Friday
(First night of Spring break)
7:56 p.m.
Riley somehow manages to snap along to the music, despite the red claws attached to her fingers. My mother would never let me paint my nails such a grown-woman color or keep them so long and pointy. But Riley’s parents are lax, and she’s quite honestly super spoiled.
She has a full-on orange-and-pink color-coordinated room, as if she snatched the whole thing straight out of a Target catalog. And she has her own attached bathroom and walk-in closet. Even Mal doesn’t have a walk-in closet, and his house is the closest I’ve ever come to stepping foot in a castle.
“Daeja!” Riley shouts from her bedroom.
“What?” Daeja shouts back from the bathroom.
“Come here, babe. Please.” She’s spinning in circles, letting the tulip skirt of her red dress flip and flap in the wind. Riley looks really good in red. She’s told me why before, but I can’t remember. Something about her skin tone. She’s a mixed girl with brown, shoulder-length curly hair—white dad, Black mom.
Daeja grumbles about doing her eyeliner, but she still comes out grinning. It’s obvious how beautiful she finds her girlfriend.
I’m sitting on the floor with my back against Riley’s bed frame, painting my toenails white, while they dance together. We’re supposed to be pregaming for Mal’s annual Spring Break Bash tonight, but my head isn’t really in the game. . . . Probably because I’m not going to the party tonight.
Riley’s mom comes waltzing in, wearing fuzzy slippers and a really sweet-smelling (expensive) perfume, and holding a half-full glass of white wine. “Girls, look at this.” She holds up her phone.
Riley struts over in her eight-inch heels, not even the tiniest bit scared of what her mom will say about her outfit. Daeja follows.
“Six Flags wristbands are on sale,” Mrs. Ross explains, before Daeja and Riley can even read the screen. “We could go have some fun over spring break. And then when summer rolls around, we could have, like, a graduation last hurrah there, with all your school friends. Nikki, you too,” Mrs. Ross says enthusiastically.
I smile over my shoulder, knowing my mom isn’t about to pay for a Six Flags wristband. Hell, I probably won’t get through this week without her yelling at me about getting a job. But still I say, “That sounds like fun.”
“I don’t know,” Riley says, popping out her hip. “Over spring break, sure, but I hate going to Six Flags during the summer. It’s too crowded and hot. My skin hates too much sun.”
7:56 p.m.
Riley somehow manages to snap along to the music, despite the red claws attached to her fingers. My mother would never let me paint my nails such a grown-woman color or keep them so long and pointy. But Riley’s parents are lax, and she’s quite honestly super spoiled.
She has a full-on orange-and-pink color-coordinated room, as if she snatched the whole thing straight out of a Target catalog. And she has her own attached bathroom and walk-in closet. Even Mal doesn’t have a walk-in closet, and his house is the closest I’ve ever come to stepping foot in a castle.
“Daeja!” Riley shouts from her bedroom.
“What?” Daeja shouts back from the bathroom.
“Come here, babe. Please.” She’s spinning in circles, letting the tulip skirt of her red dress flip and flap in the wind. Riley looks really good in red. She’s told me why before, but I can’t remember. Something about her skin tone. She’s a mixed girl with brown, shoulder-length curly hair—white dad, Black mom.
Daeja grumbles about doing her eyeliner, but she still comes out grinning. It’s obvious how beautiful she finds her girlfriend.
I’m sitting on the floor with my back against Riley’s bed frame, painting my toenails white, while they dance together. We’re supposed to be pregaming for Mal’s annual Spring Break Bash tonight, but my head isn’t really in the game. . . . Probably because I’m not going to the party tonight.
Riley’s mom comes waltzing in, wearing fuzzy slippers and a really sweet-smelling (expensive) perfume, and holding a half-full glass of white wine. “Girls, look at this.” She holds up her phone.
Riley struts over in her eight-inch heels, not even the tiniest bit scared of what her mom will say about her outfit. Daeja follows.
“Six Flags wristbands are on sale,” Mrs. Ross explains, before Daeja and Riley can even read the screen. “We could go have some fun over spring break. And then when summer rolls around, we could have, like, a graduation last hurrah there, with all your school friends. Nikki, you too,” Mrs. Ross says enthusiastically.
I smile over my shoulder, knowing my mom isn’t about to pay for a Six Flags wristband. Hell, I probably won’t get through this week without her yelling at me about getting a job. But still I say, “That sounds like fun.”
“I don’t know,” Riley says, popping out her hip. “Over spring break, sure, but I hate going to Six Flags during the summer. It’s too crowded and hot. My skin hates too much sun.”
7:56 p.m.
Riley somehow manages to snap along to the music, despite the red claws attached to her fingers. My mother would never let me paint my nails such a grown-woman color or keep them so long and pointy. But Riley’s parents are lax, and she’s quite honestly super spoiled.
She has a full-on orange-and-pink color-coordinated room, as if she snatched the whole thing straight out of a Target catalog. And she has her own attached bathroom and walk-in closet. Even Mal doesn’t have a walk-in closet, and his house is the closest I’ve ever come to stepping foot in a castle.
“Daeja!” Riley shouts from her bedroom.
“What?” Daeja shouts back from the bathroom.
“Come here, babe. Please.” She’s spinning in circles, letting the tulip skirt of her red dress flip and flap in the wind. Riley looks really good in red. She’s told me why before, but I can’t remember. Something about her skin tone. She’s a mixed girl with brown, shoulder-length curly hair—white dad, Black mom.
Daeja grumbles about doing her eyeliner, but she still comes out grinning. It’s obvious how beautiful she finds her girlfriend.
I’m sitting on the floor with my back against Riley’s bed frame, painting my toenails white, while they dance together. We’re supposed to be pregaming for Mal’s annual Spring Break Bash tonight, but my head isn’t really in the game. . . . Probably because I’m not going to the party tonight.
Riley’s mom comes waltzing in, wearing fuzzy slippers and a really sweet-smelling (expensive) perfume, and holding a half-full glass of white wine. “Girls, look at this.” She holds up her phone.
Riley struts over in her eight-inch heels, not even the tiniest bit scared of what her mom will say about her outfit. Daeja follows.
“Six Flags wristbands are on sale,” Mrs. Ross explains, before Daeja and Riley can even read the screen. “We could go have some fun over spring break. And then when summer rolls around, we could have, like, a graduation last hurrah there, with all your school friends. Nikki, you too,” Mrs. Ross says enthusiastically.
I smile over my shoulder, knowing my mom isn’t about to pay for a Six Flags wristband. Hell, I probably won’t get through this week without her yelling at me about getting a job. But still I say, “That sounds like fun.”
“I don’t know,” Riley says, popping out her hip. “Over spring break, sure, but I hate going to Six Flags during the summer. It’s too crowded and hot. My skin hates too much sun.”
“Your skin hates everything.”
“It’s not my fault that my skin is sensitive,” Riley snaps at Daeja.
Mrs. Ross ignores their bickering, being as used to it as I am. “Rie, is this what you’re wearing to the party? It’s so cute. My baby’s growing up too fast.”
When I glance over my shoulder again, Mrs. Ross is gazing at her daughter, on the brink of tears. My eye catches Daeja’s. She looks just as confused as me. Can’t even imagine having a mom like Mrs. Ross. I could get away with so much shit. Life would be good.
“And Daeja, this outfit is everything,” Mrs. Ross compliments her.
Daeja’s wearing black jeans, baggy and formless, with a fitted black tee. Her skinny, two-strand twists all fold to the right side of her head, hanging over the shaved part. She looks really put-together, like she tried harder than usual.
Then Mrs. Ross looks at me. “Oh,” she says, with her free hand rushing up to cover her mouth. “Nikki, sweetie, you look absolutely gorgeous. You are definitely gonna catch a lot of eyes tonight.”
“Oh, I’m not going to the party. I’m—”
“But she might stop by,” Riley interrupts. “That’s why Daeja did her hair and why I did her makeup.” Riley throws me a look, like keep to the plan, idiot.
Damn, I almost forgot. “No, yeah. I’ll probably stop by,” I say. “Yeah, for sure, for sure.”
Mrs. Ross studies me for a second, then she nods slowly as if she understands something new about the situation. “Well, either way, I love this dress on you, and I think Malachai will too.”
I immediately snap my gaze over to Riley, who’s currently trying to sneak back to her bathroom. “You told her?”
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Mrs. Ross cries, sitting on the bed, close to where I’m leaning. “Trust me, I get it: Mal is cute, rich, and he’s very respectable. I think you two would be great together.”
“We’re just friends, Mrs. Ross,” I say, finishing up my toes. Not even waiting for them to dry before standing up. “We’ve been friends since eighth grade,” I add on, hoping this will be the end of the conversation. “Besides, he already has a girlfriend.”
Mrs. Ross shoots up from the edge of the bed, nearly spilling her wine on Riley’s pink rug. “Since when?”
“Since he did a huge promposal in front of the entire school for some random cheerleader,” Daeja says, then goes back to the bathroom to finish her eyeliner.
“What’s the girl’s name?”
“Cynthia,” Riley answers for me.
“Last name?”
“Valle.”
“Valle?” Mrs. Ross repeats. “I know that family. Her dad is Brazilian, right?”
"
Yeah, I think so.”
I really don’t want to talk about this. “Riley, you said you were going to let me try on some earrings, right?” I say, attempting to turn the conversation around.
Riley ignores me and keeps filling her mom in on everything about Cynthia Valle and how Mal practically stopped the whole school day to prompose to her two weeks ago.
I retreat to the bathroom, past Daeja doing her mascara in the mirror. I can still hear Riley and her mom chatting about me in the bedroom, but at least there’s a slight muffle from the rap music blaring over Riley’s speakers.
“You were absolutely no help,” I hiss at Daeja.
She runs the mascara wand through her lashes, slowly and carefully. “I wasn’t trying to help.”
“Clearly.”
“I just think you should stop by the party tonight, seriously, Nikki . . . and make him look at you.”
“Why would I want him to look at me?”
She laughs, and her breath leaves a small radius of fog on the glass. “You know why. You look hot. And he’ll regret ever dissing you.”
“He didn’t diss me,” I say for the umpteenth time tonight.
She scoffs. “At this point, it’s not even a matter of if he dissed you. It’s how many times he’s dissed you. From the whole prom thing, to how he couldn’t even be happy for you about the audition, to the fact that he’s dating Cynthia now—a girl he barely knows.” Daeja drops the mascara and puts on her nonprescription glasses. “I never liked Mal,” she says.
“Yeah, I know.”
“And I can’t wait to see his stupid face when you’re performing at the BET Awards or at Coachella or something. You should come tonight—it’d be a good preview for him.”
I try not to flinch. Because I’m not supposed to care. When Daeja heard that I was finally done with Mal, she jumped for joy. I’ve really liked having her on my side about this California thing. I don’t even care that the only reason she’s on board is because Mal is deathly against it. I just appreciate her support.
Mrs. Ross finds me sitting on the toilet seat, and then Riley appears behind her. The two of them crowd the doorway and give me no space to run. “Nikki, Malachai is stupid,” Mrs. Ross assures me.
My jaw hardens. I’m tired of talking about Mal. I’m tired of hearing his name.
“That’s normal for boys your age,” she says. “Sometimes they’re just stupid.”
Riley nods. “Mal is stupid all the time.”
“He’s a straight A student,” I say, looking at the two of them, perplexed. “Mal is far from stupid. He knows what he wants. And anyway, I’m fine with it. I can see why Mal likes Cynthia. She’s really pretty and . . . she’s not a bad person.”
“She’s not great, either,” Daeja says, giving me a disgusted look.
“She’s terrible,” Riley counters. “A serious bitch, Mom.”
“Yeah, I know her parents,” Mrs. Ross says, A-OK with her daughter cussing in front of her. I can’t even imagine.
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t care,” I say, standing from the toilet to face the mirror. All three of them watch my reflection, and none of them look convinced. “I don’t,” I say, rubbing my glossy lips together.
Mrs. Ross slowly shakes her head at me, sympathetic. “Oh, honey . . .”
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