“Hi, Grace!” she replied, trance broken. “I’ll meet you in the parking lot in five minutes.”
People liked to mistake Isa and me as “those girls.” The ones who travel in a pack at school, who never go to the bathroom alone at restaurants and are always within arm’s reach of each other at parties. That was totally inaccurate. She and I could stand on our own, but we didn’t want to. We’d met in kindergarten, after our first show-and-tell. She’d brought her favorite American Girl doll, and after she told our class that she wanted to “diversify Samantha’s wardrobe,” I offered to help. Because thanks to my newfound love for sewing, Molly—my American Girl doll—hadquitethe eclectic closet. Isa and I clicked after our first playdate, and once our parents became good friends, we wereinseparable.She was my other half.
“Great, so you have time to turn around,” I said, closing my eyes so my voice wouldn’t drip with guilt. I hadn’t been looking forward to this part, the part where I lured Isa into my gingerbread house of horrors. The part where Iliedto her. “I kinda need you to come get me…”
“Come get you?” she said. “G, what are you talking about? What happened to your car?” The panic rose in her voice. “Do you have a flat tire? Are you and James stuck on the side of the road? Call Triple A!”
“No, he left without me!” I committed to my lie, matchingher panic with my frantic energy. “He was complaining about how slow I was moving, and I told him I would only be a few more minutes, but then he just sped off and ditched me! And my parents had to get an early start this morning—”
“Okay, okay,” Isa said. “I just made an illegal U-turn. I’m coming.”
I grinned. “Ah, I love you! Thank you!”
“I love you, too,” she replied, then I swear I heard her gulp. “You don’t think we’ll miss the first bell, right?”
“Oh, no,” I assured her, biting my tongue. “We’ll be fine.”
“Good.” She let out a deep breath. “Meet me out front?”
I did not meet Isa out front. Her cream-colored Mini Cooper whipped into the driveway, but I resisted the urge to grab my backpack and race out to meet her.We need to do this,I reiterated to myself.We deserve this.
Isa wasn’t one for honking the horn, so after two minutes, my phone chimed with a text:I’m here!
Be right out!I responded, knowing that wasn’t specific or immediate enough for Isa. She liked detail, she liked speed. “Give me 5.678seconds” would’ve been more acceptable than “Be right out.”
So naturally, Isa cameright in.I heard thebingfrom the front door, someone stepping into the foyer, and then her voice.“G?”
Asleep in his plaid Orvis bed, Rooney woke up and raised his head in recognition. Our boxer-bloodhound mix loved Isa.
I knew I really had to own what happened next; James would’ve said that confidence was key. I needed to ignore the knot in my stomach and play it cool.
“Back here!” I called from the kitchen, and oh, how I wish someone could’ve snapped a picture when Isa found me at the stove flipping pancakes. Her gorgeous brown eyes nearly bulged from their sockets, and she froze by the kitchen island.
“You’re making pancakes,” she commented.
“Yes, this is the first batch,” I said brightly. “Don’t they smell like sugar, spice, and everything nice?”
Isa didn’t seem to hear me. “And you’re not dressed.”
“Nope.” I watched as she unblinkingly assessed my fluffy turquoise bathrobe, matching slippers, and my hair, which was twisted up in a striped towel. Meanwhile, I chef’s-kissed her outfit of the day: Taylor Swift circa 2014 meets preppy college student perfection. Her long brown hair was tied up in a high ponytail with a deep purple-and-gold silk Hermès scarf (eBay!), and she wore a high-waisted lavender miniskirt with a pastel yellow cropped cardigan. The finishing touch was a pair of metallic gold caged-toe high heels. She wasimmaculate.
But this outfit was another sign of why she needed today so much. Deep down, I knew my best friend had a taste for adventure, but the only way she could show it was through her sense of style. Wearing high heels all day, every day was as daring as it got for her.
Isa, still assessing my Lazy Sunday Morning look, opened her mouth, then closed it. The kitchen was silent except forthe sizzling griddle. She finally blinked but didn’t speak until I offered her a plate of banana-walnut pancakes. “What…,” she said slowly, “is happening here?”
“Oh, I thought it was obvious.” I flashed her a smile. “I’m taking the day off.”
“You’re what?” she sputtered.
“Taking the day off,” I repeated.
“Skipping school?!”
I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess that’s another way of putting it.”
Isa took a step backward and accidentally stumbled into a barstool. Her untouched pancakes fell to the floor; I gasped when the ceramic plate shattered, but also couldn’t help but giggle at Isa’s wide eyes. Just wait until she saw the disaster zone that was my bedroom floor. “Are you kidding, Grace?” Isa righted herself and reached for a roll of paper towels. “You can’t skip school…or take the day off…or whatever you’re calling it.”
“Why not?” I asked. “Why can’t we?”
