by Elise Bryant
When it comes to lunchtime, though, a lot of that “It’s a Small World” kumbaya positivity disappears, and I’m in the bathroom, panicking like usual.
Caroline and I always sat alone. We had our own little corner outside the D building, where the Wi-Fi was strong and we could pass the laptop back and forth in peace. Every once in a while, one of Caroline’s other friends from Yearbook would join us, Glory McCulloch or Brandon Briceño, but I liked it better when it was just us.
Caroline isn’t here to save me today.
I’m looking in the mirror, trying to calm my nerves and will myself to leave (because eating alone in the bathroom is a whole other level of pathetic that I’m not willing to reach yet), when a girl walks in.
I try not to stare, but she looks like a model. With dewy deep bronze skin, high cheekbones, and a perfect little mole under her right eye that looks like it was drawn on just so, this girl must be used to stares. She’s gorgeous. Plus her outfit is aspiration-worthy. She’s wearing high-waisted, wide-legged black-and-white polka-dot pants and a sleeveless chambray button-up tied in a knot at her waist. There are gold bangles up and down her thin arms, and matching gold wire woven through her long locs. A scarf, in bright shades of pink and orange and green, is tied over the top of her head, a complicated bow in the front like a crown. Her outfit makes me want to take a picture and start my own street-style (or bathroom-style) IG account, if that wouldn’t be so creepy. Of course, she catches me looking in the mirror.
“I love your hair,” she says, her bubble-gum-pink painted lips stretching into a wide smile. “Is that a twist-out or a wash-and-go?”
“A wash-and-go,” I say, smiling back.
“Man, I could never get my wash-and-gos to look like that.” She nods approvingly.
I’m about to say thank you, but that may seem snobby, like I know my hair is great and I have a big ego or something. And then I’m about to compliment her hair, but I’m worried it won’t sound genuine, coming right after what she said, and I don’t want her to think I’m a faker. I need to figure out the perfect thing to say to segue this little interaction into a lunch invitation, because this girl is the stylish, sophisticated friend of my dreams. But then her nose wrinkles and her eyebrows press together, and I realize I’ve been smiling for too long and not saying anything. And I can feel how awkward I’m making it, but I just keep smiling, paralyzed.
This is why I only have one friend. I can’t even respond to a routine compliment without spiraling into a panic.
“Well, see you around,” she says finally, giving me a sorta half wave before leaving, and I put my head in my hands and begin obsessing about what a complete social disaster I am.
But her voice interrupts my thoughts. “Uhhh, sis? I don’t mean to, like, offend you if this is some kinda performance art thing, but you don’t seem like the type.”
“What?” I turn around to face her, and see her eyes bugged out as if she’s watching a car wreck.
“It looks like you got a visit from that bitch Auntie Flo,” she says, gesturing toward the mirror, and I follow her eyes to see my worst nightmare: a dark red stain spread on my off-white lace dress, just below my butt.
Those stomachaches I’ve been feeling all morning haven’t been because of anxiety.
“Oh my god. Oh no no no.” My neck gets hot and my chest feels heavy as I wonder how long I’ve been walking around like that, and I start to reexamine every interaction I’ve had today to determine if they were laughing at me without me even realizing. Before I can stop it, my eyes start to burn and then I’m crying. Freaking crying! Having a full-on meltdown in front of this model-looking girl who probably already thinks I’m a nutjob.
“What am I going to do?” I croak, staring at the floor as it starts to spin. I can’t call my mom. She already went in late today for Miles, so it’s not like she can leave early. I don’t have any other clothes. Should I have been carrying extra clothes? Apparently so, if I’m going to have accidents like a freakin’ toddler. I’ll just have to stay in this bathroom forever.
“Uh, you good?” the girl asks, and I look up to see her hand hesitantly reaching in my direction.
“No.” My breaths are coming in short and fast, and now my whole body feels like it’s burning. I want to curl up and be done.
“Okay, it’s okay—just, breathe. Breeeeathe.” She comes up and pulls me into a tight hug, her right hand rubbing my back in wide circles. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
And I don’t know what kind of magic she’s wielding. But one moment I’m teetering on the edge of a full-blown panic attack, and the next I’m believing her words like it’s the gospel. I’ll be okay.
We part, and I gape at her, amazed.
“Now, what are we going to do with you?” she asks, tapping her chin as she considers me. “Oooh! I got this.” She quickly unties the scarf on her head and whips it off, revealing a halo of frizz at the top of her locs.
“I couldn’t get in for a retwist this weekend, so I was tryin’ to hide this mess.” She scratches her scalp. “But desperate times and all.”
A look of concentration on her face, she shakes the scarf out wide and then pulls it around the back of my hips, tying it in the front just under my belly button. She adjusts it a couple of times, making the bow look like a little flower, and then spins me around toward the mirror.
She presses her lips together, satisfied, and snaps a finger. “There you go, girl. Work!”
With the exception of my tearstained face, I look pretty okay. The bright colors of the scarf contrast well with my lace dress, and my outfit looks put together, intentional.
“Thank you,” I say, quiet and unsure.
“No thanks needed.” She shakes her head. “You would have done the same for me.”
I wouldn’t. I know that. The conversation would have been too awkward. “Yeah . . .”
She digs in her purse and pulls out a tampon. “Now go take care of business, and then we can go get some food.”
“Oh, you don’t have to sit with me . . . ,” I start. My computer is fully charged. I can probably just eat in the bathroom after all, and get some more words in for Caroline’s Colette story.
“Girl, after all we been through? You trying to ditch me already?” She laughs. “Plus, you got my favorite scarf. I gotta make sure you don’t try and jack it.”
Chapter Seven
It turns out my own personal supermodel stylist savior is named Lenore Bennett.
“It’s kinda an old-lady name. I was named after my grandma, so yeah—but I guess even she was a little baby Lenore at one point. All little ol’ ladies gotta start somewhere. And eventually all these Novas and Khaleesis are gonna be grandmas too . . . whoa.”
I quickly pick up on her habit of talking fast, jumping from one topic to the next like her brain is playing hopscotch. And it’s about as hard to keep up with her conversation-wise as it is to keep up with her physically. I trail after her fast pace as she leads me outside and across the lawn, weaving around groups of other students as we go. Eventually we reach the porch of the old brown house, where she stops in front of a lanky guy sitting in a rocking chair, his black leather bag sitting in an identical one next to him.
I recognize him from Mr. Gaines’s history class earlier today. His outfit caught my eye right away: a white and baby-blue seersucker suit, bright against his tan skin, with a buttoned blazer and shorts that hit midway on his thighs. His shiny black hair is tucked under a straw boater hat. On anyone else, it would look silly, but confidence wafts off him, heavy and thick, his own personal fog machine. Of course Lenore is friends with this guy.
He must notice our arrival, because he pulls his bag off the other chair, but his eyes don’t move off the sketch pad in front of him, where he’s drawing an angular figure in a dress made of flowers.
“This is Theo,” Lenore says.
“My name is not Theo,” he says, his voice stern. “That is just a nickname that Lenore has been unsuccessfu
lly attempting to make happen for the past two years. But it has never happened. My name is Theodore Lim.”
“And like I’ve told you many times,” she says, rolling her eyes, “you don’t get to decide what I, your best friend, call you. Theo, this is our new friend, Tessa.”
I reach out to shake his hand, but he doesn’t see it because he’s still concentrated on his sketch.
“Only friend.”
“Excuse me?” I don’t understand how he’s trying to make fun of me, but my defenses immediately go up.
“Lenore is my only friend. I just want you to get an accurate picture of our relationship. This is a by-default type situation.” His right hand, holding the pencil, continues to move vigorously across the paper, but he gives a slight wave with his left hand. “Hello, Tessa.”
I’m about to just walk away because I don’t need to be where I’m not wanted, and this snarky little artist obviously doesn’t want me here.
But then Lenore laughs and leans in close to his face, snapping her fingers. “Earth to Theo! There are some humans here attempting to interact with you. She’s gonna think you a douchebag!” He brushes her away like a fly, adding some detail to the bottom of the skirt.
“He always gets like this when he’s in the zone. Like, testy is the nice way to put it, but asshole-y is probably a little more accurate,” she says to me, a hand cupped over her mouth as if he can’t hear her. “It’s my job to pull him out of it, or his goddamn hand will fall off before graduation.”
She reaches over and snatches the boater hat off his head, placing it on her own.
“Hey!” he yells, finally putting his pencil down and looking up at us. His eyes are dark and shiny, like polished obsidian, and he has the kind of perfect eyebrows that make me immediately self-conscious of my own.
“It looks better with my outfit,” Lenore says, posing.
Theodore looks her over appraisingly before finally nodding his head in agreement, “Yes, I suppose it does.”
“No offense, but you low-key had some Christopher Robin vibes going on there. Or like one of those old-timey, creepy ghost boys in movies about haunted houses? They look all sweet and normal until, like, their faces rip apart and maggots come out or something. . . . I’m really doing you a favor.”
“I was worried it was too much.” His voice is softer now, and he glances down at his outfit. It makes me like him more. “Is it too much?”
“You look great,” I say, and he gives me a slow smile.
“Thank you, Tessa. You can have Lenore’s rocking chair.”
I hesitate, but Lenore does a dramatic bow thing as she gestures to the chair, before leaning against the railing surrounding the porch. “It’s all yours.”
“So what conservatory are you both in?” I feel a little silly after the question comes out, because it’s not like Theodore is sitting here sketching but is also a prodigy violin player.
“Visual arts,” Theodore says, his hand moving quickly again, adding a crown of leaves to the beautiful girl on his page. “I dabble in painting when I’m feeling a little masochistic, but my focus is primarily illustration.”
“On paper, I’m in the visual arts conservatory too. Drawing, photography, watercolor, printmaking—I do it all,” Lenore says. “But I’ve taken classes in the film department before, and also digital media. This year I’m invading the production and design department too, because my pockets are getting real empty from too many trips to Jo-Ann’s this summer, and those guys get as much fabric as they want.”
“You make clothes?” I ask, amazed again at how cool this girl is.
“Yep! Made these pants from a tablecloth Grandma Lenore was gonna throw out.” She laughs and poses with her hands on her hips and her shoulders rolled forward, like she’s modeling for an invisible camera. “Aren’t they perfect?” she says, and I nod in agreement.
“I didn’t know you could take classes in multiple conservatories.”
“You can when you’re as talented as me!” she calls, snapping her fingers above her head.
“Oh yeah, of course. I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean to, uh, question whether or not you were talented enough or anything.”
I can feel my neck burning red. But she laughs again, and nudges my toes with one of her perfect lemon-yellow slides.
“Girl, chill. Do you want to try other conservatories too? They usually let anyone try it if you can state your case. What conservatory are you in, anyway?”
“Oh . . . I just write.” I look down at my hands, so I won’t see the look of boredom, or worse, fake interest on her face.
“Nah, don’t say you just write,” she says, imitating my mumbly tone. “You won’t ever catch Theo here saying he just draws.” He wags a finger with his left hand while his right hand continues to work. “You write. Period. And you must be pretty fucking good at it to get in here, especially as a transfer. So own it, sis!”
I shrug and let myself smile a little bit. She’s being nice, and I appreciate it. But she might say different if she knew I wrote romances.
Lenore, luckily, picks up on my vibe and switches gears. “Okay, so the writers usually sit over there,” she says, pointing to a spot on the other side of the porch, covered by a large tree. I see some of the hard-core Harry Potter fans from earlier, but there’s also a cluster of girls in novelty prints and Peter Pan collars, lots of people wearing various shades of faded black, and at least two fedoras that I can count. “Shady, less glare on their laptops. And I think they like sitting there because it has the best view of the place. Lots of material for their next novels.”
“Is there, like, assigned seating or something?”
“No, of course not. But people like to be with their people, you feel me? And most of all, people like to feel like their people are better than all the other people. It’s, like, the human condition or whatever.” Lenore speaks with her hands, like she’s giving a TED talk. “We don’t have cheerleaders or football players here, yeah, but there’s a hierarchy like anywhere else.”
“Yeah, the dancers? Totally cheerleaders,” Theodore cuts in. His pencil is down now. This topic interests him.
“Mmm-hmm, the way they prance around in their spandex and leotards—they don’t need to be wearing that shit all day! They just want to show off their nonexistent booties and, like, ribs or whatever.” Lenore points to a crowd of girls and a few guys sitting on the steps of the bank building. “That’s them over there.”
“And the jocks here? The musical theater kids,” Theodore continues. “Everything always has to revolve around them, and they expect us to care about their next big show like little towns in Texas care about football. I don’t even need to show you where they are.”
He doesn’t. There’s a huge group singing “Seasons of Love” a cappella on the far side of the lawn.
Theodore continues to give me the lay of the land with Lenore’s quick commentary, pointing to each group as he goes along. The production and design kids mostly hang out inside. (“They can’t be exposed to sunlight, or they will, like, burst into flames.”) The new culinary arts students are wild cards. (“But I wouldn’t mind me a hot chef boyfriend.”) The visual arts kids flock wherever light is good and the inspiration takes them, and they’re the cool, artsy ones. (“Of course.”) And the instrumental music and creative writing kids are the nerds, apparently. (“No offense, but, like, the writers all started bringing typewriters last year. Like, it was a trend. You can’t tell me there’s a reason to lug around that obsolete technology! With that and the tubas, they probably all got scoliosis.”)
I follow Theodore’s finger around the campus, fighting the urge to take notes, but I miss what he’s saying about the film department because I’m distracted by another group that he hasn’t labeled yet. The musical theater kids may be acting all extra to get everyone’s attention, but this group does it effortlessly. There are four of them sitting in the very middle of the lawn, center stage. One guy is impossibly tall an
d freckled, with flaming red hair. His whole body shakes with laughter, and even though I’m too far to hear it, it’s contagious. I want to be right there, laughing along. Lounging next to him on a spread-out flannel shirt is another white guy with a backward snapback covering shaggy golden hair, and there’s a girl with them too. She has dyed gray hair, milky skin, and dark lipstick. She’s wearing an oversized denim jacket over a black dress so short I can almost see the curve of her butt cheeks.
They look perfect. They look like the cast of a CW show posing on the cover of Entertainment Weekly.
And the centerpiece of it all is the gorgeous specimen standing in the middle of them, talking and gesturing animatedly, like he’s delivering one of Shakespeare’s sonnets or Ali Wong’s comedy sets. His friends orbit around him, marveling at him just like I find myself doing now.
The boy has dark eyes that I can see sparkle even from here, olive skin, and tousled chocolate hair, short on the sides and long, loose curls on the top. As he speaks, it falls in his face, and he brushes it back in a way that makes my stomach do backflips. He has broad shoulders that hold his crisp white T-shirt with a round, stretched-out neck like a hanger over his skinny frame. His legs are long and lean—like, remarkably so—and this is only highlighted by his tight, faded black jeans and brown leather shoes with no socks.
He’s straight out of the story I’m currently working on, the Tallulah one. Thomas, the unbelievably cool singer-songwriter, come to life—walking out of my words and into my life, ready to make me his muse. It takes all of my strength not to run over there and profess my love right now. I want to whip out my laptop and record every detail.
“Who are they?” I ask, subtly gesturing toward the group with my chin. I hope I sound casual even as my heart rate speeds up in anticipation.