I’m almost positive it’s not what Sibby would intend to say upon meeting one of the idols of our childhood, but one look at her standing in the doorway tells me that Sibby is probably not in the best space to be intentional. I’ve lived through enough returns-from-the-Hamptons to know Sibby is probably coming off a stressful few days with the Whalens, since Tilda only likes the pool, the kids only like the beach, and Mr. Whalen only likes himself and his laptop. Even in her shock I can see that Sibby’s come home having had it; she’s got at least two stains on her T-shirt, her sunglasses are the only thing keeping her curls in any semblance of order, and that usually sharp black wing on her left eyelid has seen better days.
“Sib,” I say, standing from my spot on the couch. “Hey, welcome back.”
Instead of acknowledging my greeting, Sibby stares at Lark, her mouth ajar. For a second her gaze bounces purposefully around the room, as if maybe she’s wondering if there’s a pop-up tent somewhere in here. It’s awkward, but I sympathize. At least I had advance warning about meeting her.
“This is Lark Tannen-Fisher,” I add, ridiculously. “She’s—”
“Princess Freddie,” Sibby says, which is . . . you know, definitely not whatIwas planning to say.
Lark winces.
“I mean,” Sibby says, “that was our favorite movie.”
I look back at Sibby, surprised. Nothing has been “our” favorite anything in a long time. But I’m pretty sure she’s still in an everything-I-say-is-unintentional space.
“Well,” Lark says, standing and smoothing her (black) shirt. She’s arranged her face in such a way that you’d think someone has pointed a camera at her. “I really appreciate that.”
“Lark, this is Sibby, my—”
“It’s Sibyl,” Sibby corrects me, abandoning her small roller suitcase and stepping forward to reach out a hand. They shake, Sibby smiling broadly, but Lark keeps her camera-face on. She looks as though she’s about to say what designer she’s wearing, or that she’s “just happy to be nominated.”
I’m uncomfortable on Lark’s behalf, but I’m also immediately protective of Sibby, because I know once the surprise wears off she’ll be completely pissed at herself for calling Lark Princess Freddie. She will also probably not be happy once she notices that eyeliner. She definitely will wish she was wearing a clean shirt.
“I’ve been doing some work for Lark,” I say, to fill in what might be a millennium of hand-shaking silence. “She’s new to the area.”
“Oh. Well, that’s wonderful. She’s the best, our Meg.”
Our Meg?That’s two “ours” in probably two minutes, and this one doesn’t even make sense, unless Sibyl is the royal-we queen of a land called Sarcastia, because based on the tone of her voice, she does not seem to have meant the compliment.
“Yes,” Lark says, and I think she also senses the tone, because she slides her eyes my way briefly before looking back to Sibby. “It was nice to meet you.”
“Sure,” Sibby says, having shifted her posture to seem completely unaffected, almost—cool. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
“Thank you,” says Lark, equally cool, before turning to me. “Meg, I’ll call you?”
“Yes!” I say, scrambling forward, ushering her around Sibby’s abandoned luggage to the door, and while we say our goodbyes I can feel Sibby in the room behind me, a living shadow now, and even though this has been Apartment Number Awkward for months, this time, I can tell, I’m not going to turn around to polite, distant, everything-is-fine Sibby.
When I look back at her she’s standing with her arms crossed over her chest, her head cocked to the side. The color is high in her cheeks.
“Princess Freddie, huh?” she says in that same tone.
It’s so irritating that I think of correcting her, of saying,Her name is Lark. Instead I shrug. “Yeah, it’s a job that came up a while back.”
“I kind of can’t believe you wouldn’t say anything to me about it.”
Immediately I open my mouth to apologize, to give her some excuse that puts all the blame on me, or that at least absolves her entirely.I’ve been so busy, I could say.She’s a pretty private person, I could say.
But instead I press my lips back together and remember that this is the opportunity I wanted to have this weekend. Sure, it’s not what I practiced for, but it still has to happen, and maybe especially now. Even in spite of the way she’s acting at the moment, Iknowher. She’s embarrassed and hurt and she’s still my very best friend.
Ihaveto make it better.
“There haven’t been many opportunities to tell you anything lately,” I say.
She stares at me. “You could’ve texted me.”
Sarcastia speech must be catching, because the first thing I think to say is,Texting is your way of doing things, not mine. Instead I take a breath and try to calm the predictable roiling in my stomach.
“Texting isn’t how I want to tell you things,” I say.
