by Stacey Kade
“She . . . had to go. Family stuff,” I say. The words taste bitter. Was it so much to ask of our friendship that she help me out with this one thing?
“Really?” Mom asks, doubt filling her voice. She hesitates. “Caroline, is there something you want to tell me?”
“Like what?” I ask, stalling for time.
“Like why Joanna didn’t stay? And where everyone else is?” she asks, and the gentleness in her voice makes me feel even worse. “Did something happen?” She reaches out to smooth my hair. Her dark hair is only a shade or two lighter than mine, and she’s talked for years about dyeing it to match my “gorgeous color.” “I know it gets complicated with college looming. It changes the dynamic. Especially when someone is insisting on attending a school so far away.” She levels a pointed look at me.
“It’s fine,” I say quickly. I don’t want college to come up anywhere in this conversation. It’s a pristine box of untouched future, untainted by everything in my present. I have a plan. I’m going to have the life I’m supposed to have; I just need to survive tonight. “You know . . . the usual drama. A dumb fight. Joanna will get over it.”
“And Felicity?” my mom prompts gently.
Oh God. “She’s probably over it already,” I say.
“Baby.” Mom reaches out and pulls me closer. “Change is always hard. But never doubt yourself. You are absolutely perfect, just as you are. And your friends will realize that eventually.”
The backyard blurs as tears fill my eyes. If only that were true, Mom. Any of it.
I take a deep breath and pull away once my emotions are back under control. “Mom, your guests,” I say, giving her a gentle push toward the house. “You know, there’s that new wine bar downtown. Maybe you guys could take this party on the road.”
Could I eat enough appetizers to make it look like twenty people have come and gone by the time she’s back? If not, that’s what the neighbors’ trash cans are for.
Sorry, Mom, you just missed my friends!
She pats me on the shoulder with a fond smile. “No, we’re fine.” Then she turns to stare at the empty party area. “I still think it’s rude of them not to show up, fight or no fight. They can’t all be that busy tonight.” She bites her lip. “Maybe I should call Liam’s mom to see if he’s coming.”
“No!” The word explodes out of me.
My mother gives me a strange look. “Honey, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. I don’t know Dr. Fanshaw that well.” She pauses. “Pediatrician,” she says to Sophie.
Sophie nods immediately. “I have her number.”
“But I think she would understand—”
“Please, let me handle it my way,” I say, sweat trickling down my back to collect at the base of my spine. If she calls Dr. Fanshaw, it’s over.
After a beat, my mother nods. “All right, if that’s what you want.” But her mouth is pulled up in a sympathetic grimace.
“It is.”
She touches my cheek. “Okay.”
“Good.” Relief rushes through me like a dam has broken. I’m still going to have to answer questions later tonight, but at least there’s this mythical falling-out to help explain things. And she can’t expect me to talk about something that’s obviously painful.
As soon as my mom returns to the house, I make my way to the other side of the patio, out of sight of the windows, as if that will convince her that guests have arrived and I must be off talking to them somewhere.
The band sounds more than decent, and the food smells delicious, making my mouth water, despite the fact that I’ve already eaten a full dinner.
For a moment I allow myself to imagine what it would be like. People chatting at the food table, possibly shoving around one another to get at the shrimp rolls. Someone would have spiked the bowl of punch by the ice sculpture by now, I’m sure.
I would be moving easily around the party, speaking to this group or that one, without stammering or freezing up. Maybe flirting a little with Liam, who would take me under his wing, including me in the conversations I would normally miss.
I can see it so clearly that it makes my heart lift temporarily. I want that feeling of belonging, of being accepted. Confident in knowing that they’re mine and I’m theirs.
But it’s not real. I blink and the image in my head is gone, not even lingering like the flash from a camera. Just gone.
An all-too-familiar sadness, the kind that always comes from the bubble bursting, rises up in me. It happens a lot more now than it used to. Some of the stories I’ve created in my head or told to my mom are so real and so close to what I want, it feels like a loss when something breaks the spell.
But this time I straighten my shoulders and push that sadness away. It’s different now. Because in three months, I’ll have my fresh start at college. I’ll have my friends. And none of it will be fictional. I just have to be patient for a little longer.
I head toward the food table to kill some more time and because the meatballs in particular smell amazing. But as I do, I catch a glimpse of my mom through the bay window in the kitchen. And she’s on the house phone, her brow furrowed.
A hospital call, maybe. Especially with Sophie there at her side, reading something off her ever-present tablet. Though Mom usually gets calls from the hospital on her cell phone. . . .
The pieces click together a fraction of a second too late. She’s already talking.
Oh no.
“Mom!” I run for the house and throw myself through the partially open sliding glass door, my hip colliding with the edge of the metal frame. Pain shoots through me like an electric shock, but I keep moving.
I burst into the kitchen. “Mom! Hang up!”
“At Stella’s lake house. I see,” my mother says into the phone, turning away from me.
Dread bubbles up in me, like the nasty slime that spreads through the pool when the chemicals are wrong.
I can’t hear what Liam’s mom is saying, but I can fill in the blanks, imagine her confusion at this call. I’ve never been to Liam’s house, never met his mother, though I’ve seen her when I’ve driven by their home.
I knew the truth would eventually come out—I’m not stupid—but I always imagined it as something I’d tell my mom years from now, something we’d laugh about long after it lost the power to hurt either of us.
“I don’t understand,” my mom says, fidgeting with a wine cork left abandoned on the quartz counter of the island. She is steadfastly avoiding looking at me. “Does this have something to do with the girls? Their falling out?”
I freeze, a statue in a too-bright floral print. The girls. Oh no, no, no. “Mom, please,” I try again, moving closer. “Hang up.”
But she’s frowning at something Dr. Fanshaw is saying.
And then time seems to grind to an excruciating halt. “I’m sure you know them. Joanna Duncan, Felicity Porter, Elena Tyler, and Julie—”
“They’re fictional!” I shout. Anything to make her stop. “I made it all up!”
My mom’s head snaps around to face me, her mouth hanging open in shock.
“Not Joanna,” I say slowly. “But Felicity, Julie, Elena, they’re television characters. I borrowed them. I . . . needed them.”
Mom stares at me, the color draining from her cheeks.
Liam’s mother says something, tinny and faint in the phone, but I can’t hear what.
Oh God. I turn away and sink to the floor in front of the island, the cool tiles burning through my dress to my skin.
“I’m going to have to call you back,” my mom says into the phone finally. “Yes, I’ll be sure to clarify with Caroline.” Her words, thin with anger and confusion, sound like the end of everything.
Chapter Two
It’s not as bad as it sounds.
Okay, maybe it is. But it’s not like I always intended to lie.
It’s just . . . I’ve never really connected with anyone. You know, having that one person—or maybe even a couple of people—who is a true fr
iend, someone you can text when your life is turning to utter crap, and they know exactly what to say. How to help. And you’re that person for them, too. It’s like your own version of family, you know? Framily, like in that stupid commercial.
I had friends in New York. But my yearbook was always filled with messages like, Carolyn, it was great sitting next to you in geometry! Have an awesome summer! Or, Stay sweet, Caroline! But once class or book club or whatever was over, the friendship went with it. My two closest friends, if you could call them that, were Aurelia and Madison: a pair of best friends who preferred to have a third as a backup, in case of an argument or scheduling conflict.
If it sounds like I’m feeling sorry for myself, let me be clear—Madison told me as much one day when we were eleven. “I wanted Aurelia to come over, but she’s at her cousin’s birthday party,” Madison said with a dramatic sigh. “So my mom said I should invite you. But we’re not playing with the stupid Barbies this time.”
Looking back, maybe Barbies were babyish at that point, but Madison had piles of them, including a Ken with a beard that you could shave. And the Barbie pool! At my house, the Barbies had the bathroom sink for a pool—usually filled with globs of toothpaste and hair from my dad.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’ve always been out of sync with everyone else. Like they received an e-mail on what to say and do, how to talk to people, what to be interested in. But my version of that e-mail never reached me. (Maybe because my mom refused to let me have my own e-mail account until I was in high school, and she still thinks AOL is a thing.)
And all of that was before we moved across the country to Arizona. My dad took off with his girlfriend, and then suddenly Mom and I were packing boxes. New job for Mom, one that would support us without Dad, and a new town. When I walked into Merriman High South on the first day of sophomore year, it was like landing on Mars. Literally. It was hot and dry and dusty. The buildings were white, flat, and low to the ground. No public transportation; everyone drove. Even their clothes were different. The girls wore short shorts and strappy tops that would have gotten you sent home the second you crossed the doorway at Saint Agnes.
Plus, it was a small school; everyone already knew each other. They had established friendships, inside jokes, and lunch tables. It was completely overwhelming. I didn’t even know where to begin.
So I did what anyone would: I hid. Behind books, shows, movies, and music. Whatever I could buy/download/stream on my phone, the savior of shy and awkward people everywhere. You aren’t alone and unwanted; you’re reading, watching, listening to something on your phone. Do not disturb.
And it worked, for a while. That’s how I found Joanna. She was pretty much doing the same thing, only she’d lived here her whole life.
But then two things happened. My mom emerged from her work coma—eat, sleep, work, but mostly work—to start questioning me about school. Who was I talking to, what clubs had I joined, was I doing okay? Apparently, homecoming, both the game and the dance, was a big deal in Merriman, enough that the other parents at the hospital were talking about it. Buying dresses, scheduling hair appointments, ordering corsages, etc. I hadn’t said anything about it—because I wasn’t going, obviously—and that had raised a red flag with her.
I’m honestly not sure why. It wasn’t like I would have gone to homecoming in New York. We didn’t even do that at Saint Agnes, not in the same way. It was more like a career day, with alums coming back to talk to our classes.
The second thing that happened was, around that same time, I discovered the wonder and majesty that is Felicity Porter. Okay, she’s not actually majestic, but that’s kind of the point.
Felicity is a show from the late nineties. It started before I was even born. But that doesn’t matter, because Felicity and I? Total soul mates.
She is possibly the most awkward person on the planet—besides me, I mean—and there’s a whole show about her, where she’s the main character, not the comic relief.
Basically, it’s a show about a girl who, at high school graduation, talks to this guy she’s had a crush on for years. She’s never had the courage to speak to him before, and when she does—asking him to sign her yearbook—he, Ben, writes the most amazing message. A message that convinces her that (a) she’s in love with him and (b) she should throw away her very carefully outlined future (Stanford, med school, doctor) to follow him to New York for college.
That one moment changes her life. He changes her life.
Of course, it’s not just about Ben, but also about Felicity figuring out who she is, who she wants to be. And in the process she finds people who love and accept her, even with her awkwardness showing like granny panties over the top of those awesome nineties jeans.
That show was the first time I’d ever watched anything and seen myself in it. My hair is not glossy and sleek. My complexion is iffy on its best day. I’m not good with witty retorts, I don’t have more than one immortal male fighting over me (or any at all, for that matter), and I’m not gifted with a special destiny. But a girl who speaks before she thinks, hesitates and stammers her way through conversations, and feels like there’s something missing or wrong with her life, even if she doesn’t know what it is or how to get it? Yeah.
Felicity is my hero. And watching her stumble her way through figuring stuff out (friendships, parental drama, jealousy, plagiarism, pregnancy tests, college parties, sex, a crazy alt universe version of her life) made me feel less alone. Like we would be friends, if we knew each other. And, you know, if she were real.
So, one night over really horrible Chinese takeout, not long after the homecoming inquisition, when my mom started pushing with the questions again, the lies sort of . . . popped out.
“So tell me about school. How is it going? Have you made any new friends? Did you try the activities board, like I said?” My mom’s expression brightened. “I’m telling you, that’s how I met some of my best friends in high school. Signing up for anything that sounded interesting, even if I wasn’t sure what it was.” Her laugh sounded forced. “Always good to try new things.”
“Mom, it’s not . . . it doesn’t work like that anymore,” I said. “They don’t have a board like that.”
“Oh, how about dance?” she asked, leaning forward in encouragement. Or desperation. “You used to love going to your dance classes when you were a little girl. I’m sure there’s a cheer squad or a pep team or something here!”
I went to ballet classes when I was eight because Aurelia and Madison were into it, and I wanted to be wherever they were. “No, I don’t think that’s for me, Mom.”
She stayed quiet for a long moment. “I know this is hard for you. And you have no idea how sorry I am for that,” she said, her voice breaking. “But I’m trying, I’m really trying, and we’re doing okay, aren’t we?” Tears spilled down her cheeks to drip off her chin, where she tried to catch them with one of the rough brown napkins.
It freaked me out, seeing her cry. I nodded quickly. “Yes, we’re okay!”
“It’s going to take some more time, that’s all,” she said, trying to sound positive even as tears dripped onto the table below. “Moving. The divorce. New town. It’s a lot to adjust to. But you’re going to be okay. We both are.” I wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince herself or me, and something about her uncertainty made me feel all panicky inside.
“There is . . . I did meet someone new today,” I blurted. Anything to make her stop crying.
Her face lit up. “You did?” she asked, sniffling.
“I . . . yeah. Her name is Felicity. She’s new too. From California.” The words spilled out as easily as the truth.
“Felicity? That’s an unusual name. You don’t hear that one very often.” She took a bite of noodle and chewed, with a contemplative expression. “You know,” she said, “I think there used to be a show called that. Felicity.”
I couldn’t breathe for a second.
“I never watched it, though.” She wri
nkled up her nose. “Too melodramatic.”
Melodramatic? Melodramatic? Try emotionally fraught and delicious with angsty tension.
I forced the edges of my mouth up in a smile. “Oh, yeah, I think she’s, uh, named for that. The show.”
“So, she’s new to Merriman; that’s good. You’ll have that in common.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What else? Do you like any of the same shows?”
You could say that. “Yeah, but she’s dealing with some stuff right now. She’s kind of in love with this guy who doesn’t know she exists. For now, at least.”
“So, Felicity has a plan, then,” my mom said, amusement flickering in her expression. I hadn’t seen her that happy in a while.
Yes, yes, she does. Maybe not a good plan, but one that would do for the moment.
And that was that. I never meant for it to go on this long. I thought of it more like a placeholder. Something to keep my mom at bay until I had a chance to make real friends. Only that never happened, and I found I liked making up the stories. The crazy things Felicity and her friends—and therefore my friends—would get themselves into. Auditioning for the play and failing horribly because someone confused Hamlet and Macbeth. Going to the basketball games but sitting in the visitor section to cheer for our team and unnerve the opposing players. Driving by a crush’s house until a neighbor freaked out about potential robbers and called the cops. I took the things I heard people talking about at school, the things they were doing, and reinvented them for myself, using versions of the characters from the show. It was like fan fiction . . . on crack. It was way easier than showing up places alone and putting myself out there, only to be ignored or rejected.
And it was harmless, mostly. Until tonight.
“Sophie, can you give us a minute, please?” my mom asks quietly.
My mom’s assistant bobs her head in a nod and backs through the swinging door into the living room.
“Caroline, I don’t think I understand,” Mom says. But it sounds more like she’s afraid that she does. “Can you explain, please?”
