When You Were Everything

by Ashley Woodfolk

  “Yes,” I say. “I have a theory.”

  He purses his lips to stop himself from smiling, and I know what this expression means too: he has no idea what I’m about to say next. “Okay,” he says. He puts his heavy arm over my shoulders. “Tell me.”

  We start to walk, strolling past people walking dogs in coats and nannies pushing strollers. Snow is still falling and everything around us feels a little magical and unreal. I inherited my dad’s freckled face, his poor eyesight, and his dreaminess too. He never rushes me to speak because he knows what it’s like to be easily distracted—what it’s like to get lost inside your own head. “I think,” I say, “that I need to make some new memories. I think that if I make enough new ones in the right places, not being friends with Layla anymore will hurt a little bit less.”

  My dad sips his coffee. I look across the park at the tall trees and beyond them to where Layla’s walk-up sits beside the bodega, deli, and fire escape, and my breath catches. If I could erase this whole block from the city, I would.

  “And these new memories,” Daddy says. “They start with a snowman in this park?”

  I nod. “This is where I met her, remember? At that cookout right after Gigi died? But if we do something else in this exact spot, like build a snowman, maybe that will be the first thing I think of when I come here, instead of her.”

  “Ah,” he says, something like sadness passing over his features. “I understand.”

  * * *

  —

  We build a snowman. When we’re half done, I throw a few snowballs at my dad and he laughs and dodges them, making his own between searching for stones and sticks to put finishing touches on our creation. As we roll and pat and press the snow into new shapes, I pray that my memories are just as malleable as the snow in my hands. Hopefully my past is as rewritable as I’m pretending it can be.

  READY FOR BATTLE

  “So you wanna skip school, huh?” my mother says that night, the second she gets home.

  I’m brushing my teeth, planning my next new-memory-making trip, when she squeezes into our tiny bathroom behind me.

  I’m in pajamas, a satin scarf already wrapped around my head for bed, but she’s still in the tight pencil skirt she wore to the office this morning, her blazer slung over her arm. Her high heels are hanging off the tips of her fingers (she’d never leave her shoes by the door) and there’s barely any space between us at all.

  “Oh crap,” I mutter, pressing my thighs closer to the sink. Toothpaste droplets land on the mirror. I don’t know how she found out, but then I remember my father’s threat.

  I spit and rinse my mouth out, getting more pissed with him by the second. Some things, like secrets between a father and daughter about said daughter skipping school, are supposed to be sacred. I take my time settling my toothbrush into the cup by the faucet. Not so long ago, it used to have three toothbrushes in it. Now it just has two.

  “Did Daddy at least tell you why I skipped?” I ask, slowly turning around.

  “No?” Her stormy face turns even stormier. “Your father knew about this?”

  “Double crap,” I mumble. “No?” I try.

  She rolls her eyes and sits down on the edge of our tub. Her knees bump hard into my shins.

  “Jesus, Cleo. I can’t even look at you. And your father…”

  For a split second, she seems…hurt. Like we’ve ganged up on her. Like our life together is a fight and she’s all on her own. But then she’s right back to looking like she’s ready for battle.

  “Give me your phone,” she says, holding out a manicured hand. I snatch it from the counter, where it’s innocently playing “Blue in Green” by Miles Davis, and clutch it to my heart.

  I slip out of the bathroom and head down the hall, negotiating. “Mom, no! Please? Anything but my phone,” I whine.

  “I don’t want to hear it, Cleo.” She follows me to my room, where I reluctantly hand it over. She pockets it and storms out, slamming my door so hard the row of snow globes on my shelves rattle. I flop down on top of my blankets, knowing I’m probably grounded on top of losing the phone. When she yells back to me, “Your father’s picking you up first thing tomorrow. You’ll get the phone back on Monday,” I bolt upright.

  “MONDAY?!”

  then: July

  EVIL GENIUS

  “What are you wearing t-t-t-tonight?” Layla asked me.

  I stretched out on her pale blue sheets. The window was open and the humidity was punishing. Even the creases behind my knees were sweaty.

  “It’s so hot,” I said. “What can I wear to be as close to completely naked as possible?” Layla laughed as she pulled on a long, thin-fabricked dress, its pale pink color delicate and pretty against her sun-kissed brown skin. She lifted her dark wavy hair from where it was tucked against her back, then shimmied her little “new dress” shimmy. Her reflection winked at me in her full-length mirror. “I’m sure mmmost of the guys, and a few of the girls, w-would freaking love that,” she said, raising her thick eyebrows.

  I rolled my eyes, because dating was the last thing on my mind. I was mostly just nervous to be going to my first big high school party. As rising sophomores, Layla and I had been invited to a grand total of two, and I’d skipped the first one earlier that summer because my dad had gotten us tickets to Shakespeare in the Park. I was only going to this one because Layla was making me, and because Valeria’s building had rooftop access that would provide an excellent view of the fireworks.

  “You have a dress like this, right?” she asked a few minutes later, holding out a thin black thing in my direction. I took the wisp of clothing in my hands, rubbing the smooth fabric between my fingers.

  “You own something in black?” I asked, teasing her because black was my signature color, and the majority of her clothes were as light as the walls of her bedroom—lavender and seafoam, shades of powdery pink, pale yellows, and sky blues.

  “Shut up,” she said. “D-don’t you?” I nodded, though the dress that hung in my closet wasn’t nearly as delicate.

  “So you should wear it tonight….” Her mouth was still open, so I knew the sentence wasn’t finished. Sometimes, Layla’s stutter caused her to get blocked so badly that words got stuck in her throat and no sound came out at all. I waited.

  She closed her mouth, cleared her throat, walked over to her dresser, and tried again. “W-with these.” She pulled out a pair of shiny gold hoop earrings. “And you should p-put in your c-c-contacts. Oh! And let me do eyeliner. You have great eyes, C-Cleo.” I always hated that my name began with one of the hardest consonants for her to pronounce.

  I stepped up to her mirror, holding the dress in front of me. I took my glasses off and stepped even closer to my reflection so I could see my face more clearly. Will anyone even notice my “great eyes” with all these freckles? What does having “great eyes” even mean? But Layla knew about this stuff in a way I didn’t. She’d cared deeply about aesthetics for as long as I’d known her, and she’s been wearing at least a little makeup since the first time her older sister showed her how to use a mascara wand when we were still in middle school.

  I pulled Layla’s dress on and it was way too tight. I had curves in every place she didn’t, but she refused to acknowledge that we were completely different sizes.

  “I like, don’t know how to party,” I said, immediately taking the dress off. “Do you think people will be drinking?”

  Layla pulled off the pink dress she was wearing and slipped into a yellow one before wrapping me in a hug. Her voice was soft and raspy and her hair and skin smelled like sandalwood. She pulled back and looked at me.

  “Cleo. Obviously there will b-b-be drinking. That d-doesn’t mean you have to drink. I’m not g-going to. And if some d-douche tries to make me or you, I’ll k-k-kick him in the balls.”

  I laughed. It made sense that she smelled l
ike a forest and sounded like the beginning of a wildfire. She had a temper, and once it was lit, the girl could burn.

  To take my mind off the party, off the way Layla wanted me to look and who all might be there drinking, I said, “So I got this email from Novak today.”

  Layla looked at me and cringed. “Why is a t-teacher emailing you in the summer?”

  I grinned and flopped back down on her bed. “She’s spending part of the summer at the Globe Theatre in London,” I said a little dreamily. I’d been obsessed with everything about London since I was twelve—the tea, the culture, the landmarks—and Layla knew this. My London snow globe was the most prized one in my collection.

  I noticed a blankness on Layla’s face, so I added, “The, like, Elizabethan theater originally built by the Lord Chamberlain’s Men.” Layla blinked. “Shakespeare’s freaking playing company, Layla! Shakespeare’s freaking Globe! Are you kidding me right now? I thought we were friends.”

  Her eyes cleared a little. “Oh that thing, right.” Her mouth opened, and closed, and opened again. “Okay so, um, wh-wh-wh-what’d she say that c-couldn’t wait till school started?” I groaned and lay back on the bed staring at the ceiling again.

  “Well. She sent me a bunch of pictures of London and the theater. She said that it’s incredible, which, duh. But she also said that there’s this Young Scholars Summer School there. I think most of the people who go are older, like about to attend university, that’s how Novak said it.” I sat up and laughed a little and so did Layla. “But you only have to be sixteen to apply, and I guess she told the professor who heads up the program about me. That I’m—”

  “A Shakespearean expert?” Layla finished for me. She lifted her hand and stared at it like she was holding Yorick’s skull, and theatrically recited, “To be or not to be,” in a bad British accent.

  “Shut up,” I said, throwing the dress I’d slipped out of a minute earlier at her head. She dodged it and I didn’t point out that that’s not even the scene where Hamlet holds the skull. “Anyways. You have to apply and be accepted and everything, and they only take a handful of kids a year. But she said you get to see tons of productions, and like, hang out with the actors, and go to lectures at the theater and the whole point of it is to discuss how Shakespeare shaped the rest of English literature.”

  Layla picked up the dress I’d thrown and walked over to me, laying it across my lap. She said, “So like, b-basically your Shakespearean w-w-w-wet dream?”

  “Gross,” I laughed. “But yeah, kind of. It sounds freaking amazing. But I can’t apply until September. Novak said she’d write me a recommendation and help me with everything, but she wanted me to start thinking about it now. And I mean, if I get in, this time next year I could be in London.”

  “Your dream c-c-come true,” Layla said. “Oh! I c-c-c-could come visit you and mmaybe we could spend a w-weekend in Paris with my aunt Khadija!”

  “Yes!” I shouted. I pulled a different dress from Layla’s closet, stood up, and stuck my head through the hole made from the straps and the hanger so that the thin fabric fell in front of my body like I was wearing it. Layla danced over to her laptop and put on “La Vie en Rose” by Louis Armstrong just for me, and we proceeded to twirl around her bedroom for the next three minutes as Layla’s smooth voice mixed with Louis’s gruff one. When Layla sings, she doesn’t stutter at all.

  I was back in front of the mirror with the dress still hanging over my head, and Layla and I were debating whether I should keep my braids up or wear them down, when Layla’s mom pushed the bedroom door open.

  “Mama! You’re sup-p-p-posed to knock!” Layla whined. I ripped the dress from over my head and let it fall to the floor.

  “Hey, Mrs. Hassan,” I said.

  “Hi, Pinky,” she said, rubbing her hand over my hair. “Mamuni, what are you two doing?” She bent to kiss Layla’s forehead.

  Mrs. Hassan gave me a Bengali nickname basically the second she met me. I don’t know why I’m Pinky to her, or why Layla’s Mamuni, but I love the way it makes me feel warm and wanted. I smile up at her.

  “I t-t-told you, Mama. We have that p-p-party tonight? At Valeria’s?”

  “That’s right,” Mrs. Hassan said. She glanced over at me. “Naomi know about this party?”

  I nodded. Mrs. Hassan and my mother had spoken on the phone almost daily since Layla and I met the summer before middle school, so we rarely tried to put anything over on them. “Good. And there will be parents at this party, yes? I want to call and speak to them.”

  Layla said, “Of course, Mama.” She pulled out her phone, dialed a number, and handed it over. I had no idea who was on the other end of the line, because I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be parents at this party, but Layla was inexplicably brilliant sometimes.

  I watched as Mrs. Hassan spoke to…someone. She asked about alcohol. She asked about curfew. She asked if boys would be there. And whoever was on the phone gave all the right answers. Mrs. Hassan smiled and nodded and by the time she handed Layla’s phone back to her, she seemed completely confident that we’d be attending a chaperoned, boy-free, alcohol-less party.

  Layla was an evil genius.

  “So, are we deciding what to wear?” Mrs. Hassan said as she picked up the dress I’d dropped, and her eyes widened the tiniest bit beneath the sheath of her deep purple hijab. “I hope neither of you is planning to wear this…undergarment?” Layla burst into a fit of giggles and I was grateful to be as brown as I am; my skin hid most of my blush.

  “It’s a slip dress, Mama. And it’s perfect. C-C-C-Cleo would look great in it. But what d-do you think? Should she wear her hair up or, or, or d-down?”

  Mrs. Hassan looked like she was considering, and I was dying of embarrassment right there in front of the mirror. “I think,” Mrs. Hassan started, looking at the dress. Then her dark eyes found mine. “I think that you, Pinky, are an intelligent, talented, beautiful young woman. And a dress, however thin or short or perfect, won’t ever matter as much as your brain.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, Mrs. Hassan.”

  “I think hair up,” Layla said, sticking her fingers into my braids like she hadn’t heard her mother at all.

  YOU OVER EVERYONE

  In the end, I decided to wear a strappy black tank top, a very short pair of jean shorts, and Layla’s earrings—a bit of a compromise that satisfied Layla but that felt a lot more me. I piled my hair and wore it up, and though I let Layla put a little eyeliner and mascara on my eyes, I still wore my glasses.

  In the mirrored elevator of Valeria’s building, Layla was fixing her makeup. I was still nervous. I knew there would be drinking at this party, and I’d never drunk anything stronger than Coke. I knew Layla would want to talk to everyone, while I’d only want to talk to her. But when I turned to tell her that I was freaking out, she looked as nervous as I felt.

  I poked her arm. “Are you worried Valeria won’t like your lip gloss or something?” I teased.

  “Shut up,” Layla said, but her normal playfulness was missing from her eyes. I touched her arm and when she looked at me she seemed genuinely hurt. “Wait. Are you?” I asked more seriously. Layla sighed.

  “Not my lip gloss. B-but, like, maybe me? She’s in ch-ch-chorus and I really want to audition this year. So I k-k-kinda want the chorus g-g-girls to like me. It’s stupid.”

  In the same way I dreamed of London, Layla had always dreamed of being onstage.

  “No, it’s not.” I bit my lip, feeling bad that I’d teased her. “But I mean, you know you’re a shoo-in for chorus. And how could they not like you?” Layla didn’t answer, but I knew she was thinking more about the way she spoke than the way she sang. I stepped in front of her so she had to look at me.

  “Lay. Everyone loves you. And if they don’t, screw them,” I said. Then I texted her Y.O.E.

  It was a code we’d had since mi
ddle school that we’d say to each other all the time. You Over Everyone. It was the answer to almost every question we could come up with to test our loyalty to one another.

  Who would you want next to you in a jail cell?

  Who would you want to take down zombies with during the apocalypse?

  Who would you save in a fire?

  You over everyone.

  She grinned, grabbed my hand, and said, “Though she be b-b-b-but little, my b-b-bestie is fierce,” stealing a phrase from A Midsummer Night’s Dream that I’ve always wanted to embody. I grinned and pretended to dust off my shoulder.

  And then the elevator doors opened.

  * * *

  —

  Valeria’s apartment was packed. There were a ton of kids I recognized right away from our school, but there were lots of people we didn’t know pressed against the walls and bouncing to music in her kitchen. It was clear right away that most of them were rising juniors and seniors, and that we were some of the youngest people there. I got a panicky feeling in the pit of my stomach almost immediately. Sensing it, Layla looped her arm through mine and pulled me farther inside.

  The girls in chorus were sitting on couches around a coffee table in the living room—prime real estate at a party like this one. But before I could point them out to Layla, a song we both loved started to play. We started singing out loud from our quiet corner of the party, like we were back in Layla’s bedroom, worries about the party and impressing the chorus girls nearly forgotten. We were laughing and shouting right in each other’s faces when a tall white girl who I’d never seen before walked up to us. I stopped, but Layla’s eyes were closed so she was still belting out lyrics at the top of her lungs in her clear, effortlessly pretty voice.