“I didn’t post that poll,” she says more quietly, “but I definitely entered…and it’s weird, right, that I’m so enamored by a baby just because he’s famous?” She frowns in thought.
“Not weird. Not when the media makes the baby seem like American royalty.”
Willow mutters, “Prince Moffy,” with an awkward smile, not intending for me to see. When she notices me staring, she clears her throat and touches her lips. “Uhh…yeah.”
“Hey, Prince Maximoff fanfic mightactuallybe a thing when he’s a teenager.”
“I’d read it,” Willow says and adds, “but in a…non-creepy way. I’m related to him. It’s just like entertainment…like television. Sort of.”
“Yeah, sort of,” I agree, aching to stretch my arm over her shoulders, but I tense more. We stand side-by-side in front of theStreets of Ragecontrol panel: red and blue joysticks and a couple buttons each. Nothing fancy or complicated.
I strain my ears to catch her muttering, “I’m talking too much.”
“You’re not talking too much, trust me,” I assure Willow. “You could be quiet the whole day too, and that’d be okay. I just like being with you.” I want to retract that last part because she stiffens a little more.
Tension winds between us.
“As friends,” I add.
She eases more.
Just friends then.Right.Just friends.It’s easier. I know that.
Willow lets out a breath and then meets my eyes. “Before we play…can I ask you to do something for me. I mean, it’s okay if you say no. It won’t hurt my feelings.”
I nod, curious about where she’s headed.
Willow sets the JanSport backpack at her sneakers and then unzips a pocket. Retrieving a phone, she clicks into the camera app. “So you know Maggie?”
“Your friend from Maine.”Her only friend.Before I came along.
“Every day she asks me about Lo and Lily, sometimes even Connor and Rose, and Ryke and Daisy…and I can’t answer her questions. She hasn’t been answering my texts in two days, which isn’t like her, and she unfollowed me on Twitter.”
“Damn.” I rest my elbow on the control panel.
“I know, it’s bad.”
I frown. “All because you wouldn’t talk about your cousin and his friends?”
Willow flips the cellphone in her hand. “I used to tell Maggie everything. She has a right to be mad and upset that I’m…I’m shutting her out. I’d be sad too, and I want to share my life in Philly with her. I just can’t sharethatside.”
It clicks. “You want to shareme?”
Willow pales again. “Not likeshare you,share you—”
I hold out my hand to stop her eyes from widening. “I know what you meant.” I see how hard this is for her to ask. We may spend a lot of time in each other’s company, but she still has no idea how I’ll react to new situations or where our friendship boundaries lie.
New friendships come with a shit ton of untested waters, and half the fun is testing them—but then there’s the risk of drowning the friendship altogether.
With a deep breath, Willow asks, “Can I take a selfie with you?”
I think I’ll always remember this moment.
We haven’t really taken each other’s picture. Not even during Halloween. Not alone or together. I’m not opposed to photos either. People tag me in pictures on Facebook and Instagram all the time. Most of them are of me at parties with friends.
My father scolded me about a few that “future employers” would deem disrespectful and irresponsible. Underage drinking in one picture, and about six or seven show me giving rude gestures to the camera.
Without hesitation, I hold out my hand for her phone. “I have longer arms for a selfie.”
