I roll my eyes. She istotallyplaying this up. I mean, I guess that’s kind of the whole gig here; she has to know that. Still, seeing her sitting there, acting so completely opposite to who I once knew her to be? It’s jarring, to say the least. Molly was unabashedly outspoken, brazen even, but never outright shallow.
An image of sixteen-year-old Molly materializes at the memory of the girl I once knew—brash, cunning, wholly unafraid to speak her mind; Molly was the complete opposite of me in so many ways. In fact, I hated her the first time we met in eleventh-grade Camera Club. It wasn’t exactly nerd-central, like you’d expect it to be—a few of the popular guys had joined so they could take pictures of their buddies at hockey practice, and a cheerleader was there because her father was a famous photographer, and she wanted to follow in his footsteps. I rounded out the group of quiet kids, which was mostly comprised of art students and one stoner. It was a mix of personalities, but somehow the vibe was always neutral. No one thought they were better than anyone else, and there was a peaceful sense of mutual respect and unspoken camaraderie.
What happened in the darkroom stayed in the darkroom.
Then in walked Molly.
Her long, naturally blond hair was dyed a bright purple, and her eyes were lined with smoky black kohl. She was wearing skintight, low-rise, distressed black jeans and a lace-trimmed burgundy camisole, with a messenger bag slung over her shoulder.
I recognized her immediately.
Only a few weeks prior, Molly had gone through a huge public breakup with a guy from the debate team. It was all anyone could talk about for weeks. Not because the students of some suburban high school truly cared about what some guy on the debate team did in his spare time; and definitely not because Molly was especially popular—far from it, actually; emo princess that she was. Rather, the explosive argument they’d had in the main hall was so intense, such a performance, that I swear the admin staff were making bets on whether it was staged or not.
The drama teacher even offered Molly a role in the department’s upcoming production ofA Streetcar Named Desire. She declined, but that’s beside the point.
The point is that Molly always knew just how to make people pay attention when she wanted them to.
It was intimidating, as a sixteen-year-old. She was everything I was too afraid to be, and so my instinct was to just ignore her. When the Camera Club teacher started addressing the eclectic group of students gathered in front of him at our weekly meeting, Molly made a snarky comment under her breath about him. I thought it was rude and disrespectful, so I rolled my eyes and scoffed, angling my body away from her. From then on, I tried to avoid her. If she made a passing comment to me, I kept my reply distant. A few weeks later, though, she stopped me on my way out of Camera Club, pulling me into an alcove.
“What’s your problem?” she sneered, one hip jutted out, arms crossed over her chest. Her hair was pink this week.
“W-what do you mean?”
“You’re such a fucking ice queen every time I even try to talk to you in there,” she snapped, a single blond brow arched higher than I thought possible. “What did I do to deserve it?”
I shrank under her glare. I mean, what was I supposed to say? That she terrified me? That I was in awe of her? That I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hate her, orbeher?
“I…I don’t…know. Nothing, I guess. I…sorry,” I barely managed to mumble. She peered at me, eyes slightly narrowed, as she contemplated my weak answer.
“Well, stop it,” she said, with a shake of her head. Then she held out her hand. “I’m Molly. I want to be your friend, so stop ignoring me.”
I couldn’t help myself—I laughed. “Why?”
“Why?” Somehow, her brow arched even higher as she repeated my question, clearly confused.
“Yeah. I mean, why do you want to be my friend?”
“For the same reason your first instinct was to ask ‘why,’” she replied with a smirk, leaning in to grab my hand where it hung at my side. She shook it firmly. “Don’t question it, weirdo. Just accept it. Also, I’ve heard you blaring The Offspring when you’re on the bus. You have good taste.”
I remember feeling bright, under her gaze. Important.Seen.
And that’s how Molly forced her way into my life.
My heart clenches at the memory, and I blink a few times, refocusing my attention on the conversation in front of me.
Demi is asking Molly a series of questions about what she likes about some of the guys, and Molly is listing several contestants so Demi can bank answers, to have on hand based on what might happen throughout the day. Most of this won’t get used in the episode, but it gives the director enough to work with when they’re piecing episodes together.
Finally, Demi gets back to asking situational questions.
“Today, we’re heading into Athens to check out the Acropolis and the Parthenon. Only half of you will be going, and the other half will be staying on the ship. If Duncan isn’t in the same group as you, who would you most like to hang out with?”
Molly takes a moment to consider her answer, chewing the inside of her cheek and then humming prettily before speaking. I realize that she’s doing it on purpose—pausing before answering, providing facial reactions instead of jumping into her answer right away. Either Demi’s been coaching her, or Molly’s done this before.
“I’d be pretty bummed if Duncan wasn’t in my group, if I’m being honest.”
“Why’s that?” Demi asks, contrived sincerity dripping from her tone.
“I can tell Carly is trying to get her claws in him, and I’m not the type of girl to play nice when I want something.”
