Every Last Word

“You look fantastic,” Mom says as I step into the kitchen.

I’d better. I spent the last hour putting myself together for the first day of school. I left my hair down and ironed it straight. I’m wearing a sheer top over a white camisole, skinny jeans, and the wedges I begged Mom to buy me. My eyes are lined, my lips defined, and my foundation is effectively masking the stress-induced breakout on my chin.

“Thank you.” I hug her tight, hoping she knows I’m not thanking her for the compliment alone. It’s for everything she’s done for me this summer. For coming to all my swim meets and cheering so loudly, she’s hoarse every Sunday night. It’s for all those late-night talks, especially over the last week when Cassidy left for L.A., Brandon went back to the East Coast, and the first day of school began to loom over me like an ominous storm cloud.

Mom’s wearing that encouraging smile she always plasters on when she knows I’m nervous. “Stop looking at me like that, please,” I say, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m fine. Really.”

My cell phone chirps and I pull it from my pocket to check the screen. “Alexis wants a ride to school today.”

“Why?” Mom asks as she fills a bowl with cereal for Paige. “She knows it’s against the law to drive with passengers in your first year.” Of course Alexis knows the law, she’s just surprised I’m following it since most people don’t.

I text her back, telling her I can’t give her a ride because if my parents found out, I’d lose my car. I hit SEND and flip the phone around so Mom can read the screen. She gives an approving nod.

I shove the phone back in my pocket and hitch my backpack over my shoulder. “Have a good day, sixth grader,” I say to Paige as she spoons a big bite of cereal into her mouth.

As I head for the garage, I’m still texting back and forth with Alexis, who’s begging me to change my mind. I finally drop the phone into the cup holder as I pull out of the driveway, ending the discussion without ever telling her the real reason I won’t pick her up today. Or any time in the near future.

Earlier this month, on my sixteenth birthday, Dad took me to the DMV to get my license, and when we got home a few hours later, there was a used Honda Civic parked in our garage. It was totally unexpected, and it meant so much more than regular transportation to me. It meant Mom, Dad, and my psychiatrist thought I could handle it.

I was dying to show off my new car, but Alexis, Kaitlyn, Olivia, and Hailey were all out of town on their respective family vacations, and Cassidy was grounded, so I just drove around by myself for the rest of the afternoon listening to music and enjoying how the steering wheel felt in my hands.

But every once in a while, I’d glance down at the odometer, fascinated by the way the numbers changed. I felt this strange charge whenever the last digit hit the number three.

When I finally pulled into the driveway that evening, the last digit was resting on a six, so I backed out again and drove around the block a few times until the odometer stopped where it belonged. And now I have to do that every time I park. I’m not about to let Alexis and the rest of my friends in on my secret, so I’m happy to have the law as an excuse to drive alone.

As I pull into the student lot, the odometer is on nine, so I have to drive all the way to the far end by the tennis courts before I can park on a three. As I cut the ignition, my stomach turns over violently and my mouth feels dry, so I sit there for a minute taking deep breaths.

It’s a new year. A fresh start.

The anxiety eases as I walk through campus. Avery Peterson squeals when she sees me. We hug and promise to catch up later, and then she returns to Dylan O’Keefe and grabs his hand.

He was my obsession for the first three months of freshman year, starting when he asked me to the homecoming dance and ending when Nick Adler kissed me at a New Year’s Eve party a few months later and promptly replaced him.

A few steps later, I spot Tyler Riola sitting with his lacrosse buddies at a table on the far end of the quad. He had my undivided attention for the first part of sophomore year, until I started dating Kurt Frasier, the only guy who wasn’t a one-sided fixation. I liked Kurt. A lot. And he actually liked me back, at least for a few months.

Kurt was hard for me to shake, but Brandon finally took center stage in my mind when summer started. I picture him in his Speedo and, as I turn the corner, I wonder what he’s doing right now.

I stop short. That can’t be my locker.

The door is wrapped in bright blue paper and there’s a giant silver bow tied around the middle. I run my hand across it. I can’t believe they did this.

I glance up just in time to see the crowd part for Alexis. As usual, she looks like she just stepped off the cover of Teen Vogue, with her long blond hair, striking green eyes, and perfect skin. I can hear her high heels tapping on the concrete as her designer sundress swings with each step. She’s holding a giant cupcake with purple and white frosting.

Kaitlyn is on her right, looking equally pretty but in a completely different way. She’s exotic-pretty. Sexy-pretty. She’s wearing a tight-fitting top with thin straps, and her dark wavy hair is cascading over her bare shoulders.

Hailey peels away from the pack and speeds toward me with her arms spread wide. She throws them around my neck and says, “God, you have no idea how much I missed you this summer!” I squeeze her tighter and tell her I missed her, too. She looks amazing, still tanned from her summer in Spain.

Olivia’s now within arm’s reach, so I grasp big chunks of her newly dyed jet-black hair with both hands. “Okay, this is totally working for you!” I tell her, and she pops her hip and says, “I know, right?”

As my friends close in, all the people around us stop what they’re doing to gather in a little tighter. Because that’s what happens when the Crazy Eights do anything. People watch.

We started calling ourselves that back in kindergarten, and it kind of stuck. There were eight of us until freshman year, when Ella’s family moved to San Diego and Hannah transferred to a private high school. Last year, Sarah landed the lead in the school play and started hanging out with her new drama club friends. And we were down to five.

That’s when I started to realize that friendships in odd numbers are complicated. Eight was good. Six was good. But five? Five was bad, because someone’s always the odd girl out. Often, that’s me.

“Happy birthday, gorgeous!” Alexis says, bouncing in place as she gives me the cupcake.

The smile on my face grows even wider. “My birthday was two weeks ago.”

“True, but we were all talking about how much it must suck to have a summer birthday. None of us even got to celebrate with you.” I’m surprised Alexis hasn’t mentioned this earlier. I saw her twice last week, and both times we talked about the spa day her mom is planning and the new convertible she’s getting for her birthday.

“This is so perfect, you guys,” I say, holding up the cupcake and then pointing to the bow on my locker. “Seriously. Thank you.”

There’s a chorus of You’re welcomes and We love yous. And then Alexis steps forward. “Hey,” she whispers. “Sorry about all the texts this morning, but I have to talk to you about something and I was hoping to do it in private.”

“What’s up?” I try to make my voice sound light, but the second she said the words “I have to talk to you,” my stomach twisted right back into that tight knot I’ve been trying to loosen since the parking lot. Those words are never good.

“We’ll talk about it at lunch,” she says. And just when I was starting to feel like this was the best first day of school ever, I’m now dreading lunch.

Kaitlyn steps in to hug me. “Are you shaking?” she asks.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

“Too much coffee this morning, I guess.” The warning bell rings and I turn to my locker and start dialing the combination with trembling fingers. “I’ll see you guys later.”

Once the Eights are gone, the rest of the crowd takes off to first period. I set the cupcake on the empty shelf and grab the door to steady myself.

Taped on the inside of my locker door, I see all the photos and mementos I’ve saved over the last two years. There are pictures of the five of us dressed up in the school colors for spirit week, and the four of us surrounding Kaitlyn when she won homecoming princess last year. There’s a copy of the noise ordinance we got when Alexis’s parents left town last Halloween and we threw this epic party people talked about for months afterward. Scattered around, covering any sliver of paint, are my ticket stubs. It’s an impressive, eclectic collection—ranging from bands no one’s ever heard of to names like Beyoncé, Lady Gaga, and Justin Timberlake—thanks to Olivia’s dad, who owns an indie record label and always gets us seats in the VIP section.

I use the small mirror to check my makeup and whisper, “Don’t. Freak. Out.” Then I close the door and stare at the wrapping one more time, letting my fingertip trail across the surface, running my thumb across the silver bow.

“That was really nice.” The voice is so faint, at first I wonder if I’m hearing things. I turn to see who spoke, but her locker is blocking her face.

“Excuse me?” I hope she didn’t see me pathetically fondling the bow.

“You have really nice friends.” She swings the door closed and walks over to me, pointing at the wrapping paper. I almost reply “Not always,” but I catch myself. It’s a new year. A new start. And today, I do have really nice friends.

“How’d they get your locker open?”

“They all know the combo. It’s kind of a birthday tradition. We’ve been wrapping each other’s lockers since middle school. This is only the second time they’ve wrapped mine, but you know, those were big birthdays. Thirteen and now…” I reach for the silver bow again. “Sixteen.”

Why am I telling her this?

I look around, realizing that the corridors are now empty. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

“Apparently not.” She points to the end of the row. “My locker has been there since freshman year, but we haven’t formally met or anything. I’m Caroline Madsen.”

I take her in, starting with her feet. Brown hiking boots. Baggy, faded jeans. An unbuttoned flannel shirt that might be considered cool if it belonged to her boyfriend, but I’m pretty sure that’s not the case. Underneath it, her T-shirt reads, WHAT WOULD SCOOBY DOO? That makes me laugh to myself. I continue up to her face. Not a stitch of makeup. A purple-and-white-striped ski cap, even though it’s the end of August. In California.

“Samantha McAllister.” The final bell rings, signaling that we’re both officially tardy on the first day of school.

She tugs on her shirtsleeve, uncovering an old, beat-up watch. “We’d better get to class. It was nice to meet you, Sam.”

Sam.

Last year, I asked the Eights to call me Sam. Kaitlyn laughed and said that’s her dog’s name, and Olivia said it’s a guy’s name, and Alexis declared that she would never, ever go by Alex.

I watch Caroline round the corner, and by then, it’s too late to correct her.