A Lie for a Lie

one

"Sabrina! This mall has thirty-eight stores, and not a single one sells a decent pair of jeans, my best friend, Emily, grumbles as we stand sideways on the up escalator, peering with doom at the line of neon stores on the mall’s second level. How hard can it be to find a decent pair that don’t make me look like a nine-year-old boy?"

You don’t look anything like a nine-year-old boy, I say for the tenth time today and probably thousandth in our friendship. You’ve got the body of a supermodel.

Emily sighs. Nope, models have to be 5’8 and I’m still 5’5, she says, pushing a lock of her long, frizzy, strawberry-blonde hair out of her face. Changing the subject, she continues, Anyway, I don’t have the slightest clue what to get for my brother. She looks at me coyly. How about you? Found the perfect gift for O-K?"

I groan. Do I have to? I laugh at the nickname Emily and I had given Kaye when she and my dad first started dating two years ago. I know I should be glad that my dad found someone he’s happy with. Kaye’s pretty and a successful lawyer with plenty of money but … ugh. She tries so hard. She’s always overdoing the Don’t worry I’m not looking to replace your mom, spiel and doesn’t pass up a chance to say, I know how important it is for you to have special alone time with your dad.

It all feels like she’s trying a little too hard and performing for someone. I never quite know how to respond. So, all I ever find myself doing is shrugging, saying, Okay, and booking it upstairs to my room. Emily and I sort of made a game of it, and now we count how many times and different ways I can say Oh, Kaye in a day without her catching on. So far, our record is sixteen.

"Yes … no … she’s the same … Parker’s home from Paris …" I roll my eyes.

That’s the other thing. Kaye’s daughter, Parker, is also too perfect. She was two years ahead of me at school and was the it girl that practically every boy in the school had a crush on. Parker is smart, popular, and went on to become a three-sport varsity captain after overcoming some childhood illness. She has a hot boyfriend. She just did some impressive language intensive in Paris. Blah, blah, blah. Thankfully my dad hasn’t asked Kaye to move in yet—she and Parker still live across Milford. I highly doubt Parker remembers me from high school, and it’s going to be so awkward when we do get around to having a big family dinner. My plan, of course, is to try and avoid Parker forever, or until Kaye and my dad break up, whichever comes first.

I look at my phone. Still nothing. Ugh, I moan.

Emily looks over too. Sabrina, you don’t even know if they are sending them today. She knows exactly what’s up. I’ve been moaning about it for hours. Harvard’s totally going to want you. Stop stressing.

Now I’m the one to roll my eyes. "You aren’t supposed to tell a person not to stress. It’s just as bad as saying relax. You’re so lucky you didn’t apply anywhere early."

Have you been manifesting it like I told you to? she asks, as seriously as if she were talking about learning SAT vocab words.

I smile my not so much smile. It’s sometimes hard to believe two such opposites can be such best friends. I’m the serious, studious one. Practical to a fault, one might say. I’m kind of a parent’s dream. I work hard, I don’t drink or party, I have literally never even kissed a boy, and my favorite pastime is cleaning my room. Emily, on the other hand, can get As in most subjects without cracking a book but would rather study social media than science. She can recite every marriage, divorce, and product launch in the Kardashian’s history, and she knows more TikTok dances than most choreographers. Almost every day after school since fifth grade we’ve hung out—me studying, Emily scrolling on her phone, and Brooke … well, Brooke was a long time ago.

I think it’s a little late for that, I say trying not to make her idea sound as ridiculous as it is. The decisions are coming out today.

Emily looks like a kid who’s just been told there’s no Santa. Sometimes I wish I could be as optimistic and, well, unrealistic as Emily.

You’re probably right, she says thoughtfully, but ever the optimist and my greatest cheerleader, she perks up again. "BUT you’ve got an insane GPA, your scores are like better than anyone’s, you run pretty much every club, and there’s the stuff about your mom for the, you know, emotional points …"

I wince a little at her wording, but it’s true. Schools like their students to go through a little strife. It shows resilience. But you just don’t know when it comes to a school like Harvard. No one is a shoo-in there. And yes, applying for early action admission, which I’ve done, helps me, but less than 9 percent of those applicants get in. And only super-qualified kids bother to apply. I’ve checked the stats. The odds are against me.

Plus, Emily says, breaking me from my thoughts, I did your Tarot cards last night, and it said BIG things were ahead. She says this as if she’d gotten an encouraging call from the admissions officer, not a $6.99 deck she bought off Instagram.

Okay, okay, sorry, I grumble, sliding my phone back in my pocket. I turn it on vibrate, so I can quickly check it in case an alert comes in. I start humming along to the annoying holiday songs that have been playing in the mall since the day after Halloween.

I’m going to run to the bathroom, Emily says.

I nod and point toward Box Lunch, a kitschy store that sells anything from Slinkies to fake poop to Funko Pops of the Friends characters. My eyes keep going back to the fake poop. I’m tempted, but wonder if it would be a little too on-the-nose as a gift for Kaye. Before I can chuckle, worry settles in. I check my phone four more times. I know a watched inbox never pings … but I can’t help it. I want this so, so bad. The only thing I might want more is for my mom to still be alive. But this—Harvard—I need this.

When she returns, Emily’s expression shifts as she glances at the Pops I’m looking at. She picks up one of the doe-eyed Sanderson Sister dolls and smirks. I don’t suppose they have a Kurt Cobain or Nirvana series?

How is Charlie these days? I ask. Still grunging it up? Back before he left for boarding school Charlie, Emily’s twin, had gone through a full-on ’90s phase, complete with flannel shirts, refusing to shower, and blasting ’90s alt-rock in his room. Emily would have to scream at him to keep their adjoining wall from shaking when he played it. Which was always.

Emily shrugs. Well, he seems to shower regularly now, which is an improvement. I know the hurt in her voice is at Charlie, not me. Emily shoves her hands into her pockets. When he’s home, he pretty much just shuts himself into his room.

Still? I ask.

Charlie’s just so—I don’t know—depressing. Plus, with Tiger Mom asking every second what my grades are, what internship I’m doing this summer, and nagging me to go outside and get some vitamin D while coming up with a cure for cancer, I kind of wish I had thought of leaving first.

I stare at Emily with a don’t even joke about that look. I don’t think I would have made it this long without Emily as my best friend, and I know she feels the same. A few years ago, she and Charlie spent a lot of time together, creating a united front against their helicopter parents. Even though they’re twins, they couldn’t be more different. Charlie is a computer nerd, more comfortable staring at his screen and talking to online buddies than he is in the real world. They say nerds are cool these days, but Charlie never got the memo.

Before the start of ninth grade, Charlie announced that he’d applied to boarding school upstate. His mom sent him without much complaint. I was shocked she let him go. She had always been strict, but when their dad left, she became even more intensely focused on her kids’ achievements as some sort of bellwether of her own success. But Emily felt hurt, like Charlie deserted her too. To fill the space, she spent pretty much most of her time at my house.

Oh well, she says, picking up on my thoughts. "At least you’ll never leave me."

And you’ll never leave me! I say, bumping her hip.

Emily and I are not popular girls. But we’re not total losers either. I’m more serious, and she’s the kind of quirky that not everyone gets. I have a hard time connecting with people, and Emily can try a little too hard. So, we’ve become each other’s lifeline. I know Emily would love it if we suddenly hit the friend lottery and became popular, but the only thing that matters to me is Harvard. I’d rather reorganize my closet then hang out with a bunch of drunk kids who think mastering beer pong is an achievement. The one real party I went to, years ago, was a disaster. I figure there will be plenty of time for parties at college. Though I doubt I’ll even go then.

Emily hates talking about college, since it’s all her mom wants to talk about. But Emily doesn’t have to worry too much. She’s gifted at math and science, something she considers more of a curse than a gift, and she plays the flute like a wood nymph. We’ve talked about me going to Harvard and her going to MIT and then living together off campus after our sophomore year. I would say half of our school thinks we’re a couple, but that would assume they’ve ever thought about us. Which I doubt.

Emily has become a little more adventurous lately—especially with boys. Sometimes I wonder if it’s a reaction against her mom being so strict and always saying how awful men are. Emily flirts a lot more than me. She’s started wearing tighter jeans and shorter skirts too. She may not be the full-figured Kardashian type, but she’s got long, lean legs and big, pouty lips. Unfortunately, what could be sexy on someone else usually comes off as gangly and clownish on her.

When I glance over, Emily is staring at her phone.

What?

Emily shakes her head. Nothing. But I can see the corners of her mouth quirking into a smile.

A text? I ask. "Maybe from … Jeremy?"

Redness creeps into her cheeks. Jeremy is Emily’s friend from band. Well, she says he’s a friend. I try to sound as lighthearted as possible as I say, "I saw you guys coming out of the orchestra room on Thursday afternoon looking a little … disheveled."

Emily’s eyes pop. You did?

I nod. What about Bennett? Didn’t you guys make out after homecoming?

"That was one kiss. Emily puckers her mouth like she sucked on a lemon. I don’t know what I was thinking. Bennett was a total dud … but … I really like Jeremy. Even if he is kind of a loser."

I try not to roll my eyes. Emily moves from boys as quickly as she does her hobbies. And each time, the new guy’s the one. Not to be an armchair psychiatrist, but it’s pretty clear she’s looking to replace the love of her dad, who pretty much up and left with his assistant and now has twin toddlers: Emily and Charlie 2.0. Emily jokes about it, but I know it hurts her. Of course, I’m one to talk. I had the opposite reaction. Once I lost my mom, I never wanted to feel that kind of pain again, which is pretty easy if you never put yourself out there or let yourself feel anything.

Why didn’t you tell me about him? I ask, kind of annoyed. We don’t keep things from each other.

Well, she pauses, and I can tell she seems worried she’s upset me, you’ve been so worried about Harvard … and … I guess I just didn’t want you to think I … She sighs. I didn’t want you to think I was going to leave you like Brooke did us.

I shrug, trying not to take it too personally. I guess if there’s a leader in our relationship, it’s me. Not that Emily blindly follows or anything; it’s just that I’m the sensible one. The one the teachers love, the one who never makes a misstep. And if I’m honest, a lot is about me. My mother dying. My dad dating. Me desperate to go to Harvard. Me making us study. Me making us do community service. Me choosing what clubs to do. Yet I have to admit I’m a little jealous. I’d love some excitement in my life. But it scares me and I’m just not sure where it would fit. I’m glad for Emily.

"Well, if you really want to know … she teases. Then, gushing about how she and Jeremy kissed in the music room, she adds: It was really sweet."

Em! I smack her arm. Tell me everything!

Emily puts down the rainbow wig she had been trying on and looks down. Well … something happened last week that you won’t like. She glances around nervously, bottom lip in her mouth.

I lean in, eager yet cynical. I mean, we’re talking about Emily. How bad could it be?

And then she said it: We took gummies right before rehearsal. Like, just one.

"As in weed gummies? I try to rein in my emotions. Em! You could have gotten expelled!"

See! I knew you’d be all judgy. Emily lowers her head. Sometimes I feel more like her older sister than her best friend. But it was so harmless! Like I said, it was just one. She trails off and shrugs. Are you mad?

I can tell Emily is a little embarrassed, but also a little proud. And … am I mad? I feel betrayed because she’s only telling me now. And worried about her being so reckless. And surprised at her because I never thought she’d do something like that. Kissing is one thing. But drugs? At school?

I sigh. I just don’t want you to get in trouble.

It was just once. Charlie has them tucked away in his room. And Jeremy said it would relax us.

I scoff.

Emily gives me a strange look. You’re not the only one with stress.

I try not to laugh. The last time Emily stressed was when she thought her mom wasn’t going to let her watch the Wednesday finale because it was a school night. What gives, Em? Your mom driving you crazy again?

Emily stops a moment. What? No. I mean, she’s awful as always.

My knee-jerk reaction is to envy Emily because she still has a mom, but I know that’s not fair. Mrs. Simmons is pretty intense. She loves that Emily and I are friends, so she’s always nice around me. If Emily misses a music lesson, Mrs. Simmons loses it. When Emily gave up competitive swimming in seventh grade, Mrs. Simmons enrolled her with a sports psychologist to talk her out of it.

I wait for Emily to share why she’s feeling stressed this time, but her attention is now on a kiosk that sells blinged-out cell phone cases. That’s Emily.

Well, thank God no one saw you. I say, trying to seem light and cool. So … was it fun? The gummies?

Emily thinks about it for a moment. I didn’t really feel anything. Jeremy said he did, but I think he was exaggerating. She holds her hand out in front of her face and says in a stoner boy voice, He was like, ‘Whoa! I’m so stoned.’ She giggles, but then looks anxious. "I laughed at him. Maybe I shouldn’t have. I hope he didn’t think I was making fun of him. Though it was funny. Do you think I’m out of his league?"

I roll my eyes, and then we’re laughing again. Well … I’m trying to laugh. Part of me feels uncomfortable. I know I should be happy that Emily’s having fun. But gummies? At school? I’ve been on the student council since ninth grade and on the honor board since junior year. We do our best to be fair, but drugs at school are a quick path to getting expelled. And Emily knows it.

Just then, someone whips past us from the other direction. At first, all I see is a flash of red felt. Someone slams into my side. Whoever it is backs up, several shopping bags flying from her hands.

What the—? she shrieks, standing back.

She looks at me, and I look at her. My heart sinks. Long blonde hair. A glint of straight, white teeth. Oh, great. Brooke Mills. Our ex-best friend. The last person I want to see.

Um, I say, my cheeks turning red. Sorry. Let me help—

"I’ve got it," Brooke loops the handles over her wrists and tilts up her chin.

Just watch where you’re going! Her idiot boyfriend, Finn, smirks at me while clipping me on the shoulder.

Emily takes my arm and pulls me into the closest store. Squishamals is full of squishy plush toys shaped like animals, fruits, other foods, and holiday designs. Most of the people in the store are eight-year-old girls. Great, and now Brooke thinks we still go here.

I grab an avocado plushie and squeeze it hard. I’m not the kind of person who carelessly bumps into people. I look where I’m going. Always. And of course, the one time I don’t, it had to be Brooke. And Finn.

Come on. Emily heads in the direction of the escalator. I walk briskly to catch up, eager to leave the embarrassment from bumping into them behind me.

Just before we step onto the down escalator, I stop walking, causing Emily to bump right into me.

Ow! Seriously?

All I can do is point. Brooke and Finn aren’t alone. Emily looks on as the couple rejoin their little clique. I don’t know why I’m so surprised to see her there. Brooke always seems to travel in a pack, and the food court used to be one of her favorite hangouts. Guess it still is.

We move to the side to let others in, and I catch us both staring over the balcony at the group below. I look over at Emily; she seems entranced by them. Her face is twisted into a snarky smile. Is she talking about us? I bet she is. Or maybe she doesn’t think we’re worth the effort. I guess it doesn’t matter. Either way I feel small.

The kids Brooke is with are part of our school’s popular group—they call themselves the OGs. Like it’s some great club you get to be in. Who knows what it stands for. The Obviously Greats? The Only Gorgeouses? From what I can tell, all they do is go to parties, get drunk, cheat on one another—oh, and act as gatekeepers, narks, and bullies. When we were in eighth grade, Brooke, Emily, and I laughingly dubbed the group the Obnoxiously Grotesque. Of course, that was before Brooke started dating Finn Walters and became one of them.

Brooke and Finn are the pair any high school would want as their homecoming royalty. Tall, chiseled, gregarious, and a total jerk—it doesn’t get more OG than Finn Walters. Emily shakes her head. I can tell she’s seen enough.

And then Brooke whispers in his ear, and then he swings her around and kisses her on the lips.

I make a little snuffling noise out of my nose. "Kill me if I ever do that in public." It’s doubtful that will happen, of course. I’ll probably never have a boyfriend.

I can’t believe they’ve been together three years, Emily muses. She bites a fingernail. I bet they cheat on each other.

I raise my eyebrows in question. Does she know something? Emily always seems to be in on the gossip.

I look back over at the group. I know who most of