Roman Holiday

Lauren

Notoriously the worst part of back-to-school is the Weho Get-Together. Nobody likes that they call it that and probably no one like attending.

You get to the school three weeks before school even starts to take ID pictures and your entire class is in the gym and it's sweaty and packed and generally unpleasant. The worst part, though, is seeing how everybody has changed ever so slightly. Just enough to throw you off. A close second is everybody squealing. That part is pretty terrible too.

I wonder if anybody's shocked at my amazing transformation. I dyed my hair black instead of brown. And, just for today, I tamed it down to nice soft waves instead of thick, frizzy knots. It's so slight that nobody's going to notice except for Angel, my best friend. Her real name is Angelique, but because of what I call the "90s baby girl" complex, she insists on being called Angel. She's dressed impeccably, with new, straight black hair and a green tank top and tight black jeans, and strappy heels. Her makeup always looks good and it goes with her hair and her hair goes with her outfit and she always knows her colors and she could probably model and my t-shirt is stretched around my boobs and baggy at my stomach. Amazing.

"Oh my God! Laur!" She squeals and holds a lock of hair in her hands. One of her nails pricks my neck. Because she's that kind of person.

"How've you been?" I ask, probably more timid sounding than I intended to. 

"Terrible. This job has been kicking my ass. I realized if the rest of my look isn't up on the ranks with my hair, I am nothing in society. So, I started working more to get more money to buy these Gucci heels. And these nails, which look amazing, but they're super inconvienient. But it's all worth it. For the brand," she sighs and looks at me patiently.

Although her choices are questionable, she is absolutely the most flawless person in my life. She has the most beautiful milk chocolate skin that probably feels like silk if you touch it. I can't believe I'm the Walmart version of my best friend. My only asset is my ass. Mine is slightly better than hers.

"I've been pretty good," I offer. She laughs because she isn't cold-hearted and I'm hilarious.

"What have you been up to?"

"Um..." I stop to think. I honestly haven't been up to anything, "I quit working at the skate shop to work for this animal rehab place, which is amazing but my hours aren't very long. I've just been, like, playing guitar and messing with guys on Tinder and watching movies."

"Messing with guys on Tinder is truly one of the underrated treasures in life. Have you ever put in a really ugly picture of yourself? I put one of me in my wrap and facemask and some guy was really into it. I pretended I was seventeen."

The teachers are attempting to herd all the students into lines to get ID photos taken. Angel stumbles on her heels when we move over to the other side of the gym. I instantly reach out to grab her arm, but I feel somebody else do the same thing. We both make sure she's steady and carry on. All is normal.

Except for that I feel the other girl's eyes boring holes into the back of my skull. I think it's Normani Hamilton. I've had classes with her and I've always felt like we would be pretty good friends. She's not incredibly popular but not, like, gum stuck on a tree. So kind of like me. She's fairly nice. And I say fairly because she's currently staring at me, which is uncomfortable. 

Angel is talking about legally changing her name from Angelique to Angel because of practicality and brand and it works better for modeling and whatever she's off about this time. It's hard to focus while I'm trying to figure out what's going on with Normani. 

My picture comes out fine, but I linger around the computer that displays the recent pictures so I can talk to Normani. "Your hair looks nice," and it does. It's a straight bob angled around her face. This elicits a warm response and thanks. Mostly, I just say it to break the tension.

I don't want anything to be weird between us.