When You Were Everything Page 9

  “These are the pretty little lies,” he says. “Not the stars.” His eyes leave mine and seem to land on the lower part of my face, close to what can only be my mouth. My lips part, and so do his.

  “I gotta go,” I say, and I run down his stairs and out of his house as quickly as I can.

  PRICELESS PEOPLE

  When I get home, my mom is waiting up for me. She calls me into her bedroom and grills me about school and why I didn’t come home right away. I settle on the bed beside her to tell her about tutoring. She’s instantly less angry. Maybe even impressed.

  “Well, I asked you to take an active interest in your future and you really came through.” She grips my chin and wiggles my head a little, and that small gesture warms me to her. “I know you have it in you; that’s why it drives me so crazy anytime you do something that doesn’t live up to your potential.”

  She takes a deep breath and sits up a little straighter. “I had a long talk with your father,” she says.

  I hold my breath, nervous about what she’ll say next. I look through her dark window and listen to the growing and fading siren of an ambulance as it approaches and passes our building. Whenever she talks about Daddy, her eyes get so sad.

  “He told me that you’ve been having a hard time at school because of something that happened between you and Layla?”

  I study my fingers—the rings I’m wearing and my chipped nail polish—instead of looking up at her. “Yeah. We’re not really friends anymore,” I say simply. I somehow manage to keep most of the pain—and rage—out of my voice. “And I don’t really want to get into the details of why. I just want to move on with my life. And get over it.”

  But I can’t when I’m going to have to tutor her, I suddenly realize. I can’t erase someone who insists on writing all over my life in ink. And I feel that weight settle on my chest again. I feel powerless against the stars and how they continue to thrust Layla and me together.

  Mom puts her hand on one of my knees and I flare my nostrils to keep the onslaught of tears I feel building at bay. The gesture is so gentle and honest that it makes me want to call her Mommy, like I did when I was little, because even though we fight all the time she can always tell when I’m close to crying. For a second, I want to tell her everything.

  “I know what it’s like,” she says too softly, “to lose your best friend.” And her voice has a familiar darkness to it. I know she’s talking about Daddy.

  “Do you think it’s worth it,” I say a little hesitantly, because I haven’t talked to Mom, really talked to her, in forever, and this isn’t even a question I’ve allowed myself to entertain inside my own head. She closes the laptop that had been open in her lap this whole time, so I know she’s really listening. “Do you think it’s worth it to try to make things right? I was reading all this stuff over the weekend about apologies, and friendship dissolution, shame, and vulnerability, and it all seems so overwhelming. So overly complicated.”

  She lets out a heavy sigh.

  “You’re a smart girl, Cleo, but sometimes you rely too much on your head instead of your heart. This may not be something a book will help you navigate.”

  I hug my knees to my chest. “Daddy said the same thing,” I mutter.

  Mom nods. “If you love someone,” she says, “it’s always worth it…to try. You only get a few truly priceless people in your lifetime. You should fight like hell to hold on to them.”

  I’m a little surprised by her earnestness, by the passion rooted deep inside her voice.

  “What about you and Daddy?” I ask quickly, because I feel like we’re connecting. I’ve tried having this conversation with her before and she’s shut me out, but I still want to know. “Do you feel like you fought hard enough for him?”

  Instantly, her eyes go flat, and I watch as all the doors inside her that fell open as we talked slam resolutely shut. She’s not Mommy by the time I’ve finished my question—by the time I know it’s too late to take any of it back. She’s Naomi Bell again, just like that.

  “What happened between your father and me is different. But I do think making things right with Layla is possible if you’re honest with her.”

  I can tell our moment has passed, and I’m more disappointed than I would have expected to be. The lump in my throat has melted away, and I regret bringing up Daddy. I hurt her feelings, but sorry seems like the wrong thing to say.

  I stand up. “I still have some homework to finish,” I say.

  She blinks a few times and smooths a strand of her dark hair. Her ears look naked without shiny earrings dangling from the lobes, and I realize this is the first time in a while I’ve seen her at home but not dressed for work. “Of course,” she says. She gestures at her laptop. “I have some more work to get done too.”

  She calls out to me before I reach the door. “But, Cleo,” she says. I turn to look back at her, thinking that I need to be more careful with how I ask people about the broken pieces inside them.

  “I’m still here…if you need to talk,” she says.

  * * *

  —

  In my dim bedroom, I’m more confused than ever. I don’t know if trying to erase Layla is right, or even possible. I don’t know if I want to be her friend again.

  I peer through the low light to my row of snow globes. Gigi gave me a new one every year for my birthday until she died. I hadn’t turned twelve yet the summer she passed away, but when we were cleaning out her apartment, we found the twelfth one already wrapped and ready. I lift that one from the shelf now—it’s full of a miniature London, with Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre at its center.

  The following year, on my thirteenth birthday, I was nearly inconsolable until Layla showed up with a small wrapped box. When I opened it, I found a gorgeous snow globe encapsulating a new city I could dream of visiting one day. Layla promised we would fly there together as soon as our parents would let us. I pick up that one next. It’s full of glitter instead of white pearls of fake snow.

  A tiny Eiffel Tower stands atop a metal miniature of the rest of the city of Paris. I love this snow globe because it has so much weight to it. I wish I could shrink and live inside the scene. I shake it, and as I watch the glitter float and shine, I imagine what it would be like to be honest with Layla. To tell her I’m sorry and to hear her say that she is too.

  What if we were fated to fall apart only to come back together again?

  I want to believe that we can both be forgiven, but I don’t know if, like inhabiting the tiny Paris I hold in my hand, that’s just another dream that will never come true.

  then: October

  WE SO SUCK AT PARTIES

  “We’re gonna g-g-go, right?”

  Layla convinced me to go to Chinatown with her so we could look for cheap costumey things to wear to Sloane’s Halloween party, but I was still secretly considering skipping it. For one, it was Sloane. And two, Layla and I already had a Halloween tradition. But it was starting to feel like all the things we used to do together weren’t as important to her as they once were.

  “Where to first?” I asked. “And yes, Layla, God. We’re going. But only because you promised to do our normal sleepover after.”

  Layla clapped her hands and looped her arm through mine. “Yay! Ok-k-kay, so. There are g-g-great options nearly everywhere.” She waved her hand like she was personally responsible for conjuring up Chinatown, fully formed. Red Chinese characters were on the fronts of all the buildings, and street vendors peddled everything from folding fans and silk scarves to jewelry, handbags, and hats.

  “I still have that mask I got when I went to see Sleep No More with my dad,” I said, picturing its long beak and giant eye holes as we turned onto Canal Street. Autumn hadn’t hit the city completely yet, and it was nearly seventy degrees. I knew old Chinese ladies were probably practicing tai chi in the nearby parks, and the thought of th
eir slow movements and wide hats made me smile.

  “No way,” she said immediately. “We’re going for c-c-c-cute, not creepy. It’s the first chorus p-p-party I’ve b-been invited to. We need to look good. We need to c-class it up.”

  We navigated the crowded sidewalk side by side, pushing our way past tourists and experienced New Yorkers haggling over purses and buying fruit. Layla was wearing a pair of pale blue skinny jeans under a knee-length yellow dress with long sleeves, and she looked like a flower in the sea of darker fall colors everyone else was wearing. That included me, because I was in my typical black T-shirt and ripped jeans. I knew whatever costume she ended up with would be full of light, just like she was.

  “I think we can fffffind something good for you over there,” she said, pointing across the street.

  We slipped into one of those pop-up costume stores that seem to appear and disappear all within the month of October every fall. “Luckily for you, I’m g-g-getting a vision,” she said. She made a frame out of her thumbs and pointer fingers like she was zooming in on me with a camera. “Maybe something Shakespearean?”

  In the end, I found myself standing in my room wearing white satin gloves with a few drops of fake blood on them to represent the blood on Lady Macbeth’s hands, a watch necklace for how often she checks the hour, and a lacy black dress I’d never normally have the guts to wear that we found at a consignment shop. Layla helped me pin my braids into a bun, and my mask was thin and lacy too. Layla said all I needed was a little red lipstick to complete the look. I almost never feel that I look exactly as I want to, but with Layla’s help, I was perfect.

  Deep down, though, I still didn’t want to go to the party, no matter how pretty I felt in my costume. And when Layla started humming her chorus audition song to herself it felt like a sign—a bad one. Though I used to love Layla’s singing, now it just reminded me that there was this whole new section of her life that I wasn’t a part of: she was a Chorus Girl and I never would be.

  When Layla asked me to help with her hair, I lifted the flatiron and just tried to think about our sleepover. About how we’d sit in the dark and watch a bunch of movies and creep up behind the couch to scare each other every time one of us went to the bathroom. I’d finally tell her about how my parents had been acting weird and distant with each other lately, using me to pass information between them like I was a carrier pigeon. I didn’t want to tell her before the party because she’d want to help. She’d insist we go to my house and somehow fix it all right away.

  “So do you think you’d really be able to convince your parents to let you come visit me in London this summer?”

  “Maybe,” Layla said, “since my aunt is j-just a train ride away.” She grinned at me in the mirror. “And then we’d go to P-P-Paris.” She hopped up and grabbed my Parisian snow globe. “Think it’s a sign that I was the person who g-g-g-gave you this?” she asked, sitting back down with the snow globe still in her hands.

  She shook it as I separated another chunk of her hair and said, “Obviously.”

  “Do you still miss your g-g-grandmother as much as you used t-to when we were k-k-k-kids?” she asked out of nowhere.

  I bit my lip and watched her in the mirror. She looked up at me. “Yeah,” I said. “I still think about her all the time. Especially when my mom is overreacting about dumb stuff. Talking to your mom helps calm her down sometimes, but Gigi knew exactly what to say to make her chill, you know?”

  Layla nodded.

  “She flipped out on my dad the other day,” I started, but then Layla’s phone chimed. I saw what the text said even though I wasn’t actively trying to look. It was from Sloane.

  What did Mason say about Friday?

  In the mirror, Layla’s reflection set down the snow globe and picked up the phone.

  I draped a handful of warm, straight hair over Layla’s shoulder, and I swallowed hard against a sudden dryness at the back of my throat. I wanted to tell her about my parental weirdness. But I also wanted to know why I didn’t know anything about Friday.

  It was a strange feeling—not knowing something about my own best friend.

  I watched my own eyes in the mirror, afraid that if I looked into Layla’s all the softest parts of me would show, especially since we’d just been talking about Gigi. I wanted to make sure I didn’t look like I was already hurt and trying to get to a truth that not so long ago would have been mine without having to ask.

  “You think Mason will be at the party tonight?”

  Layla put her phone facedown without texting back and reached for her mascara. She stroked both her upper and lower fringes of lashes twice before she answered. “I think so,” she said. She screwed the mascara closed, set it on my dresser, and stared at it. “I hope so.” She turned around to face me, and hope bloomed in my belly like a flower. But all Layla said was “Can you hand me those earrings?”

  Layla was going as a fairy. She was in a wispy long blue dress and had picked out a set of glittery, translucent wings from the pop-up Halloween shop. Her mask was silver, and so was all the jewelry she was wearing. I finished straightening her hair and she showed me how to blot the lipstick I’d messily applied. Layla’s parents were not fans of Halloween and thought it was haram (forbidden in Islam), so she’d told them she was just sleeping over again like usual, not dressing up and going out. We couldn’t post pictures anywhere that they might find, but we took a bunch anyway.

  Layla was quiet while we rode the train to Sloane’s. I pointed out some of the craziest costumes, but even a baby dressed like a sushi roll didn’t make her smile. I thought she might be worried about impressing the Chorus Girls again.

  “They already like you, Layla,” I said. I wrapped my arm around her hip and pulled her closer to me as the train rocketed along the tracks. “They invited us to this party, didn’t they? And you’re in chorus now. You’re like, official.” She squeezed me back, and though we swayed together as the train moved, it felt like there was more than just the fabric of our jackets between us.

  She was still quiet as we walked down the darkened streets in Sloane and Valeria’s neighborhood. “You okay? We can go home,” I said. “We can go to my apartment right now and we can help my dad make his world famous chocolate-covered popcorn.”

  I started tugging her back toward the train station. “No, no. I still w-w-want to go,” she finally said. “I swear.”

  “We so suck at parties,” I muttered.

  SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES

  It was strange being back inside Valeria’s apartment, which I hadn’t seen since summer. This time it was decked out with fake spiderwebs, and pumpkin confetti was dusted across the table near the door, a bowl overflowing with candy perched on top. A rap song I didn’t know was playing and a bunch of kids were dancing in the center of the living room. It was full but not overly crowded, so it was easy for us to walk down the short entryway. Layla started looking around for Sloane, and when she found her, we made our way over.

  “Hey!” Layla shouted. Sloane turned, and when she saw Layla, she threw her arms open wide, almost spilling her drink. “You came!” she shouted, and she seemed so happy to see her that I felt an instant tightness in my stomach. Layla grabbed my arm and pulled me forward.

  “Cleo’s here, too!” she said, but Sloane either didn’t hear or didn’t care.

  “Hey, bitches. Layla’s here!” Sloane shouted over the music to a few girls dressed in the same costume she was. They were all in short, tight black habits; knee-high socks; and heels: naughty nuns. The word “basic” bounced around my head, but I didn’t say it out loud. “L, you totally should have done this group costume with us. But, I mean, I get why you didn’t,” she said, nodding sagely. “Seriously.”

  All of it struck a wrong note with me. The costumes, the nickname, Sloan’s passive-aggressive “I get why you didn’t” that sounded like she didn’t
get it at all. I also didn’t like that I had no idea about this group costume. I bet not dressing up like a nun was probably why Layla was so nervous on our way here. Why didn’t she just tell me?

  “Who are you guys?” I asked.

  Sloane shook her head and pulled out a pair of sunglasses with round frames. The other Chorus Girls—Sage and Cadence, Valeria and Melody—all lined up beside her after saying hi to Layla. Sloane slipped the glasses on, put her hand on her hip, and said, “We’re Sister Act!”

  I nodded and smiled. I’d seen the movie a few times on cable. I looked at Layla, who seemed a little uncomfortable. “Cool,” I said, failing to sound enthusiastic.

  “Want to go find Jase and Mase?” I asked Layla, mostly because I wanted to move away from these girls to make sure she was okay.

  “Yeah,” she said to me, and then, “I’ll b-b-b-be back,” to Sloane and everyone else.

  “You okay?” I asked as soon as there was enough distance between us and them.

  She nodded. “I t-t-t-told them I didn’t want to do dress up like that b-b-because someone’s religious practices aren’t a c-costume,” she said. “I mean, I’d be pissed if someone threw on a hijab and w-w-was like, ‘I’m g-gonna be Muslim for Halloween!’ Plus, I wasn’t going to dress up like them when I knew I was c-c-coming with you.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Yeah, that makes sense.” I looked away from her for a second, down at my bloodstained gloves as I said what I said next, because it wasn’t true, but I didn’t want Layla to know. “I wouldn’t have minded if you wanted to dress up with them, though.”

  “I know, but still.” She lifted her mask, and her makeup made her eyes shine in the dark room. “I was worried they’d think ‘the Muslim girl’ was, I d-d-d-don’t know, uptight or whatever.”

  “I get it,” I told her, and it was true. We’d always been outsiders, and this was her chance to be a part of something that was very much on the inside. But there were still things about her that made it easier to stand out than fit in. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t know how to change those kinds of things about myself.