Ithad never bothered me before. I’d always just assumed it was because we’d beentogether for so long. But now I wondered, what the hell did that matter? Mollyhad been my friend since birth, and she couldn’t wait to connect with me thesecondourlines of communication hadreopened.
Iscrubbed a hand over my face. My stubble was longer than I liked, and Imuttered something aloud about needing to shave as I sent Molly a cellphoneemoji and a thumbs-up in reply.
Then,I texted Ali.
Me:Hey, babe.Wannagrab dinner tonight?
Lessthan a minute later, Molly replied with a taco and a question mark. I laughedat the obvious invitation and answered:
Me: Notsure tacos are a great idea. That vegan cheese really did a number on my gut.
Molly:What are your gut’s opinions on pancakes, then?
Me:Hmmm …
Me:My gut approves.
Me:Why do you ask?
Molly:Because Iwannahang out again. I feel like we have alot of missed time to make up for. I was either cooking tacos or pancakes fordinner, so I thought I’d invite you over. If you don’t already have plans.
Ipaused and stared at the text for a little longer than I probably should’ve. Ihad just a few minutes ago asked Ali ifshewanted to do dinner, and Icouldn’t take that invitation back now. But pancakes did sound good, and lastnight had been fun. I didn’t want to tell Molly that I’d get back to her,because then she’d feel like second-rate, and Idefinitely didn’twant to make her feel that way. Not when we were finally becoming friendsagain.
So,I waited and went about my business. I got in a quick workout on the floor ofmy bedroom—pushups, lunges, and bicycle crunches. I showered and trimmed myfacial hair and got dressed. I ran downstairs and ate an apple. All whilewaiting for Ali to reply. But she never did. I checked the message and noticedit had been read, yet there wasn’t any indication that she was writing a reply.
Iwas bothered, but not disappointed, as I sent her another message.
Me:Hey, babe. Got an invitation from a friend. I’ll call you later.
***
Inhigh school, I’d watched Molly from afar, taking on the character of a casualobserver instead of my rightful role as her friend. Shamefully, I watched asshe struggled to reach a level of acceptance with our peers. She changed herstyle like a chameleon, desperate to find the clique she could fit herselfinto. Sometimes she wore clothes that I could never imagine her liking andmakeup I could never see her applying. I imagined the amount of time she musthave spent every day on her appearance, and how all I could see underneathall ofthe crap, was how she had never looked truly happy.She was miserable, and what was worse was, she was repeatedly tormented forsimply beingher.
Nothingshe did worked, because kids are mean.
AndI was the meanest of them all for making popularity a higher priority.
Now,Molly opened her door barefoot. She was dressed in an oversized grey sweatshirtand a pair of leggings that ended at mid-calf. Her unruly curls were piled ontop of her head in a nest of disarray and her face was unmarred by makeup. Shedidn’t need it. Her cheeks were already naturally rosy and her lips, apermanent shade of bitten red. I wondered why the hell she had wasted so muchtime in high school in front of the mirror. She could’ve walked into schoolevery day just like this and stolen the air right out of my lungs, just as shewas doing right now.
Sheflashed me a quick smile, stretching her lips to crinkle the corners of hereyes. “Hey!” she greeted hurriedly before leaving me at the door. She went backto the kitchen, where the sizzle of the griddle was alive and spitting alongwithBlackstreet’s“NoDiggity.”“I should’ve asked how you felt aboutveganpancakes.”
“Ithink you’ve already scared me away from vegan anything,” I joked as I closedthe door behind me, unable to keep my eyes from her dancing figure.
Shedanced differently now than when she performed. When she played her music, itwas like she was a puppet, attached to the strings of her guitar andmanipulated only by the melody. Almost subconscious. But here, she washorrible, completely without rhythm, and she didn’t even care. She emanatedconfidence and it pulsed around her in an enviable aura.
Shehad come such a long way, and I couldn’t help being proud.
“They’refine.Nothin’ weird, I swear,” she promised, taking abrief break from singing aboutshortieshaving tricksin the stash and stacking up cash, and then, she was back at it.
“Youremember this song?” She grabbed a spatula and flipped the pancakes beforebelting a few lyrics into it.
“Oh,yeah.” I grunted a chuckle. “I especially remember yougettin’us in trouble forlistenin’ to it.” The memory wasinstantly vivid. Mama had been furious after finding two eight-year-olds in herliving room, watching a music video featuring scantily clad women and singingalong with the risqué lyrics. I suppose it didn’t help that we were dancingalong like we were auditioning for a part in the group.
Mollythrew her head back and laughed wildly. A spiraled tendril of hair broke freefrom the pile and fell alongside her neck. “Oh, God,yes! Your mama wassomad!”
“Yeah,she was.” I smiled reflectively.
Mollyflipped the pancakes a second time and resumed her dancing. She turned to faceme and sang into the spatula while continuing to dance unabashedly. She eggedme on with her eyes and shoved the spatula at me, and I sighed with sarcasticannoyance. But the music grabbed me and in a spur of the moment decision toshow-off, I snatched it from her and jumped in during Queen Pen’s part of thesong. I flawlessly rapped about pinkie diamond rings and fake-ass broads, nevermissing a beat, and when it was over, I dropped the cooking utensil as if Iwere dropping a mic. And, I thoroughly enjoyed the look of impressed awe onMolly’s face.
