“Another gesture from Darlene,” she says, motioning to the brightly colored wrappers. Nikki rolls her eyes when she pronounces the second syllable of her mother’s name.
Nikki’s parents are textile magnates and they moved here from Hong Kong when we were in seventh grade. During her first semester at Gold Coast, she was mostly seen hunched over her phone, DM’ing with friends back home. She was totally disinterested in this suburban life. Her indifference to us gave her an untouchable chill factor. That spring, she became besties with Shaila while they were working on the middle school musical. Shaila had scored the lead role as Sandy in Grease, to no one’s surprise, and Nikki had signed up to work on costumes. That’s when we learned she was basically a fashion prodigy, designing slick leather leggings and poodle skirts that looked ready for Broadway.
When it became clear that I would have to share Shaila as a best friend, I tried to stomp out my jealousy. I was determined to navigate their newly shared tastes (“Bravo, not Netflix”) and catch up after they drank for the first time at the cast party (“beer before liquor, never been sicker!”). It worked, mostly, and by eighth grade, we were fused together.
But throughout Shaila’s last year, Nikki and I silently battled for Shaila’s attention, orbiting around each other. It was stupid though, because Shaila didn’t play favorites. She was loyal to us both. When she died, Nikki and I went from frenemies to inseparable. Our link to one another had been severed, so we forged a new one. It was like all that tension evaporated and we were left with just each other and the hungry need for intimacy. Ever since then, Nikki became my Shaila. And I became hers.
“Red bean’s my favorite,” she says now, unwrapping a bar and popping it into her mouth. I reach for the box and tear into a bright pink one. It’s sweet and sticky in my palm.
“Nuh-uh,” I say. “Strawberry forever.”
“Only when it’s paired with matcha.”
“Pfft. Snob.”
“It’s called having taste!”
“What about dark chocolate?”
Nikki chews, mulling over the suggestion. “Simple. Classic. I’m down.”
“It’s iconic.”
“Just like us.” Nikki flashes her megawatt smile then swipes a lavender-colored wrapper. “Life’s too short to have just one.”
“Too real.”
Behind me, the buzzing hum of the cafeteria becomes a roar. I turn to see the boys amble toward us. Freshmen and sophomores scatter, making a path for them. Robert’s a few steps ahead of the others, barreling through the room. Henry’s not too far behind. His backpack is slung over one shoulder and his thick sandy hair flops neatly to one side. His tie hangs loose around his neck and he fist-bumps Topher Gardner, a stocky, acne-prone junior Player thirsty for his attention. Quentin brings up the rear, winking at some cute sophomore on the baseball team as he strides by. The kid turns the color of a tomato. Robert crashes into his seat first and rips the cap off a soda, chugging half the bottle at once.
“Hey, babe,” Henry says, sliding into the seat next to me. He presses his lips to the little triangle where my neck meets my collar bone. It sends a shock through my limbs and I hear a gasp from the table behind us. A group of wide-eyed freshman girls with their skirts hanging a bit too long have grabbed front row seats. If they think they’ll lay claim to that table for the entire year, they’re wrong. That one’s reserved for us, too. We’ll give it to the freshman Players like a present. They’ll see.
But for now, the girls break into giggles, whispering behind cupped fingers, their eyes darting in our direction.
Marla collapses into her seat and, like that, we’re all together again. It’s roomy since the tables are made for eight. Shaila and Graham made us fit. But we’ve learned to spread out and take up more space than we should. It helps. And now since all of us Players are here, the game is on.
The air between us is frenetic with fractions of conversations meant to propel us toward the weekend, always the weekend.
“I heard Anne Marie Cummings will give you a hand job if you say you like her shitty band.”
“Reid Baxter promised he would bring a handle tonight. Don’t let him in if his connect pulls out.”
“Well, if you didn’t want to get Sharpie all over you, don’t get so wasted next time!”
Little clips of conversation float over our heads and disperse throughout the room, carrier pigeons, sharing the most important news with the rest of the school. Some days, we lean in so close, I imagine our heads look like they’re going to touch from overhead. But other times, we curl inside ourselves, forming partnerships and alliances. Who is on my side? Friend or foe?
“Ahem!” Nikki smacks a knife against her can of seltzer.
Robert groans but smiles in her direction. If it’s a good week, they usually spend lunch mouthing filthy phrases to each other over their trays. If it’s a bad week, she pretends he doesn’t exist.
“Turd.” Nikki sticks her tongue out and presses her arms to her sides, making her chest perk up so her boobs sit right under her chin. Robert leans back and raises his eyebrows, impressed. Already, this week seems to be excellent.
“Fine, Miss Wu,” Quentin says. “Spill.”
Nikki leans in and lowers her voice so we have to crane to hear, although none of what she says will be new information. She will throw tonight’s party. (No shit.) Her parents are gone, jetting off to Paris for the weekend. (Sounds about right.) There will be a keg. (Of course.)
Henry turns to me and his hand finds my thigh under the table. His thumb rubs my bare skin in small circles. “I’ll pick you up at eight thirty,” he says.
I fit my mouth into a smile and try to ignore the heat between my legs. His skin glows like summer, and I swear I can still make out the tan line his sunglasses left on the bridge of his nose the day he asked me to make it official. It was one of the hottest afternoons in June, sweltering on land but cool on his parents’ boat in the middle of the Sound. The group text was dormant. Everyone else was on vacation before their elite summer programs began. I still hadn’t started my counselor stint at the local planetarium. We were the only ones around.
You like stars, right? Henry texted off-thread.
Everyone knew I was obsessed with astronomy. Well, astronomy and astrophysics to be exact. It had been my thing for so long. I became fixated with everything up above when I was five and Dad started taking me out to Ocean Cliff after every rainstorm, when the sky was the clearest, to point out constellations, galaxies, planets, and stars. It was the highest point in Gold Coast, an enormous stone formation that extended out over the water. “This is how to make sense of the chaos,” Dad would say as we sat on the rocks. He said he had always wanted to be an astronaut, but instead became an accountant for some reason I could never really understand. When we got home that first night, he stuck a bunch of glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling in spiral configurations.