“A bit fancy here, isn’t it?” she replies, which is an understatement in the same way that saying that the ocean’s fairly sizable or a Maserati’s kind of a zippy ride. The average home around here has six bedrooms and just as many baths. And everyone renovates their kitchen every five years. God forbid we keep our almond milk in a fridge from 2010.
Simone tells us, “My friend Cordelia says my strategy for America should be finding the biggest bitch in school and immediately taking her down. Is she right?”
“Hmm,” I reply, pretending to muse. “That’s less ‘high school’ and more ‘prison.’ You should probably Netflix Glee and also Orange Is the New Black.”
“I shall make a mental note. I already feel you’re both full of helpful advice, you possibly more than him,” she says with a grin in Stephen’s direction, “so I insist you come inside for something cold to drink before you melt on the spot.”
Even though she’s teasing, I can see Stephen blanch and yet again I feel like I’ve gotta rescue him.
“Okay, very important to discuss before we come in and definitely will determine if we’re gonna be friends,” I say, referencing the one subject that will absolutely, positively draw Stephen out of his shell and into the conversation. “Are you Biggie or are you Tupac?”
She tilts her head to the side. “As in...Smalls and Shakur?”
“Uh-huh. As in the most violent and hotly contested rap rivalry from the mid ’90s.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and looks thoughtful. “When my parents were our age, they said they could immediately identify kindred spirits by scanning their vinyl/cassette/CD collections, but now that music’s digital, it’s impossible to walk into someone’s home and assess their tastes. Kind of a shame, really.”
“You’re dodging the question,” I say.
“Not a dodge, just providing context. Honestly, my musical proclivities are profoundly eclectic. I listen to everything from opera to Swedish death metal depending on my mood.”
I raise an eyebrow. “There you go, dodging again. This gonna be a thing with you?”
She makes an X mark over her heart. “No, promise, won’t be a thing.”
“Then what’s your answer? Or did you need to step into your car first to collect your thoughts?” She seems confused as I peer around the four-car garage. I clarify, “You do drive a Dodge, right?”
Simone holds up her hands in the universal stop symbol and I notice she’s wearing dozens of funky bracelets. Do they get in the way in the bathroom?
(Is that a strange thing to wonder?)
“Okay, okay. Point taken. Hmm... Who do I prefer? Well, both artists had such an influence on modern hip-hop that to choose one over the other would be like deciding between peanut butter and chocolate. Both are perfect, for different reasons.”
My suddenly mute friend Stephen avoids eye contact and traces circles on the floor with the tip of his sneaker. Some days it’s like I want to take video of him so he can see how he comes across. Bro, give me something to work with here.
(I should storyboard that shit out for him.)
I persist, “Oh, you must be into baseball because clearly you root for the Dodgers. Listen, anyone who’s familiar with the genre has an opinion. Can you like them both? Absolutely. But you have to prefer one over the other. So who’s it gonna be—Biggie or Tupac?”
“I feel like there’s a lot of hidden weight in this question,” she says, tucking a wild strand of dark hair back into her scruffy topknot.
“There is,” I reply. In my peripheral vision, I see Stephen sizing up all the cardboard. Ten bucks says he’s mentally drawing himself inside a fort made of boxes.
Simone tucks her thumbs into her dress pockets and leans back on her heels. “You understand my reticence, what with being new and all.”
“I do.”
“I clearly run the risk of alienating one of you, potentially both.”
I nod. “Distinct possibility.”
“One that I fear.”
“Right now, your choice is the Schr?dinger’s cat of opinions. At this moment, you say you prefer both Biggie and Tupac but that can’t be. It’s simply not the natural state. You have to be one or the other. We need to open this box and find out for sure.”
I like her.
I don’t like her like her but she seems fun, seems like she’d be a fine addition to our crew. Let’s be honest, it’s a fairly exclusive crew, as Stephen and I aren’t exactly the most popular kids in school. We’re not hated, we’re just not even...considered, you know? Adding an interesting person to our social circle could only make our senior year better. We used to be friends with everyone growing up, but people started to splinter four or five years ago, forming their own cliques, and now Stephen and I are way too insular. We’re a party of two, which is kind of depressing.
Maybe if we tried a little harder, we’d be invited to stuff. We’d be welcomed back into the fold, reintroduced into NSHS’s social scene. (People are always crying about all the drinking and the drug use among high school students up here, but I’ll be damned if I’ve ever even seen any.)
However, Simone’s not going to want to be around me and my fascinating friend Stephen if he can’t find a way to open his goddamned mouth and interact.
“Then, my answer is... Me Against the World,” she says, naming off a Tupac album.
Stephen breaks into a massive smile and fist bumps Simone, the thrill of this unexpected victory infusing him with a turbocharge of confidence. “I’m Stephen, Stephen Cho. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
I exhale.
He may just be okay after all.
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MalloryGood 2m.
Ready for day 1 senior year. Love this fishtail braid look. #firstdayhaironpoint.
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NShoreKnightBraden Nice one, Mal.
EliseALot #senioryeargoals.
YesTHATJasper thirsty much?
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MidfieldNoell you slay!!!
4
MALLORY
You probably wish you were me.
I don’t actually say this out loud. Not an appropriate topic for our campus tour, and also super bitchy, even though that’s not my intention. Still, I can tell by the way the new girl sizes me up that she believes I have it all, that I check off all the right boxes. How could she not when I’ve got:
natural blond hair, super long and straight but not stringy, never stringy, check.
a British SUV, check.
a twenty-six-inch waist, check.
a cute, popular, universally beloved boyfriend, check.
a limitless future, double-freaking-check.
My Balenciaga backpack’s full of credit cards in my name, yet I’m not even legal to buy cigarettes. That is, if anyone smoked, because, no.
I wonder if this Simone person partakes, though? She seems super European with her bizarre felt clogs and layers of scarves. They LOVE smoking over there. When the Italian Club went to Venice last summer, I noticed every high school–aged kid puffing away, as though lung cancer weren’t even a thing.