My right eye twitches. It has been doing that a lot lately.
I must be talking out loud because my best friend, Samira Chadha-Fu, looks up. She’s sprawled, catlike, on my bed, unsuccessfully trying to apply a spiderly-looking false eyelash onto her eyelid.
Oh right, I gave Samira my $35 real mink eyelashes to try out. I don’t think I can return them half-used, can I?
“Dude, are you okay?” she asks.
Samira has been trying to attach the eyelash for half an hour. She’s holding a little compact mirror with one hand and tweezers and another broken eyelash in the other. It looks like she’s trying to perform minor surgery. White glue oozes around her eyelid. Ew. She blinks, getting more goop on her brow area. The lady at Sephora had tried to teach both of us—small wingtips, followed by fluttery false lashes for old-school Hollywood prom glamour. Makeup tips to make our Asian eyes look bigger.
“Everything is perfect!” I say brightly. Samira shakes her head, her mouth twitching with amusement. She knows me too well. We’ve been BFFs, practically psychically linked, since the second grade when she moved to New Jersey from Singapore.
“Ughhhh,” she finally groans. “These lash-things are impossible to put on.”
With one last attempt, she ends up smearing more glue across her cheek, and then she drops the overpriced eyelash onto the floor. Rolling her goop-covered eyes, she ambles to my walk-in closet and begins trying on outfits. My parents are away this week in Honolulu, and we’re having a fun spring-fling party at my house tonight.
Another terrifying ding lets me know that I have new email. So far, I have 52 unread texts and 361 unread emails. I’m too scared to check my inbox since colleges started sending out notifications three weeks ago.
“So … party? What are we wearing tonight?” Samira announces with her usual cheerleader enthusiasm. She rummages through my walk-in closet until she comes across the Vera Wang Swarovski crystal-beaded dress from Nordstrom. “This is gorgeous, Iris!” she squeals, looking very impressed, and I can’t help but feel a little blush of pride at her approval.
“How much did this cost you?!”
“It was on sale,” I lie.
But Samira is right. My designer prom dress with the extra-long detachable skirt is amazing in every way. I don’t even want to think about how much the dress cost, but luckily, I still have the tag on it. Honestly, I thought I was saving money because it’s technically two dresses in one. I can wear the short, sexier version tonight, sans gauzy red-carpet train, and then return it at the end of the weekend after prom. Nordstrom closes at seven p.m. on Sundays, which gives me plenty of time.
“Oooooohhh, you left the price tag on,” Samira says. And then with her perfectly manicured hand, she yanks the tag off, crumples it, and tosses it casually to the floor.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I want to scream, but instead, I let out an involuntary squeak. My friend glances over again, and I force my lips into a frozen smile. I must look deranged. I can’t even think about the cost.
As I’m feeling incredibly nauseous, my phone dings again. I decide to block the terrifying credit card number.
Done.
All better.
Ding! Another email. Shit.
I feel my smile vanish. I can’t think about college or my credit card bill, especially when my parents find out. My mom will freak; my dad will be devastated by my lack of control and what he calls my reckless “bad American behavior.” All of a sudden, my face feels rashy and hot, like I’m having a severe allergic reaction.
Is it possible to combust from the inside over a nonreturnable, super-expensive prom dress?
The answer is possibly-maybe-yes.
The answer is most-probably-yes.
Definitely yes.
Samira is still gabbing away about possible themes for our upcoming graduation party next month. “How about K-pop?” she asks. “Or something Bollywood? Sexy Disney?”
I force myself to pay attention, but I keep thinking about the dress. A spasm of worry churns through my stomach.
“So like, I think tonight … hello, Iris? Earth to Iris?”
Gulping at the sharp sound of my name, I nod with false enthusiasm and decide to toss my iPhone into the bottom of my underwear drawer. Who needs scary, real-world reminders when there is an amazing spring-fling Friday night party to host?
3
Crash Landing
As we wait for guests to arrive, we sit at the kitchen counter and share a huge joint that I got from my super-fun, incredibly sweet boyfriend Peter. Slowly, I toke, while Samira mixes us gigantic rum and Cokes in beer mugs and we play our favorite game: If you had ten million dollars, where would you visit in the world?
Anywhere But Here is our made-up fantasy exchange to help pass the time. Samira and I always play it before every party or school dance. There’s no clear winner: we just try to outdo each other by naming fabulous destinations. We imagine suntanning naked on a private beach in Belize or taking selfies with the Great Pyramids of Egypt. In the boring, sprawling suburbs of Bradley Gardens, New Jersey, there’s usually nowhere to go except for the mall and Chipotle.
“I want to go to Bali,” Samira says, taking her fourth long toke.
“Hmmmm-hmm,” I say. “You always say you want to go to Bali.”
“I don’t care as long as it’s hot!” she says. “Where do you want to go?”
“Europe,” I say without hesitation. “I loved our trip in tenth grade! Remember the Eiffel Tower and how we insisted on climbing all the way to the top even though it was super windy and rainy and everyone in our history class was afraid?”
“YES!”
She giggles, as if suddenly remembering the fun.
That’s when I decide to tell her my plans for surprising Peter tonight. I think she’ll find them exciting and deeply romantic.
But instead of sounding even a little bit happy for me, my best friend is weirdly quiet. Like she doesn’t know what to say, which is super odd for Samira, since she’s always so extroverted and chatty. Everyone is always saying that Samira would make a popular talk show host, which is why she is applying to college for journalistic broadcasting. I’m the total opposite: no one has ever told me what I’d be good at. Instead, they compliment my Miss Congeniality personality and tell me that I’ll find my life purpose one day.
“I’m taking Peter to Paris for his birthday,” I say again, in case she didn’t hear me.
“Wasn’t his birthday six months ago?” Samira asks, sounding surprised.
I shake my head. “Nope, it’s June.”
“It was in January,” Samira insists.
“Dude, I’m pretty sure I know my own boyfriend’s birthday.”
Samira shrugs and doesn’t say anything. She takes a long swig of her rum and Coke. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and belches. I’m in the sweet happy space between high and content, the credit card bill nearly forgotten.
From my closet, Samira has finally decided to borrow my favorite black first-date dress and strappy black heels.
“It looks way better on you,” I say genuinely, changing the subject. Samira looks really pretty in lace cap-sleeves and her party makeup is flawless, without being too fake. “You should keep it!” I say.