No Matter What You Do

9. Observation and Preparation

Thursday comes, and Tamara takes the seat in front of me in English class again. Professor Novak says he wants us to present our assignments from last class. No one volunteers to go first, so Novak calls people by column. As people go, I start to feel better. Some of these quotes the other kids have chosen are not just simple but lazy. Uh, my partner’s quote is “Hi,” and it means they’re a welcoming person.

When it’s Tamara’s turn to present her work, she goes up to the front of the class and reads them out loud, then goes on to her analysis of them and me. Should I be scared?

“The first one is about a boy who likes a girl. They are a long distance apart, but when they look into the sky, they see the same sunset.

“The second is about not being what others think you are but who you are. Even if you are born from evil, that doesn’t make you such.

“Lainey doesn’t care who your parents are, she cares about who you are. Your soul. It also sounds like she often feels isolated but craves those tiny things like a sunset that connects her to other people.”

Wow. She got that from Harry Potter and The Outsiders?

“Does that sound right?” Novak asks me.

“I don’t know.” I shrug.

Tamara smiles and quickly adds, “It’s just my observation.” She comes back to her seat, and I give a second of preparation for my presentation.

To start, I read out both of her Catcher in the Rye quotes. “From this, I believe that Tamara Williams is the kind of person who dislikes fake people or as Holden says ‘phonies.’ People who pretend and who seek attention. To her, earning things and working hard is more important than bragging about being good at something.” Tamara smiles, which tells me I’m right. “The second quote tells me she really likes The Catcher in the Rye and can relate to Holden as a character,” I add.

Novak nods, thanks me, and I go to my seat again. Even though Tamara gave me her silent support, I am still not convinced that I nailed that as much as she did. I am suddenly more aware of how awkward and sad I am.

After class, Tamara waits for me, and we head out into the hall. “What you said was true. I see how often people try to be something they’re not just to impress others. I don’t like phonies, can’t trust ’em.” She says it with a laugh, but the words hit me.

Her phone buzzes, and she pulls it out, chuckling as she types a reply to whoever just messaged her.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Just a silly birthday text from my mom.”

“It’s your birthday?”

“Yup. Officially at two past noon, every September tenth.”

“Happy birthday,” I say, suddenly feeling guilty.

“Thanks.”

“Are you celebrating?”

“Yeah, some friends have organized a party at Drop Stix, a club about thirty minutes away. I think a bunch of people are coming. You should too.”

“I’d love to. But I’ll have to pick up something first.”

“No worries. I don’t need anything. Just bring yourself.”

Knowing Brandy would kill me if I passed up this opportunity, I ask if she can accompany me.

Tamara waves off my question. “Of course. The more the merrier I say.”

“Good job,” Brandy exclaims enthusiastically when I tell her about Tamara’s party invite. “Our first party since finishing our list.”

I have to remind her that this is Tamara’s day and making it about us isn’t right. Especially now I know how much she hates phonies, and this list screams “PHONY” right in my ear.

Brandy zips her backpack and tosses it by her desk. “We’re not doing that. We are just using the opportunity to grow.” Convenient wording. “It won’t hurt anyone. When is it?”

I refer to Tamara’s reminder text. “Eight.”

“So we’ll have plenty of time to make you up.”

I whip my head around to see her. “No.”

Brandy gathers her class materials, picks up her bag, and goes to the door. “We’ll see.”

The minute she steps out, I rush to my dresser. Based on my school inventory, it would seem I have no nice clothes. I do. If I knew I would be going to nightclubs with my fashion savvy roommate, I might have owned more. Even though what I have is not up to par, according to Brandy. Why should I completely rule out my own clothes? I can put something together…

I grab a plain white shirt and tuck it into a pair of light blue jeans. Over it, I pull on a black zip-up hoodie. Then I stare at myself in the mirror as I style my hair in two French braids. Nice.

When Brandy comes back through the door two hours later, I am stepping into a pair of black combat boots.

“What are those?” she asks, horrified.

I stand up straight and speak confidently. “This is what I am wearing.”

She shuts the door. “At least let me help you.”

I roll my eyes as she untucks my shirt, unzips my sweater, and loosens a few strands from my braid to frame my face. I also let her put whatever makeup she wants on my face, which is a risky move, but I have no other choice. I sure as hell know nothing about it. After helping me, it takes Brandy over forty-five minutes to get ready. She leaves her hair straight and spends the time lining her eyes in black and trying on outfits. She really makes this way harder than it needs to be.

Before we head out, we both grab our personal bags, and Brandy tucks the list into her bra.