“They should still be in there,” I said. “Same place.”
She searched through the door and grinned when she found them. “Knew it.”
Princess shook her head and slipped her bag off her shoulder. “Junior-year appetite is wild,” she said. “She can eat and still fit into the same jeans.”
“Hey, I earned this,” Yana said defensively.
The rest of the evening was easy. Music played low while Yana talked about school, what colleges she was considering,and how this spring break was the only break she could enjoy without stressing about missing classes.
“Junior year is fake busy. Everything is ‘important’ now. I wonder what senior year will be like.”
“You ready for it? Your last year of high school?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I guess so. I’m excited. Nervous. All that.”
Princess reached over and squeezed her hand. “You’re gonna be great.”
After she ate a large plate of fries, Yana disappeared into her room, her phone glued to her hand. Princess sat on the couch with the lights low. A movie played on the mounted TV on the wall above the fireplace that danced and lit up the room in different hues. I poured some wine for us, walked into the connected space from the kitchen, and handed her a glass.
She was curled up on the couch with her legs tucked under her. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail that fell behind her back. She looked comfortable, like she was safe.
When she looked up and reached for the glass, her eyes caught me staring at her.
“What?” she asked with a smirk.
“Nothing,” I said quickly.
“Mhm.” She took the glass from my hands. “You always say that when it’s something on your mind.”
I sat next to her and took a sip out of my glass. “It’s just funny how you still look . . . the same.”
She tilted her head. “The same as what?”
“The same as you did when we were kids,” I said. “Just grown.”
Her smile softened. “That’s funny. I feel real different.”
“How so?”
“I guess I feel more settled.” She propped herself up, placed both legs under her, and faced me. “I feel more busy, way more tired. But . . . grounded.”
The phone in her lap lit up. With her free hand, she lifted it up and glanced at the screen.
“What you working on these days?” I asked.
“Right now, just emails,” she muttered. “Malcom wants to talk about another adaptation. And my editor keeps asking if I’m thinking about writing a sequel.”
I nodded my head, impressed. “Number one movie in the country, and you still going.”
She smiled. “You never stopped either. Once your album took off, you shot off like a rocket.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” I set my glass on the coffee table in front of us and adjusted my body to face her. “I guess I’m just saying that I remember you sitting on your bed in Detroit, talking about how you just wanted somebody to hear your words. Now, everybody listening.”
She looked up from the screen and locked eyes with me before she responded. “You were the first person who ever made me believe it was possible.”
I swallowed. “You already knew you wasthatgirl, even back then.”
“Still,” she countered, “it mattered . . . It meant more than you understood.”
