She nods. “Yeah. And playing in the ball pit.”
Buttercup lets out a bark, obviously getting just as into it as we are.
I laugh. “Yes, and getting you, Buttercup,” I assure her.
Grace’s face lights up, and for a minute I can almost see my twelve-year-old best friend in there. The one who used to get excited about tea parties and sleeping bag obstacle courses. “We can use the pictures to show not only how we changed, but how the things that made us happy changed, too.”
I jump to my feet. “My mom has a ton of pictures of the two of us together as kids!”
Grace’s smile instantly falls off her face and she looks down at her notebook again to write something. “Maybe we should just stick to individual pictures. With just one person in them. You know, to keep things simple.”
My heart sinks into my chest with a thud. “Oh. Right. Okay, sure.”
“So,” she goes on without looking up. “Why don’t we both go home and gather some photos, then we’ll meet again tomorrow and start putting it all together with a script. Okay?” There’s something about her voice as she says this. It sounds so rigid and formal. Like a robot.
“Okay,” I agree. “Good idea.”
She glances around the family room, her eyes landing momentarily on the stack of science magazines I put out, before drifting to the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, which she still hasn’t touched. “And,” she begins stiffly, “I think it’s best if we meet in the library from now on.”
My whole body sags in defeat. “But isn’t it more comfortable to meet here? Or we could do it at your house?”
“No,” Grace says instantly. “The library is better.”
I exhale. She is not making this easy on me.
“Okay,” I agree, resigned. “We can meet there tomorrow.”
Grace closes her notebook and puts it in her backpack before zipping it up.
That’s it?
She’s leaving already?
But she just got here.
She stands up and starts to walk toward the kitchen. I jump to my feet and follow after her, trying to come up with something to say that will make her change her mind about leaving. But everything that floods through my head—watch a TV show, choreograph a dance, listen to music—are all outdated suggestions of things Addie and Grace used to do together. And I realize I have absolutely no idea what Grace likes anymore. Since it’s clearly not Summer Crush.
Grace pauses momentarily by the kitchen window, her gaze drifting outside. I follow her line of sight until I understand what has caught her eye. The yellow-and-white Victorian playhouse sits in the backyard like a relic. An ancient ruin abandoned by an indigenous tribe long ago.
“You still have it,” she says, and her voice sounds funny. Almost scratchy.
“Yes!” I say, my spirits suddenly lifting. Maybe she’ll want to go inside. Maybe she’ll want to have a tea party for old times’ sake. “My mom was talking about selling it, but I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. It has so many memories, you know? It’s…” I search for the right word. “Nostalgic!”
Grace is quiet for a really long time as she stares outside at our Hideaway. I don’t say anything because I don’t want to interrupt whatever thought process she’s having. Maybe she’s feeling sentimental about the past. Just like Rip van Winkle. Maybe all the amazing times we had in that playhouse are rushing back to her and she’ll suddenly remember how good things used to be. Maybe she’ll—
“Good idea,” she finally says, stepping away from the window and swinging her backpack onto her shoulder.
My brow furrows. “What?”
“Selling it,” she says, and once again, her voice has that emotionless robot tone. Then, before I can even react, she disappears out the front door, mumbling something about seeing me tomorrow.
Later that night, an alarm goes off on my phone, reminding me that I’m supposed to be at Clementine’s house in ten minutes to film our next vlog. I don’t really want to go. For starters, I’m really mad at her for laughing at the video of me on YouTube (which unfortunately is still up and now has over five hundred views). But mostly, I’ve been working on our English project for the past few hours and I’m really getting into it. I’m finding so many fun old pictures from when we were kids.
But I also know I’ve been avoiding Clementine, and I don’t want to just completely blow her off. Especially when I promised I’d be there. I can tell the vlog is very important to her—and to me. Well, at least to sixteen-year-old me.
So I go.
Reluctantly.
When Clementine opens the front door of her house, she looks really surprised to see me. Like she didn’t expect me to show up at all. She jabs her tongue into the side of her cheek as she gives me a cold once-over. “Oh, look, you showed up,” she says in the most sarcastic tone ever.
“Sorry, I’ve been kind of preoccupied the last few days.”
“I know,” she intones. “I saw the video.”
I try to ignore her jab. “Can I come in?”
“Whatever.” She turns and I follow her inside, closing the door behind me.
I’ve never actually been in the Dumonts’ house before. I mean, sixteen-year-old me has, obviously, but I have no recollection of it. It’s amazing. It has these high ceilings and fancy chandeliers and a kitchen that looks big enough to land a plane in. I try not to let my reaction show, since I’m supposed to hang out here all the time, but when Clementine leads me into the basement and I see that she has basically an entire movie studio set up down there, with professional-looking lights and cameras and different backdrops, I just can’t help myself. The word comes tumbling out of my mouth.
“Wow!” I say, in awe.
“What?” she asks, looking around to try to locate what I’m so excited about.
I rein in my reaction. “It…looks great. That’s all.”
She narrows her eyes. “It hasn’t changed since our last episode.”
I shrug, playing it off. “I know. I just think it looks great.”
Clementine shakes her head. “Whatever,” she mumbles again. “Let’s just get this over with.”
She’s really mad. I can feel it. And I guess I can’t blame her. I’ve basically been ignoring her since Saturday.
“Clementine,” I begin cautiously. “I’m sorry about—”
“Where were you all weekend?” she interrupts. The sudden hostility in her voice makes me flinch.
“I…I told you. I wasn’t feeling well. I pretty much stayed in bed.”
I feel bad about lying to the girl who’s supposed to be my best friend. But if I told her the truth—that I was hanging out with Jacob Tucker and Lily Harrington all weekend—I think her head might explode.
She takes a step closer to me. For a second, I’m kind of scared of her. She looks pretty frightening right now with her body all rigid and her eyes squinty. “Oh, really?” she challenges. “You were sick?”
“Yeah,” I say, taking a tiny step back.
“Are you sure?”
I chuckle, hoping it doesn’t sound as fake and anxious as it does in my head. “Yes. I’m sure. I think I would remember. I felt horrible.”
She presses her lips together, like she’s thinking really hard. And then, in an instant, the whole scary monster face just vanishes. Poof. Gone. Like a light switch has been turned off.
“Okay,” she says in a light, airy voice. “Whatever you say.” Then she turns around to start setting up the camera. “Let’s start with the nail art. Did you bring your kit?”
Um, no. I didn’t even know that I had a kit.
“Uh…” I hesitate. “I forgot it. Maybe we can use yours?”
If Clementine is mad about this, she doesn’t show it. She just smiles and says, “Sure, no problem.”
By the time we’re halfway through filming the tutorial, I’m starting to get suspicious. Clementine has been completely chill and chipper this whole time. Possibly a little too chipper. Even wh
en I totally mess up the daisy-print design on my nails because, let’s face it, I’ve never done nail art before and my hands are shaking like jackhammers when I try to hold the dotting tool. I expect her nostrils to flare and fire to come out of her mouth, but she just calmly takes the polish from me and says, “That’s okay. I’ll do it. You film.”
That’s when I know something is up. She’s being way too nice. I don’t even remember her being this nice to me before I ditched her all weekend.
Something is definitely going on.
But I don’t really have time to think about it, or try to analyze Clementine’s weird behavior, because by the time we finish filming the nail-art tutorial and then the makeup tutorial and then the hair tutorial, it’s almost eleven o’clock and I’m exhausted.
When I finally get home and crash into bed, I check my phone to find text messages from two different numbers I don’t recognize. They aren’t linked to any names in my contacts.
The first says:
Unknown: I had fun on Saturday. Should we do it again on Friday night? Maybe a movie?
My heart practically pounds right out of my chest.
Jacob Tucker?
He’s the only person I saw on Saturday, besides Clementine. Well, and Jeff, my hairstylist, but I really don’t think he would be texting me to see a movie.
It has to be from Jacob!
Oh my gosh. Jacob Tucker is asking me out. A boy is asking me out on a date. Like an official date. At the movies! It doesn’t get more official than that.
Rory used to go on tons of dates to the movies. One weekend she actually saw the same movie three times with three different guys! It was crazy.
I don’t need three different guys. Just the thought of going to the movies with one guy is enough to make my stomach churn. And it’s Jacob! Which I still can’t get over. I mean, four years ago the thought of sitting in the dark with Jacob Tucker would have made my stomach churn, too. But with nausea. Not with excitement like it’s doing now.
He’s so cute. And so funny.
AND HE LIKES ME!
He has to, right? Boys don’t ask out girls they don’t like.
Do they?
I don’t know. After that whole flirting lesson Clementine gave me right before my disastrous dance with Connor, I’m totally confused on how the whole boy/girl-courting thing works. Am I supposed to text him back right away? Or am I supposed to wait?
Oh, who cares!
I quickly tap out a response.
Me: Yes! That sounds like so much fun! I can’t wait!
Oh my gosh, what will I wear?
I’m already sorting through my closet, quickly ruling out options, when I remember there was a second text message on my phone from an unidentified number.
I pick it up again and read.
Unknown: Finding the best pics for our project. I think this is gonna be great. See you tomorrow!!!
I nearly let out a sob of joy. It’s from Grace. She texted me. With three exclamation points and a smiley face. This morning she would barely even look at me and now she’s sending me emojis!
I save both numbers to my phone, trying to ignore the flash of annoyance that my sixteen-year-old self didn’t even bother to have Grace’s number stored. But that doesn’t matter. That materialistic, rude, vapid version of me is gone, quickly being replaced by this new and improved version.
I sink to the floor next to my bed and hug the phone to my chest, feeling relief and happiness spread through every inch of my body.
Finally, finally, things are turning around.
When I walk into school the next morning, I immediately know something is wrong. Like that feeling you get in a scary movie, right before something horrible and grotesque jumps out from a closet. The hairs on my arm even stick up a little.
Last week, when I walked into this very same hallway for the first time in my new sixteen-year-old body, about twenty people either waved or stopped to say hi or blew up my phone with text messages.
Now it’s absolutely silent.
Well, obviously the hallway itself isn’t silent. There are tons of people bustling about, opening and closing locker doors, calling out to one another, talking on phones, but not one person seems to notice I’m here.
Is this about the YouTube video?
No, it can’t be. If anything, I would think people would be laughing at me. Not ignoring me.
I got a text from Clementine this morning telling me she wasn’t feeling well and I should go to school without her. I was actually kind of relieved to get it. Not because I wish her ill or anything, but because, I don’t know, hanging out with her sometimes feels like so much work. Like I have to say all the right things and look the right way and pretend to be this person who I don’t even really like.
I was grateful to be able to drive to school on my own. Plus, I’m getting really good at this whole driving thing. I got up to thirty-five miles per hour today! It was exhilarating! But now, I kind of wish I had her by my side. For moral support or something. Or maybe just so I can ask her what’s going on, since she always seems to know.
I try to assure myself that I’m just being paranoid. Nothing is going on. I just happened to walk into school at a moment when no one I knew was there. No big deal. I’m sure everything will fall into place by the end of first period.
Except it doesn’t.
After trig, I pass at least five people I recognize from our lunch table, and not one of them acknowledges me. In fact, they kind of act like I’m not even there. And when I wave to Annabelle in the hallway, she doesn’t wave back. She just gives me a blank look, like she doesn’t know me and is trying to figure out why I’m doing this strange spastic movement with my hand.
But it isn’t until I get to my second-period French class that I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that something is definitely wrong, because Clementine is sitting in her usual seat, looking very healthy. Her hair and makeup are especially awesome, like she spent extra time getting ready today.
“Hi,” I say numbly as I slide into the seat next to her. “I thought you said you were sick.”
She gives me a huge smile that never reaches her eyes. I immediately know it’s fake because I’ve seen her give the exact same smile to about a dozen people. People she would soon after call “losers.”
My stomach swoops.
“I guess I’m feeling better,” Clementine chirps in an extra-fake, sugary tone. “Isn’t that amazing? How you can tell someone you’re sick and then…” She shrugs and gives her hair a toss. “I don’t know, just not be?”
I stare at her in confusion. “Are you mad at me or something?”
She tilts her head, like she’s talking to a lost child. “No. Why would I be mad at you?”
Okay, I’ve watched enough high school movies to know that when a girl like Clementine says something like that, it has at least twenty hidden meanings layered underneath.
I’m about to ask her another question, but then the bell rings and the teacher starts blabbing in incomprehensible French again. And when class is over, Clementine jumps out of her seat so fast, I barely even have time to make eye contact, let alone talk to her.
I would try to track her down, but I don’t know her class schedule. Or her locker number. And when I find her at her usual lunch table and try to sit down, Annabelle turns to me and says, “I’m sorry. This table is full today.” Then she rejoins the conversation and Clementine doesn’t even look up.
I’m so confused my head hurts.
What is Annabelle doing there? I thought Clementine was boycotting her for stealing her parking space. Now they’re chatting and giggling like besties.
And why is Clementine so mad at me?
Is it because I screwed up the nail-art tutorial yesterday? Or maybe because I’ve been acting so strange? Did she finally just give up on me?
I carry my tray around the cafeteria, looking for a place to sit. I see Grace sitting with some of her marching-band friends, but the table seems
really packed and I don’t want to press my luck with her.
I finally find a completely empty table near the back and plop down by myself. I guess I’m eating alone today.
I grab a french fry from my tray—for the record, high school food is so much better than middle school food!—and stuff it into my mouth.
So Clementine is mad at me? Do I really care? Whatever it is, I’m sure she’ll get over it soon enough and we’ll go back to being friends.
Friends.
The word echoes in my brain like a ball bouncing down a long, empty hallway.
Why are we friends? It’s still a mystery that I haven’t managed to solve yet. Sure, we run a successful vlog together and seem to hang out together all the time, but she’s not really that nice. Especially not to people she doesn’t deem worthy of being in her circle.
Why do I even hang out with her?
What does sixteen-year-old me see in her?
A tray plops down in front of me, startling me out of my thoughts, and I look up to see Jacob climbing into the empty bench across from me. My face instantly lights up.
“Hi!”
“Hi,” he says, but his tone is more cautious than mine. “What are you doing way over here all by yourself? Don’t you normally eat with Clementine and her minions?”
I choke out a laugh. Minions. That’s the perfect word for those girls. They follow her around, doing everything she says in an effort to get her attention.
And then it hits me. That’s why no one has talked to me today! Clementine must have told them not to.
“I think I’ve been given a time-out,” I say, rolling my eyes and taking a sip of my fruit punch.
Jacob cracks open his soda. “That sounds so middle school.”
I laugh. “Right?”
He takes a sip from the can. “So, what horrific, unforgivable sin did you commit? Did you wear the same outfit as her? Or say that her bracelet made her wrist look fat? No, no, I know!” He holds up a finger. “You insulted the shoes. Tsk, tsk. You should know better.”
I’m laughing so hard, I’m surprised fruit punch doesn’t squirt out of my nose.