“Was going to pick up my coat,” Stevie called, as she closed the distance between us. I held it up for her and she grinned. “Thanks, frand.”
“I’ve got you, frond.”
She caught up with us, tucking her long, dark hair behind her ears. I was incredibly jealous of her hair, which was so thick she could legitimately hide behind it, like she was a character in a Victorian novel, and she regularly popped her ponytail holders and sent them flying. And despite the fact that I’d been taking prenatal vitamins for years in an attempt to get my hair to grow thicker (pro tip: don’t leave these sitting out unless you want to have a very uncomfortable talk with your mother), it was to no avail.
Stevie Sinclair and I looked nothing alike—in fact, it was almost like we were opposites of each other. I was pale and freckled, she had olive skin that tanned perfectly; I was tall, she was petite; I had fine blond hair, Stevie’s was dark and wavy; I was lanky, she was curvy. But despite all this, when we were walking around together, or shopping, or hanging out at Paradise Ice Cream, people would ask us if we were sisters. This delighted us to no end, because it meant that they weren’t seeing that we didn’t look anything alike. It meant that whoever had asked this was asking because of how we were together. An energy, a sameness, a kinship that had been there from the very first day.
I had never had a best friend before I met Stevie. I’d had ballet friends, and a different “best friend” every year in my class in elementary school, and in middle school, I was part of a group of four girls and we wore lots of Best Friend jewelry and accessories. But when I met Stevie, everything that had come before suddenly seemed so trivial. It was like Stevie and I saw each other, and recognized something. You, we both seemed to say. You’re my person. And that had been that.
“I’ll take that,” Stevie said as we all started down the hallway together. She reached for her coat, but I shook my head.
“I’ve got it.”
“What do you mean, you’ve got it? There’s no need for you to carry my coat.”
“Why not? It’s not like it weighs much.”
“Kat—”
“We were just debating the list,” Teri interrupted as Stevie reached for her coat again and I sidestepped her, nearly crashing into a very tiny freshman boy. “Jayson for Lear, Kat for Cordelia—”
“Don’t jinx me!” I cried. I passed one of the benches that lined the hallway and ran a few steps over to knock on it, accidentally waking up the girl who’d been napping there. She glared at me; I shrugged and saw Stevie mouth, Sorry! to her as we hustled past.
“You for Goneril…,” Teri continued, ticking roles off on her fingers.
“Well, that’s a given,” I said, joining them again. “Though I think Stevie should probably be Lear. Queen Lear.” Even though I knew Mr. Campbell wasn’t going that way—he’d only read guys for Lear—if anyone could pull it off, it was Stevie. She was more talented than me—she was more talented than basically everyone else in the department, except maybe Jayson, who was so good he got cast as Othello when he was only a sophomore.
Stevie and I didn’t compete for the same roles. I was usually cast in the more comedic, ingenue-y roles, and Stevie tended to play older characters, and she could handle meaty dramatic stuff better than anyone else. She could disappear into roles in a way I really didn’t even understand, and sometimes during rehearsals I’d be so captivated, watching what she was able to do, that I’d miss my own cues.
More than that, she made it look effortless. I knew the hours of work I put into every part, the time I spent drilling my lines, the rehearsals where I could feel the gap between where I wanted my performance to go and where it currently was. But with Stevie, it was like watching someone do the thing they’ve always known how to do. She could casually toss off something that would have taken me months of preparation, and not even seem to realize what she’d just done.
“I mean, if he’d been open to it, I would have gone for it,” Stevie said with a grin. “Glenda Jackson did it, after all.” I looked at her blankly. “On the West End and then Broadway, a couple of years ago,” she explained. “It was supposed to be amazing.” She reached out for her coat again, and I dodged her again. “I can carry my own coat, you know.”
“Let me do nice things for you!”
“Kat!”
“Stevie!” I replied, matching her tone, laughing.
“Katrina.”
“Stephanie.” I raised an eyebrow at her. “Should we do middle names now too?” Teri, as usual, was watching us with a patient, bemused expression on her face, like she was waiting for this to stop so she could continue the conversation again.
Stevie started to answer just as the second bell rang. The second bell meant you should really get a move on, and in the hallway all around us, flirting and conversations stopped and people picked up the pace as one, like this was a musical and the dance captain had just snapped out a tempo change.
“Here,” Stevie said, turning to me. As we walked, she twisted her long, thick hair around in a knot she pulled through on itself—and then it just stayed, like magic. I’d been seeing Stevie do this for years now, but it still impressed me every time. She reached into her bag and pulled out a bag of Doritos—Cool Ranch—and a can of Diet Coke. “Got you a snack.”
“Bless you,” I said, then looked around, realizing my hands were full with Stevie’s coat and textbook. “Fine,” I huffed, like I was giving her some big concession, and handed her back her stuff.
“Where did this come from?” she asked, holding up the textbook.
“Zach Ellison was at the locker.” I gave her a look. “I think he was disappointed you weren’t there.”
“Ooh,” Teri said, her face lighting up. “He’s cute! Stevie, you like him?”
Stevie shrugged one shoulder. “He’s okay.”
“You need a rebound,” I said firmly as I opened up the bag of chips and my stomach grumbled on cue. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I’d seen them. I crunched into the first chip. “Thank you for this. You’re the best.”
“I’m purely self-interested. I know how you get when you’re hangry.”
“What does that mean?” I snapped, then looked over to see her smiling at me. “Ah. Point made.” I tipped the bag toward her. Stevie preferred regular Ruffles but would eat Doritos if presented with them. She reached for the bag, concentration written all over her face. Stevie had big feelings about proper Dorito dust ratio and wasn’t about to leave this up to chance. She carefully selected one, and then I held the bag out to Teri, who took two at random—Teri had no strong feelings about Doritos—and crunched down on them.
“If you need a rebound,” Teri said, brushing her Dorito dust off on her jeans, “I could ask Ryan if he has any cute single friends.”
I frowned. “Ryan?”
“Ryan Camper,” Teri said, shaking her head. “My boyfriend.”
“Oh right,” Stevie said, glancing over at me and then immediately away again. “Your boyfriend from—camp. I thought he lived in Maine?”