“I am not missing out on anything. I spent my time in high school working my ass off to get into the school of my dreams instead of trolling parties, looking for boys to sometimes make out with at parties and stuff,” I huff.
“Okay, first don’t shoot the mirror.” She tosses a few more things into the cart. “And second, what school?”
“The Art Institute of Chicago.”
She whistles. “Badass. Okay, so point proven. You’re about to go to a big fancy art school in the city.” She pokes a thumb in her chest. “I’m heading down state to Jameson, and yes, college isn’t technically the real world, but we’ll be old enough to be tried as adults and that’s a lot of pressure.”
“That’s a little dramatic,” I murmur.
“Is it though? I mean you did it, you got into the school, all your hard work paid off. You deserve to relax a bit. Enjoy the summer. Live. Laugh. Find a stupid boy to make out with, get charged with a misdemeanor—It’s our last summer of freedom before real life bitch slaps what little optimism we have left.”
I arch a brow at her. “Are you planning a crime spree?”
“Maybe.” She winks. “But what I do know is this: the world, or rather Newton is my oyster and for this one summer, I’m free.” She lifts her arms out at her sides and spins around the grocery aisle like she’s a Disney princess.
Despite the dramatics, she’s right, and I know it. More importantly, I’m suspecting my lack of focus when it comes to art is because my biggest driving factor was getting into The Art Institute. It pushed me, challenged me, forced me to become a better artist, but maybe all that drive and determination broke my brain.
Sighing, I say, “I’ve never seen the ocean, or just hung out with someone my age and talked about nothing.”
She grins. “Well, we can check that last one off your list.” She stops again, and turns to me, bouncing on her toes. “We should go to Tybee Island.”
I drop my hands on her shoulders. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
“No.” She drops hers on mine and we are standing in the middle of the grocery store like a pair of idiots. “We are going to kick your artist block’s ass, even if it kills you.”
“You driving me to Tybee Island will definitely kill me.”
“Maybe we can convince the boys to go.” She looks to the ceiling as if she’s planning it all out in her mind. “Anyway, it’s happening. All of it. We are going to have a hot girl summer, complete with parties and boys and a trip to the beach.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll find out soon enough.”
I drop my head on her shoulder. “It’s gonna hurt, isn’t it?”
Her lips tip up and she looks slightly maniacal. "Maybe a little at first, then it will feel good, really good.”
4
Chapter 4
Roni, age 18
Dinner was less awkward than I’d been expecting, mostly due to Chloe’s superhuman ability to keep a conversation going.
I had been worried about how I would feel seeing Dad with Ms. Chen, but in a weird way, they fit so much better than my parents ever did. She’s laid back, kind, and nurturing. While Momma grew into motherhood eventually, it’s hard to tell if she ever really loved my dad or if she just felt stuck with him because of me.
It took little convincing to get Dad to agree to the party. Mostly because he likes the idea of me putting roots down in Newton—making friends, having a social life, the whole nine—and a little, I suspect, is because he’s looking forward to spending some alone time with Ms. Chen.
Chloe is sitting on the steps, staring at her phone when I come down. She’d commandeered the upstairs bathroom to get ready, and I spent the majority of the time glaring at a blank canvas before throwing my hair up in a high ponytail and changing from paint-stained overalls to a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. I did put my contacts in, which is more effort than I’ve put into my physical appearance since Momma forced me into a dress at graduation.
“Have fun girls,” Dad says, briefly glancing in our direction before returning his attention to Alex Trebek.
“Not too late,” Angela adds, then we’re out the door.
Once we’re outside, Chloe narrows her eyes at me. “That’s what you’re wearing?”
I glance down at my Art Hoe t-shirt, then back to Chloe, confusion arching my brow. “You said we’re going to the park?” It’s a hot and sticky Georgia night, so I thought I was being practical with my outfit choice, but apparently not.
“Yes, to go to a party, not to play on the merry-go-round.”
“Ha. Ha.” It isn’t until then that I actually get a look at what she’s wearing—a skirt that I’m certain will expose her cervix if she bends over and a black crop top. Her lips are bright pink and glossy, and her long dark hair hangs down her back. In short, she looks like sex. In comparison, I look like her annoying little brother that she was forced to babysit.
“I don’t have clothes like that,” I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest. I thought the Art Hoe thing was edgy. Now, I’m realizing I wouldn’t know edgy if it pricked me in the finger.
“Don’t worry.” She waves it off and locks her arm with mine. “It will give us an excuse to go shopping tomorrow. Actually!” Her eyes go comically round and I can practically see the light bulb glowing over her head. “There’s a new secondhand store downtown that I’ve been meaning to checkout and after we can get lunch. We can make a whole day of it—a hot girl day.”
“Is this hot girl summer thing really necessary? I think I’m more of a room temperature girl, tepid at best,” I quip.
She snorts. “That kind of thinking is what blocked your art hoe muse in the first place.”
I really want to give her a snarky rebuttal, but I can’t because she’s right. The metaphorical bitch up and left no sooner than I got my college acceptance letter. So, instead of arguing, I let her drag me in the direction of the park.
The Grove is about a ten-minute walk from my house, so we make the journey on foot. The night air clings to my damp skin, and we settle into a comfortable pace.
Chloe babbles on about the party and about her friends. I only half listen, unable to keep up with the twenty or so names and physical descriptions she’s spitting out in rapid fire. Even though I have no clue what any of it means, I nod and gasp at what I think are the appropriate times.
Somewhere along the way—maybe during my second helping of Ms. Chen’s mac and cheese—I’d decided I wanted Chloe to like me. The present me, not the nine-year-old, bad ass, take no shit version she remembers fondly.
I’ve never had many girlfriends. I’ve never had many friends in general. It’s always been just me and Momma until she met Paul, and as pathetic as it sounds, I’d been content with that. It’s just easier than letting people in. If you don’t let them in, they can’t hurt you.
Instead of spending my high school years making memories and mistakes and building friendships, I hid behind a wall of sarcasm and acrylic paints and dressed it up as ambition. I know that as well as I know my own name, but understanding where you fucked up in theory doesn’t always translate to reality. Thus, explaining the sad conundrum that is my existence—painfully self-aware of my shortcomings, yet tragically paralyzed by the fear of taking a risk.