I rack my brain to figure out what we could be talking about. I’m not pregnant. I don’t do drugs or drink. I’m boring. All I do is go to school, write freelance articles for different magazines, and work at Cora’s Chicken Stand, a dingy restaurant a few minutes away. I don’t even really have a lot of friends. Everyone has school friends, kids you see in class and sit with at lunch and partner up with in gym. But it’s almost December, which means it’s almost Capstone Month, when none of us seniors have to physically show up for school. I haven’t seen the girls I hang out with at lunch, Jordan and Sadie, since yesterday, and besides the two days of school we have next week, I doubt I’ll see them again until the new year.
“What is it?” I ask, standing near the door. I fist my hand in my shirt. “The Spelman application?”
I did it mostly myself, but Mom and Dad had to fill out the financial stuff and pay the application fees. Oh God. Are we having money problems? What if they don’t have money for college? I always knew I’d have to pitch in—my parents get a discount on my private school because Auntie Denise is an administrator, but with three daughters and relatively normal jobs, I doubt they can pay for college, too—except, what if it’s so bad that my money from writing and working at Cora’s isn’t enough? We applied for financial aid, but what if it doesn’t work out?
I want to take a deep breath, but all my air is caught in my chest.
“No, not that.” Mom grabs my hand, pulling me back toward the table. I’m still irritated about the pizza thing, but it’s hard to stay mad at her for long, with her warm hands and tender smile. “We’ve just been worried about you, Josephine. That’s all.”
“Worried about me?” My eyebrows shoot up. I shift my gaze to Dad. I don’t think he’s blinked once since this conversation began. “Why?”
“Well,” Dad says, “you barely act like a teenager.”
“Oh.” I smack my thighs. “This again?”
I’ve had this conversation with them almost monthly, ever since I started high school. I guess I’ve never been normal to them. I’ve always been shy, but they used to say I’d grow out of it, until I started locking myself in school bathroom stalls for entire periods. That ship sailed a long time ago.
“It’s just,” Mom says, glancing at Dad, “since the hard time you had in middle school—”
“I’m fine,” I say, sitting in the closest chair. “Really, I promise. That was years ago.”
The lines in Dad’s forehead crease.
“Seriously,” I say. “I’ve just been busy with my senior project and everything.”
My parents switched my schools after my hard time in middle school. Maggie had already graduated by then and Alice didn’t want to leave her friends, so I’m the only one who went to Oak Grove, a private school full of kids with bougie parents. It’s weird and artsy; I get to take classes with a real journalist, and we have an actual newsroom that students are allowed to use. Capstone Month is another positive. Every senior looks forward to it because we basically get all of December off. Technically, it’s for a senior capstone project; you have to volunteer, do a big project, or work in a field you’re interested in. All of the kids love it, but my parents weren’t exactly thrilled with the idea of me being home until the new year.
I glance between the two of them. Dad looks kind of constipated.
“It’s not that,” Dad says. “You’ve been doing a great job. But that’s not what we’re worried about, Josie.”
“We find it difficult not to worry about you,” Mom says, as if they practiced this. “Maggie was a little wild, but she was involved, and Alice flourished. I know you’ve been hard at work getting started on your project, but—”
“You don’t have any friends,” Dad interrupts. “It’s just not normal for a girl your age.”
“I do—”
Mom gives me the look, which means Watch your tone before I make you regret opening your mouth, so I shut up. But what am I supposed to say? Just because I’m not president of every club, like Alice was, or don’t have a ton of friends, the way Maggie did, doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with me.
Sure, I might not have any best friends from school, but how many people do? And really, how many of these people are going to keep talking to each other once May comes around and we all graduate? Most of them don’t even like each other. That’s why everyone subtweets or gossips or fights in our class group chat. I want to be around people who care. If I can’t, I’d rather be alone.
“Well,” I say, shrugging, “I’ve been busy with my writing, like I said. And the holiday rush at Cora’s.”
There’s a bit of a reaction then—the tightening of Mom’s mouth, the glance Dad gives her. But they can’t blame me. Writing is the only thing that helps.
“We’re proud of your writing,” Dad says, patting my shoulder. “But you can’t put all of your eggs in one basket. You need to make some friends.”
“I have friends,” I say, sticking out my hand. “My Twitter mutuals are my friends. Jordan and Sadie are my friends. Monique is my friend.”
Mom throws back her head and sighs. Dad presses his lips together.
“Isn’t Monique your editor?” Dad asks. “She doesn’t count.”
“And neither do strangers online,” Mom snaps. “You don’t know them.”
“Monique is literally my mentor for my senior project,” I say, cocking my head to the side. “Principal O’Conner had to approve of her, remember? She’s an actual person and she’s, like, impressed by me. She only started taking my pieces because she followed me on Twitter! It leads to quality relationships.”
“That’s not what
