Chapter Eleven
I have a theory. Mean girls come in threes. Thebest proof of this is the witch trio in The Craft and the Plastics in Mean Girls. Another theory, the girl in the middle is usually the most lethal. Proof: Nancy Downs and Regina George.
While I’m hanging my baseball hat on the hook in my locker, three girls walk toward me—their steps almost in sync. Seconds ago, when I came through the school doors, my hat and oversized hoodie hid my face well enough. No one glanced at me. Esosa called my disguise ridiculous. She wanted me to bask in the attention she predicted I would get today. I wanted to hide from it, and my outfit, inspired by Davi, helped me do that. But the moment I arrived at my locker and flipped the hood off my head, a blond-haired girl looked at me. After whispering to the two girls beside her, they moved in my direction.
Now I’m eager to slam my locker shut and sprint away, but I don’t. All three of them have that thing, that quality that compels people to pay attention to them. Esosa has it too. When she walks into a room, people notice. Not because she’s the prettiest girl in the room or the best dressed, but because she has the good sense to believe she is. These three girls must believe the same thing, and maybe they aren’t wrong.
The blond girl in the middle smiles once she’s in front of me. She has big green eyes and a light blush on her cheeks that looks natural, not like something she caked on. Her outfit—tight blue jeans and a cropped T-shirt—is both casual and stylish and flatters her full figure. “Hey,” she says. “It’s Enore, right?”
“Um…” I nod, which is better than the alternative—babble like an awkward fool.
“I’m Bethany.”
Again, I nod.
“This is Sybil.”
The girl to her right, with straight burgundy hair and an expansive smile, waves at me.
“And this is Ara.”
The girl to her left blinks slowly, as if she’s both bored and unimpressed. She doesn’t smile or wave. Her small face is angular, and with her light brown complexion and dark curls, she bears a striking resemblance to Yara Shahidi.
“We saw your audition,” Bethany continues. “Well, everyone’s sort of seen it.”
“It was amazing,” Sybil adds. “You were amazing. Mind if I take a picture of you for the school paper?” She points a camera at my face.
“Whoa.” Somehow, I find my voice again and turn away from the long lens. “Please… um… don’t… don’t do that.”
“Stop fangirling, Syb. You’re frightening the poor girl,” Ara says in a monotone.
“Right. Sorry if I’m coming off too strong.” Sybil lowers the camera. “I just think you’re totally newsworthy—the new girl, an immigrant from Nigeria, the star of the school play. I could do a whole feature on you. What do you think?”
My stare shifts between all three girls, assessing them, trying to determine their intentions. I don’t want my theory to be the deciding factor.
“She’s passionate,” Bethany says. “Not crazy. I promise.”
“Well, let’s not lie,” Ara mumbles. “Sometimes she can be a little unhinged.”
The bell rings the instant Sybil and Bethany glare at Ara. I sigh, relieved this awkward encounter can end.
“Um… thank you for the offer,” I say, closing my locker. “But I don’t want to be in the school paper. I’m just trying to keep a low profile.”
“A low profile?” Ara scoffs, and her expression quickly transforms from aloof to livid. She clenches her jaw and scowls. “Then why the hell did you audition for the musical? Were you just looking for something to pass the time—a new hobby?”
I’m confused and taken aback. What in the world is her problem? Instead of trying to figure it out, I turn away and hurry off. It’s unclear whether I’m running from Bethany, Sybil, and Ara, or if I’m running to class. I try not to dwell on the distinction while moving through the active crowd.
Quickly, I step into the classroom, and then I flinch, startled by the abrupt sound of applause.
There’s a scene in Clueless where the whole student body applauds Cher for playing matchmaker and getting two strict teachers together, an act that eventually makes the lovebirds more lenient about grades and homework. I’ve done nothing that brilliant, but the moment I walk into AP Calculus, everyone claps. Instead of smiling and curtseying like Cher did in Clueless, I shuffle to my seat in the back.
“Hey,” Davi says. “Everyone saw your audition.”
“Oh.” I shrink in my seat, wishing I could disappear.
“You hate this, don’t you?”
“It’s uncomfortable. Can you make it stop?” I thought Mr. Mitchell would bring the room to order, but he’s clapping too.
“Okay,” Davi calls out. “She gets it! Let’s give it a rest!”
Gradually, the clapping stops. Wild Curls, whose name is actually Miles, stops whistling with his fingers. When the noise dies down completely, I mouth, Thanks, to Davi, then turn to the rest of the class.
“Thank you,” I whisper, flattered and embarrassed.
“No, thank you for blessing my feeds with those vocals,” Tamara, a girl with a perfectly rounded Afro, says. “And for knocking Queen Ara off her musical theater throne. She reigned for far too long.”
I squint and consider Tamara’s words. At the same time, I revisit and examine my recent interaction with Ara, connect all the dots, and then everything makes perfect sense.
When the lunch bell sounds, I meet Davi at hislocker.
“Hey,” he says, fastening the lock. “Was just heading to the bleachers.”
“About that. I thought we could have lunch somewhere else today.”
“Okay. Where do you have in mind?” Davi leans into me, searching my eyes and smirking as if he knows what’s coming.
“The cafeteria.”
“Ahh.” He nods. “And you think you’re ready for the terror that’s the cafeteria?”
I laugh and shove him playfully. “Yeah. I do.”
After surviving the morning being the center of attention, I’m better equipped to handle the cafeteria. In each of my classes, people I never spoke to knew my name. They referenced my audition and raved about it. The same thing happened as I walked down the hallway. At first, the attention was overwhelming. Gradually, I got used to it. I started having conversations with people and accepting invitations to parties, knowing I was already past the point of no return.
“After the morning I’ve had, I can handle the cafeteria. Also, I think I’ve kept you from your friends long enough.”
“I wasn’t complaining. But if you say you’re up for it, let’s do it.”
Davi and I aren’t holding hands, but we walk considerably close as we enter the cafeteria. I’m not surprised by the layout of the room; it’s like what I’ve seen in movies—crowded tables, the school’s signature colors on the walls, and a range of food tended by lunch ladies. Honestly, it’s an intimidating place. I’m tempted to take Davi’s hand and turn back. We could go to the bleachers, just the two of us. Already I miss the simplicity of that equation, especially when he directs me to a crowded rectangular table.
There are five people at the table, but three familiar faces. Bethany, Sybil, and Ara. I freeze, and Davi turns to me.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Um… are those your friends?”
“Yeah.”
“The same ones you’ve known since kindergarten?”
“That’s them.”
Should I call this a coincidence or a severe case of bad luck? I mean, even coincidences don’t hit this hard. This, right here, is pure bad luck. My luck.
“Come on. I’ll introduce you.” He takes my hand before I can escape. “They’re cool. You’ll see.”
We approach them, and when all five focus on us, I clench Davi’s hand. The window that extends behind their table is so large; sunlight pours through it and hits all of them just right. This is it—the table everyone wants a seat at, the people everyone wants to befriend. No one needs to tell me this. It goes without saying.
“Guys, this is—”
“Enore,” a boy with a topknot of dreadlocks says, cutting Davi off. “Yeah. I know you. Or know of you. Dope audition.” He moves his hands as he speaks, and the rings on his fingers catch the light and glint. “I’m Zane, by the way.”
Is it strange to say someone looks like art—the sort of unintentional art where a painter splashes colors on a canvas, and somehow, through the graceful chaos of it all, the piece comes out stunning and emotive and captivating? That’s Zane—unintentional art, gracefully chaotic. There are too many colors and patterns on his kimono, but the white T-shirt he wears inside creates the perfect balance. There are tattoos on his arm—five symbols that look ancient—etched on his light brown skin. His vibe is tranquil, soothing, and enigmatic. He speaks slow and calm like he’s savoring syllables, truly appreciating them. And I feel what every person at this school probably feels when they look at him—fascination.
“So.” The muscular guy sitting beside Zane smirks, and his blue eyes narrow. “Are you the reason Davi’s been avoiding us during lunch?”
Davi laughs and shoves him. “Shut up, Blake.”
“What? She’s cute. I totally get why you’ve been hiding her, keeping her away from the competition.” He pulls off the square-shaped glasses that make him look studious and winks at me.
“Ignore him,” Davi says. “He has a massive ego. We all thought he’d grow out of it by now, but no such luck.” He turns away from Blake and toward the girls. “This is—”
“We’ve already met,” Bethany interrupts.
“Yeah,” Sybil adds with a smile. “This morning.”
“Oh. Cool.” Davi nods, and because it’s too late to run, I sit beside him.
“Sorry about earlier,” Bethany says to me.
“What happened earlier?” Davi asks.
Bethany and Sybil glance at Ara, who moves a fork through a bowl of fruit. When she stabs a strawberry, she puts it in her mouth and chews while watching me blankly.
Somehow, Davi understands. Under the table, he squeezes my hand. This isn’t the first time we’ve held hands. The newness is gone, but the thrill isn’t. When he touches me—skin to skin—I feel so much at once, strong emotions that make self-control seem unattainable. I like Davi, and that scares me as much as standing on that theater stage did. I worry what liking him will make me do. Will I sneak around to see him? Lie some more to my mother? Ask people to lie for me?
In every teen movie I’ve watched, teenagers don’t think twice about dating. They’re allowed to without question. Well, except in 10 Things I Hate About You, when Bianca’s father bans her from dating until her older sister does. But eventually, both Bianca and her sister have boyfriends, and their father accepts it. In Nigeria, teenagers don’t date. It isn’t just a rule within distinct families. It’s more like a cultural rule—a norm. How is a girl like me—who has never been on a date, whose first and only kiss happened in a school stairway with a boy whose tongue wagged too much—supposed to navigate having a crush that could be reciprocated?
I’m in America now. I like a boy. I think he might like me too. But what now?
“Enore,” Sybil says. “I meant what I said this morning. I would love to feature you in the school newspaper. I promise to be less confrontational with my camera.”
I laugh. “Yeah. The lens in my face was a bit much.”
“Sorry about that.” She twirls a lock of her hair and watches me through long, dark lashes. “Would you maybe reconsider?”
It’s hard to say no when she watches me with a doe-eyed expression. I sigh and nod. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Yay!” She claps and squeals. “Thank you!”
“It’s that look,” Zane says. “Beware of it. Works every time.”
Sybil sticks out her tongue at him, then turns to me. “So, I’ll meet you after you’re done with rehearsal today. I’ll only ask you a few questions. It won’t take long.”
“Okay.” I look around the table and clear my throat. “So, um… Davi told me you’ve all been friends since kindergarten and middle school. That’s amazing.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Bethany says, beaming. “And it’s our last year together.” She huffs and shakes her head, no longer smiling. “I don’t even wanna think about that.”
“You gotta sometime,” Blake says. “Last prom. Last homecoming. Last chance to kick Fairview’s ass. I swear this is the year. Right, Davi?”
“Damn right!” Davi’s enthusiasm seems forced, but I doubt Blake notices.
“Are you all on the football team?” I ask.
“Just me and Blake,” Davi answers. “Zane doesn’t do sports.”
“Wrong. I prefer sports that involve less grunting and more… pep.” He throws a grape in the air and catches it in his mouth. “Cheerleading, for example.”
“Really?” Bethany says. “Then how come you’ve never tried out for the team, especially since you know I’ve been trying to recruit more guys for years?”
“The uniforms. Polyester doesn’t agree with my skin or my lifestyle.”
Bethany rolls her eyes. “I honestly can’t even deal with you sometimes.” She turns away from him and looks through her phone. “Enore, interested in trying out for the cheerleading team?”
“I don’t think so. I’m not the most coordinated person. Are you guys all on the team?”
“Just me. Sybil’s editor of the school newspaper. And Ara—”
“Can speak for herself, thank you very much.” Ara’s harsh tone stuns everyone at the table.
We’re quiet, the atmosphere suddenly tense and awkward.
“Um… I…” Sybil mutters, shifting anxiously in her chair. “Enore, since we have time right now, I could ask you some of the interview questions.” She’s likely trying to defuse the tension, fill the awkward silence with words.
“Sure. Go ahead,” I tell her.
She flips open a small notepad. “So, you’re new to Bellwood. How do you like it so far?”
“It’s good. Great.”
“And what inspired you to audition for the musical?”
“I actually didn’t plan on it. Davi pushed me to do it. He was very persistent.”
“Really,” Ara says. “Davi pushed you.” She looks at him, nods thoughtfully, then shoves her chair back and storms off.
Everyone at the table, aside from myself, shares a knowing look.
“Give me a minute.” Davi lets go of my hand and stands. “I’ll be right back.” He smiles apologetically at me, then walks away.
“Um… is everything okay?” I ask no one specific.
“Nope,” Blake says before biting into a taco. “Not by a long shot.”
“Ara’s been the lead in the school musical since freshman year,” Zane explains. “She isn’t taking this well.”
“Yeah, so bring the fangirling down a notch,” Bethany tells Sybil.
“Right. Sorry.”
I don’t understand how someone can be so upset about not getting a role. I’m excited about the musical, but maybe it doesn’t mean that much to me yet. It clearly means a lot to Ara. I feel guilty suddenly, for having something she values more.
Davi doesn’t return to the cafeteria, but his friends are good company, and Bethany and Sybil seem genuinely nice. When the bell rings, I say goodbye to them and make my way to class. Just as I attempt to turn down a hallway, I see Davi and Ara. They’re having what seems like an intense conversation, so I duck back and give them some privacy. However, as people enter classrooms and the chaos in the hallway dies down, I hear their conversation.
“Honestly, I don’t understand why you’re mad at me,” Davi says. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You didn’t do anything? Seriously? You made her audition. You basically pitted her against me.”
“Come on, Ara. You know it’s not like that. I heard Enore singing and thought she was good, so I told her to audition—that’s it.”
“Yeah, but she got the goddamn lead. The lead. And I’m the understudy.” Her voice cracks and shakes. “I have never, ever been an understudy in my life.”
Davi sighs. “I don’t know what you want me to say. And I don’t know why you’re so upset about the musical, especially since you don’t even…” He pauses.
“Especially since I don’t even what?” she asks. “Go ahead. Say it.”
He doesn’t say a thing.
“You know, I get we’re not dating anymore, but I didn’t think you’d stop having my back.”
The second bell rings. The hallway is quiet. At some point, they both likely walked away, but I haven’t moved an inch. My heart pounds. My stomach tightens. Ara’s last sentence repeats in my head.
There’s a word I’ve never said, finding it almost too heavy to pronounce. Now, however, my lips shape the word easily and I spit it out.
“Fuck.”