Suddenly, I wish I had on the thickest foundation possible, but I still haven’t quite figured out makeup. “She’s too old.”
“Maybe she’ll wait,” Harlow comments, only making me blush harder. “You know you’d looove that.”
I wouldn’t—god, that’d be mortifying—and Harlow knows that.
“Please, guys, she still has to deliver our food,” I say, my voice getting smaller.
I tense, waiting for Paisley to give her opinion about how I’m acting around the pretty waitress. But she’s still looking out the window. The moment of distraction fades away as we return to just the four of us, Paisley still acting weird. I dig my nail into my thigh as I rehearse different ways to ask Paisley what’s going on. I wish I could just let it go, but I’m so tired of feeling like an outsider in my own friend group.
When I finally settle on a phrasing, I turn to Paisley. But she opens her mouth first. “Hey, Em, did you get more information on that camping spot you mentioned earlier this week?”
Ordinarily, the change of subject to one of my areas of expertise would have me grinning. But I can’t ignore the timing. “Yeah,” I say slowly, pulling out my phone. “The campsite is available, pretty cheap, and the hike into the ghost town is under five miles. Totally doable, especially with the weather cooling off. The ghost story associated with this place is wild, by the way.”
“What is it?” Paisley asks, ever so slightly leaning into me again. Her sweet body spray perfumes my nose.
I’m not the best at making eye contact, especially when I get excited, so I focus on our various objects on the table—our phones, the sweating glasses, wads of paper from the straws, utensils still wrapped up.
I see Paisley’s phone in particular as it explodes with texts. The names go by so fast I can’t read them.
“So the story goes that a schoolteacher in the early 1900s took her group of fifth graders to this old mining town for a field trip…” I say.
And then the names stop flowing so fast.
I recognize Harlow’s, no preview. My heart leaps into my throat. Harlow herself looks over at me through her intricate purple eye makeup, her phone clearly in her lap like she’s texting in class. My jolt of surprise rots into disgust, like she really thinks I’m being the nosy one in this situation. We’re close enough together for me to see the whites of her icy brown eyes.
“The teacher was the only one who came back alive,” I continue, trying to ignore the sour feeling growing in my stomach. “They think she sacrificed them to the devil by…”
More texts.
Paisley and I make eye contact. Every muscle in my body goes tense.
But all she does is turn her phone over. “And then what?” Paisley asks, her voice ever so slightly higher.
“Sacrificed to the devil by poison,” I mumble. “They were all poisoned at dinner that night. They say if you sit in the abandoned buildings after dark, you can still hear the children laughing.”
Opal’s staring, her plush lips ever so slightly agape in shock. “Shit, I’m getting chills. When are we doing this trip again?”
“Soon,” Paisley says, suddenly picking up her phone and raising it for a selfie. “Pose!” We all throw on smiles seconds before the clickof her phone. Paisley’s eyes light up before she says, “Yes, it’s so cute! Posting this one.”
Despite the lack of agency over what photo gets posted, my muscles loosen as I get the notification that I’ve been tagged in a post.???????for the caption. I type a few hearts back as replies from our classmates come pouring in.
“Be right back,” Paisley says, stepping up out of the booth. “Text me if the food comes.”
Opal and I watch as Paisley goes.
This is sooff. I stand up. Maybe if I follow her, we can have an actual conversa—
Harlow puts her hand on my thigh and pushes me back down.
“Paisley’s fine, Emma,” Harlow says with a stern look.
Embarrassed, I sit back down. Across the booth, Opal shrugs.
“I think we were going with the week before Halloween for our camping trip,” Harlow continues, not missing a beat. “That way, on Halloweekend we can go to a party and have a movie night. We can finally doBeetlejuice.”
Harlow gives me a wink that only makes me fidgety. I tend to oscillate yearly between special interests. My fixations are always on celebrities from movies or TV I love. It’s been women in horror for a few years now. Currently, it’s Winona Ryder, baffling my friends and family. There’s no easy way to explain that sapphics having crushes on hot middle-aged women is actually pretty normal. Plus, with Winona, there’s something about the plethora of information to learn about her—her incredible range of movies, how her work defined genres in the ’80s, how she herself defined both the goth culture and celebrity culture in the ’90s. Then there’s her fall from grace in the aughts, her quiet era, and how people my age grew up with her on her TV workand then developed a new fan culture latching onto the same idol for quirky goth outcasts as teens did in the ’80s. She’s been my comfort and my artistic muse for going on nine months now.
My friends finally agreeing to watch one of my favorite movies should be filling me with absolute elation. Should. My mom’s words float through the growing storm of unease:You’re just a little sensitive, Emma.But no, I’m not. Paisley never disappears like this. Paisley and Harlow don’t text each other while in the same booth. This is different, and I need to open my goddamn mouth and say something.
