“So, are we going to talk about it?” Ags asks once we’re back in her room. She tugs Linds’s campaign posters out from behind a stack of fabric remnants.
“Just stressed about school … and stuff,” I reply, picking at her shaggy carpet.
“Ah, yes. Stuff.”
“We graduate in two months. It’s my God-given, seventeen-year-old right to be ambiguously stressed out.”
“If you say so,” she singsongs, like she wasn’t having a crisis of faith about her future less than a week ago. She unfolds a poster to reveal Lindsay in all her tight-dressed, glossy-papered glory. “Thoughts?”
“They look nice.”
“Wow, don’t hurt yourself with that enthusiasm.” She turns the poster around and appraises it herself. “Definitely adding these photos to my portfolio. Speaking of which…” She tosses me the finalized fabric roses from last week. “Help me glitter these up?”
I hear someone walking in the hallway and assume it’s Agatha’s parents or little brother, but Lindsay, of all people, pushes the door open before I can reply to Ags.
“Aren’t you supposed to be eating my pizza with Sammie right now?” Agatha asks, barely looking up as she hands Linds several flowers and a tin of golden glitter.
“He had to go pick up Hana from a friend’s, so we cut out early,” Linds replies, taking a seat on the floor against Ags’s bed beside me.
“How’d it go?” I ask, and Agatha shoots me an annoyed look, either because I stole the question from her or because I’m finally choosing to speak, just not to her.
“Fine,” Linds says, expertly coating her flower with fabric glue and sprinkling glitter atop it, somehow without making a mess.
“Just fine?” Ags presses, setting her glitter aside.
We stare at her until she accepts we aren’t going to drop it. “Okay, seriously? What, do you guys need more material to gossip about when I’m not around?”
It feels like a slap in the face. Mostly because it’s true.
“We just wanted to know how it went, that’s all,” I say, putting a lid on both my pot of glitter and my desire to get defensive.
“Well, I told you already, it went fine. And so did my study date on Saturday with Wesley and the soccer game with Sammie yesterday. It all went fine; everything is just fine! Should I leave now so you guys can talk about how I’m slutting it up with two guys who deserve better?”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ags starts, immediately scooching closer to Linds and me. “No one is calling anyone a slut right now. I don’t know what you two drank in the water at school today, but I need us to backtrack this conversation about ten steps.”
“Ugh.” Linds covers her face with her hands. “I’m just so overwhelmed. It’s like I’m on the freaking Bachelorette, and I have to pick my husband in the next five minutes. Do you know how many people asked me today who I’m taking to prom? Because I lost count after third period. And my mom keeps reminding me that I should be spending more time with my sisters instead of Wes and Sammie since I’m moving halfway across the country in a few months.”
“To be fair, most people were probably just making conversation,” I say.
“Not implying you’re a slut,” Ags finishes.
“No, I know that. But you two, you know what’s been going on. And Ophelia, you looked so pissed at lunch today, and Ags, you didn’t even invite me over to help … do whatever this is.” She knocks a flower aside.
“Babe.” Ags places her hand on Linds’s knee. “We don’t think you’re a slut. And whatever Ophelia’s problem is, it had nothing to do with you.”
“I don’t have a problem—” I start to defend myself.
“We’ll unpack whatever is going on with you in a minute,” Ags interrupts. “Point is, even if you were ‘slutting it up,’ you’re our friend. We don’t care.”
“We just don’t want to see any of you get hurt,” I add.
“Me either. They’re both great guys,” Linds says. “But I don’t know, I think they expect a lot from me. I like them both, so much. But I don’t want to be the girl walking into college already in love with someone back home. I want to be the girl who can walk into any party and find a guy to dance with or who can flirt with boys from class over coffee without any strings attached. I’ve already met some guys going to my college from incoming U of C freshman group chats I found online, and talking to them has been so exciting. It’s like, there’s this whole world of guys out there, really cute, cool guys. And it’s nice to not worry about them wanting to marry me or see them looking at me the way Sammie and Wes look at me sometimes.” She folds in, face in her lap. “God, I do sound like a slut.”
“You sound like a girl who wants to enjoy her life on her terms,” I reply. I’ve been silently judging Lindsay for months because, okay yeah, I can admit it, I was jealous of her. And talking about it with Agatha the way we have, like it’s a sporting match I actually enjoy watching, softened the blow. But I never want to be the girl who calls other girls sluts just because I can’t get a boy to like me back. I don’t want to contribute to a society that makes my friend feel bad for wanting to explore her options just because she has so many.
“Linds, you could sleep with a new guy every day of the week, and, I think O would agree, I wouldn’t look at you any differently,” Ags says, offering her hand. The three of us join our grips, like we’re readying to perform a spell. “If doing what you want means being a slut, slut it all the way up.”
“Thank you, Agatha.” Linds smiles before looking at me. “Oh my God, Ophelia, are you crying?” she asks, laughing.
“Never,” I say, wiping away my blackened mascara tears. We both turn to Agatha with wet, expectant eyes.
“What?” Ags shrugs, eyes dry as a bone. “I’m saving the waterworks for graduation and our moving-out days, when it really counts. And by the way, like ten people asked me who I’m taking to prom today too. It’s not that deep, Linds.”
Lindsay chokes on a laugh. “Thanks, Ags.”
We go back to glittering our flowers. Lindsay cues up some music on her phone and sings along, loudly and badly. Comfortably.
Agatha’s sentiment lingers in my mind though, long after we move on to talking about the drama already cropping up in Lindsay’s college group chats. It’s weird to think about her having this whole other life already, but it’s nice that she’s welcoming us into it a little bit.
I imagine what it would be like to welcome them into mine. To tell them about Talia, the way we’ve been growing closer. But how do you say what you can’t explain? How do I convey a heartbeat, a caught breath, the goose bumps on my skin when Talia hugged me goodbye in the confines of her truck on Sunday?
Things may be changing, but this change feels like too much.