“I don’t know, though,” Layla said.
“I think you can do anything,” I told her, which was mostly true. I just didn’t want her to do everything, but it wasn’t my call.
She smiled. “Thanks, C. I guess we might as well get those mmmilkshakes?”
We went to our favorite place and ordered the most ridiculous one on the menu to share. It was topped with an actual slice of birthday cake and covered in rainbow sprinkles.
“So good,” we muttered to each other between bites. We were about halfway through the milkshake, and Layla’d just challenged me to see how much I could drink before I got brain freeze, when her phone buzzed.
“Oh, yay!” she said. “It’s Sloane. They’re at Washington Square P-P-Park.”
“Cool,” I said, massaging my temples. “Let’s just finish this first. Slowly. How long are they going to be there?”
Layla threw an amused look in my direction and tossed some of her wavy hair over her shoulder. “Cleo, we’re obviously g-g-g-going to the p-park now, duh.” She waved down the waitress without another word, and I sort of paused, surprised at her. I wasn’t used to our friendship being a…dictatorship. Usually we talked about what we were doing and decided together. As I sucked down what I could of the shake and put a few bucks on the table to pay for something I couldn’t even finish, I was glad she had charged out of the restaurant ahead of me. At least she couldn’t see the stank face I was making.
THE PARK
Needless to say, when we got to the park, I wasn’t in the best mood.
“Oh my God, Layla, where have you been all my life?” Sage asked, as if they hadn’t left us.
Valeria, Cadence, Melody, and Sloane all turned at the sound of our approach, and I bit my bottom lip hard to stop myself from rolling my eyes.
“Hey,” Layla said coolly. She hugged them each, like she hadn’t just seen them an hour earlier. “You g-g-guys remember my friend, right?”
Layla looped her arm through mine, which was a bit of a relief. It made me feel a little less invisible. At least Layla cared I was there, even if no one else did.
“Yeah. Your phone went off during my audition,” Sloane said, like that was the only interaction we’d ever had. Layla looked scandalized.
It happened right after I texted Layla to tell her how well she’d done, and it was Layla’s response to me that caused the sound to echo through the auditorium just as Sloane was about to start her solo. “Sorry about that,” I said, scratching my neck, which I could feel heating up.
“It’s cool,” Sloane said. But it didn’t sound like it was.
“Chloe, right?” Sage said, tilting her head so her layered black hair fell to one side. She was wearing a thin silver headband, and I knew if my mother could have her way, this was how she’d want me to look: contacts instead of glasses; pink nails instead of unpolished ones; relaxed hair instead of braids. Sage pulled some ChapStick out of her pocket and put it on while she waited for me to answer, and the metal headband glinted in the sun.
“Cleo,” I said back. I could hear how unfriendly my voice sounded. To be honest, the Chloe mistake was a common one. But I couldn’t hide how little I wanted to be there, how much I didn’t care to talk to these girls whom my friend seemed desperate to impress.
“Right,” Sage said, smacking her lips. She didn’t apologize for getting it wrong.
We clustered together right there near the fountain, talking about music and feminism; how much we hated the president and boys. Sage said she liked my braids, and Cadence asked me where I’d found my “crazy-cool” boots, and Valeria asked how I’d gotten so into jazz-age music. Layla was in the middle of it all, cracking jokes and being cynical and as the girls laughed and touched her shoulders, I felt happy for her.
They seemed to get her. They liked her in the exact way she wanted them to, without being a different version of herself. I smiled at how they all seemed to be welcoming her into their fold, and after a while I was laughing and enjoying myself too. I didn’t feel as out of place as I expected, and I surprisingly felt a little guilty about not wanting to come out in the first place.
Even though it was September, the weather was still sunny and warm. There was a guy with a huge bucket of soapy water blowing giant, wobbly bubbles that little kids and dogs chased and popped. There were people tossing coins into the fountain water—closing their eyes and making wish after wish. Tourists were everywhere. I slipped out of my denim jacket and stepped closer to the Chorus Girls. Maybe my “problem” with them was all in my head.
Just then, Sloane pivoted toward me and said, “So how did you and Layla, like, become friends?” She tilted her head and smiled, and up close I could see that her red hair made her cheeks seem rosier than they really were. She still looked innocent and sweet, her braces shiny and bright when she smiled, but then she added, “I mean, you two are just so different.”
There was nothing inherently mean in the question itself, but it landed hard and heavy on my shoulders. I could tell this was a test. It was her way of asking me to prove something—though what, I wasn’t sure.
“We met at a barbecue right before we started middle school,” I said. “I was sad, and Layla hung out with me the whole afternoon. She made me feel better.” I looked up at her. “She’s good at that. And after that summer we were kinda inseparable. We had each other’s backs no matter what.”
Layla grinned and looked down at me. “Yep. And we’re really not that d-different, Sloane. You just d-d-don’t know C-C-C-Cleo like I do.”
Sloane seemed unimpressed. “Huh,” she said, and it sounded like, That’s it? Or maybe, That’s nothing. But it was everything to me. My skin suddenly felt too tight and I didn’t want to be standing so close to her. I took a step back.
It might sound dramatic, but sometimes it felt like my friendship with Layla was a miracle. Sloane was right about one thing: we were different. But Layla saved me when I was the saddest I’ve ever been. I’ll never forget that.
When my phone buzzed, I took it as an opportunity to move away from Sloane’s dismissal. It was a text from my mom that said, Tell your father I’ll be working late tonight.
Why don’t you text him?
I did. I haven’t heard back from him, so if you’re still at school can you let him know?
I hated when they got into these moods where they didn’t want to talk to each other and they used me as a messenger. Daddy clearly hadn’t told her I was hanging out with friends after school either.
Fine, I sent, and then I forwarded Mom’s message to him.