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2
“Na—ta—sha!” Elodie drags out each syllable. Her face flushed, eyes lit, she stands before me in all her teenage dream glory.
“Elodie Blue,” I reply, trying to match her tone, only I’m way off-key. Still, it sounds like a stage name, totally false. Her mom must have been an even bigger dreamer than mine.
Better at it, too, considering how her dream came true.
I lower my gaze past the prominent cheekbones and the sort of perfect pillowy lips people pay good money for, and onto what actually interests me—her clothes. One of the perks of hanging out with her: fashionable by association.
My mom used to joke (back when she still joked) that I went straight from reading Dr. Seuss to devouringVogue. I love high fashion, design, art, artifice. Just because I can’t afford it doesn’t mean I don’t fantasize about the day when a pair of thousand-dollar heels and the perfect shade of lipstick will transport me into a whole new existence.
Elodie catches me looking. “You can borrow it anytime. Say the word and it’s yours.”
The weird thing is, I know she means it. Elodie acquires as quickly as she discards. Though sometimes I wonder just how much longer before she grows bored of me and drops me as easily as the silk duster she’s offering.
She starts to slip it from her shoulders, but I wave it away. On her tall, willowy, runway-ready frame, the slouchy piece she’s paired with a white ribbed tank top and faded jeans looks breezy and effortless. On my five-foot-three inches (in heels), it would look like I went to school in my bathrobe.
She loops her arm through mine and leads me out of the caf, past the row of lockers sporting a fresh coat of paint that fails to hide the most recent graffiti scandal. “Check it out—” Elodie taps a ring-stacked finger against the locker as we pass. “If you look closely, you can still see the word ‘dick.’”
I roll my eyes and start to speed up, until Elodie catches hold of my sleeve. “What’s the hurry?” she says. “You’re not actually going to class?”
At first glance, with her fairy-tale blond hair, creamy white skin, pert little nose, valentine of a mouth, and flashing blue eyes, Elodie resembles an earnest cartoon princess. But I know from experience that Mason is right—she’s exactly the sort of “bad influence” your parents warn you about.
“If I ditch, I fail.” Seconds after I’ve said it, the final bell trills, sending the rest of the stragglers dashing for their classrooms, leaving just Elodie, me, and a deserted school hallway.
“Correction.” She grins. “You’re already failing, and now you’re getting a tardy as well. Also, we both know you’re not working today, so come.” Another tug on my sleeve. “I know a club where we’re guaranteed free admission—probably even free drinks if you’re willing to ditch that bulky hoodie.”
“Seriously—a club?” I check the time. “At one thirty?” My voice pitches high, making me sound as outraged as my mom when the phone rings while she’s watching TV.
“That’s what makes it exclusive.” Elodie laughs. “Maybe this will convince you?”
She hands me her cell so I can squint at a picture of a boy with features so perfectly sculpted, I’m sure it’s thanks to some serious filter abuse. Still, there’s a slight hitch in my breath as I linger on his sweep of dark hair and those navy-blue eyes. For some reason, he strikes me as familiar, but that’s probably because he reminds me of the kind of boy I once knew in my former popular-table life.
“His name is Brax.” She snatches the phone away and flings it into her bag. “He wants to meet you.”
“Um, yeah. Super believable, El.” I shake my head. “You’re telling me that guy—that face-tuned pixel jaw—” I motion toward her bag as though he lives there with the tubes of lip gloss and breath mints. “Wants to meetme?”
“You up for it?” She smiles excitedly.
Even though I recognize the con, given the choice between the disapproving glare of my history teacher and some sketchy afternoon club with a boy whose face is too good to be true…there’s really no contest.
Textbook history is basically the memorization of places, dates, and highly sanitized tales of old white men accomplishing heroic feats. It’s an unrelatable bore of a class that’s better used for napping.
Still, she doesn’t even give me a chance to respond. She just bolts down the hall, yelling, “Race you!”
I remain fixed in place, watching Elodie sprint through the quad as she heads for the gate as though the usual school rules don’t apply to her.
I wish I could explain my connection to her, or why I keep ignoring Mason’s advice. All I know is that for the last few years, he’s pretty much been my only true friend—and up until she came along, it felt like enough.
But then one random Wednesday, Elodie Blue showed up at our school and from that moment on, everything changed.
I remember watching in awe as she made her way across campus. She was so confident, so effortlessly cool. In other words, the exact opposite of me. And I have to admit, I was totally starstruck.
Of course, Mason disliked her from the start, claiming he could see right through her shiny facade to the layers of moldering rot. I think he even referred to her as a future cult leader, Instagram model, and crooked politician, all rolled into one.
But for me, Elodie was like the living, breathing embodiment of everything I aspired toward but could never manage to be.
Within days, the whole school was obsessed. And yet, despite the number of kids who’d be willing to risk their perfect GPAs to play hooky with her, she chose me.
