Beverly

Chapter 14

14

BEVERLY, 1998

16 years old

High school was supposed to be different.

Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

It was basically middle school, just with more math, fewer places to hide, and an overwhelming sense that everyone was suddenly in a rush to grow up overnight. Sure, I had different teachers, different hallways to navigate, and different people shoving past me while gossiping about who wore what at the last party, but mostly, life was the same. Same town, same people I’d known forever, and the same nagging feeling that something was missing.

I kept waiting for something significant to happen, though I had no idea what that was.

Everyone else seemed to be in on some unspoken rule that I hadn’t figured out yet. People were suddenly obsessed with reinventing themselves, like it was some kind of requirement. Some picked up smoking. Others got their noses pierced.

The girls who used to wear bright colors and bubblegum lip gloss now only wore black and rolled their eyes at everything.

The guys who used to play video games were suddenly at the gym, talking about protein shakes and bench presses.

Me? Well, I bought a choker necklace and cut my own bangs with safety scissors in the bathroom at two in the morning.

Deep down, I couldn’t tell if I’d changed at all.

I hadn’t dyed my hair again—even though I’d thought about it—and I still didn’t eat meat, though I had no real explanation as to why, other than that it didn’t sit right with me that animals had to die when there was plenty of other food to eat.

I still spent time with Blake, though something between us felt different now. Not bad, just different. Maybe it was because we were older. Maybe it was because I was pretending I didn’t notice the way girls looked at him these days or how he carried himself differently—more confident, more intense.

Or maybe it was just that I didn’t know how to exist without him being the one person who always made sense to me.

But none of that mattered the day Tiffany showed up at my house with red-rimmed eyes, a hoodie three sizes too big, and a plastic bag stuffed inside her backpack like she was smuggling something illegal. “Cameron broke up with me,” she announced, dropping her bag onto my bed and flopping face-first onto the mattress with a dramatic thud.

“Oh.” My mind scrambled for an appropriate response. Was I supposed to comfort her? Crack a joke? Pretend I hadn’t been waiting for this moment? Because, honestly, I never liked Cameron and figured he was bound to pull something stupid eventually. I went with the safest option: “I’m sorry, Tiff.”

She groaned into my pillow. “Don’t be. He was an idiot.”

“Obviously.”

“I hate men.”

“Uh-huh. You’ve been saying that since we were ten.”

“Yeah, well, now I really mean it.” She lifted her head just enough to glance at me, then flopped back onto her back with a dramatic sigh, staring up at the ceiling like it owed her an apology. “You know what the worst part is?”

I already knew there were at least five ‘worst parts’ coming, but I humored her. “What?”

“He quoted Seinfeld while doing it.”

My jaw nearly hit the floor. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was. He actually said, ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’”

I stared at her, incredulous. “He actually said that?”

“Bev, I swear on my future therapy bills. Oh, and—and it gets worse . He had the audacity to say, ‘I hope we can still be friends.’ Friends , Bev. Like I didn’t just spend six months pretending his stupid basketball team was interesting. Like I didn’t laugh at his dumb jokes and tolerate his obsession with Red Hot Chili Peppers .”

“Wow. You really did like him...”

She shifted onto her side, watching me with tired eyes. “I’m… I’m so embarrassed, Beverly.”

I winced. Tiffany joked a lot, exaggerated for effect, but I could hear the real hurt in her voice. She wasn’t the type to let anyone see her vulnerable, and I knew she was trying to hold it together for the sake of pride. Watching her go through this sucked.

She didn’t deserve it.

“Hey,” I said gently, inching closer until I could touch her arm. “You don’t have anything to be embarrassed about. He’s the one who should be embarrassed. For being stupid enough to lose you. For not knowing what he had when it was standing right in front of him. You deserve someone better.”

She nodded, then sat up, reaching for her bag.

She pulled out a bag filled with…brownie mix?

I frowned. “Tiff, if you think brownies are going to fix your heartbreak?—”

“Not just any brownies.” She wiggled her eyebrows and pulled out a second, much smaller bag like it was a trophy.

I stared at her. Then at the bag. “Tiff. Is that?—”

“Weed.”

My eyes widened. “I’m sorry— what ?”

“My sister gave me some,” she said proudly. “She owed me for covering for her last weekend, and I figured, what better way to deal with heartbreak than getting a little high?”

I blinked. “I can think of, like, five better ways.”

“Oh, please. It’s weed , not heroin. And we don’t have to smoke it, so it doesn’t even count as being delinquent.”

“Tiffany. We don’t know how to make weed brownies.”

“How hard can it be?” she scoffed, waving me off.

“You have literally never baked anything in your life.”

“I made cookies once.”

“You burned cookies once,” I corrected dryly.

“Same thing,” she muttered, unfazed. “Besides, I’m pretty sure this is foolproof. We just follow the directions on the box and throw it in. Easy.”

I frowned at the bag. “This is a terrible idea…”

“Come on,” she said with a pout, batting her mascara-coated lashes at me, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “Don’t make me do this alone, Bev.”

I hesitated. Dad was at work. Mom was out with her friends. I had no plans for the rest of the night. I also wasn’t about to let her do this alone. And, honestly? The idea of seeing Tiffany not curled up in misery sounded pretty appealing.

“…Fine.”

Her grin was instant. “Knew I could count on you.”

We sneaked into the kitchen like we were about to rob a bank, even though Mom and Dad wouldn’t be home for hours. Tiffany dumped the brownie mix into a bowl, then pulled out the weed.

“How much do we put in?” I asked.

She paused. “No clue.”

I squinted at the weed. “Do we…grind it up?”

Tiffany shrugged. “Probably?”

I stood there with my arms crossed, staring at her. “You know, we really should’ve done some research.”

“People have been doing this for centuries , Bev. I’m sure our ancestors weren’t out here measuring grams with a food scale.”

I wasn’t convinced, but she looked so determined that I just sighed in resignation and grabbed a spoon.

We ended up just kind of…dumping the weed in. A completely unmeasured amount. Vibes only. Then we stirred it up, and there were definitely still chunks floating in it.

“Do we… Do we leave those in?” I asked, peering into the pot.

Tiffany shrugged. “Extra fiber,” she said, stirring aggressively.

That didn’t sound right, but I wasn’t about to argue with her. Once we mixed everything together, we poured the batter into a pan and shoved it in the oven.

Five minutes later, the scent of chocolate filled the air.

“Do you think Cameron will regret it?” Tiffany asked quietly, hugging her knees to her chest.

I nudged her shoulder. “I know he will.”

She looked at me, searching my face for something, then nodded. “Yeah. He will.”

Then we waited.

Then we got impatient and took them out too early.

“Are they supposed to look like that?” I asked, eyeing the slightly undercooked mess on the counter like it might explode.

“It’s not about how they look. It’s about theexperience.”

That was another way of saying stop asking questions and eat the damn brownie. “Okay.” I took a deep breath. “Here we go.”

Tiffany whooped and clapped her hands together before stuffing half of one into her mouth.

I took a much smaller bite, chewing slowly.

It just tasted like chocolate. No sign of its impending effects.

We waited.

And waited.

Nothing happened. We stared at each other.

“Do you feel anything?” I asked.

“Nope.”

We headed to my room and collapsed onto the bed.

I grabbed a CD from my collection and slipped it into the radio, letting No Scrubs by TLC fill the air.

After about ten minutes, Tiffany frowned. “Maybe we didn’t put enough in.” She waved her brownie at me. “Should we?—?”

“No,” I said immediately. “I’ve seen movies. This is the part where we think it’s not working and then five minutes later, we’re talking to ghosts.”

Tiffany huffed but put the brownie back. “Fine. But if nothing happens, I’m blaming you.”

And then, right on cue, everything started feeling…weird.

Tiffany absentmindedly played with a loose thread on my comforter while I tried to decide if I was imagining the slight heaviness settling over me.

First, my arms got heavy. Then light. Then I couldn’t figure out if they were heavy or light because I was too busy staring at the ceiling and contemplating why it looked so much farther away than usual. I turned my head to look at Tiffany, who was staring at her hands like they were a scientific discovery.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Do you ever think about how weird fingers are?”

“I forgot how to blink,” I whispered.

She turned her head very slowly to look at me. “You what?”

“My eyes. They’re open, but they feel closed.”

“What if we’re actually asleep right now?”

“Jesus—” I sat up so fast I nearly fell over. “What if we are?”

“Bev…”

“Test it,” I said quickly.

“How?”

“Walk through a wall.”

Tiffany stood up, wobbling a little before putting her hands on her hips. She stared at the nearest wall like it had personally wronged her, then squared her shoulders. “Here I go.”

She took one determined step forward—and walked straight into it. The thud was loud enough to make me lose it. I curled up on the floor, laughing so hard I almost choked.

Tiffany groaned, rubbing her forehead.

“I don’t think I’m asleep,” she mumbled.

“Yeah, no, definitely still awake,” I wheezed.

She flopped down beside me with a sigh. “I miss being sober.”

I rolled onto my side, looking at her. “You were heartbroken like an hour ago.”

She thought about it for a second. “I think I’m over it.”

We stared at the ceiling again. The room felt both too big and too small at the same time. Time didn’t make sense. I wasn’t sure if we’d been lying there for five minutes or five years.

We descended into giggles, but then I had a thought.

A terrible, horrifying thought.

“Tiff,” I whispered.

She sat up, alarmed. “What?”

“What if we made themwrong? What if we just poisoned ourselves?”

Her eyes widened. “Oh my God.”

We stared at each other.

Then, in unison: “Should we go to the hospital?”

This led to a full-blown spiral where we spent the next fifteen minutes panicking, convinced we were about todie.

“I can’t go to the hospital,” Tiffany whined. “My mom will murder me if she finds out I got high.”

“I think I’m dead,” I whispered, gripping my chest. “I don’t feel my heartbeat.”

“Should we call 911?”

We both looked at the door. Then at each other.

Then back at the door.

“…Nah,” I said finally.

“Nah,” Tiffany agreed.

So instead, we lay there, slowly dissolving into the floor, occasionally bursting into laughter for no reason.

At some point, Tiffany started crying.

“They’re not worth crying over,” I reminded her.

“Who?”

“Men.”

She sniffled, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her oversized hoodie. “You know what? I don’t even care about Cameron. He was just a symptom of the disease.”

I blinked. “What disease?”

“The disease of men,” she said, sitting up, eyes suddenly filled with wisdom—or maybe just intoxication. “They get you all attached, make you think they care, and then they dump you.”

I paused, letting her words hang in the air, the weight of them sinking in. “Why do we let them do this to us?” I asked, genuinely curious.

Tiffany took a deep breath, shaking her head. “I don’t know. Maybe because we want to believe in the fairytale. You know, the one where they change, where love conquers all.” She scoffed, rolling her eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck. “‘It’s not you, it’s me’ What does that even mean?” She threw her hands in the air. “Of course it’s you! You’re the one doing the breaking up. You’re the problem, Cameron. Just say you don’t like me and go. Men always want to be the good guy so bad. You don’t get to act like some noble martyr for not calling me ugly while doing it.”

“They basically want credit for the bare minimum,” I huffed. “Men grow up thinking they’re owedthings. Love, attention, forgiveness. Meanwhile, we’re taught to be accommodating, to shrink ourselves, to make them comfortable. We have to be perfect. Smart, funny, kind. But not too nice, or we’re desperate. Hot, but not too hot or we’re attention-seekers. Independent, but not so independent that we intimidate them. And don’t forget—low maintenance,” I added bitterly. “But also always put together, but effortlessly .”

“‘Effortlessly pretty.’” Tiffany rolled her eyes. “Like, what do you mean ? My face is literally my face. What do you want me to do? Wake up with winged eyeliner and perfect hair?”

“Yes, but only if it looks natural.”

“Oh, of course. And God forbid we care about the way we look, because then we’re vain.”

“And if we don’t care enough, we’re ugly.”

“Lose-lose situation.”

We both let out a simultaneous sigh, staring at the ceiling, contemplating the eternal struggle of womanhood.

After a moment, Tiffany said, “I swear, Bev, I’m never dating another man again. Ever.”

I nodded solemnly. “Good plan.”

“I mean it.”

“Sure.”

“I want to be one of those powerful women who doesn’t give a single shit about what men think.”

“You are that woman.”

Tiffany peeked at me. “No, I’m not. I got sad over Cameron, remember?”

“You can be independent and still have feelings. It doesn’t make you weak.”

She wiped her glassy eyes and nodded. “You know what? You’re right. I am powerful.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“I don’t need a boyfriend.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I have you,” she said with a smile. “My best friend.”

I grinned. Nodded.

Tiffany let out a soft laugh. “I love being a girl.”

“Me too,” I replied, the words coming easily.

We lay there in silence for a while, just staring at the ceiling, before Tiffany broke it with a groggy mumble.

“I still want a boyfriend, though.”

I groaned. “Tiff.”

“What? Powerful girls can still want love...”

I rolled my eyes, fighting the smile that crept onto my face. “Sure, but you just got through saying you’re never dating again. Make up your mind.”

“I can’t help it,” Tiffany whined, shifting to curl up on her side, her voice turning soft and almost sheepish. “I just…want someone to like me. You know? Not just for who they think I am, not just for some idealized version of me in their head, but for who I really am. I want someone to see me, all of me, the weird parts, the messy parts, and still think I’m worth it. I want them to appreciate the way I think, the way I laugh at my own jokes, the way I get excited about the most random things. Not just because I look a certain way or fit into some idea they already had. I don’t want to be some version of me that they’ve already decided on. I just want to be me . And I want that to be enough.” She exhaled slowly, like she was letting go of something she’d been holding inside for too long. “Don’t we all want that? To be loved by someone who understands us? Someone who looks at us and just gets it , who doesn’t need us to be anything other than exactly who we are?” She let out a small, tired laugh. “I guess that’s a lot to ask for, huh?”

I swallowed, feeling a lump rise in my throat.

Her words were like a sharp punch to my chest, hitting me in a way I hadn’t expected. Because I knew exactly what she meant.

I wanted all of that too…

I let out a breath, thinking about how Tiffany could be the most confident person in the room one minute and so heartbreakingly vulnerable the next. She was the type of girl who made people stare when she walked in, the type who seemed untouchable, like nothing could get to her. But right now? Right now, she was just a girl hoping to be loved for who she really was.

I wanted to give her the answer she was looking for, the one that would make everything feel okay, but there wasn’t really one. There were no perfect words that could erase the hurt, the disappointment that lingered in her chest.

“You’ll find someone who gets you,” I offered quietly, reaching over to give her hand a reassuring squeeze. “I know you will.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I hope so,” she murmured. “But for now, I guess it’s just you and me.”

I laughed softly. “Yeah,” I agreed. “And maybe some more questionable brownies.”

* * *