She’s been working on her portfolio forever. I thought she would’ve eased up a little after getting accepted into her dream school, the Fashion Institute of Design & Merchandising, but if anything, she’s amped up her productivity.
“You don’t get it, O,” she says, and I feel a jolt of defensiveness rise to the surface. Agatha and I have always bonded over having the most unstable career aspirations of our friends—with Sammie’s dreams of academia in history and Lindsay’s love for mathematics making them seem miles more reasonable than the two of us. “I’ve been stalking my future classmates on Insta and Twitter.” She thrusts her phone in my face. It’s open to an Instagram page covered in photos of elaborate dresses that look like the clothing equivalent of a love child between Marie Antoinette and Titania from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. “I thought I’d have a monopoly over glitter and neon glamour, but half these kids are doing the exact same shit as me.” She pauses. “If not better.”
I snatch her phone from her and throw it across the room onto her bed.
“Hey!” she shouts.
“How many of those designers have size-inclusive designs?” I ask.
“Ophelia, I—”
“Answer the question, Agatha. How many are plus-size designers?”
She sighs. “Like, two of them.”
“And do those two also hand bead all their designs and refuse to work with premade accent pieces like store-bought fabric roses?” I ask, motioning to her dress form. “Did they spend an entire summer studying color theory or ask for extra tutoring sessions in geometry just to better understand the math behind design?”
“Okay, okay. I get it.”
“No,” I tell her. “I get it. I get how talented you are and how hard you’ve worked for this. Don’t psych yourself out—you earned your place.”
She makes a weird noise, a combination of a laugh and sigh. Impostor syndrome is a bitch. Agatha will rightfully compliment herself all day long and boost the rest of us out of our pits of self-loathing, but try to give her a genuine compliment and she’ll very nearly shut down.
I’m going to miss her so much in the fall.
“Thank you,” she finally manages, but still doesn’t look at me. She fetches her phone from her bed.
“You can thank me by designing my wedding dress one day.” I flop back on her bed the second she moves away from it and goes back to pinning roses.
“Like you can afford me,” she laughs without turning around. “What’d you have in mind?”
“I used to picture a princess-cut during the Nathan-crushing years, but moved toward mermaid while dating Lucas.”
“And now?” I see her turn ever so slightly out of the corner of my eye.
“Low cut and flowy. Maybe a little off-white.”
“What about the boy?”
I sit up. “What boy?”
She finally faces me. “You know, the one you need standing across from you at the altar. The one who’ll brush away tears after you’ve walked up the aisle and handed off your bouquet to me and Lindsay in our stunning bridesmaid dresses.” She spins back to her dress. “I was thinking mauve. Should complement both our color palettes.”
I pick at the sequins on one of Agatha’s pillows. “There isn’t a boy.”
“Still stuck on Lucas?”
I kick off my shoes and tuck my socked feet beneath me. “I guess? I mean, when I picture my happily ever after, I don’t really picture him anymore.”
She freezes again and looks at me over her shoulder. “No?”
I shake my head.
“Hmm,” she says, shrugging, then moving a rose from the neckline to the waistline.
I wait for her to ask if there’s someone else. If I still picture myself being loved by someone specific, butterflies hatching in my stomach every time I see them. But she doesn’t. She asks me if the roses look better pinned to the neck or waist of the dress.
“The neckline,” I tell her, then change my mind. “Actually, I kind of like them at the waist. Maybe both?”
She tilts her head and puts her hands on her wide hips. “Really?”
I change my mind again, because I can. “Everywhere,” I say. “I think the roses should go everywhere.”
EIGHT
Talia parks on the street outside a property lined by thick, towering bushes. The two of us are the last to arrive, so we hurry out of the car and over to the keypad gate where everyone else is already waiting, the shrubbery bordering the property towering above them.
Wesley hesitates as Agatha, Sammie, and I wait breathlessly. For the three of us, this’ll be the first time seeing Wesley’s house. In between reminding everyone all week to nominate Lindsay for prom queen, we joked about finally being welcomed into the Cho Mansion. Wesley did his best to scold us for overexaggerating, but if Talia’s, Zaq’s, and Linds’s anticipating faces are any indication, our joke isn’t too far off.
“Wait,” Wesley says, turning to face us. “Can you three just, uh, just promise me you aren’t going to be weird about this?”
“I promise,” I say as Agatha says, “I will make no such promise.” Sammie just shrugs.
“Wes, just get it over with,” Zaq says, nudging Wesley’s back. He sighs, then finally types in the key code, and the gate swings open.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Sammie says.
Wesley’s house isn’t a mansion; he was right about that.
It’s a palace.
Three stories of shining white stone and a steep roof guarded by elaborate granite gargoyles loom before us. Two cars, looking equally as expensive as Wesley’s, if not even fancier, sit around a fountain in the circular gravel drive before the porch. And waiting on the steps are two people who I can only assume are Wesley’s parents.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Wesley echoes, trying to reach his parents before the rest of us, but failing miserably as we speed-walk after him like giddy schoolchildren.
“You must be Wesley’s other friends. We’ve heard so much about you all.” Mrs. Cho beams, her glossy black hair cut in a blunt bob. Her white jeans and flowy blue blouse don’t have a single crease in them.
“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” Mr. Cho says. His build and face look so similar to Wesley’s that he looks more like his older brother than his father.
“Who knew Wesley had hot parents?” Sammie mutters, just to me, but when Wesley turns bright red, I assume he heard too.
“Of course, we’ve already met you three,” Mrs. Cho says, smiling at Zaq, Talia, and Lindsay. “But I wanted to formally welcome you three.” She turns to Agatha, Sammie, and me, giving us each a quick but warm hug. “Would you like a tour around?”
“They’re fine,” Wesley says tightly. “Zaq is just taking some pictures of Lindsay out here, so…” He twitches his head and widens his eyes.
“Oh! Oh, of course,” Mrs. Cho says, wringing her empty hands. “Well, if any of you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.” She heads for the front door, Mr. Cho on her heels, but she turns around at the last second. “And Lindsay, you look lovely as usual.”