Girls Save the World in This One

by Ash Parsons

  I glance at my phone. Still no texts.

  “No, we need to wait,” I say.

  “We have phones, June,” Imani says. “We could just meet up inside.”

  I can feel it, too. The open doors, so close now, are pulling at me like they have hands, gently tugging. I can smell the slightly chemical newness of the inside—the walls, the carpet, the air conditioner, urging so many wonders within.

  “Imani, we have to wait. Yes, she screwed up, and yes, we’re going to kill her, a little, when she gets here, but we can’t just go in without her. No friend left behind! Fight together or end alone! We have to decide right now who we are. Do we leave people behind? I say nay! We wait! All together or none at all!”

  “Sweet lord,” Imani groans, laughing. “Juuuuuuuuuuune. We have phoooooones.”

  But no, I will not be swayed. This is how a day gets ruined. These little compromises and I’ll-meet-you-laters that turn into meeting-you-not-at-alls. The next thing you know you spent the whole day apart, planning to meet up “sometime.”

  Besides I can feel the oratory loading up in my brain, almost like there’s a swell of inspirational music underneath it. So, I lean into it, tenting a hand on my collar bones in affront.

  “Do we leave her behind? Our time-challenged friend? Who, need I remind you, we have known since Mrs. Raspberry’s class? Do we abandon her to the chaos of this line alone?”

  We edge forward. Now only two groups of people stand between us and the security point.

  My hand lifts into a rallying fist.

  “Or do we wait? Yes, wait! For waiting for a friend is the most noble thing one can do! Do we wait, though we will be pissed off at the waiting, or do we abandon our posts?! Nay, we do not!”

  “Go inside!” some rando in the line behind us yells, and people laugh.

  “You, sir, will be the first to go when the zombie apocalypse comes,” I yell back.

  “Nah, I’m a survivor!” the guy yells. His skin is dark brown and his eyes are warm with a we’re all here to have fun light. He’s wearing a T-shirt with a zombie chasing people that reads ZOMBIES HATE FAST FOOD.

  “Okay, see you at the end, then!” I yell back, because if he’s a survivor then I’m a survivor, too.

  Everyone chuckles along, and we all turn back to the front of the building as the line moves up again. We’re next.

  “Seriously,” Imani says, still chuckling. “What are we gonna do? Siggy has her badge, she can meet us inside.”

  I turn to the bored-looking guard standing to the side of the checkpoint.

  “Excuse me, we’re waiting for our friend. Is it okay if we just wait here? Then when she gets here we can go in?”

  “Knock yourself out,” he says.

  Imani and I shuffle off to the side a little, and I wave a hand in front of us. It takes only a few repetitions of “Go ahead” and “We’re waiting for a friend” before the crowd gets it and we can just stand there grimly, smiling these pained smiles, and nodding as people give us generally sympathetic looks, as if we’re orphans asking for more gruel.

  “Oh, no. Okay, June, don’t look.” Imani’s voice is first hushed and tight, then hushed and soothing, and that’s how I know what it is.

  Or rather who.

  “Just look at me. She hasn’t seen us, and we don’t have to see her either. Not if you don’t want to.”

  I knew she was coming. Her and Scott both. I knew that. I know that.

  “Scott’s not with her,” Imani murmurs, reading my mind like always.

  That pain that wears Blair’s name lances through my heart again. Betrayal sharp as a sword. What it feels like to lose a close friend. After years. Because they were never your friend at all, it seems.

  Shame and heat burn through my veins and I have to pretend now, that I don’t feel this either, this particular self-hatred of being so, so, so stupid.

  And not about math, which, I already knew.

  But a new kind of stupid. A stupid about people, when I thought I was good at them.

  I know I’m not supposed to say that word. To use it. I know my mom would hate it if she knew I thought of myself that way. I know it’s a bad word, and inaccurate, and wrong.

  But nothing else captures the way I feel. The worthlessness and shame of being . . . that.

  “It’s okay,” I lie. “I’m fine.”

  And so, I look around, even though Imani has twisted in front of me slightly to shield us.

  Blair Whitley walks alongside the slowly snaking line. She’s taking long strides, like no one is going to stop her, not ever, why would they?

  Her smile is tight on her face, like all her smiles are. Tense, forced, tightening her eyes and showing sharp teeth.

  She’s pretty in the whetted way of a knife. Her honey-brown hair is wavy, like she might have used hot rollers this morning. Her eyebrows are perfect arcs accenting her freckled white skin.

  Before I can wonder where she’s going in such a rush, when the line is so slow and we’re all just standing here like cattle, I see it. Around her neck.

  A VIP badge on a deluxe, collectible, blood-spatter-design ribbon lanyard.

  Air whuffs out of my chest with a sickening thump.

  I mean.

  Of course.

  “Is that a VIP pass?” Imani murmurs. “Good lord. They cost what, a grand?”

  I nod, and make myself look away from Blair.

  “Or more. Depending on which level you buy.”

  We were all supposed to go to ZombieCon! together.

  “She must have upgraded,” Imani says. “I guess her parents coughed up the cash, as always.”

  I feel an old surge of protectiveness, the light-tracings history of our entire, complicated friendship.

  “Can you blame her?” I ask. “Especially since she knew she wouldn’t be coming with us.”

  “Don’t you start punishing yourself.” Imani’s voice is a gentle reprimand.

  I just shake my head.

  I can’t help it. I met Blair in kindergarten, too. She used to play with me and Imani; they’d fight over me. Hard to believe, right? But I think it was because I used to be happy to play any game they wanted, not because I was so great or anything.

  On the playground Blair would pull on one arm and Imani would pull on the other and they’d both be laughing and pulling at me, saying, “She’s my friend! She’s my friend!” and I would be laughing, too. I’m not going to lie, it felt pretty good to have them fight over me. But I’d say, “We can all play together!” and “I’m both your friends!” Which didn’t quite make sense grammatically, but I knew what I meant.

  And eventually I was both their friends. We were like the Three Musketeers, one for all, and all for one! And when Siggy came to our school in third grade, she became our fourth musketeer. We would hang out together in our group of four, or we’d break off into pairs, or trios, but usually we were all together as much as possible, sitting together at lunch every day, meeting up in the courtyard at break, and we might make friends outside of our musketeering but we always knew that we four were the closest of friends and the “core” group.

  I’m close friends with a few juniors and sophomores because of how I had to repeat first geometry and then algebra 2. Imani has two other tight friend groups, one with the student council kids and the other through the Multicultural Club (I’m in it, too, but I don’t go as much as Imani because I have tutoring after school. Right now the club is putting together an anime film festival). Siggy is hella into Botany Club and is of course close with Mark’s friends. Blair is big in the AV Club and the newspaper, and has other friends in those groups.

  But for all of these other friendship circles, we all always knew that Imani, Siggy, Blair, and me were the innermost circle. The base. The core.

  And for me it was like each of them saw
something different in me, and more than that called something else to the front.

  With Blair it was intensity. She made me feel so immediate, a little unsafe, a little thrilled, being around her like being on a roller coaster that hasn’t been tested.

  I don’t know what she liked about me. Whatever it was, I guess she didn’t like it all that much, in the end.

  We were all still friends until a little over one week ago, which is when I found out that Blair had gone behind my back to go out with the guy I was dating. And when I say “dating” let me unpack how pathetic this all is, because Scott’s the one guy I’ve ever actually gone on a real date with, okay? And he’s only the second guy I’ve ever French kissed, and the second French kiss total. (When we kissed the first time at least. We kissed a lot after that.)

  I mean, it’s not pathetic to not date. Plenty of people don’t date, and they don’t want to. And that’s great!

  It’s just that I really want to. Despite all my complaining about Siggy and Mark. And my teasing Imani when she was with her ex, Ryan, who graduated last year.

  Despite all of that, I just really, really wish I had a boyfriend, too.

  High school for me has been one long, unending series of secret crushes from afar or boys who “think of you like a sister,” and I’m not good at flirting or any of it.

  But then there was Scott! And we were flirting, effortlessly, and he was so fun and funny and when he looked at me, I felt like he saw me and saw someone awesome at the same time. He doesn’t go to our school; he actually lives in Peachtree City, which is thirty minutes away, and so it sort of gave me hope, too. That maybe boys just don’t like me here, but when I get somewhere else . . .

  Anyway, we met at a comic shop event in Peachtree City. One of the artists for the comics adaptation of Human Wasteland was there signing. Scott started talking to me, about the show, about zombies, and the podcast he wanted to start, and we just clicked.

  Scott was the first guy I really liked who liked me back. And okay, so he wasn’t my official, exclusive boyfriend. Not in that “going together” or “it’s serious” way, but I thought we had that potential. And it sucked that I got him so wrong, and that he was a two-timing jerk, but it hurt so much more because Blair was my friend.

  Or so I thought.

  Needles sting the corners of my eyes.

  Blair has reached the separate VIP security station. She’s opening her purse for the guard, smiling and talking to him.

  Okay, I better look away, because I don’t want to cry, and I definitely don’t want her to see us here in the damn plebe line, and I don’t want to miss her at all, which I do. Even though I hate her with the fire of a thousand suns that are also on fire and in a volcano. In space. A space-volcano.

  I don’t want to think about how she really, really, really. Really, really, really. Really. Didn’t care about me or my feelings.

  And that she didn’t hesitate to hurt me.

  Because she didn’t think about me at all.

  When I called Imani, crying about Scott and Blair, Imani picked up Siggy and came to get me immediately. We all went to Imani’s house, and I sobbed my heart out.

  “That’s horrible,” Siggy had said, her voice absolutely aghast, and I knew she was thinking about how it would feel to stumble upon Mark in one of their favorite places with another girl.

  Or worse, how it would feel if that girl was Blair.

  “I can’t believe Blair!” Siggy added, her eyes blazing.

  “Maybe it’s some sort of misunderstanding,” Imani offered.

  “Sure,” Siggy scoffed. “They went on a picnic in the park and were making out by accident.”

  Imani had turned to look at me, her eyes glistening, reflecting my hurt. “I’m so sorry, June.”

  I hiccupped, and blew my nose. “I can’t believe I didn’t even suspect it!”

  Imani had leaned forward then, and given me the biggest, tightest bear hug. Like she wanted to save me from something that had already happened, like she wanted to fix a bird’s broken wing, or tape a butterfly back together.

  Siggy leaned in to hug me, too, and when she leaned back, fury sparked in her eyes.

  “It’s not right,” she’d said. “How would either of us feel, Imani, if Blair had done this to us?”

  “Horrible,” Imani breathed. “The worst.”

  “We should teach her a lesson,” Siggy said. “Give her the cold shoulder. Just for a little while.”

  “I don’t know . . .” Imani’s voice was sad and raw, but she didn’t let go of my hand.

  So we talked about it. We sounded like parents, talking about putting a toddler on the naughty step.

  But I was angry, and I was hurt, and Siggy was angry and hurt for me, and Imani just wanted me to feel better. So we agreed. Two weeks of no contact.

  The four musketeers, now suddenly only three.

  We’ve been giving Blair the cold shoulder for about a week. Less. None of us talking to her, moving away from her at lunch, not taking her calls, blocking her texts.

  It feels harsh. It also feels pretty good in a twisting, dark way.

  When it feels more twisting than good, I tell myself it’s not forever.

  I duck, giving my head a little shake so some hair falls in front of my eyes. I’ll pretend I can’t see her.

  Imani’s whispering soothing things, and we’re just curled in the general direction of away from Blair, trying to make ourselves small, and that’s when I hear Siggy’s voice, shrill as a band saw.

  “Haaaaaaaay, sexaaaaaaaay ladaaaaaaays!” she calls.

  “Kill me now,” I whisper to Imani, but we turn, and I can feel, without looking, not only everyone in line watching our friend finally arrive, but the call reaching out and catching Blair’s ear. I can feel Blair’s head swiveling like a tank gun. Her eyes sweep over us.

  I have two choices: I can turn and look at Blair, let her know I see her and that I know she sees us, or I can keep pretending that I don’t feel her watching. That I can’t see out of the corner of my eye, how she’s stopped and is watching us.

  Siggy dance-walks up to us, with her hands out, palms up, and her head pigeon thrusting on her long neck. The move of one of the guys in that viral dance clip “when you run into your friends.”

  It’s hilarious, and it makes me laugh even though she knows we’ve been waiting for her. One thing I will say about silly, skinny Siggy, she knows how to apologize, how to make an entrance, and how to make you laugh all at the same time.

  “Forgive me, babies?” she says when she reaches us. “I’m sorry. I’m hopeless.”

  “Should have been your middle name,” Imani says, but she’s smiling, too.

  Siggy’s dressed in her usual boho-chic style. She’s wearing a halter-top capri-length jumpsuit, gentle blue like her eyes. Her white-blonde hair falls in a sheet over her tan bolero jacket. Chunky ankle boots with peekaboo toes and a long bag-of-cloth purse finish out her look.

  “You look so great,” I tell her.

  Siggy smiles and does a little dip, like a curtsy. Her dangly earrings glitter and bob hypnotically.

  I can feel the weight of Blair’s eyes on me, like a finger flicking my ear. Hot and stinging, and definitely something you ignore.

  “Can you believe it? ZombieCon! Finally!” Siggy looks at the banners above our heads.

  Honest excitement burbles up in my chest again, along with something darker, an I’ll show her that seeps out toward Blair. I grab Imani’s hand and Siggy’s hand.

  Imani immediately grabs Siggy’s other hand, and our hands are twined in the middle of us, and I scream, as loud as I can, because we’re here, and I’m not going to let Blair ruin my day, or Scott, or the SAT, or my zits, or any of it.

  And Blair should see that we don’t miss her, even if we do.

  “ZombieCon!�
� I shriek, and Imani and Siggy scream and we jump up and down, laughing and screaming “Ahhhh!” and bouncing like a bunch of excited circus poodles, and there Blair is by herself, because she showed her stripes, didn’t she? And Imani and Siggy are on my side.

  Karma.

  Eat your heart out, Blair, I think, even though it feels dark and I feel a bit queasy with it. Gross and kind of like I can feel my heart shrinking and it’s not a good feeling. I still think it, anyway.

  You shouldn’t have hurt me.

  Who am I kidding? She doesn’t even care about me. I’m just trying to make myself feel better.

  It works.

  Because we’re still here, the three of us, and it’s finally ZombieCon! day, and it’s going to be amazing.

  It’s going to be the best day of our lives, no matter what.

  4

  Hey, look, your friend arrived,” the security guards says, in a tone like maybe he hadn’t noticed even though we were all just screaming. His sardonic asshole setting is indecipherable from flirting, really.

  He aims a smile at Imani, confirming it.

  “Yes, she did!” Siggy says, and we ease back into the line, show our badges, get our bags searched, and walk through metal detectors before that’s it, we’re in!

  The atrium is a large glass-walled semicircle, three stories tall. If you look up you can see the second-floor lobby railing cutting across the bottom edge of the circle and the third-floor railing above that.

  We walk forward, craning our necks to look at the floors above us, taking in all this modern steel and glass and gleaming tile.

  In the center of the atrium is a massive water feature. It looks like a hulking volcanic rock—the top stretches almost to the second floor. Waterfalls spill down four different sides, pouring in a loud rush from the bowl at the top.

  “A bit tacky,” Imani says, even as we stop to admire the waterfalls.

  “Noooooo, it’s beautiful,” I say.

  “I love the orchids and the ferns. And the moss,” Siggy says. “I feel like we’re in a huge, fancy greenhouse.”

  “So, you feel right at home,” Imani says, and I start coughing because it’s funny, and also true because Siggy’s house is simply covered with plants. Like every surface, window, and corner is bursting with green-growy things. Her mom, Lene, is an earth-mother type. She’s got white-blonde hair like Siggy, but she’s shorter and plump and gorgeous. She’s got the greenest thumb—so much so that it’s almost magical. I swear she can look at a droopy or yellowing plant and know precisely what’s wrong with it. I think plants perk up when she walks into the room.