“She should have spent the night with us.” Imani says what I’m thinking.
“I tried, but she was with Mark.”
“I know. I should have insisted, I’m sorry.” Imani is the benevolent ruler of our trio. If Imani wants something, she usually gets it. All she has to do is turn the full power of her smile on you, and yeah. Goner.
“I mean, that would have worked,” I say. “Swear to God, Imani, I don’t know why you don’t use your powers of persuasion more.”
I place a hand over my heart in a solemn vow. “If I had your skills, I would talk Mrs. Casey into passing me.”
“That’s wrong, June!” Imani is laughing, but this is it: the taproot of who she is. Imani is Principled. She believes in making a better world, in making fairer rules, and she believes in the supreme power of hard work above everything.
Me? I believe in the supreme power of accepting your limitations, and adjusting your target accordingly.
Imani’s an older sister, too, so that’s in there. She’s always been the responsible one, especially compared to her kid sister, Tishala, who is in the eighth grade. Tishala is impulsive, hilarious, and a total pest.
Obviously, Imani loves her lots. Even when Tishala breaks into Imani’s makeup. Right now, Tishala is completely into doing these epic fantasy and sci-fi photo shoots, most often with herself as the model, although she’s used Imani and even me sometimes. And she’s into special effects makeup (as long as it’s beautiful. She’s not into zombies or gore, which is why she didn’t pester us to come to the con, thank goodness).
My older sister, Summer, went to college last year, and my parents’ single-minded focus on me ever since has been . . . well, it’s been a lot.
Tishala’s gonna have a big adjustment next year when Imani goes to college, let me tell you. I don’t know if she realizes how much Imani does for her.
“You can’t just talk someone into passing you,” Imani says as we take a step forward.
“It would be for the greater good!” I argue. “Trust me, Mrs. Casey is as sick of explaining quadratic equations as I am of never understanding them.”
This is my second time in Mrs. Casey’s class. It’s exhausting having a learning disability and trying to make everyone see that I’m never going to “get it” no matter how “close” it looks like I am.
Or that it doesn’t matter how many times I take the SAT. I’m just going to psych myself out; clench up; get that old familiar feeling; hello, anxiety, my old friend; and just . . .
Whiff. Spectacularly. And extra time to take the test won’t fix that. No accomodations can.
I glance at my phone again. The doors will open in just a few minutes.
Imani notices my glance at the time.
“Siggy’ll be here,” she says. “Any minute now. Mark will probably drop her off at the circle, right when we get there.”
Annoying Mark. Annoying Mark Carson. Annoying Mark Annoying Carson.
He’s okay, if you have to deal with boyfriends, I guess.
“If I’m being honest, I wanted to have you to myself,” Imani says, with that sly side-smile that makes it feel like the sun is rising in my heart.
“I liked that, too,” I say, and there it is, my doofiest smile, the one where I tip my chin unconsciously, giving myself jowls and creepy eyes. This is not a smile I ever intend to unleash, which is why I generally only know I’ve done it when I see the picture afterward.
Also this smile is another reason why I practiced for the photo op with Hunter’s cutout.
Imani says I look great in every picture, that I always look “cute” or “so adorable,” and I’m like, sure, Imani, sure, because best friends are supposed to say those things.
But Imani hates lies, too, so maybe she means it? Still, I don’t want to make that face in my picture with Hunter.
“Let me try calling her,” Imani says. She holds her phone to her ear.
We start moving forward. Either the doors are open or the people in line in front of us can see activity behind the glass doors and we’re all pressing forward like Black Friday shoppers.
“She’s not answering,” Imani says, lowering her phone.
“Aaaaaaaarrrrghhh, Imani!” I groan, grabbing at my chest. “The doors are getting ready to open, the time is now, the moment’s arrived or it’s about to arrive, the train’s leaving the station, the boarding gate is closing, Elvis is at the fire doors . . .”
“Deep breaths, June,” Imani says, and she quirks that smile at me again. “It’s a good thing Siggy hasn’t answered. It means she’s almost here.”
“What?”
“You know, she feels bad so she doesn’t want to pick up the phone. I bet she’s almost here.”
The doors are definitely open now. We take six steps forward.
“This is supposed to be our big day.” I can’t stop the worrying once it starts. It just keeps getting bigger. “It’s already been screwed up ’cause we were late, and we’ll be even later to the opening session—”
Imani gives me the look, but I don’t stop.
“How are we supposed to make Special Memories without Siggy?”
Special Memories is what we call any big shared event, a joke from the yearbook pages that read Special Memories and are always a collage of pictures: friends sitting together at lunch, a teacher pretending to strangle a student, groups clustering together for a friendshot, the band in formation on the football field, various team members flexing or high-fiving or holding up number-one fingers.
I’d sold this whole day to the group on that big bonding premise: Let’s Make Special Memories. That this is our senior year, and we’ve been friends since elementary school, and now we’re just supposed to leave each other after graduation? How do you just do that?
I remember meeting Imani and Blair in kindergarten. Imani is still my best friend, even if Blair isn’t.
But I remember meeting Imani over those little multicolor plastic bears. Green and yellow and red and blue, you were supposed to use them for counting, but I gave them all names and arranged them in groups and Imani loved that.
I remember she looked at me, eyes wide, and she said, “You’re making them families?” like it was the best idea and no one had ever had it before.
She can still make me feel that rush of embarrassed pride, because I’m not that clever, but she likes the way I think sometimes, I guess.
How are you supposed to let go of Imani?
And how are you supposed to let go of Siggy, who we met in third grade when she moved to our school, who makes us laugh so hard, who is such an outrageous flirt, or was before she met Annoying Mark.