Tonight the Streets Are Ours

Now Arden knew exactly what Lindsey’s text message had meant, and she knew the answer to the principal’s question, as well.

She and Lindsey shared lockers, as they shared pretty much everything. Thanks to stupid school bureaucracy and geography, they had been assigned lockers on opposite ends of the building from each other, and from where most of their classes and activities were. So Lindsey usually used the one that was officially Arden’s, because it was closer to the gym, while Arden usually stored her stuff in Lindsey’s, which was right by the theater and library. They had always known each other’s combinations, to school lockers and to everything else, and Arden had seen nothing but benefits to this sort of sharing.

But that was before Lindsey, apparently, stashed a bag of pot in her locker.

Arden knew that Lindsey got high sometimes: weekends, parties, whatever. People did that—not Arden, but people, fine. But how could Lindsey have been so dumb, so thoughtless and foolhardy, as to bring it into school? Their school had a zero tolerance policy, a minimum three-day suspension for any student found in possession of any sort of drugs, no matter what kind, no matter what the quantity—though if they were worse drugs, in higher quantities, you risked a longer suspension or even expulsion. Everybody knew this.

But the worst part, for Lindsey, was that getting caught with drugs meant you were immediately kicked off all sports teams for the rest of the year. No way around it. And Lindsey lived for the school track team. She loved running roughly as much as Arden hated it. Not only that, but being recruited for track was basically Lindsey’s only hope for getting accepted into a good college. She didn’t have a whole lot else going for her. This was not, by the way, Arden’s opinion. This was the opinion of countless guidance counselors, teachers, and Lindsey’s own parents.

Arden knew what would happen if she explained exactly how that bag of marijuana wound up in her locker. Lindsey would lose it all. Over one casual, stupid decision, and one massive helping of bad luck. That sounded about par for the course for Lindsey.

But fortunately, Arden didn’t play any sports.





Let’s go even further. Let’s go way, way back

When she was nine years old, Arden Huntley was turned into a doll.

It’s a very competitive process, to be a doll.

Only one girl gets this honor each year, and there are a lot of rules. She must be between the ages of eight and twelve. She must be a United States citizen. She must write an essay explaining why she thinks she has what it takes to be the Doll of the Year, and she must submit this essay to the Just Like Me Dolls Company by July first, and if her application is chosen above all the other thousands and thousands of girls who are vying for this honor, then she and only she will have a Just Like Me Doll modeled after her that goes on sale six months later.

When she turned eight, Arden’s grandparents gave her the Just Like Me Doll of that year, whose name was Tabitha. Tabitha had brown skin, brown eyes, and brown hair. Tabitha was a ballerina. That was her “thing.” So if Arden had more generous grandparents, they could have given her Tabitha’s barre and Tabitha’s performance tutu and Tabitha’s pointe shoes. Instead they just gave her Tabitha herself, in her normal, everyday leotard, and the four illustrated books that told the story of Tabitha’s life. Arden would have preferred the pointe shoes to the books, but she dutifully wrote a thank-you note, anyway.