Good Luck, Babe!

Chapter 1 Previously On

Previously On

I’ll tell you what happened between me and Yumi Panganiban if you promise to keep it a secret.

In general, it’s a topic I try to avoid. Even my dad, my favorite person in the world, hasn’t managed to wrangle the full story out of me, but I’m feeling extra nostalgic as I don my golden garbage bag of a high school graduation gown.

Standing before the class, hands tucked into the pockets of her skirt, she declared, “My name is Yumi Panganiban. You say it like the game Ping-Pong. Yumi Ping-Ponganiban. My favorite subject is social studies, and I like to swim.”

I didn’t care about swimming or social studies, but I knew immediately that I wanted to be Yumi Ping-Ponganiban’s best friend.

She was so nice and so pretty. Mrs. Ashby sat her on the opposite side of the room, in a desk pair with Farrah Anwar, who was also nice and pretty.

So there it was, I figured. Best friend status taken.

But during snack, while I was engrossed in my newest favorite book, someone dropped sideways into the seat in front of my desk, grabbing the back of the chair to face me—Yumi.

Her big brown eyes were wide with excitement, curious smile punctuated by a deep dimple on her left side. “Are you reading Felix the Unforgettable?”

We were inseparable by recess.

From then on, I was never just Noelle; I was half of Noelle and Yumi.

We were a package deal, splitting Twin Pops on the chalk-covered asphalt and swapping secrets during sleepovers.

I learned to care about swimming, spending winter nights at Yumi’s meets, cheering her name into the humid, chlorine-scented air.

She watched hockey and reality TV with my family, sprawled across our old leather couch.

I never had to worry about who would be my partner for class projects or who would run the mile with me in gym, and I always had someone in my corner when things got hard.

When my mom died, when I was diagnosed with ADHD, when I needed a distraction from the unbearable weight of the world, Yumi was there. Always.

After we both turned sixteen, we drove all the way down to Tucson to get matching tattoos at a sketchy shop that didn’t ID.

Across our ribs, we each inked part of our favorite quote—the epigraph at the beginning of the fantasy-adventure novel I’d been reading the day we met.

“The universe is full of magical things patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper.” She walked away with Magical Things in flowing script, and I’d chosen Patiently Waiting in a clean sans serif, partially because it was so at odds with who I was.

If anyone needed a reminder about patiently waiting, it was me.

Yumi and I had the kind of friendship only found in retro sitcoms and wholesome slice-of-life books with faded covers. Twin flames. Platonic soulmates.

Too long; didn’t read: I had a crush on her. Obviously.

I mean, obvious in retrospect. At the time, I had fully convinced myself that getting secret matching quote tattoos with a girl you’d take a bullet for was unquestionably straight behavior.

To be fair, I didn’t know liking girls was, like, a thing I could do.

But apparently, I could. Intensely. And I did it for several years without even trying. I didn’t know my own strength, I guess.

Once I realized it, every intimate moment afterward felt like a betrayal.

I was experiencing, as they say, queer panic.

When Yumi talked about the people she liked, when she gave me a hug, when we shared a spoon: panic.

The problem wasn’t that I was super into girls and their pretty faces, it was that I was into a girl who trusted me not to be into her.

I felt like an enemy spy anytime we closed the door to her room or shared a pillow fort.

I was too guilty to make a move on her, too weak to set boundaries, and too selfish to give up our friendship.

Because that’s what it would have been—the end of our friendship.

Yumi maintains a scorched-earth policy for her exes—once she’s done with someone, she’s done.

No matter how close they were before dating, no matter how amicable the breakup, it didn’t matter.

Dating Yumi was a recipe for ruin. And this wasn’t just any other friendship; Yumi was my person.

That’s not the type of thing you torpedo because of some crush. Not if you’re smart, anyway.

My delusion was a monument I’d built over years, quiet yearning that snowballed until one single crack set off an avalanche: the finale of The Adventureverse Season 23.

Our favorite team had just won, which almost never happens.

High on the adrenaline of Gabby and Christian’s win, I couldn’t help it; I turned to her and said, “Let’s film our audition. ”

There had never been a question in our joint mind about whether or not we wanted to be on TV. The decision was made from the moment we saw our first confessional. I was immediately engrossed by the big personalities and even bigger drama.

We loved it.

And that’s what we told the camera, prostrate on her bedroom floor with our feet in the air; a tableau at the Altar of Reality.

Yumi’s eye shadow shimmering every time she blinked, the smell of Earl Grey tea on her breath.

A laugh so deep in my body that it felt like it could turn into a sob at any moment.

The impossible heat of her leg pressed into mine as we hit submit on the application form.

An overwhelming stillness that surrounded us like Break in Case of Emergency glass.

You can’t put that shit back together once it’s shattered.

Her lips were soft. A little sticky from her lip gloss. And she made this noise, like a sigh. What comes next, I can only view out of the corner of my eye. It’s the kind of memory that sneaks up on you in vulnerable silence. Even when you’re alone, it makes you cover your face.

“No. This is a bad idea.”

I flinch. If I could take that night back, I would.

I’ve been to more than my fair share of therapy sessions since my mom’s death.

In the intervening years I learned—many times, because this is one of those lessons you just learn and learn and learn again—that people aren’t great at expressing themselves in the heat of the moment.

Well, not people. Me. I’m not great at expressing myself in the heat of the moment.

I practically ran. I was driving away before “bad idea” finished echoing off her bedroom walls, but when I got home and the dust settled, I texted her I was sorry.

She didn’t answer. For the entire summer, that’s how it went: I did therapy worksheets, I texted her, she didn’t answer.

The Adventureverse’s Season 24 promo aired, I texted her, she didn’t answer.

I journaled, I cried, I waited, I texted. She didn’t answer.

A year went by.

She never answered.

So, that was it. Not with a bang but a whimper.