I’m proud of what they’ve built, especially after I was certain the separation would tear it all apart. But it’s theirs, and sometimes I can’t help wondering if that means I’ll never be able to find something that’s wholly mine.
4
There’s a certain glamour to a best friend’s room that makes it infinitely more exciting than your own. For me, that room is Julia Kirschbaum’s. The walls are ocean blue, a turtle paddling to the ceiling above her bed and a beluga whale on the opposite wall. She painted all of it the summer before freshman year, and my sole contribution was a three-by-three-inch portion of coral reef near the window. She’s always burning incense, but the one time I tried it in my tower, I set off the smoke alarm. Then there’s the rainbow bong her parents gave her for her sixteenth birthday displayed prominently on the shelves mounted above her desk.
I lean in close to the mirror in her attached bathroom to apply raspberry-red lipstick. At the beginning of senior year, I cut my hair into a blunt inverted bob, and now my light-brown waves skim my shoulders, my bangs long enough to pin back when they get in the way, which is most of the time.
“I don’t still smell like the Olympic National Park, do I?” Julia asks, dragging a brush through her straight blond hair, which hangs halfway down her back. Rapunzel hair, and it’s gorgeous. I’d hate her for it if I didn’t love her so much.
“Nope.” I take another whiff. “You actually smell great. What is that? And what does the Olympic National Park even smell like?”
“Damp moss and my parents’ organic beef jerky,” she says matter-of-factly. “Mom’s trying out a new shampoo recipe. Rosemary and mint. You want some?”
“Yes, please.”
Deb and Dave Kirschbaum are the crunchiest of crunchy Seattle hippies. While our other friends were sneaking pot, Julia’s parents smoked it openly around us, encouraging us to ask questions. They make their own soap and shampoo, which they sell at a local farmers market, and raise chickens in their backyard. We met in Hebrew school and bonded over the fact that our February birthdays were only days apart, which meant having our bat mitzvahs together, and we were overjoyed when the district funneled us into the same high school.
“My parents asked if I could take on more B+B work this summer,” I say. “Since Asher’s busy with her wedding.”
“And you told them no?”
“My parents aren’t like yours. I mean, you had to convince them that art school wasn’t going to stamp out all your creative impulses. They thought art school was going to be too rigid for you.”
Julia applied to a handful of art schools and decided on a small one in Brooklyn. She’ll be doing what she loves, and sometimes it’s hard for her to understand why I can’t do the same. Not just because of my parents—because there’s no singular Thing I love, not the way Julia loves murals or my sister loves floral arrangements. Telling my parents I don’t want to join B+B would not only break their hearts but would also sever my family in a way I’m not ready to face.
After breakfast my parents went through our joint calendar and highlighted a few consultations they’d like me to join them for, a dress fitting here, a cake tasting there. It’s sad times when you can’t even get excited about cake.
I push off the bathroom counter and head into Julia’s room, flopping down on her bed so I can stare up at the surface of the ocean. The way she painted it, you can see the sunlight glinting off the waves. I un-inside-out the pockets of my dress, tangerine with tiny owls all over it. Since I can’t wear patterns or bright colors while I’m working, I tend to go all out the rest of the time.
My taste in music, too, is staunchly anti-wedding. No classical, of course. No ABBA or Bruno Mars, no “Celebration” or “Shout” or “Get Lucky.” It’s a mix of loud girl punk and moody indie rock that would never make it onto a reception playlist. I swipe through my phone and find a song by Mitski that seems to match my current emotions.
“Is Noelle going to be there tonight?” I ask.
“She was invited, but she hasn’t RSVP’d on Facebook.” She slides her feet into a pair of knockoff Toms made from hemp. “I really don’t think she’s into girls, anyway. She was dancing with Braden Smith at Wes Watanabe’s grad party, and they looked pretty cozy.”
“She could be bi. You know, like you?”
“Maybe.” Noelle transferred to our school midway through junior year, and she’s remained a mystery the way new kids tend to do. “Anyway, she had to be smart and get in early-decision to Yale, which is eighty miles from New York.”
“Don’t tell me your love isn’t strong enough to withstand the distance. You send the best GIFs.”
“I do, don’t I?”
I check my bag, make sure I have my wallet, keys, phone. I zip it up, and then I unzip it and check it again. Wallet, keys, phone—those three things everyone needs before going out, and yet my brain takes it a step further. I know my wallet and keys are there, but as soon as I zip my bag, I question it. I start wondering whether I can believe my brain, my eyes. So I do it again. It’s a strange feeling, knowing you’re doing something illogical, being unable to stop yourself.
Julia waits patiently, doesn’t tell me to hurry up.
“I think I’m going to take a break from guys this summer,” I say, still staring at the inside of my bag. There they are. They are there. Wallet keys phone. Phone wallet keys. “With everything I’m doing for B+B, and especially after Jonathan…”
“You doing okay with that?” Julia asks softly. She knows we slept together, but I haven’t quite been able to articulate
