A Tale of Two Besties (9 page)

“Wait, what?” I interrupted Lily's continuous stream of conscious storytelling. “What's
‘shack-tivisim'?
”

“No, it's
Sheganism
,” Lily said, sounding a little irritated. “Like
she
plus
vegan
plus
ism
. It's just a way to open up other people's eyes to the repressive nature of both the patriarchy and the inhumane practices of meat consumption and leather-wearing.”

“Ah, that sounds intense,” I faltered, flailing around for any other material. “Hey, are you going to be wearing your wings again tomorrow? No one gave you a hard time about them today, right?” I must have hit a nerve, because Lily then totally overreacted, turning away from me and mumbling to herself with her shoulders hunched. I could tell she was about to start crying, but before she could say anything the door to my room burst wide open.

“Hello, darlings!” Mom chirped obliviously. She was carrying at least six shopping bags emblazoned with names like Prada, Missoni, and La Brea Bakery. Mom is a shopping fiend and is always splurging on the smallest things that cost the most amount of money. She calls it being “Kiehl's Conscious.” One time, she even suggested that Lily and I go to IV Karats and buy some “cheap” friendship bracelets on her credit card. She almost seemed disappointed when we came back empty-handed and told her we wouldn't know what to do with $250 jewelry.

“How was your first day of school?” Mom asked, breezing over and kissing us on both cheeks, the light and musky scent of her Chanel No. 5 wafting behind her like a persistent, fancy ghost.

“It was ah-mazing!” Lily trilled, jumping up from the bed to show my mom pictures of her new friends on her phone.

“Good to hear, my little fairy princess!” My mom loves Lily because she talks to her like an adult. Lily loves her own mom so much and is super close to her, so she can't understand why I don't run home to tell my parents everything the moment it happens to me. But my relationship with them isn't like that. My mom is great and all, and thank god she's not one of those parents whose entire existence is wrapped up in what her daughters are doing. She's got her own thing going on—between the seminars and classes she teaches, she's always being chartered out on private planes to fancy conferences in Hawaii, or Paris, or Dubai, to stand onstage and dish her secrets on living a “productive yet stress-free lifestyle.”

Sometimes, I make up fake MomTips based on the way my mom acts. Like: “Don't have two teenage daughters. Or, at the very least, act like you don't. It's all about aspirations, ladies!”

“And how about you, my little poodle?” My mom gave my outfit a once-over, her eyebrows knitting together. She wouldn't make that face if she knew that it made her forehead bunch and wrinkle into the exact same frown lines that she declared eradicated after her last session with the dermatologist.

Mom was always telling me I should add more “personal expression” to my outfits. “You're so pretty, Harper. But you could be
extra
pretty if you wore something with some color in it!” she'd admonish me while holding up some pink and blue tropical wrap dress that she got at a boutique in Venice Beach. She freaked out every time I got a package delivered from Nasty Gal, and would try to hide my favorite items—the boxy top with the embellished pearls and crocheted flowers, the oversized flannel shirt that I'd belt and wear as a dress, my Charlotte Olympia Kitty Cat flats—because she thought they didn't “enhance my frame.” Whatever that means. I know I'm supposed to feel lucky that I'm a sample size, but being a human wire hanger is only good if you're a runway model.

“Gosh, to be your kids' age,” my mom sighed, playing with my hair. Then, probably remembering that her website described her as a “
thirtysomething
life coach,” she added, “I mean,
not that it was so long ago!”
She clucked her tongue and made some vague noise about getting up early and laying out some clothes for me to wear tomorrow. Luckily, there was little chance of her actually doing that. Mom claimed to have Circadian Rhythm Disorder, which means she can't fall asleep at night and usually goes to bed at four in the morning, and then doesn't wake up until noon the next day. I don't know how Rachel and I ever taught ourselves to rise and shine at six a.m. when our mom had just gone to bed and my dad might have already left the house for a red-eye to Japan to sign the next One Direction (this month it was a boy band that had been featured on the Japanese version of
America's Got Talent
).

“I know how to dress myself, Mom. And I like what I'm wearing,” I mumbled, looking down at my wedges. They were so cute in the morning, but now they did look just a little . . . bland.

“Well, you've still got to find your own . . . style,” my mom said, for once struggling to find the right words. “I mean, it's not like everyone can have a ‘thing' like Lily does, can they?” I rolled my eyes. My mom had a fundamental misapprehension that Lily wore her wings as a fashion statement, as if they were a clutch or something.

“That's right, Karen,” Lily said. She nodded seriously and then, catching my eye as my mom turned around, stuck her tongue out a little bit and crossed up her eyes. Good to see my best friend was still in there somewhere after her uncharacteristically perfect day at Pathways. I really was happy Lily was excited about her new friends, but I was already ready for her weird obsession with that place to be over.

“So, I see you girls have already had your snacks.” Mom glanced down at our trays. “Lily, your mother texted to say she'll be picking you up at seven.” Lily and I both nodded: We'd done the same drill practically every day after school since fourth grade.

“Bye, Karen—I mean, Mrs. Carina!” Lily said as Mom gathered her shopping bags and turned to go. “I can't believe I accidentally called your mom Karen—twice! At Pathways they make us call our teachers—our
learning doulas
—by their first names. Isn't that crazy? I guess I'm getting used to it quicker than I thought.”

“That is crazy,” I said.

“Hey, can I borrow your laptop?”

I must have gotten some avocado stuck down the wrong windpipe, because I began to choke. Lily had a strict rule for herself about limiting her computer time, and only really liked to use laptops for writing papers and doing research for school. She wasn't a technophobe—she loved her phone and we texted 24/7—but it's not like she has her own Tumblr or has ever subtweeted anything in her life. All in all, Lily lives a pretty vintage lifestyle, and would be happier if all music still came in the form of records or mixtapes, or maybe if it was exclusively performed live, sung aloud by old men in bow ties playing accordions. (Did I just describe Weird Al? Okay, so imagine that, but
not
Weird Al.) It's adorable to watch her try to enter URLs by typing “www” before everything—it's like seeing a monkey dress up and go to the office for a meeting:
Monkey, you do not belong on Wall Street! It's unnatural!

“I know, I know,” said Lily, clearly registering my surprise. “I'm breaking my own rule. It's just that, there's this girl at my school, Jane, and she has a fashion blog with all these photos of kids from Pathways, and she said she'd post some pictures she took of me today. Do you mind?” Lily asked that last part kind of shyly, which made me feel bad. So what if she had a great day at school and some older kids took her under their wing? That's not her fault. Why was I acting like Lily having a better day than me was the worst thing to happen in the history of humanity? Like, “Oh no! My best friend wasn't treated like a total social reject while I had a level one traumatic day! Quick,
burn everything to the ground!”
But she still hadn't asked me about my day, or even how I got detention because of her ex-annoying-human-of-a-boyfriend.

“Sure,” I said after my coughing fit subsided. “I think I left it in the living room. I'll meet you down there in a little bit.”

I halfheartedly went to my closet to hunt for something else to wear that might get my mom off my back, settling on a slouchy home-Harper ensemble of black Brandy Melville shorts paired with the best tee ever, the one with a glittery leopard's head that I got on sale at H&M for five dollars. That took all of five minutes, and then I flung myself back down on my bed to wait for Lily to come back so we could work on our Memory Box (a shoebox filled with all kinds of photos and mementos and notes about our friendship) while vegging out to some TV. In my Memory Box, I currently had:

• Stolen matches from my grandparents' 60th anniversary at Mr. Chow
  
• A stamp card from Yogurt to Be Kidding Me
  
• Stickers from the farmer's market by the Grove that no one knows is there but is sooo there and so good
  
• The soundtrack to
  Hedwig and the Angry Inch
  on Broadway (with Neil Patrick Harris, of course)
  

I had fun riffling through my Memory Box for all of fifteen minutes while waiting for Lily to join me before I finally broke down and decided to go find her. So I went downstairs, only to find my best friend still glued to the Internet. Maybe Lily was right—maybe the Internet did turn people into zombies.

I took a deep breath.
Don't be basic, Harper.

“Find your picture yet?” I asked, plopping down next to the Gawkward Fairy. “I guess pretty soon you're going to have to start worrying about the paparazzi.” I laughed loud enough for the both of us.

Lily was just staring at the computer screen, with an expression on her face that I knew only too well. She was either at the end of, or about to begin, one of her famous crying spells. Lily cried constantly, at the drop of the hat, about anything, which used to freak me out until I realized she didn't just cry when things were sad but also when things were beautiful: an antique butter yellow teacup with blue daisies, or a pretty butterfly, or how weird the word “orange” was when you thought about it. Even when she was sad she could get distracted by something beautiful—a double rainbow! That video of a dog flipping out when his owner returns from Iraq! Penguins dancing!—and be happy again.

“What is it, Lily?” I said, immediately double-regretting all the bad thoughts I'd been having about her awesome day. “What did those artisanal pickling lady-douches do?”

“No . . . nothing,” sniffled Lily. “That's the problem. Jane didn't mention me on her blog
at all
.” Her voice cracked and I had to put my arms around her, tight, while she used up all her Lily-feelings. I swear she experienced more feelings in one day than most people do in a month. Being around her can sometimes be kind of an emotional roller coaster that you ride to the peak of an active emotional volcano.

“Maybe they didn't actually like me at all!” Lily wailed into my shoulder. “I knew everyone was staring at me when I sang ‘Team.' I'm such an idiot . . . they weren't trying to be my friends, were they? They were making fun of me.”

“Wait, you sang ‘Team'? In front of people?” Maybe I was focusing on the wrong thing, but that would be another first: Lily's favorite song wasn't something she just performed impromptu in front of strangers.

“Well, yeah,” she said, pulling away from my damp, bedazzled tee. “Drew brought out his guitar, and he asked me what my favorite song was, so I told him and he just started playing and I guess I started singing and . . .”

“Lily, you didn't tell me this part!” I looked directly into her china blue eyes, but she was busy wiping them with her own sleeve. “This is very important, so please, try to answer the next question as truthfully as you can . . .”

“Oh . . . kay?” Lily hiccupped, still leaking a bit.

“So.” I bit my lip, pretending to weigh my options. “This Drew guy . . . is he cute?”

“Harper!” Lily's hiccups were already turning into little snorts of laughter.

“I'm serious! Is he my type? Does he have a girlfriend? Because if you don't want him, I could totally go for a guy who knows his way around some Lorde.”

“Yeah, he's definitely cute, but I'm pretty sure he's not into girls.”

“Who doesn't like
Girls
?” I asked with shock. “Everyone loves Lena Dunham!”

We might not have been able to stop giggling had my mom not called us down for dinner at that very moment.

“Harper, I don't know what I would do without you,” Lily said when we were both finally able to catch our breath. “You're right. I'm probably just being paranoid.”

Except I wish I could have found a way to tell Lily that I did think she should be careful at school, but not because she joined an impromptu jam session during lunch. I don't think she had any idea that transforming from a Gawkward Fairy into a social butterfly in just one day would a) be possible or b) even be fun. But—and this is going to sound terrible, but it's actually the opposite—the truth was, it probably wouldn't last. Not with how Lily really was. She needed to create and live in her own little world, not follow in some pink-haired girl's footsteps. Especially some pink-haired girl who I could just tell was the type to extend one hand in friendship while holding a butterfly net behind her back with the other. I might not be as intuitive as Lily was about the changing rhythms of the universe or whatever, but I do know how to read people. And I didn't need a Tarot app to tell me that there was bad news traveling at us, fast.