From the day of their fifth-grade class field trip to the Baltimore Aquarium, when they sat next to each other on the bus, till Em left for college last August, she and Des were inseparable. And Des honestly—stupidly—thought that even though she wasn’t going to college with Em, they would always be that close.
At first, it was okay; they texted and sent each other silly pics all the time. Em came home for fall break and Thanksgiving and for a month at Christmas. But this spring, things changed. Em changed. And Des doesn’t know what to do. She thought—hoped—that when Em came home for the summer, things would go back to normal. But it’s been almost a month, and this is only the second time Em’s stopped by Arden.
“If Kat gets a part in Little Women, she’ll have rehearsal Saturday,” Des says.
“If. You don’t know for sure,” Em argues. “If she does, can’t you figure it out with Bea? You seriously can’t take one weekend off?”
Des hesitates, fiddling with the silver ring on her index finger. Kat’s impossible; she’d never voluntarily work on a Saturday, even if she doesn’t have rehearsal, but Des could probably trade with Bea. Georgetown isn’t cheap, even with scholarships. Bea could use the extra hours.
Em sees her hesitation. “Come on. Gram would let you go; I know she would. Don’t you want to get out of Remington Hollow? Have some fun for once? You’re nineteen, not ninety.”
“I have fun,” Des retorts, stung. She twirls the ring faster, staring at the turquoise stone instead of Em’s pout. The ring belonged to her mom; it was a birthday present from Dad the year Des was nine. She remembers him giving it to Mom at the dinner table, after they had all sung “Happy Birthday” and Mom blew out the candles. Mom kissed him, slid the ring on her finger, and held it up for all her girls to see. That was in June, two months before Des’s parents were killed by a drunk driver.
Des doesn’t drink alcohol. Not even a little. Em didn’t used to. She said it was no big deal, that if it bothered Des—and it did—she wouldn’t drink either.
That’s another way she’s changed this spring.
“What have you done in the last week that was fun?” Em asks.
Des bites her tongue. Maybe she doesn’t play flip cup and get throw-up drunk. Maybe she doesn’t go to the local all-night diner (because there is no all-night diner in Remington Hollow). Maybe she doesn’t hang out until three a.m. playing video games with the boy she likes (because there is no boy she likes). But she has fun. In her own quiet, comfortable ways, she has fun… Doesn’t she? Doubt worms its way through her as she remembers how hopelessly boring she felt this morning standing next to Paige.
“I led the mystery book club. We had a really great discussion on—”
“That’s work,” Em interrupts, tapping her nails impatiently against the counter. “What else?”
“I took a hand-lettering class at the arts center. I learned a new style I’m going to use for the sign for tomorrow’s story time—here, let me show you.” Des fumbles beneath a stack of books for her planner. “I made this weekly layout that I really like too. I used—”
“What do you even need a weekly layout for?” Em sneers. “You don’t do anything but work!”
Des closes the planner without showing her—without explaining that she uses it to keep track of the books she reads, quotes she likes, upcoming programs at Arden, grocery lists, and dinner recipes, now that she does most of the cooking at home. Em used to have a planner too. They’d hang out on Sunday afternoons and make their weekly layouts, share stickers and pens and washi tape. Des wonders if Em still uses the bullet journal she gave her for Christmas. If it’s full of reading assignments and exam dates and frat parties. Em hasn’t posted a layout on her Instagram in months.
“I do too,” Des says. But she honestly can’t think of anything else that’s fun. With her extra hours at the store, with everything she’s been doing at home, she hasn’t been illustrating any new quotes. Her high school friends are back in Remington Hollow for the summer, but she hasn’t met up with any of them for coffee. She hasn’t had time—or maybe she hasn’t wanted to feel as small and stupid as Em is making her feel right now.
“Des.” Em is rolling her dark eyes. “Would you seriously rather stay home next weekend and practice your handwriting? You can do that anytime.”
Des shrinks. Her illustrated quotes are more than practicing her handwriting, and Em knows it. Or used to. “Why do you even want me to come if I’m so boring?”
Em sighs. “I want you to meet my new friends. It would mean a lot to me.”
But she doesn’t contradict Des. Doesn’t say, Shut up; you’re not boring. Or, If you’re boring, so am I, like she used to when Kat teased them about staying in on Saturday nights to marathon Miss Marple instead of going to parties.
Des doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t want to spend the weekend with strangers, with the Em who feels more and more like a stranger. She won’t know the people and places Em and her new friends talk about; she won’t understand their inside jokes. They’ll all drink and talk about hooking up, and she’ll feel lonely and confused, because she doesn’t want what they want, what it feels like people her age should want.
“Wait a minute. You don’t want to come,” Em realizes. Maybe she’s changed, but Des hasn’t. Em can still read her like a book. “Oh my God. Des, did you actually have the flu on my birthday?”
Des stares at the counter in front of her. At the torn cover of Murder on the Orient Express.
“You lied to me.” Em sounds so hurt. “You pretended to be sick so you didn’t have to visit me. We talked about it for months, Des! I had the whole weekend all planned out!”
Including a frat party. The old Em wouldn’t have wanted to go to a frat party, much less expected Des to go with her. The new Em insisted it would be super fun, that they had to go because Hunter was pledging. She said it would be okay if Des didn’t want to drink; she could still dance, and maybe she would meet a cute pledge like Hunter.
It had been easier to text Em, fake having the flu, and apologize profusely than to explain all the ways that Em’s plan sounded like a nightmare.
But they never used to lie to each other.
The bell above the door chimes again, and Paige breezes in.
“Hey, Desdemona,” she says, ignoring—or maybe oblivious to—the tension in the room.
Em gives Des a WTF look behind Paige’s back and mouths, “Desdemona?”
Des ignores her. She can reinvent herself too. She puts on a big smile. “Hey, Paige. What’s up?”