3
“I thought we were going to a club.” I glance between Elodie and the parking attendant who’s simultaneously holding the passenger door and motioning toward the curb as though he doesn’t think I can find it on my own. Elodie is the only person I know who will give it her all in spin class, only to valet park at the mall.
Without a word, she grabs me by the arm and drags me into some big, glitzy department store with gleaming white marble floors and the kind of aspirational price tags that are way out of my orbit.
“So I’m guessing the club is hidden in some sort of password-protected dressing room?” I release myself from her grip. “Or maybe a secret basement beneath the MAC counter?”
“Look—” Elodie turns on me so quickly, the toes of my Chucks bump against hers. “I don’t know how to say this politely so I’m just going to say it.” She places her hands on her hips and inhales a theatrical breath. “You need a new look.”
I blink. She’s right—that wasn’t the least bit polite.
“I’m not trying to be mean, but for someone who’s supposedly so into fashion, it’s strange how you don’t even try to look cute.” Her finger traces a line from my ratty hoodie, to my baggy jeans, down to my worn Converse sneakers. “It’s like you’re purposely trying to sabotage yourself. And honestly, Natasha, I just want to help.”
I breathe my own version of a theatrical sigh and shove right past her, pausing before a display of designer sunglasses that cost nearly a quarter of the monthly mortgage my dad stuck us with. But I try a pair anyway, just for kicks.
“Rumor has it you used to put in an effort. But I’m not sure I believe it.”
“Understandable,” I say. “I mean, why would you?” I switch the glasses for a pair with exaggerated square frames and lean toward the mirror. At first, I chose them as a joke, but now I’m thinking I like them. I slide them off and check the price.
Maybe in another life, with another bank account.
“But then I saw a yearbook from when you were a freshman.”
I reach for another pair, mirrored and round. They don’t fit my face, but they do hide my eyes, buying me enough time to prepare for what’s next.
I know exactly where this is going. The one person who’s never seen the Natasha version of me is now fully caught up with what the rest of the senior class has known all along—my freshman and senior years appear to belong to two different people.
“Not only were you smokin’, but you were also voted ninth grade homecoming princess, class president, and you were rocking the honor roll.”
I gape at her, fuming. It’s not like my A-list past was a secret, but why the hell is Elodie checking up on me?
“I mean, it’s a pretty dramatic shift, and I’m curious how it happened.” She reaches for my wrist. There’s genuine concern in her gaze, but the story of my downfall is not up for discussion.
“Nothinghappened,” I say.
Elodie’s blue eyes fix on mine, searching for the truth she’s sure I’m holding back. The smoking gun—the single, cataclysmic event that kick-started my descent. But the thing is, it was nothing like that.
I mean, it’s not like anyonedied.
It’s not like my life imploded overnight.
It was more of a gradual decline. A small series of events that caused poverty, depression, and hopelessness to roll through my house like a virus, spreading first to my mom and then to me.
For a while, I tried to keep up appearances. But it wasn’t long before the divide between me and pretty much everyone else at my school caused me to fall further and further behind until there was no point in trying.
What looks like failure is just self-preservation. I save my energy for my after-school job because we need the money. And, since no one’s paying me to take a history exam, it doesn’t top my list of priorities.
Still, I’m disappointed in Elodie. She’s supposed to be the one person who allows me to tune out from my regularly scheduled life so I can indulge in a little fantasy and fun. If she’s looking to switch it up and act like my life coach, then maybe she should embrace her new role and take me back to school where I belong.
“Is this supposed to be an intervention?” I ask. “Because I’d rather go clubbing.” I peel her fingers away from my arm and return the sunglasses to the slot where I found them. “I mean, you can’t have it both ways, El. You’re either my partner in crime or my guidance counselor.”
“Fine.” She snatches the square frames and calls for a salesperson. “But like it or not, you’re getting a makeover. Because this”—she shakes a disapproving finger at my hoodie— “is not going to fly where we’re going.”