“Your dad is great,” Quinn says.
“He is,” I agree.
“Duh. I’m just saying. His grasp on my schedule and life is, like, tenuous at best. And now he’s all extra distracted with Diane, so. It’s all fine.”
“Everything’s OK there?” I ask because I’m pretty sure that the last time Kat brought up Diane, tears were involved.
“Of course, why wouldn’t it be? No, don’t go to this Starbucks, the one on Alameda is way better, and then we’re right by the 5.”
“They’re all the same,” Quinn tells her.
“They aren’t! This one doesn’t have friendly baristas.”
I sigh but head toward one of the other billion Starbucks locations in Burbank, as Kat and Quinn debate the merits of barista friendliness. We somehow miraculously manage not to hit much rush hour traffic, and we’re parking at Disneyland while there’s still coffee left in our cups.
“We should make a plan of what rides we have to go on, and anything extra we’d like to work in.” I get out my phone and tap to my notes app. “I can make a list.”
“Churros first,” Kat says, dragging Quinn along behind her. I’m grateful—I guess—that I walk quickly enough to catch up. Kat and Quinn split a churro while I’m left ordering one on my own. This too-big churro feels like the dumbest metaphor for my life.
We start making a list, but Quinn and Kat keep agreeing with each other, so I finally just tell them to point me wherever they want to go. I’m going to get outvoted no matter what; at least this will ultimately save time. Also, to be fair, I like nearly every ride at Disneyland.
“Where are you going?” Kat asks me as we walk up to the Indiana Jones ride.
“Single rider line,” I say while pointing. “We’ll get through faster.” The annoying thing about Disneyland is that even when you pick a random Friday morning in February, the park can still be packed.
“Aw, but I have to ride with Quinn,” she says. “I’ll get scared of the boulder alone!”
“How can you get scared of it when you already know of its existence?” Quinn asks, but she’s smiling, and they drift together into the regular line.
“You can get into the other line if you want,” Kat tells me in the voice I know she thinks is extra sweet.
“It’s fine.”
Kat gets out her phone and starts to take a selfie of all of us.
“Don’t post this,” Quinn says quickly. “Not today at least.”
“Your parents aren’t going to look at my Instagram,” she says.
“You don’t know that,” Quinn says.
“Fine, fine, fine. Can’t I just save pics for myself? Yes, I can. Take off your hat, there’s a weird shadow on your face.”
Quinn sighs but does so. I lean in, but I can see from the camera’s screen how fake my smile looks. Was it that much to hope this would just be the parts of last year that still exist? Kat and me, me and Kat.
Kat swaps Quinn’s hat for her ears. “Look, you’re cute with ears!”
“I have ears already,” she says, as she and Kat collapse into giggles.
“Not mouse ears. James! You aren’t being festive at all!” She hops up to try to place the hat on my head, but there are benefits to being nearly six feet tall.
“I’m festive without headgear,” I say.
“I disagree, but I know you’re stubborn as heck.”
Kat gets out her phone to take more selfies of her and Quinn in their switched hats, which at least means that I’m off the hook for a while.
The three of us end up in one row in the fake Jeep, with Kat in the middle. She clings to Quinn the entire time, and screams just in anticipation of the boulder. I try to remember if she was quite this annoying last year, but all I remember about this ride then is Logan sitting behind me (we were both big believers in the single rider line) and trying to tap me at the scariest points. It never worked because Logan would scream even louder than Kat is now. He was such a baby.
I guess that he still is. Or maybe college has changed him. It shouldn’t be my concern anymore.
“Haunted Mansion next,” Kat says as we exit the ride. “Right?”
“Sure,” Quinn and I say together. Of course, when we get there I remember that the little buggies only seat two, and so I’m left alone in one. I can hear Kat and Quinn giggling behind me in that very specific way I know is associated with making out. It’s not as if I’ve never made out in the Haunted Mansion, but I’m almost startled at how lonely I suddenly feel.
It goes like this for the rest of the morning and early afternoon. I’m either next to a giggly couple on the verge of PDA or immediately in front of or behind them—including now, in line to get Dole Whip floats.
“We could just get ice cream on the way home,” Quinn says as the line in front of the Tiki Room for pineapple soft serve slowly inches forward. “Isn’t there a place at the Glendale Galleria that has these?”
“Quinn, you of all people who cares about real food and the honor of a recipe should know that place, like, completely pales in comparison to the real deal.”
“The true glory of the Dole Whip?” Quinn asks with a grin.
“Exactly.”
I can tell from how they’re angling the conversation toward me that I’m supposed to feel included, but people need more than angles. I get out my phone and hope that they can see they’re off the hook. Kat and Quinn keep debating the merits of nonregulation Dole Whip, so I check my messages and then scroll down through Instagram. Kat must be pretty confident about skipping school today, because she’s posted several times already. (She was at least thoughtful enough to leave Quinn and me out of it.) I keep scrolling, but something lodges there in my brain, so I scroll up a little and see it, on a selfie of Kat and her mouse ears. You look great as a rodent, Rydell.
I click on Kat’s profile and then tap through her photos. logan_af didn’t only comment on this selfie. Somehow I haven’t noticed that logan_af comments all the time, or, at least—weirdly—has been commenting plenty since last month.
“Are you and Logan friends?” I ask.
Kat looks to me with what I can clearly see is a start. “Friends, like, how?”
“He commented on your photo,” I say. “He’s commented on lots of your photos.”
“We don’t, like, hang out,” she says. “We were friends—are friends, though, I guess.”
“I’m really surprised you’d”—I cut myself off to find the word. “After—” What after what? I hate that I can’t end the sentence. I can’t even middle the sentence.
“I totally know it’s, like, a best friend violation,” she says, and then we’re at the front of the line. Quinn steps up to the register and orders for everyone, as Kat and I continue to watch each other.
“So if you knew that—”
“We were friends, too,” Kat says. “I missed him. Also sometimes I need . . .” She nods to Quinn and drops her voice. “Girl advice.”
“You’re friends with literally everyone at school,” I say. “There’s no one else?”