party was happening
this Saturday.
Oh, no.

Harper's birthday.

As in, the most important day of the year, which I'd been trying to plan for the entire afternoon, and which I'd resolved to pull off no matter what.

Unless . . . maybe I could come up with a compromise. After all, there I was, unable to come up with any good birthday ideas, and now an invitation to a super exclusive party had just dropped into my lap. Wouldn't that be even better than me scrambling to come up with something last-second? Plus, it would be kind of cool for Harper to see me in an environment where I feel comfortable and accepted. (Well, as long as I had my wings on.) Maybe then she would be able to understand why I'd been so nervous and off around her lately. And then I could stop being so nervous and off around her, because she would finally understand what I was going through. Right?

I didn't know what I could do except call Harper and, in what would go down in history as the giddiest display of excitement in my entire life, tell her that I've been planning the most awesome birthday surprise yet. I would tell her that I pulled some strings to score invites to
the
party of the school year, in honor of my favorite PuppyGirl's very special fourteenth birthday. In other words, I would lie, and pretend that Jane's party, which I was obligated to go to, was Harper's party, and I'd be able to make everyone happy all in one fell swoop!

Either that, or I'd just hit a new level of skeez on the Terrible Friend scale. No, I couldn't think like that: I would lie, but I would be lying for a good cause. The cause being the caretaking of both my social identity and my friendship with Harper. I couldn't risk losing both.

This conundrum would absolutely be hashtagged #freshmanyearproblems. How do adults make such serious decisions all the time? It was so stressful.

I had no idea how Harper would react when she saw that most of Pathways had adopted my signature “look.” I was also pretty sure that Harper didn't even own a pair of wings, and didn't know if she would be able to get some in time for the party. I was totally spiraling.

I had to act fast. I texted Jane to make sure I could bring a plus-one (yes—thank you Jane!). I couldn't believe I was calling Harper my plus-one when I was usually her plus-one. I know people think plus-one is a negative, but I thought it always sounded so sweet and thoughtful since you were basically being called an addition to a party!

I just hoped Harper would see it the same way. I took the deepest breath in the world as I prepared to press the Number One entry in my Favorite Contacts list.

Please go to voicemail, please go to voicemail, please go to—

“Gawkward Fairy!” Harper chirped.

Dang.

“PuppyGirl!” I said, twirling my hair so nervously that my finger got caught in it. “So. Do I have a birthday surprise for you.”