Happily Ever Afters

by Elise Bryant

  “Don’t ever tell him that,” I say with a snort.

  “You’re picking out your outfit now.” A statement, not a question, because even miles apart, we know each other’s actions like our own.

  “Mm-hmm.” I sit down on the floor in my closet, staring up at the options. After wearing uniforms at South High, I’m probably as excited about the possibilities of free dress at Chrysalis as I am about the creative writing classes.

  “Well, you know what you have to wear.”

  And yeah, I know exactly what she’s talking about. The rainbow dress.

  It has a V-neck—not too low, but just enough—and a full skirt and vertical stripes in a pastel rainbow palette. I was on the fence about buying it from the little boutique in the Fountains shopping center, but Caroline convinced me. And it wasn’t too hard—it did fit me perfectly, falling over my hips and highlighting my waist. But there’s no way I’m wearing that dress.

  Because, as I tell her now, “It’s too much!” And she groans in frustration. “It is! You know it is, Caroline!” I say.

  My general aesthetic is this: I don’t want to stand out. Like, if someone does happen to notice me, I want them to nod and think, “That was a very subtle way of mixing patterns,” or “The embroidered details on that Peter Pan collar are understated and cute.” But I don’t want to stand out. And a rainbow dress stands out. I know it’s a lot of thought to put into what is essentially just protecting my skin from the elements and other people’s eyes. I know that! But I think that the right outfit is important. It’s a wish for the day! And my wish is that tomorrow goes EXACTLY. RIGHT.

  All of a sudden, it feels hotter in my closet than it did a second ago. And somehow my fists are clenched? I try to take a deep breath, but there doesn’t seem to be enough air.

  “Uh, Tessa . . . ,” Caroline says. “How are you feeling about tomorrow, buddy?”

  I exhale and shake out my body. Of course it’s not just about the outfit. She knows how my brain works.

  “Okay, I’m nervous.” I sigh, as if that wasn’t blindingly obvious. “Chrysalis is a big deal, you know? And I’m worried about not fitting in. I had a hard enough time at South High, and that was with, like . . . average, regular people. I don’t have a chance with these cool, megatalented, sophisticated artists.” I mean, these adjectives don’t really apply to Hawaiian Shirt Sam, but I’m guessing he’s going to be the outlier.

  “Well, I don’t know if my opinion matters as just a regular, but I think you’ll be okay.” I can hear the smile in her voice, letting me know it’s only mock offense.

  “You are the literal opposite of regular. You’re a glittery, flying unicorn and a gift to this world that I treasure more than anything. But, like . . . you know what I mean.”

  “I do. South High is all shining-white football players and cheerleaders who look twenty-five and act like assholes, so it was easier to write it off when you weren’t Miss Popularity there. Because who wants to hang out with them anyway? But if you’re not accepted by these people, people you actually admire, then you’re really a loser.”

  “Ha! Thanks!”

  “What? I’m saying what you’re thinking.” I sigh. Because she is.

  “But here’s where I’ll add,” she continues, “that you will fit in. You belong there just like they all do, because you were accepted just like they were. Because you can write stories that are charming and heart-wrenching and unlike anyone else’s. Don’t doubt that, Tess.”

  “Thank you.” Her little pep talk builds me up, but I also get another pang in my chest realizing I’ll have to go through a first day of school without her. I remember the first day of fourth grade, when Caroline talked me down from a panic attack after I found out I would be in Mrs. Snyder’s (aka Screaming Snyder’s) class. And also, the first day of seventh grade, when Caroline didn’t do any of the English summer homework because Lola was in and out of the hospital with her heart problem, and I spent all of lunch helping her speed-write an analysis of The Outsiders. We’ve always been each other’s partners, a solid foundation that could weather anything.

  “And maybe once you realize how great you are, you’ll let someone besides me read your stuff.”

  “Yeah . . . sure.” Though we both know I don’t really mean it.

  I did try posting a couple of my stories on WattPad once, at Caroline’s urging, but one got three nasty comments and the other one, even worse, got nothing at all. That little dip of my toe into the pond of vulnerability was enough to turn me off completely. I’m excited about all the time I’ll get to write at Chrysalis. I guess I can even sorta forgive my mom for sending my portfolio in because it got me there, and though I’ll never admit it to her, she’s right that I wouldn’t ever have taken the leap. But I’m definitely not planning on sharing my work with my classmates. Even the thought of it makes me shudder.

  “I mean, you’ll have to show it to some people, won’t you?” Caroline pushes on. “Like, at least your teacher. And probably even the other people in your class. That might be helpful, actually . . . they’ll be able to help you a lot more than I can.”

  That last part stings. “Do you think I need help with my writing?”

  “No, no! Of course not, Tessa! You’re a brilliant, creative goddess, and your words are a gift to my life—”

  “Be serious.”

  “Well, first of all, I am,” she says, her voice full of patience. “And second of all . . . I just mean, you know, feedback is good for everyone. And sharing their work is what writers do, isn’t it? That’s the whole point of writing . . . right?”

  “Right . . . ,” I say, while my mind rushes to catch up.

  Is the whole point of writing having other people read what you write? I’ve never really thought about it like that before, because I mostly write for my own enjoyment, but it makes sense, I guess. Why else would we have books? If that wasn’t the point, writers would just keep their drafts saved on their computers, for their eyes only. And okay, I’ve thought about having a book with my name on it, but I realize, with a pang of embarrassment, that in my fantasies I jumped from sharing my stories with Caroline to being a celebrated, admired novelist totally detached from my readers, which . . . yeah, I guess is sort of stupid.

  I don’t know. Does that mean I’m not a real writer? Maybe I’m just someone who writes silly things for fun. For the first time, I start to think about how my creative writing classes might actually work—because until now I’ve only considered, with excitement, the long, uninterrupted periods of time to write. Will we have to share our work with each other? Will my classmates be excited to do that? My stomach gets tight as the thoughts begin to spiral.

  “Can we . . . can we go back to talking about my outfit?” That felt like too much to handle a moment ago, but it’s definitely better than this.

  “Sure, okay.”

  Caroline and I spend the next hour going over every possible outfit combo in my closet before finally settling on a suitable first-day outfit for me. My mind, thankfully, quiets down in the process. This is familiar. This is easy.

  “Seriously, what would I do without you?”

  “Wear jewel-toned sweater sets? Jeans with butterflies embroidered on the back pockets? Who knows?” She snorts. “I’m really doing a community service. Do you think I can put this on my college applications?”

  “Yes, please do that. And hey, how are you feeling about your first day tomorrow?” I ask, and I feel a little embarrassed that I haven’t done so already, too caught up in my own monumental change and anxiety.

  “I don’t know, fine?” she says. “It’s just another day at South High. I’ll be wearing some boring variation of the uniform and trying to keep my eyes open all day, as usual.”

  “Yeah, but it’s our first first day without each other since, well . . . forever! Who are you going to sit with at lunch?” I know the question has been plaguing me. Just picturing lunchtime tomorrow makes the dull ache of missing Caroline flare up like a
fresh cut.

  She laughs. “I’m sure I’ll find someone.” And that makes me feel a little strange. First, because I wasn’t joking, and second, because I’m definitely not feeling so cavalier. But we’ve always handled things differently. Maybe Caroline doesn’t need me as much as I need her.

  Eventually, after multiple promises to call Caroline as soon as I get home tomorrow (and also to send her the next chapter), I get off the phone, and then I pull my computer up on my lap, diving into Tallulah and Thomas’s world of desire and romance again. Colette will have to wait.

  I try not to think about anyone else’s eyes on this story. These words are just for me.

  Tallulah slipped into the coffee shop’s open mic at exactly seven fifteen, the time Thomas had said he would be going on, not a minute sooner. Ever since their almost kiss was interrupted by the apparently unabandoned cabin’s owner, Tallulah had been afraid to be alone with Thomas again. What if what had happened between them was all in her head? Tallulah didn’t want to give that perfect memory a chance to be tarnished. She wanted to hold on to the delicate what-if forever.

  So she showed up right on time, avoiding any chance of Thomas introducing her to his fellow musicians as a “buddy” or, worse, ordering a mocha from the hot, blond, sophisticated barista who was probably, most likely, in love with him too.

  Tallulah found a place in the back of the shop, just in case she had to rush out in embarrassment, and watched as Thomas took his place at the front of the room. The twinkle lights cast an ethereal glow over his tousled black hair. Tallulah watched as he tuned his guitar, his slim fingers working with intention, and she imagined what it would feel like to have those same fingers on the small of her back or stroking the side of her face. The thought made her cheeks flush and her heart beat faster. Thomas looked ready to begin, but then he stopped and searched around the room, eyes squinted. Tallulah wondered, with anxiety, who he could be looking for—the blond barista? But she didn’t have to wonder for long, because when his eyes fell on her, a wide smile spread across his face. “For you,” he mouthed.

  Thomas’s eyes didn’t leave Tallulah as he played his first song, and then his second and third. Even though the room was full of people, Tallulah felt like it was just the two of them. All of her worries melted away, because it was so clear from his words, his gaze, the music that flowed between them, that the moment in the rain had been real. This beautiful boy saw her—wanted her—like she wanted him.

  After his final song, Thomas ignored the cheers and attempted conversation of everyone else, and strode straight up to Tallulah, enveloping her in a hug. She took his hand and led him outside, the night brightened by a full moon.

  “I didn’t know . . . that you felt that way.” Tallulah sighed. “The other day . . . I thought it might just be me.”

  “Don’t you see?” Thomas said, wrapping his arms around her. “Ever since I moved here . . . it’s always been you. It always will be you, Tallulah.”

  Then he pressed his soft lips against hers.

  Chapter Four

  I wake up at five a.m. On purpose.

  It’s not because I’m a morning person. I’m not. And it’s not the excitement or anxiety I feel about the first day of school.

  It’s because I have to do my hair.

  I’ve spent the past sixteen years figuring out how to do my hair. With a white mom, it didn’t come natural, but she did a better job than most. She never sent me out of the house with frizzy messes that would make old Black ladies at the grocery store purse their lips and shake their heads. No, she studied my aunties and my granny when we would visit them in Georgia, taking notes and asking questions as if she was working on her thesis. And she learned how to sculpt my hair into perfectly conditioned puffballs and braids laid straight and even on my scalp.

  When I started sixth grade, I begged Mom to let me press my hair. She resisted. She never let me relax it growing up, even though all my cousins did and my granny suggested it a few times. The chemicals didn’t feel right to her, and “Your hair is beautiful just the way it is,” she always used to tell me. But I wanted my hair straight. Straight and smooth—like Meghan Markle. Of course, I didn’t know who the heck Meghan Markle was back then, but when I saw all the frenzied royal wedding coverage a couple years later, it was the first thing I thought. That. That is what I was going for.

  I never really got it, though. Mom eventually gave in and took me to the shop every two weeks to get my hair freshly pressed. And she even let me use the relaxers that burned my scalp but made it possible for me to stretch out my appointments even further. But I never quite achieved the Meghan Markle dream. I always had bangs that frizzed every time I sweated and ends that broke off and refused to grow.

  I pull the satin cap off my head and survey what I’m working with this morning. My hair is short now. Just a couple inches. And it’s not straight anymore. It’s curls that are wild and infuriating and exhilarating and magical, all at the same time.

  After studying natural hair accounts on Instagram and watching beautiful curly-haired girls on YouTube for months, I finally did the Big Chop in June—cutting off all my processed hair and leaving an inch of my natural pattern, the promise of something new. I felt less scared knowing that I was going to a new place, that I would be starting over at Chrysalis, where people wouldn’t know the difference and notice or, even worse, comment.

  I thought it would be more convenient. I could jump into the pool when I wanted to and I didn’t have to worry about the rain. But I wasn’t suddenly overwhelmed with pool party invites, and it doesn’t rain much around here anyway.

  And I thought it would be easier. I could just wash it and go. But a wash-and-go, I’ve learned, does not involve simply washing and then going. It’s washing and conditioning (sometimes deep conditioning), detangling and conditioning again, smoothing and rubbing, oiling and gelling. It’s a process. A ritual. It’s the reason why I’m up at five a.m.

  I’ve tried doing my wash-and-go at night, like the natural hair influencers on YouTube suggest, but when I go to bed with my hair wet, I wake up with a troll doll situation going on—hair flat on the sides and exploding on the top. And it never looks right when I dry it with a diffuser . . . it gets all poofy on the back of my head like a poodle. So I planned to wake up early enough to let it air-dry this morning, to ensure I could have the perfect Day One hair on the first day of school. And today is going to go exactly according to plan.

  I wash my hair first and then condition, finger detangling as I go. It’s hard to maneuver around the tiny shower in the bathroom that Miles and I share. Every minute, an elbow or a knee seems to collide into the many bottles lining the edge, knocking them on my toes and making me curse.

  After I’m finally done, I step out of the shower, place a towel over my shoulders, and then divide my hair into four sections so I can start raking in my current rotation of creams and conditioners. I have to handle each section differently, delicately, because while most of my hair is 4A, the very top is more 4C, and the right side is definitely 3B. They each have their own specific hand movements and saturation of products to get the curls all uniform.

  Like I said, it’s a process.

  Someone bangs on the bathroom door, making me jump and drop the tub of cream styler that smells like roses on the orange shag rug. I scoop it up frantically like it’s my child—that stuff is too expensive to waste.

  “Tessie, let me in! I have to goooooo!” Miles’s muffled voice comes through the door, and he bangs on it some more.

  “Not right now. Use Mom and Dad’s!” If I step out now, he’ll be in here for who knows how long, and then I’ll be all off schedule. Usually I would just let him in. But not today.

  “But I really have to go! Please!!!!”

  “No,” I say firmly, and he squeals and screams as he runs off to the other bathroom in the house. I feel guilty because he’s going to wake Mom and Dad up and I may have triggered a tantrum, but I so rarely do what’s be
st for me. I’ll apologize at breakfast, and it’s just today, I tell myself. Because today, like my hair, will be perfect.

  After patting my hair dry, I go back to my room, text Caroline a string of emojis to say good morning, and put on the outfit we finally decided on last night: an off-white lace shift dress with a medallion pattern, tiny gold hoop earrings, and pointy tan mules.

  The dress will contrast with my skin, making it glow when I sit outside for lunch, and the golden highlights in my hair will shine like a halo in the SoCal sunshine. And a boy, maybe one who caught my eye in the hallway earlier, will see me sitting there, sun goddess incarnate, and come over to talk. And on our first date, he’ll bring me roses the same exact shade of cream as my dress, because the image of me from that day is still singing in his brain. And it will until our wedding day, years later, after I’ve published my first book and he’s put out his first solo album (he’s a musician, of course), and yeah . . . that’s good. I’m gonna type that up later.

  I can hear raised voices through the closed door—Miles’s yelps and Dad’s stern directives and Mom’s placating coos—but I don’t go out to see what it is. I plant myself on the bed, letting my hair dry and reviewing my schedule for the millionth time. I don’t want to get sucked into whatever crisis is happening and mess up my chances for a good day.

  My schedule sends a thrill through my chest, just like it did the first time I saw it. I have all the usual classes I would have had at South High: American Lit Honors, Spanish 3, US History, precalc, and physics. But all of the boring academic classes are done before lunch at Chrysalis, leaving the afternoon hours for our conservatory classes. I’m taking four classes in the creative writing conservatory: a genre study of magical realism on Tuesdays, Book Club on Wednesdays, and the school’s literary magazine, Wings, on Thursdays. But what I’m most excited about is the class that will bookend my week, the Art of the Novel, every Monday and Friday.

  They usually don’t let new students into the class, the creative writing director told me when I went to tour the school. But I wrote an email to the instructor—and celebrated fantasy author—Lorelei McKinney, pleading my case by telling her I was working on not one but two novels currently. It was scary, writing a successful author and acting like what I do is even anything comparable to that. But I had to try. When I got my schedule and saw that I’d been admitted, I screamed so loud that Mom came to check on me. I’m still in shock that I’ll get to do something I love so much, something I usually do for fun, as part of school. It almost makes me forgive Mom for invading my privacy and submitting my work.