When Layla asked me to help with her hair, I lifted the flatiron and just tried to think about our sleepover. About how we’d sit in the dark and watch a bunch of movies and creep up behind the couch to scare each other every time one of us went to the bathroom. I’d finally tell her about how my parents had been acting weird and distant with each other lately, using me to pass information between them like I was a carrier pigeon. I didn’t want to tell her before the party because she’d want to help. She’d insist we go to my house and somehow fix it all right away.
“So do you think you’d really be able to convince your parents to let you come visit me in London this summer?”
“Maybe,” Layla said, “since my aunt is j-just a train ride away.” She grinned at me in the mirror. “And then we’d go to P-P-Paris.” She hopped up and grabbed my Parisian snow globe. “Think it’s a sign that I was the person who g-g-g-gave you this?” she asked, sitting back down with the snow globe still in her hands.
She shook it as I separated another chunk of her hair and said, “Obviously.”
“Do you still miss your g-g-grandmother as much as you used t-to when we were k-k-k-kids?” she asked out of nowhere.
I bit my lip and watched her in the mirror. She looked up at me. “Yeah,” I said. “I still think about her all the time. Especially when my mom is overreacting about dumb stuff. Talking to your mom helps calm her down sometimes, but Gigi knew exactly what to say to make her chill, you know?”
Layla nodded.
“She flipped out on my dad the other day,” I started, but then Layla’s phone chimed. I saw what the text said even though I wasn’t actively trying to look. It was from Sloane.
What did Mason say about Friday?
In the mirror, Layla’s reflection set down the snow globe and picked up the phone.
I draped a handful of warm, straight hair over Layla’s shoulder, and I swallowed hard against a sudden dryness at the back of my throat. I wanted to tell her about my parental weirdness. But I also wanted to know why I didn’t know anything about Friday.
It was a strange feeling—not knowing something about my own best friend.
I watched my own eyes in the mirror, afraid that if I looked into Layla’s all the softest parts of me would show, especially since we’d just been talking about Gigi. I wanted to make sure I didn’t look like I was already hurt and trying to get to a truth that not so long ago would have been mine without having to ask.
“You think Mason will be at the party tonight?”
Layla put her phone facedown without texting back and reached for her mascara. She stroked both her upper and lower fringes of lashes twice before she answered. “I think so,” she said. She screwed the mascara closed, set it on my dresser, and stared at it. “I hope so.” She turned around to face me, and hope bloomed in my belly like a flower. But all Layla said was “Can you hand me those earrings?”
Layla was going as a fairy. She was in a wispy long blue dress and had picked out a set of glittery, translucent wings from the pop-up Halloween shop. Her mask was silver, and so was all the jewelry she was wearing. I finished straightening her hair and she showed me how to blot the lipstick I’d messily applied. Layla’s parents were not fans of Halloween and thought it was haram (forbidden in Islam), so she’d told them she was just sleeping over again like usual, not dressing up and going out. We couldn’t post pictures anywhere that they might find, but we took a bunch anyway.
Layla was quiet while we rode the train to Sloane’s. I pointed out some of the craziest costumes, but even a baby dressed like a sushi roll didn’t make her smile. I thought she might be worried about impressing the Chorus Girls again.
“They already like you, Layla,” I said. I wrapped my arm around her hip and pulled her closer to me as the train rocketed along the tracks. “They invited us to this party, didn’t they? And you’re in chorus now. You’re like, official.” She squeezed me back, and though we swayed together as the train moved, it felt like there was more than just the fabric of our jackets between us.
She was still quiet as we walked down the darkened streets in Sloane and Valeria’s neighborhood. “You okay? We can go home,” I said. “We can go to my apartment right now and we can help my dad make his world famous chocolate-covered popcorn.”
I started tugging her back toward the train station. “No, no. I still w-w-want to go,” she finally said. “I swear.”
“We so suck at parties,” I muttered.
SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES
It was strange being back inside Valeria’s apartment, which I hadn’t seen since summer. This time it was decked out with fake spiderwebs, and pumpkin confetti was dusted across the table near the door, a bowl overflowing with candy perched on top. A rap song I didn’t know was playing and a bunch of kids were dancing in the center of the living room. It was full but not overly crowded, so it was easy for us to walk down the short entryway. Layla started looking around for Sloane, and when she found her, we made our way over.
“Hey!” Layla shouted. Sloane turned, and when she saw Layla, she threw her arms open wide, almost spilling her drink. “You came!” she shouted, and she seemed so happy to see her that I felt an instant tightness in my stomach. Layla grabbed my arm and pulled me forward.
“Cleo’s here, too!” she said, but Sloane either didn’t hear or didn’t care.
“Hey, bitches. Layla’s here!” Sloane shouted over the music to a few girls dressed in the same costume she was. They were all in short, tight black habits; knee-high socks; and heels: naughty nuns. The word “basic” bounced around my head, but I didn’t say it out loud. “L, you totally should have done this group costume with us. But, I mean, I get why you didn’t,” she said, nodding sagely. “Seriously.”
All of it struck a wrong note with me. The costumes, the nickname, Sloan’s passive-aggressive “I get why you didn’t” that sounded like she didn’t get it at all. I also didn’t like that I had no idea about this group costume. I bet not dressing up like a nun was probably why Layla was so nervous on our way here. Why didn’t she just tell me?
“Who are you guys?” I asked.
Sloane shook her head and pulled out a pair of sunglasses with round frames. The other Chorus Girls—Sage and Cadence, Valeria and Melody—all lined up beside her after saying hi to Layla. Sloane slipped the glasses on, put her hand on her hip, and said, “We’re Sister Act!”
I nodded and smiled. I’d seen the movie a few times on cable. I looked at Layla, who seemed a little uncomfortable. “Cool,” I said, failing to sound enthusiastic.