Those Girls

MOLLIE FINN

I should have known that junior year would be interesting, considering it began with me puking in the fucking senior parking lot. Which, now that I think about it, Alex always managed to park in despite the fact that she wasn't a senior.

I tried to put aside Alex's whole I'm joining a band thing, which was shady for a shitload of reasons, and just focus on not vomiting as we drove into school. Alex and I were lifers at Harwin, meaning we'd been there since kindergarten—together. The same fucking school every fucking day surrounded by all fucking girls, for twelve fucking years—no wonder we were so wound up. We drove, for the millionth fucking time, through the wrought iron gates into the mouth of the ominous crimson towers of the Victorian institution for the young women of tomorrow. Though Greencliff was an innocuous suburban town—big houses; big lawns; shutters; fences; trees that were green in the spring, gold in the fall—Harwin looked like a psych ward or some fascist medieval finishing school where girls walked with books on their heads and drank Earl Grey in silence with their ankles crossed. But that was just the foreboding veneer meant to impress and intimidate Waspy trophy wives already worried about their four-year-old daughters' future piercings and subpar SAT scores. The outside was dark and imposing, but the halls were bright with a team of underpaid, poorly kept, spinster teachers and gum-cracking, foulmouthed wenches like me and Alex and Veronica. Nothing to be scared of, really. With all the girl power and sparkly posters and pep rallies, it really felt more like a cheer camp or a sorority house than a school.

It was the first day, so green and gray balloons bounced from all the doorways and lampposts. Little whores-in-training in crisp plaid kilts hugged and compared class schedules and tan lines. The Plan B started to kick in. I rolled down the window and laid my head back, hoping my nausea might be assuaged by a breeze or the valor of the cherry blossoms or some shit like that, but no such luck. As soon as Alex jerked her jalopy into park, I flung the squeaking door almost off its hinges and leaned out as far as I could to puke Diet Coke all over the hot asphalt.

Alex ran around the car to check the damage. She knelt down and petted the top of my head like a puppy's. "Aw… Molls—thanks for not getting any in the car."

I gave her a watery-eyed smile and slowly rolled out of the vehicle, as its clammy, smoky signature smell was not helping my situation.

Alex perched on the hood to chat with some senior girls, totally unmoved by their obvious displeasure with her presence in their hard-earned parking lot. They asked what was wrong with me. I told them I was sick, but they seemed suspicious. They probably knew. Bitches were just jealous. I get it. I was violently purging the unborn child of the hottest guy in their grade; I'd be mad at me, too.

I watched Alex talk to the seniors, all her clothes hanging off her like she couldn't be bothered to actually put them on, but just mustered the energy to drape herself in whatever stained, wrinkled item was lying on her closet floor. Her tattered gray cardigan was too big, and the stretched-out cotton sleeves dangled past her wiry hands. Her kilt was askew, burned with cigarette holes and off by a button. Her dark hair was a tangled, spiraled mess, per usual. Her skin looked great, though, and I wondered if she was drinking more water and less artificially sweetened caffeinated beverages like she'd mentioned she was going to try to do last week. Was that really working? I kept meaning to start doing that. But didn't she just have that Diet Coke?

I felt another wave of ill come on, so I squatted and placed my head between my knees. Alex dismissed herself from the seniors to come over and rub my back as I dry-heaved.

"Are you sure you're okay?" She knelt down next to me, still rubbing me like a Yorkshire terrier. I stared at her threadbare, untied, green Converse that were not in uniform. "Maybe you should go home? To the nurse? Something?" she said.

"And say what? Sorry, I can't learn today, I'm busy doing my part in the fight against teen pregnancy?"

"Seems like as legitimate an excuse as any. Next time just use the damn condom correctly."

She didn't understand. I was Catholic, for Christ's sake. If Alex got preggers, Nancy Holbrook would probably give her a hug, hold her hand through the procedure, make her matzo ball soup, and tell her she was proud of her for making such a hard decision. Honestly, she'd be so happy Alex finally had a boyfriend she'd probably let him sleep over, make him pancakes in the morning, and restock her medicine cabinet with condoms and edible underwear. I once suggested to my mom that going on the Pill might regulate my period and clear up my skin, and she cried for a week and sent me to confession.

Alex fed me more Diet Coke and helped me upright, just in time to catch a glimpse of Veronica rolling out of a Lincoln Town Car. Like she was Princess fucking Diana or something. If some heavyweight in a black suit with an earpiece had rolled out behind her, I swear to god she'd have gotten projectile vomit right on her smug, spray-tanned little bird face. She flipped her freshly coiffed and recently highlighted hair and slid on some new sunglasses that, from this distance, appeared to be Gucci, and thus new. I always know when anyone gets anything new, because I have a full mental inventory of all my friends' and family's worldly and closetly possessions—and Gucci sunglasses were not in my Veronica registry as of June.

She frantically began flinging her Tiffany and Cartier–clad wrists from side to side when she saw us.

"She's, like, out of control," Alex mumbled as she snatched the Diet Coke from my hand. Veronica was already skipping her sticky little legs over to us. Alex and I braced ourselves for a deluge of positive energy and some obliviously whorish story.

"Ladies!" she squealed, then took notice of my green face and crippled stance. "What's wrong?"

"Mollie's having a rough morning," Alex said, squeezing my shoulder. "We had to go with Plan B.…"

"Again?"

Veronica kept talking, but I was in no place to listen to sounds higher pitched than dog whistles and Chipmunk Christmas albums.

I tuned her out to survey the school yard. Most noteworthy summer transformation awards went to Julie Goldstein, who'd gotten a much-needed nose job, and Margot Swan, who'd lost a solid twenty pounds. They looked good, I guess, but Julie still had that post-op cat-face, stiff-upper-lip thing happening. The swelling would go down, though, and she would undoubtedly be cuter than she was before. Good for her.

Christ. Had anyone else gotten fat over the summer? The whole boyfriend thing had really wreaked havoc on my ass. I'd spent my entire summer "splitting" nachos and sausage calzones and at the McDonald's drive-through at three AM. Sam eats like a sumo wrestler training at Walmart, and what was I gonna do? Be the lame barf jars girlfriend that picks at a garden salad with dressing on the side while idly watching him house carb-infused meat concoctions with melted cheese? Doubtful. At least I was puking today—that couldn't hurt things.

"So, Friday night?" Veronica said, pulling me back into the conversation I'd been ignoring. She looked at me, her vacant green eyes seeking approval.

"For her First Week of School party," Alex interjected.

"Oh yeah," I said, already stressed out by the prospect of another one of Veronica's momentous parties. I changed the subject. "Hey, V, did Alex tell you that she's trying out for American Idol?"

"What?" Veronica squawked.

"It's just a band," Alex said. "It's not a big deal."

She rolled her eyes. Was she annoyed that I wasn't taking this seriously? Was she actually taking this seriously? Since when was Alex serious about anything?

"Wait, are you actually trying out for Idol?! Or an actual band? Is it a new 'Band Idol' format? I'm confused."

Veronica was confused. Shocking.

"It's just a band," Alex barked. "A silly, practice-in-a-garage, just-for-fun high school band."

"With non-Crawford boys? Oh my god, are you going to be in the Battle of the Bands on Halloween?! You'll be like a celebrity! Remember those smokin' hot guys from that reggae band last year? Do you think you'll meet them? Invite them to the party on Friday!"

"Oh my god." Alex rolled her eyes so hard I thought she might actually tip over. "I'm not even in the band yet, calm the fuck down."

"Why didn't you ask if we wanted to do it with you?" V asked. "We could all be in a band; it could have been, like, our new thing? I love singing!" I actually wanted to hear Alex's answer, but V interrupted herself. "Oh, can you ask Sam if he can get us a keg?"

The question was directed at me.

"I guess," I said.

Asking Sam for favors always required a trade. I picked you up from school, you buy me dinner. I let you watch Real Housewives, you blow me. I puked one more time behind a red Jeep Wrangler before we all made our way into homeroom.

VERONICA COLLINS

In homeroom, I watched an even balder, though just as fat and sweaty as I remembered, Mr. Boardman shuffle through some papers on his desk and survey the talent in his homeroom. He caught my eye, gave me a wink and a wave, and said, "Welcome back, Ms. Collins. How was your summer?"

I sat up on my foot and leaned over my elbows on the cold linoleum desk.

"Great!" I said with a smile. "Did a lot of traveling… and tanning." I undid a button and pulled my white oxford shirt down over my shoulder to show him my tan line.

"Very nice," he said. "I'm sure everyone would love to hear about your adventures."

I leaned farther over the desk and pushed my elbows together. "Well, you know, I'm always happy to share them."

Alex scoffed under her breath.

I laughed it off. "What?" I asked her as I plopped back down on my foot, the hard new leather cold under my skirt.

She rolled her eyes, but I could tell she was smiling.

"What?!" I said. "Just giving him a little spank-bank material."

"I really don't think you want to be a part of the twisted depths of a man's spank bank. Especially balding, sweaty old men with lisps who take jobs at all-girls schools."

"Please, I just made his morning! And he's not that old.…"

I felt him still watching, so I turned and twisted on top of my foot again, but this time, I turned out my hip to give him a nice little up-the-skirt shot.

I'VE ALWAYS DISCONNECTED FROM Mollie and Alex after I've been away for a while. I always break back into their little bond after a few weeks, or faster if Mollie happens to be annoyed that Alex is too clingy that week or if Alex happens to decide that Mollie is too bossy that day. But, without fail, as soon as I go on vacation or miss a party or go home sick, they re-fuse and I'm back at zero: alone on the swing set, pining for an invitation to take a turn on the two-person seesaw, like it's fifth grade all over again. It's really annoying. You'd think they'd just have accepted that we were a threesome by now, that they'd have gotten over the idea that I had to reinitiate myself and prove my worth every few months. But I knew the party would bring us back together—one drunken night of fun was all they needed to remember why they decided they liked me in the first place.

While I was in Europe over the summer, I'd decided that I was going to get a real boyfriend and try to do better in school this year, maybe attempt to get into a respectable college. I was tired of Mollie bragging about her relationship and thinking that because she and Sam went out to dinner together sometimes that she was somehow a better person than I was. Plus, even I was getting bored with the whole party-girl thing, and I should go out on top, right? My Last Week of School party last year ended with five police cars, a pool full of blood, an illicit video, and a pregnant sophomore—where do you even go from there? I debated even having my First Week of School party, but my First Week of School party is a tradition, so not having it would be downright bad luck, right? That, and the big empty house was starting to get to me. I'd been home for only two days, and already my dad had left for Asia and my mom hadn't left the gym or her new trainer, Roger. I was sort of looking forward to filling my house with warm bodies for a night, pumping some life back into that ancient history museum.

We resumed discussion of the party on our way to tennis practice that afternoon.

"Let's keep it just juniors and seniors," Alex proposed as she rummaged through leaves and papers and god knows what else to find cigarettes under the passenger seat of her car.

I agreed. "Though your brother can come with a few sophomores if he wants," I said.

"I'll mention it, but it's always weird when I see him out. Let him stay home and play video games. Get his own damn life, like I had to."

We used to torture Josh Holbrook when we were little. Nothing permanently damaging, just things like telling him that his freckles were a highly contagious rash or that every time he sneezed the snot that came out was part of his brain. He was also undyingly, annoyingly, and obviously obsessed with Mollie. Freshman year, we found her picture in a drawer next to his bed. Mollie pretended she was grossed out by it, but continued to prance around the Holbrooks' house in short shorts and skimpy tank tops anyway. Typical, hypocritical Mollie.

"Aw! Come on. Isn't that what big sisters are for? Inviting you to parties? Getting you hammered?" Mollie said.

"You just want him there so he can fawn over you all night," I said, regretting the amount of sass in my tone.

Mollie spun around in the front seat, whipping her ponytail against her cheek. "Oh, stop it," she said. "He's like my second little brother."

I snorted.

"Are second little brothers like second cousins? Ya know, the ones you're allowed to bone?"

"End of conversation!" Alex screamed as she slammed on her brake. "Neither the boning of second cousins nor my little brother is allowed, okay? Everyone? Veronica? Do I need to make you repeat after me?"

"No boning your little brother or second cousins. Got it."