Am I a bad person,she asked me one night,because I’d rather be here, staying up too late and wasting time with you, than saving money and living at home?
I think you’re the least bad person I know,I told her.And also, what you want makes you exactly the same as every other freshman.
Another night, when we were practicing our speeches for Public Speaking 101, Cami asked me why I didn’t have social media.
I had an unhealthy relationship with it,I said. Completely honestly.
In what way?she asked.
I shrugged, marking a note in the margin of my printed speech, and mumbled out a response without looking her in the eye.Like, I was obsessed with posting pictures of my outfits. And I was obsessed with following fashion bloggers, but I couldn’t separate what was real from what was staged. It messed with my head. To be honest, I would have gone on letting it, but in April, pretty much my entire grade unfollowed me and some people were even trolling me a little bit and it hurt my feelings and I just decided a clean break from the whole thing was what I needed not to hate myself every morning when I woke up.
When I finally glanced up, Cami was watching me with a confused look, and I knew exactly what she saw.
A healthy, able-bodied, tall, blond-haired, hazel-eyed girl with smooth skin and just enough freckles to look airbrushed, and, of course,money.I knew when Cami looked at me, she saw money. Money in the handbags I had lined up on the top shelf of my closet, money in my skin care, money in the fabric, money in the sewing machine, money in the full cost of out-of-state tuition, because lord knows I didn’t study enough in high school to manage a scholarship.
What on earth,Cami asked me, her voice deadening,were you trolled for in high school that prompted you to delete all of your social media?
And I just—told her:I had a public make-out with my best friend’s twin brother in front of, like, fifty of our classmates, on a beach during senior spring break. People sort of slut-shamed me after that. Plus, it also hurt my best friend’s feelings because she thought I had been using her just to get close to her hot brother.
Cami considered my admission.Well, did youlikehim?
No?I said.Yes?
You aren’t sure?she asked.
I shook my head.We were warming up to each other. But still, it was a stupid, impulsive mistake, and it hurt Zoe’s feelings.
Chalk it up to a learning experience,Cami said.Nobody’s perfect. I’m not. Carry the lesson forward and move on.
You don’t think I’m a bad person?I asked.
If you were a bad person,Cami said, throwing me a look,you wouldn’t be feeling any remorse. But I can tell you’re swallowed by it, Josie, even though I’m not sure you should be. I get that Zoe was hurt, but you didn’t make out with herboyfriend.You kissed her brother. Do you think he feels as guilty as you do?
I have no idea,I admitted.
Cami crossed her arms over her chest, peering at me through her bangs.If you ever hurt my feelings, I’ll tell you, and we’ll have a conversation about it. Same goes for you if I hurt yours. And we do our best not to hurt each other in the first place. Deal?
She was so pragmatic. I’ve always loved that about Camila. Where I’m highly emotional, she’s logic and reason. Where I’m overly dramatic, she pulls me back to earth.
Deal,I said, and over the course of nine years, we always,alwaysabided by it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Cami doesn’t remember a thing.
Or at least, she’s acting like she doesn’t, and Camila Sanchez has never been one to play coy. She calls it like it is, doesn’t beat around the bush.
Which means she doesn’t remember a thing.
This morning I found her with her head bent over the toilet, a Liquid I.V. packet clutched in one palm. After I got her a glass of water and asked if she was okay, Cami hushed me aggressively (she was not) and mumbled in Spanish for half an hour.
Luckily her sister Jane had some weed, which Cami smoked after swallowing one of Mariana’s anti-nausea pills. After that, it was a hot shower and a rallying pep talk from David (I got him to record it, then I played it on the Airbnb’s sound system for the whole house to hear; it started with “Pick yourself up by your bootstraps” and finished with “If you’re not ruining a local’s day in three hours you’re failing”).
One shot of tequila for the bride, and now we’re here.
Herebeing a swanky restaurant in the 12 South neighborhood at a long wooden table laden with white and pink flowers—and airplane bottles of Tito’s vodka spread out between the bouquets like confetti. Nobody’s touched them; we’re all still nursing espresso martinis, our first sips of alcohol of the day.
At the opposite end of the table, Cami peruses her menu. Her sisters are lined up on either side of her, bickering over what to order.
