by Sophia Rossi
After my tearful freak-out at Harper’s house regarding Jane’s photos of me (or lack thereof), I decided to “let go and let goddess” (as Nicole says), but I shouldn’t have worried: The next morning, when I woke up and checked the blog, there I was, bewigged and bewildered and smiling for all the Internet to see! There were already a ton of shares and likes and comments, too, and I realized I’d gotten upset over nothing.
The week was speeding by. It was already Tuesday and soon it would be Wednesday, Thursday, and then Friday, and before I knew it high school would be over! Life seemed to be speeding by like a movie montage, where all the boring bits get cut out and all you see is the fun/important stuff. Except the fun/important stuff was happening all the time! There were so many clubs and activities to try at Pathways that I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to fit in all the ones I wanted, but here are the ones I’d signed up for so far:
A. Artisanal Pickling
B. Philoso-Fosse (a modern dance/intellectual enlightenment club)
C. Varsity Quidditch
D. Decoupage Club
E. Ren Faire Fare: Cooking 16th-Century Cuisine
F. NAMASTE!
I admit, I’d been getting kind of anxious about NAMASTE orientation all week, especially after I showed up for classes Tuesday morning without my wings. It was like a catch-22, or maybe a catch–bajillion and one. If I wore them, I’d be breaking Harper’s pact to never change because of someone else. On the other hand, Nicole had expressly said that the wings were part of what made me “me,” and that I was a trendsetter. In the end, I figured Nicole couldn’t have been 100 percent serious about having to don wings every day, so I left them at home and went to school with a plan to pretend everything was chill.
Big mistake. HUGE mistake. (I recently watched Pretty Woman with my older cousin from Dallas and loved that I found myself rooting for the prostitute.)
I spotted Nicole, Jane, and Drew in the Lane, where they were playing a game of hacky-sack, a popular pastime that passes for a sport in our athletics department. I always thought it was kind of a silly waste of time, until I saw the grace and athleticism the nu-hippies brought to it. In the twelve hours since I’d last seen her, Nicole had dyed her hair from pink to grass-green, which looked awesome, and when she spun around to bounce the ball with her head it was like watching Earth rebuff a squishy meteor.
“Hey, guys!” I said, running over. “Can I play?”
Nicole completed a high kick that sent the ball soaring into the stratosphere before it plummeted down toward her palm, where it landed without her even looking at it first. That was good, because she was really busy staring at me like we’d never met before. There was a gawkward silence, and then:
“What. Are. You. Wearing?”
I looked down at my outfit: a yellow sundress and super shiny black Doc Martens, the ones that Harper and I had tagged with our names in Puffy Paint earlier in the summer. They were kind of ridiculous, but I knew Pathways was the kind of place that encouraged us to explore the whole DIY spectrum of self-expression. So what had I done wrong?
I must have contemplated that question for too long, though, because Nicole sighed and then asked really slowly, like you would to a child, “More importantly, what aren’t you wearing?”
I still might not have gotten it had I not looked over at Jane, who had sneakily sidled up behind Nicole and was trying to make eye contact with me while spreading her arms out and flapping them up and down.
“Oh, my wings!” I said, shooting Jane a grateful look. “Yes! The thing is, I thought about it for a while, and they really are more of a ‘special occasions’ kind of thing. Also, if I wear them too often, they get all worn out and broken, and they also always end up getting caught in stuff, like doors, or lockers, or once, in this girl’s hair . . . ?”
Nicole narrowed her eyes and got that weird look again, like the one she had when I mentioned my TV viewing habits. But when she spoke again, her voice was soft.
“Look, Lily, I am not here to tell you what you should and shouldn’t wear,” she said. “But I feel like maybe you aren’t expressing yourself as fully as you possibly can today. I understand that we are all ever-evolving beings, and that no one is the same person they were a day ago. I get it. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you that I think that the wings are more ‘you’ than this . . . ensemble. You’re not really representing your message well.”
“Oh.” I nodded, because I wasn’t really sure what else to do or say. Nicole nodded back sympathetically, the way a frustrated teacher might. “Sure, no problem,” I stuttered. “I totally understand and, um, comprehend where you are coming from? And I will bring the wings in tomorrow?” Suddenly, all my sentences were ending in question marks, but I guess I was saying the right things, because Nicole started smiling. It was as if a dark cloud had passed over the green planet, and now Nicole, the girl who had accepted me for the weirdo I am, was back, like the last five minutes had not been the most tense five minutes ever.
“Fabulous!” she said, swinging her hennaed arm around my shoulder. We began walking toward my first session. “Just think, when I introduce the world of Pathways to wings just like yours, you’re going to be a major style icon! And here you were, about to throw all that away for no reason!”
“That does sound silly,” I agreed. Wait, was I really about to become a style icon? And what did Nicole mean about getting the rest of Pathways to get wings? Would everyone be dressing exactly like me soon? And what was the “message” that I was supposed to be sending with my wings?
“Just remember, Lily. Here at Pathways we are all about individual expression, as long as you are expressing the best individual you can be. You need to think about your personal brand!” Now we were both vigorously shaking our heads up and down like two life-size bobbleheads.
“I totally understand what you mean,” I said, even though I really didn’t. Wouldn’t not wearing my wings be a better expression of my feelings, since I was feeling like not wearing them? What did branding have to do with anything? I thought that was what they did to mark cattle.
“Also, and this is just a small thing,” Nicole said, still smiling. “I would lose those shoes. It’s just that, well . . . and I’m only saying this because you’re my friend . . . but Docs are totally not Shegan. They’re made out of leather, and they go against our core philosophy of ‘Do No Harm’ to animals.”
Oh, no. I made a mental note to never, ever wear those shoes to school again. The last thing I wanted was to end up on the wrong side of Nicole’s philosophical beliefs. With my luck, I’d end up like Leopard Print from the coffee shop, and would be ostracized by the entire school! It was a reminder of how much I missed having Harper by my side. She was always so good at standing up for the both of us.
I took out my phone and texted my best friend.
Lily (8:56 a.m.): PuppyGirl! I love you MOAR than a mouse loves brie.
Harper (8:56 a.m.): I love you MOAR! like the cat loves the mouse that loves the brie!
As soon as I typed “PuppyGirl,” I realized how soon we were going to have to start planning for Harper’s PuppyBash birthday celebration. Harper’s always been weird about her birthdays. Even though I love her mom, she’s not the best at kid-friendly celebrations. Mrs. Carina—Karen—was always planning these elaborate, fancy-schmancy but totally un-fun birthday “events” for Harper and Rachel, and would give them the weirdest gifts—like six-hundred-dollar eyelid cream made out of bee toxin or gift certificates for a Napa Valley Wine tour. So Harper’s idea of a great party was going door-to-door and fundraising for PuppyTales. And while that is completely awesome, I grew up in a house where not buying a thoughtful birthday present for someone was grounds for dismissal from the family.
When we first met in fourth grade, Harper had just had her October birthday—she’s a Libra, which explains SO MUCH abou
t her—and was so excited because she had raised $120 for her favorite shelter. When I asked her what kind of cake she’d gotten at her party and what the decorations had looked like and what music she played, she looked at me like I was crazy.
“I don’t have that kind of stuff at my birthday parties,” she’d said, laughing. “Dogs don’t care about cake!”
That was such a funny idea that it stuck with me until the next year, when Harper and I were in fifth grade. The night before her birthday party, I had come over for a sleepover, and brought a giant sleeping bag with me, even though it must have been ninety degrees. I waited up in her attic room until Harper was asleep, and then I crept downstairs to make a little fairy magic.
The next morning we were woken up by Rachel screaming. “Mom, Dad, quick! Someone’s defiled the house!” Harper ran downstairs and I trailed behind her, pretending to be concerned. When we got to the foot of the stairs, Harper stopped short and I almost knocked into her and sent us both tumbling down, narrowly avoiding a neck-breaking fall.
“Oh my god!” Harper gasped. “Look, Lily!”
I looked, although I already had the whole scene memorized by heart. The entire first floor of the house was covered in a rainbow of colorful doggie milk bones that I had dyed myself using my mom’s Easter egg kit, making sure I left no evidence on my hands. There were also loads of doggie chew toys and little cardboard dog houses with papier-mâché Snoopys and Wishbones and Scooby Doos that my mom had helped me make, like, three months in advance. And in the middle of it all was a giant birthday cake, which Harper’s mom had agreed to hide for me: homemade chocolate ganache in the shape of a dog’s paw, with giant red frosting spelling out “It’s a Pawty!”
“See?” I said innocently. “Seems dogs like cake after all!” Harper turned to look at me with a face of such pure happiness that I knew for sure I’d made the right call.
“Do you like it?” I asked shyly.
“Like it?” Harper was blushing to a bright pink hue, and if I hadn’t known any better, I would have thought those were tears in her eyes. “Lily, I RUFF it!”
Ever since then, the surprise party on the Saturday closest to her birthday was my domain, just like the pre-birthday PuppyBash on Friday was hers. I had made it sort of a personal contest to try to best myself every time. There was the year with the scavenger hunt that took us from the Laurel Canyon dog park to Pink’s Hot Dogs (because hot dogs, get it?) before leading us to The Coop on National, where we had the giant ball pit all to ourselves and all the slides were decked out in a Dalmatian puppy theme. Then there was seventh grade, when I surprised Harper with a personal portrait by my mom’s friend, Valerie Leonard, who paints dogs posed like figures in famous pictures and scenes. Now above her bed Harper has an enormous, photo-realistic painting of that famous bow-of-the-ship scene in Titanic, except instead of Kate Winslet, it’s a thirteen-year-old Harper, and instead of Leonardo DiCaprio, it’s a poofy Pomeranian (Harper’s favorite breed that year). And let’s see, there was also the year of the dog fashion show, arranged by yours truly, which almost turned into a disaster when a neighbor’s cat got out of the house and all the strutting model mutts tried to make kitty-meat on the runway.
Last year I really outdid myself by converting the Carinas’ backyard into a doggie obstacle course that let Harper and I see what life was like from a dog’s perspective. My mom and Harper’s dad made some modifications to their old tree house so it looked like a table with four giant legs, and I hung giant piñatas shaped like burgers and fries from the beams. But, unlike with regular piñata protocol, I wouldn’t let us swing at them with bats—we had to just keep running and jumping and trying to “catch” the fake food with our arms flailing in a chomping motion, like dogs do with scraps. Eventually we just started making leaps for the piñatas, which would then come crashing down with us, spilling candy and beads and plastic jewelry all over the yard. I don’t think Mrs. Carina ever forgave me for ruining her lawn like that.
The problem was, since Harper didn’t like to think about her birthday in the traditional sense, I never had any idea what she might want from year to year. Sure, she would always map out the route for PuppyBash, figuring out which dog parks we’d volunteer and raise awareness at with the PuppyTales owners. But when it came down to the party-party part, she always got super demure, like “Oh, it’s not a big deal. Let’s not even do anything this year.” But I knew she’d be heartbroken if she woke up and, instead of a big surprise party, I had just gotten her a card and a gift or something. Of course I didn’t mind the planning, I actually really liked it, but it did put an awful lot of pressure on me to keep coming up with ways to outdo my ideas from previous years, and now that we weren’t even going to the same school, I wasn’t even sure where the inspiration was supposed to come from.
I stressed so much about the party for the entire morning that I was more starving than usual by the time we were let out for lunch.
I found Nicole, Jane, and Drew sitting by their favorite food truck, which sold vegan Mexican food and pressed juice. Today’s special was seasonal watermelon—delicious. “Hey, Lily-Fairy!” Drew sing-songed when he saw me, waving at me from inside the small cluster of kids who were orbiting around Nicole.
“Hey, guys!” I said. “I’m just going to grab some food and then I’ll join you?”
“Actually, Lily,” Nicole piped up, “Can you just meet us after class right here? We’re kind of backed up right now with people trying to sign up for NAMASTE.”
“Oh,” I said. “No problem.”
I turned around and headed for the food truck, confused and more than a little bit stunned. I heard rapid footsteps come up from behind me, so I moved to get out of the way, but then I turned around to see Jane and Drew jogging to catch up to me.
“Sorry about that!” said Jane. “Nicole’s just busy with club stuff.”
“Oh, I can’t even imagine,” I said, because I really couldn’t.
Jane and Drew stood in line with me and then sat with me while we finished our lunches. Drew was even more loud and flamboyant than he’d been on the first day of school, and at one point he had me and Jane laughing so hard I thought I’d choke on my organic juice. I learned that he’s in all these super advanced dance classes and I made him promise to show me how to do the Time Warp and (if time permitted before the next big Pathways dance) the Tootsie Roll. Drew was really into learning dances that had names that didn’t always translate to what the dance actually was. I also learned that Jane’s not the only fashionista in the group—Drew makes all his own clothes!
“Drew’s aesthetic is clearly ‘hit or missable,’” Jane said, then gestured to Drew’s outfit: a suit made entirely out of sewn-together ties. “As you can see, today’s ensemble is the latter.”
“Pshh, don’t listen to her,” Drew said. “She’s just jealous because I am way more of a fabulous style icon than she’ll ever be.”
I smiled gratefully. Even if I still felt a little bit dejected by my earlier interactions with Nicole, hanging out with Jane and Drew made me realize that everything was still okay. I hadn’t been rejected by NAMASTE yet. It was still only the first week of school, but I cared so much about what my new friends thought of me. Now I just couldn’t wait until the club fair at the end of the day, when I’d be able to see what Nicole’s group was actually about.
When jazz session ended at 2:30, I carefully packed up my piccolo (I also play ukulele, but strings session isn’t until Thursday), and with a faint sense of anxiety, headed back out to the Lane for the club fair. The moment I opened the heavy wooden doors, I was practically blinded by what I at first thought was a mirage: a twinkling, shining metallic “lake” made out of long swaths of tinfoil where the Lane used to be, in the middle of which was a plywood stage and a podium spray-painted bright gold. Though I couldn’t really see anything because of the harsh glare, I could hear the roar of what sounded like about half
of the K-12 student body of Pathways as they pushed and shoved their way into the narrow real estate that separated the two campus buildings.
“Mic check!” yelled a familiar voice, reverberating through my skull as feedback from a powerful sound system keened on behind me. I could feel myself start to sweat. There was a reason I didn’t like live concerts, and it mainly had to do with my fear of things like loud noises and confined spaces packed with a lot of people, both of which I was now experiencing in the extreme. I shut my eyes to try to block everything out.
“Confined, confined, confined,” I could hear someone echo beside me. I pried open my eyes and whipped my head to the left before realizing that I had been talking to myself again.
And then, in a span of mere moments, this metallic version of the Lane had now been transformed into a mosh pit, with Nicole in the center, elevated on the makeshift stage.
“Friends, colleagues, and esteemed Pathway students!” Nicole said, her eyes fervent with passion, obvious even from way back where I stood. “Welcome to . . . NAMASTE!”
A large cheer rose from the crowd, the kind that sounded more like a reaction to a rock solo than the ohms of the peaceful yoga class I’d imagined the NAMASTE meeting would be like. Come to think of it, I really had had no idea what the NAMASTE group actually was, or even what it stood for, but had been under the impression it was something vaguely spiritual in a nonthreatening way. Nicole raised her arms in the universal gesture of Saturday Night Live hosts that need their fans to settle down so they can continue their monologue. She had changed into a piece of gauzy red fabric wrapped around her body as a dress, which amplified her curvaceous figure. It stood in stunning contrast to her bright hair and pale, freckly skin. Her outfit almost looked like a sari, if saris were supposed to be halfway transparent and worn without a bra. I wondered, not for the first time, what Nicole’s natural hair color was.