“Because Jasmine has been kind of a bitch ever since she got to Stratford.” Somehow, without any drinks in me, the words I’ve been dying to speak come loose. “She’s trying to pretend we were never friends—don’t ask me why.”No, really, don’t ask me.“She’s barely acknowledged we’ve met before this.”
Okay, that might not be the most even-handed presentation, but whatever. My mom, my side of the story.
“Oh, milaya, that doesn’t sound right.” Mama reaches out and strokes my bobbed hair, and suddenly I’m aware of how much shorter it is than the shoulder-blade-sweeping style I used to wear. “You two were so close. She’s probably trying not to be overly dependent on you for a social life. Make her own way and all that.”
“Why? She’d be well within her rights to jump intomy social circle,” I say, even though I’m relieved she hasn’t. “Lord knows that’s exactly what I did with hers.”
“Yeah, but you know Jasmine. She’s very… independent. She wants to do things herself.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “And I’m not independent? Are you saying I’m a leech?”
“Bozhe moi.” She sighs deeply, like she always does when she thinks I’m pushing teenagedom to the max. “Lara, I did not call you a leech. But you do have a tendency to rely on other people rather than forging your own path, and that’s not what Jasmine’s like.”
“You know I’m evenmoreoffended now, right?” I say, pulling away from her hand.
She closes her eyes. “Of course you are. I think that’s my cue to go to bed. Spokoynoy nochi, milaya. We’ll talk tomorrow when it’s not so late.” She kisses the top of my head and pads off to her bedroom.
While my mom is following up her ill-fated motherly talk with a good night’s sleep, I’m wide awake in my room, pacing and looking through all my pictures, old postcards, and other souvenirs. My mom doesn’t know what she’s talking about; my whole world is evidence I’m a freaking social butterfly.
I mean, yes, okay, Shannon is definitely the social director of our group, but who cares? That’s one of the reasons I love Shannon—she’s such a caretaker in her own weird way, and she knows the rest of us can’t plan shit. It doesn’t bother Kiki or Gia how often she takescharge. And yeah, Shan usually chooses where we’re going, but in fairness, she’s always the one driving.
But also, it’s not like they’re my only friends. I’m friends with Jamie, and kind of with Taylor. And with Deanna, who sits next to me in Spanish—we talk during class all the time. And Chase! Chase and I arecertainlyfriendly these days.
So there, Mother.
And it’s not just school. I had a great summer with Keisha, Derek, Owen, Brea, Jack, Carter, and She Who Must Not Be Named. She wasn’t evenpresentwhen I marathoned the Star Wars movies with Keisha, or for either of the two times I joined Brea and Derek at hot yoga.
I’m feeling smug and self-satisfied for all of two seconds when the doubt starts creeping in.
Kiki has a podcast,Kiki on the Case,and has all these internet friends from this online forum dedicated to unsolved mysteries, plus the Asian American Students’ Association, whose meetings she attends whenever she needs a break from what she lovingly (I think) calls our Unbearable Whiteness of Being.
Gia has a boyfriend she’s practically married to and the very same cheerleading squad I quit.
Shannon does random sophisticated shit, like museum outings and French Club, and has a new boy on her arm every five minutes. She’s the kind of person who not only has a five-year plan but will definitely execute every single step perfectly, while still managing to be the absolute most fun person in the world to party withandthe one who’ll have the perfect hangover cure in the morning.
What the hell do I have besides a few secret files on mycomputer all called some variation of TerribleWriting.doc? Would the four of us have stayed friends for as long as we have if Shannon and her plans hadn’t kept us together?
As for my summer friends, I haven’t exactly done a stellar job of keeping in touch: a “like” of Brea’s post about some yoga achievement here, a sad face emoji on a picture depicting Derek and Jack parting for the school year there.… At most there were a few texts between me and Keisha, casual reminders that a show we liked had its season premiere coming up. I’d had a great time with them all, but the closer Jasmine and I got, the further the others had faded into the background. I still scrolled through their pictures to see Keisha with the marching band friends she’d talked about all summer, Owen’s surfing action shots, and Carter’s Outfit of the Day posts, but without Jasmine to share them with, it felt like another life.
Without Jasmine, I don’t have OBX friends.
Without Shannon, would I have Stratford friends?
If I somehow got Jasmine back—if I evenwantedher back—what would it mean losing when everyone else found out the truth?
I press a pillow over my mouth and scream in frustration. Damn my mother for starting me down this train of thought.
When I finally tuck myself into bed, I make myself think happy thoughts of Chase as I fall asleep, but I end up dreaming of an empty beach.
I wake feeling like crap the next morning, but while dear old Dad has agreed to subsidize my college tuitionas long as I go to a state school, I’m on my own for the Larissa Bogdan Automobile Fund, so off to work I go.
The bookstore-slash-café is surprisingly busy on weekend mornings, which I guess is why Beth Rinker, a.k.a. the owner of the Book and Bean, was kind enough to take me in when I came crawling back. It officially opens at 9:00 a.m. on Saturdays, but I get there at 8:00 a.m. to prep the machines and display cases and get brewing behind the café counter.
That hour is unexpectedly pleasant, with no noise but the hum of the coffee makers and the smooth thwack of Beth shifting books. It gets even better when I get to make myself a steaming hazelnut-scented mug of coffee and top it off with a dollop of whipped cream. For Beth, I make it black—“like my soul,” she instructed me when I first started. One of many reasons I love Beth.
There’s a small line of customers by a quarter after nine, most of whom I recognize from the past few weeks: Alice, the mom who brings her twin toddlers, and refers to her regular order of an enormous black coffee with two shots of espresso as her “life essence”; Dave, the guy who buys exactly one small coffee and sits hunched over his laptop nursing it for half my shift, writing what I’m pretty sure (and I hope) is a spy novel, judging by the websites I’ve seen open on his screen for research; a goth girl, who mumbled her name the first time and never bothered repeating it, but always gets something sugary and frothy; and some days (though not often, because my mom rarely spends money on anything frivolous), there’s my mom and her “surprise me” order,though we both know only the most bitter of drinks will do.
The guy at the front of the line now, despite looking familiar, is someone I’m pretty sure I’ve never served coffee to. I’ve got a pretty good memory for regular orders, but I’m drawing a blank on him.
