Seriously, what is wrong with me? All people with crushes can’t get quite this wacky, can they? Society would cease to function.
“I know that we both want to get the job in the fall,” Jordi says. “And we probably both read everything about it we could find. But … I don’t want to fight over it with you, Abby. If I get it, I just want to … get it.”
“Same,” I say as quickly as I can manage. “Yes, of course!”
Please let this mean something, too.
“Also, I know we’re supposed to get free clothes, and obviously if I do, I’ll tell Maggie to give more to you instead.”
“That’s … that’s really nice. Thank you, Jordi.”
Our sandwiches arrive, and I notice that the table next to us contains the people ahead of us in line. They’ve finally gotten their soups and still seem to have a lot of questions, mainly about cilantro.
“I sorta feel like they’ve never ordered food in a restaurant before,” I say, and Jordi snorts.
“I’m proud of you for getting through your sandwich-ordering so quickly.”
“You too! It was a tough job.”
Jordi spots something across the restaurant and lifts her camera out of her bag. I can’t figure out what it is that she’s shooting, but that mystery makes it even more exciting to watch.
“Sorry.” Jordi caps the lens and puts the camera away. “My friends hate when I do that without warning.”
“I don’t mind,” I say. “You can’t help when inspiration strikes you.”
I make a face because it’s the cheesiest thing I may have ever said, and I need Jordi to know that I know it. But she only smiles in return. And the truth is that even if nothing ever happens with Jordi and my weird thoughts about her electrical fingertips are all in vain, I’m still really glad I’m getting to know her.
The house is, magically, empty when I wake up on Tuesday morning. There’s a note from Dad in the kitchen that he and Mom have “a thousand” errands and they’ll see me later. I get dressed as quickly as I’m capable of; I don’t really believe in not putting time into a look. It’s not that I’m worried I’ll see someone I know and look terrible—not that I wouldn’t hate that—but my clothes are for me. When you’re making your way through the world in a look you feel confident about, everything feels easier.
I zip my laptop into my bright pink bag and walk over to Kaldi. I order coffee—yes, a regular coffee—and a bagel—yes, Mom would cry—for sustenance as I work on my next blog post. Honestly, I feel a little guilt toward +style. I’d figured my Lemonberry internship would keep me constantly inspired, but it’s almost like I get it out of my system and then have less of it when I sit down to write. Also, to be fair, I’m not really doing much of sitting down and writing, period, between the internship, the burgers project, and using my computer time to stare at Jordi’s Instagram on a bigger screen instead of doing, well, anything less creepy.
Maliah drops by after texting to see what I’m up to, and so this means two times in one week I get to see her without Trevor. I manage not to say that, though.
“What’s today’s post?” she asks, hovering behind me with her iced coffee. I do a quick inventory of open browser tabs to make sure there’s nothing incriminating or even just weird. There is an article called How to Find the Best Underwear for Your Butt Type but I decide that’s universally relatable for most girls.
“Midi skirts? Come on, Abby. No one looks good in midi skirts.”
“Untrue, you just have to put together the right outfit,” I say. “And that’s totally the point of my post.”
“You should post a photo of your black-and-white skirt,” she says. “When you wore it with the yellow belt and the button-up shirt? So cute.”
I agree that it’s one of my better recent outfits, but Maliah should know better, and I tell her so.
“I just don’t get it,” she says. “You are all about fashion. Every day. Why not let people see it? Real examples, instead of just talking about stuff and posting pictures from online stores?”
“I reblog photos of street style all the time,” I say. “And people who do OOTD posts! That means ‘outfit of the day’.”
“I know what it means by now, and you should be the one doing those posts.” Maliah sits down across from me and lets out a growly sort of sigh. “You look amazing, all the time.”
“Can you imagine my mom’s reaction?” I ask. “‘Eat Healthy with Norah!’s Norah suspected of having a fat kid!’”
Maliah rolls her eyes very forcefully. “No one would say that.”
“A photo goes up of a teeny tiny actress who has, like, the hint of cellulite, and people line up to call her a cow.”
“It’s not the same,” Maliah says. “You aren’t famous. You’re a regular girl. And you know you look great.”
“Me thinking it is different than other people thinking it,” I say.
“Fine, fine, fine. Anyway, there’s no way your mom would have that kind of reaction.”
I don’t push it because Maliah doesn’t know the whole story. No one but Dad knows the whole story, and it’s much better that way.
“I just want your blog to be as popular as it can be,” Maliah says, and then we both laugh.
“Oh, yes,” I say. “The universal wish every girl has for her best friend. Tumblr popularity.”
“Seriously, though, Abbs! Can you at least work toward it?”
“I still don’t know why it matters to you that the internet knows what I look like,” I say as I type up a description of a striped midi skirt similar to mine. “The internet couldn’t care less.”
“That
