“Both. Obviously.”
The bell rings, and something inside me settles. The world may be spinning at a thousand miles per hour, and I’m not sure where I’m headed or how to get there, but here, in front of my music, I’m grounded. I’m centered.
Mr. K stands in front of us to make his announcements before we start playing, and—
“Sorry I’m late!” The girl from the meeting—the double agent with the gorgeous eyes—rushes in, late again. She doesn’t have a skateboard this time, but she’s just as frazzled as she was at the meeting yesterday evening.
Gabi elbows me and mouths, Is that her?
I nod back and try to keep my face impassive as Mr. K brightens. Even if I hadn’t already met her, she would have been hard not to clock as a new student.
Everything about her screams “I’m not from around here!” and has an edge of “But don’t even think about messing with me.” Her red hair is cut into an asymmetrical bob that reveals a dandelion tattoo behind her right ear, and her outfit looks like she walked straight off a Thrasher Magazine cover—rolled black mom jeans, dirty bright-orange-and-white Vans, and a camo jacket over her FEMME THE FUTURE hoodie that she clearly has carefully bleached and distressed herself.
Her nose is pierced with one simple emerald stud in the right nostril and two silver hoops in the other. I think for a second she might be ready to give Britt a run for her money as the most idgaf-I-wear-whatever-I-want student at Campbell.
“Class, this is our new drummer.” He turns to her. “What would you like to be called?”
She waves a little and smiles. “My name’s Amanda, um, McCarthy, but everyone calls me Mack.”
“This is our new drummer, Mack. Mack is stepping in for Kevin for the rest of the semester, due to his … unfortunate prom-related injury.” He shakes his head.
Three weeks ago, we lost our drummer, Kevin Kilborn, to a promposal gone wrong. He attempted a backflip off the roof of his garage, holding a sign that said: LAURIE FERRIS, I’VE ABSOLUTELY FLIPPED FOR YOU. PROM? and, well, he didn’t quite land on his feet. Literally or figuratively. Not only did Laurie turn him down (citing “commitment issues” on her Campbell Confidential feed later that night, according to Gabi), but he broke his left wrist and both index fingers in the process. The whole thing was live-streamed on CC, and Kevin hasn’t come back to school since.
Mr. K gestures in my direction. “Liz can help you get all set up after class at some point this week, but for now, you can grab a seat at the kit in the back and maybe just try to get a feel for the music today?”
She meets my eyes and offers me a little wave as she goes to her seat, and my mouth gets all weird and dry. All the feelings of being at peace and at one with the music are out the window as she breezes by me. I don’t believe in fairy tales and love at first sight and all that, but for just a second, I think this girl and those eyes and the way her freckles dot the entire expanse of her face are cute enough to make a believer out of me.
When Gabi elbows me again though, I snap out of it. She mouths, Definitely a secret agent.
And yeah, my best friend might be a little unhinged, but I have to get real. Fast.
After all, Lightys don’t get fairy tales.
My phone is buzzing with another text from Granny, and I know I should be getting home soon for dinner. But Gabi is talking a mile a minute, and I’m taking notes like everything she’s saying is going to be on an exam later. I don’t want to miss a single thing.
We’re in her massive basement—which I have a feeling is going to become our prom war room—pretending not to hear Gabi’s parents arguing upstairs, and listening to her lay out an impressively detailed plan for how she’s going to Pretty Woman the hell outta me.
“Okay, so I had my mother’s personal shopper send some options over to your house today.” She holds her hands out in front of her. “No pressure! I just thought it might be a nice solution to the wardrobe concern.”
Me and Gabi have always seen things very differently. For her, there is always a way if her will is formidable enough. Though she be little, she is fierce. Or whatever it is they say about short girls with big personalities. So if she thinks a wardrobe change is the fast track to winning prom queen, no amount of arguing is going to change her mind.
It’s annoying, but I’ve learned to deal. Me and G aren’t just friends, we’re family.
I think about telling her that there’s no way I’m accepting an order courtesy of her parents’ AmEx like some sort of charity case, but then I remember her being there for me every day after my mom died without complaint. Bringing me homework for the weeks I missed school, sleeping on the floor of my bedroom every night in the weeks after the funeral to keep me company. Holding my hand when I couldn’t stop having nightmares where my grandparents and Robbie were all lined up in identical hospital beds, the low, steady beep of a flatline multiplied by three. So I keep my mouth shut and swallow down all my protests, because even if I don’t want to accept the gift, she wants to give it, and I know her heart has always been in the right place.
Even if her execution is … a bit shoddy.
“You were the only one with a wardrobe concern!” Britt huffs from where she sits. She crosses her arms over her Campbell County HS Varsity Girls Rugby hoodie. “Despite her impressive height and ridiculously perfect cheekbones—they really are crazy high, Lizzo, it’s almost obnoxious—Liz isn’t some Barbie for you to play dress-up with.”
“Well, I’m just trying to be helpful. Someone has to take initiative here and—”
“Um. I’m right here, guys. Me? Liz? Your friend and the one whose life you’re talking about?”
“You’re so right. We should table that discussion for later,” Gabi sort of concedes. She pauses briefly as her parents’ muffled shouting from upstairs gets slightly louder, but she straightens quickly like we heard nothing at all. She uses her laser pointer to underline the point on the slideshow that she has projected onto the wall. I immediately wish I hadn’t asked my coworker Victor to cover my shift tonight in order to subject myself to this. She turns back to her screen and purses her lips. “We need to be drumming up support for you within the student body, because they ultimately decide who wins.”
“Okay, but I shouldn’t be too behind, right? I mean, I’ll do all the volunteer things, and I definitely have the highest GPA,” I offer. “Madame Simoné made it sound very egalitarian yesterday.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Britt kicks her legs up in her leather seat and bites down on nacho-cheese Doritos covered in spicy hummus. “Don’t tell me this is some electoral college garbage.”
“Great questions, my friends.” Gabi smiles. She has been studying this process her entire life. “You’re easily in the lead on GPA, Lizzie, but that is worth the smallest percentage of overall scoring. So while the different events and your class rank get you on the court, the votes alone determine whether or not you win. So as important as the next few weeks are for how well you manage to show up and take illiterate ferrets for walks at the ASPCA or whatever, what matters is that you win over the people.”