Classroom X

day two: distress

The air reeked of nail polish, like acetone, sending a spike of prickling pain to Juliet's head. She turned sideways in her chair to pinpoint the source of the offensive scent, and immediately espied Cassidy Floyd at the desk right behind her, doing her nails in unapologetic shades of crimson and ultraviolet. Juliet faced away without making a comment, leaning forward ever so slightly in an attempt to catch an unpolluted draft of wind to drown out the chemical smell. A tired finger made it to her temples, rubbing slow, therapeutic loops that she hoped would dispel the discomfort.

Cassidy never listened.

Juliet McGant and Cassidy Floyd were best friends in theory; or at least that was what the rest of the world assumed their relationship to be like, and what the friendship bracelets they had been exchanging since grade four told about them.

Juliet didn't agree, although she'd never say it out loud. She would let Cassidy call them best friends, even repeat it back for her if she asked for it, but she would always feel like she was being dishonest afterwards. Juliet didn't hate Cassidy, at least not yet. However, there were still plenty of things she disliked about Cassidy—frankly, she could write a ten page essay about them. But Cassidy also happened to be the only person whom she could call a friend.

It was true. Cassidy would be there if Juliet needed help in solving a tough math problem, or if she forgot to do her homework or assignment and needed to copy it from Cassidy, or if sometimes, not always, if she wanted to rant about technology, politics, religion or history—nothing about herself, because Juliet hated talking about herself—and Cassidy would be there to lent her an ear, even if the topics were boring or too complex for her.

Juliet didn't know what to call Cassidy.

They weren't unfriends, but she wouldn't call Cassidy her best friend either.

A fresh whiff of nail polish sent a dull pain thrumming through Juliet's brain. Her eyebrows knitted on their own, partly from the headache, partly from displeasure. She had told Cassidy before that the smell of things like nail polish, paint, turpentine and perfume brought on a headache for her.

Cassidy never listened.

Cassidy would still wear heavy perfume, still paint her nails when Juliet was around. But that was fine. If Cassidy wanted to wear nail polish or perfume, who was Juliet to stop her?

It was the other things that bothered her, weakened their already complicated relationship, staining it like a cancer spreading—one faulty cell sabotaging another.

It was the little acts of selfishness, the hurtful, teasing words uttered inadvertently, the sporadic displays and outcomes of jealousy, slowly, imperceptibly, brick on brick building an impenetrable wall between them.

"How do you like my nails?" asked Cassidy, nudging her from behind. She waved her fingers before Juliet. "Do they look pretty?"

Do they look pretty?

Does my hair look nice?

Do you like my mascara?

Do you think there's anything wrong about my clothes?

Do you think I'll get a boyfriend?

Do you think I should get a nose ring?

Do you think I'm pretty?

Juliet remembered when the questions first started. It was somewhere around seventh grade. All of a sudden, Cassidy turned touchy and beauty conscious, intolerably so. All she wanted to know was how good she appeared, if she could beat Chloe or Nike in their looks. She worked in earnest to form a clique of her own, completely overlooking Juliet while she went off with other girls, and if Juliet tried to make new friends of her own, Cassidy would cry and blame her for trying to ruin their friendship. She started wearing makeup and fancy clothes just like Chloe Evans, she even started talking in a coy, affected voice that always threw off Juliet in its unnaturalness. And she conducted a prolonged and zealous (embarrassing in Juliet's opinion) hunt for a boyfriend.