Your Biggest Fan

36. ROXANNE

Chapter thirty-six

I’m alive again, and it’s not just about seeing how many quarters I can scrounge up to get the freshest donut from the corner store. I haven’t felt this kind of thrill—this zest —for life in so long. It’s as if I’ve woken up from a deep sleep inside my locked coffin, and suddenly Prince Charming (aka Noah fucking Jackson) has come along and woken me up with a kiss.

Or, you know, makeout sessions in the janitor’s closet. Same difference.

Either way, every little minor detail around me seems different and new. More bright .

The birds tweeting in the trees? They’renot mindlessly chirping anymore. Oh no, they’re a goddamn avante-garde jazz band, serenading me from the naked branches with their trills and arpeggios as I strut down the street.

Even the people who are always in the background—the old man at the bus stop, the cashier with pink lightning earrings—are extras, ready to burst out in their own musical dance number. And I swear, every gust of crisp winter wind is perfectly timed to sweep my hair back as if I’m perpetually posing for an album cover. All that’s missing is the industrial strength fan out of frame.

Can you blame me for feeling this way? I’m Alice falling headfirst into the rabbit hole of Wonderland, and I can’t wait to see how deep it goes.

I keep half-expecting Julie Andrews to pop out of the record store every time I go to work, grab my hands, and spin with me down Main Street while we harmonize about the hills being alive or some shit.

And the outfits . I’m putting in work and crafting my looks to achieve maximum hotness, all for the sole purpose of watching Noah squirm in English. I love tormenting him.

One day, I’m sweet and innocent in a black dress with my flannel draped over the back of my chair, batting my eyes as I ask to borrow a pencil, noticing his Adam’s apple bob up and down. Next, I’m making a big production of dropping my books in front of his desk, tight tee, and plaid skirt, bending over at a glacial pace to pick it up.

Whoops, clumsy me.

That sharp intake of breath, the secret glance around to see if anyone else is witnessing what I’m doing. What I’m doing to him . It gets me every time.

Every outfit is a test to see what makes him tick, what he’ll try to rip off me once he schemes a way to drag me into some top secret location—be it the janitor’s closet, restroom, or the shadowy pocket underneath the bleachers.

Like yesterday's skin-tight crop top that left jack shit to the imagination. Noah's eyes were this close to popping right out of his skull and rolling across the floor once I tied my jacket around my waist. When I asked to use the restroom, it took him all of two minutes to follow.

He shoved me against the lockers in the empty hall, all grabby hands and growly voice: “God, you're killing me. I can see everything through this shirt.” I arched into his touch before pushing him away. “Too bad you can't have it,” I teased and sauntered my ass right back to class. Poor baby looked like a hot mess. Oops .

Of course, I never actually let him take anything off. It’s too much fun shutting him up instead. Show skin and make him suffer is my new motto.

I make a point of keeping him in check, to never let him forget who holds the power between us. The craziest part is he lets me. Noah Jackson, king of the school, famous player, and heartbreaker extraordinaire, willingly cedes control to me .

That’s the thing with him. He makes me feel like I can have the control. With Noah, I'm beautiful and strong. Powerful and able to bring the world to its knees with a single look. Me, the girl who used to watch life happen to everyone else, now strutting around, catching his eye, and having the upper hand.

It’s a crazy fucking feeling since I've never had that in the past. I was always the one wishing, wanting, waiting, aching .

This is so different. Every interaction between us is foreplay because at all times he’s both lusting for me and reining himself in, both of us stuck in this state of edging. I get to watch him mentally count backward from ten, digging his nails into his palms, using all of the discipline he has to control himself from reaching out to touch me.

God, does it feel amazing having that effect on him.

It’s almost a bloodlust, but I have long accepted Noah Jackson isn’t a vampire.

Soul sucker? Still up for debate.

I don’t care though, I love it. He reminds me of the rain, and for once, that idea doesn't entirely make me squirm. He's a soft shower that washes away my pain and insecurities with every droplet of pleasure.

The same rain that nourishes the earth and wakes up seeds to sprout, he’s activated something in me that has been lying dormant and waiting to come out.

No more shyness. No more fear. No more hiding.

With him, I’m free. And it’s a novel fucking experience for me.

“I can’t try on dresses on an empty stomach,” Stephanie informs me, ketchup dripping close to the hem of her oversized Godzilla t-shirt as we navigate the crowded walkways.

We’ve been wandering aimlessly through the Chicago mall, on the face of dress shopping, although we have yet to actually set foot in a store that sells dresses.

We keep getting sidetracked. First by my best friend’s insistence that she simply had to have a hot dog or she would literally die, and then my magpie brain latching onto every shiny black button-up worn by mannequins in store windows.

My fingers ghost over racks of clothes I wish I could buy, textures singing to my fingertips. Soft. Scratchy. Slippery. I imagine how they’d feel against my skin, how they’d make him feel.

Stephanie keeps grilling me about how punctual I need to be when I come over to get ready for the dance together, and I nod along as she swings her hot dog around. I’m only half-listening because for one: I’m always on time. Punctuality is kind of my thing.

Two: because my hands landed on a soft black dress, one that ends at about mid-thigh. Tank top style, too, which I know would have Noah trying to tug at this one within seconds. He has a thing with my shoulders for some reason, made obvious by the way he kissed and sucked his way across. Shadows from the bleachers above danced across our bodies as I arched back into his chest, my legs splayed over his thighs as he sat with his back against the gym wall, his fingers doing sinful things under my skirt.

“You are too hot to be real,” he growled as—

I snap back to reality.

Jesus. Three months ago, if someone told me I’d be here—willingly at the mall, picking out clothes, all to wonder what Noah Jackson would think of me in them—I would’ve tried to shove my drumstick down their throat.

I weave through the racks, surrounded by all the latest ‘it’ looks. Chunky sweaters, high-waisted jeans, and leather jackets, but the bills in my Levi’s jacket pocket are like lead. Each one represents hours of busting my ass, but this money isn’t for splurging—it’s earmarked for one thing only: the cheapest formal dress I can find for the dance in four weeks.

As tempting as it is to steal something from Angela’s closet again to avoid the pain of forking over my cash, a voice (Stephanie’s) insisted that I deserve to get a nice thing for myself.

It doesn’t need to be anything too fancy or expensive. A simple dress from the discount rack. Maybe something off-the-shoulder, with a plunging neckline. Black, of course.

Always black.

“So... are you guys… like… kissing… and… other… things?” Stephanie asks, dropping a blob of ketchup on her shoe as she takes another mighty bite of her hot dog.

My boots squeak against the tile floor as I freeze, keeping my eyes on the rack of shirts in front of me. Shit.

The truth is a boulder lodged in my throat. My best friend doesn’t know the real situation between me and Noah. She doesn’t know that we’re still seeing each other on the down-low, that our secret kisses are still sweeter than candy. And she definitely doesn’t know that, thanks to him, I’ve now officially had a handful of orgasms in my sad, 18-year-old life.

It’s one of the hardest secrets I’ve ever had to keep, but if I did tell her anything, then it wouldn’t be a secret anymore and I don't want to be told I'm being stupid. Rules are rules, even if they drive me insane most days.

She is, at least, now well aware of how things went down at The Cat Skull. I certainly owed her that after promising all of the details. She made sure that I cashed that in on the drive over here.

“You already know the answer,” I mutter, pretending to closely examine a price tag. I told her that nothing has happened since then and that we chalked it up to a silly drunken night.

My lying skills are getting better, apparently.

“Uh huh. Sure…” she drones, giving me one epic side-eye. “You mean all that eye sex between you two is friendly?”

My cheeks burn hotter than the bonfires at Lake Lickrage as I paw through racks. “I told you, we were wasted that night. We’re friends.”

“With benefits?”

“Oh my god, you’re the worst!” I lob a t-shirt at her giggling face. She wants more dirt, but if I spill, she’ll have a million more questions I can’t answer.

I have no idea where this is headed. I only know that when we’re alone, nothing else exists but his body against mine. It scares the shit out of me how much I’m starting to need those moments together. How much I think about his hands, his mouth, his…

“Come on, spill!” Stephanie raises one penciled-in eyebrow. “I can always tell when you’re hiding something from me, Roxy.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“So, are you and Daniel going to get married and have each other’s babies? Gonna name your first kid Stephaniel?”

It's a cheap shot, but I need that spotlight off me before I crack under the pressure like I always do. Noah Jackson has been hazardous to my mental health lately. That much is clear.

Steph goes quiet, weirdly pensive as she crumples up the hotdog wrapper in her fist and sucks ketchup off her fingers.

“Probably not,” she replies in a small voice.

“Why?” I ask, seizing the opportunity to steer the conversation away from my own mess of a love life.

She hesitates, fidgeting with the balled-up wrapper. “Because I applied to Boston University.”

Holy shit.

“ Boston ?” I sound exactly like Tyler with how loud I blurt out the word.

Stephanie gives a half-hearted shrug, her usual bubbliness dimmed. “Yeah, Boston. I dunno, ever since I went on that college tour over the summer, I can’t stop thinking about all the things I’m missing stuck in this cow town.”

She sweeps her arm out towards the tragic holiday decor engulfing the mall—limp silver tinsel dripping from the skylights, a slightly lopsided artificial Christmas tree shoved beside the empty fountain, the constant strains of Same Six Christmas Songs on eternal loop over the speakers.

“Do I really want to end up some sad housewife with a herd of sticky kids, waiting for the JC Penney catalog to show up every month? There’s a whole world out there, Rox! A world where I can walk along the rocky shores of a beach while I think about my essay papers. Where I can strut through the Boston Gardens every single day, plop down under a tree, and actually enjoy doing my homework for once.” Her eyes light up as she continues, “I mean, sure, I nearly walked into a lagoon because I was so caught up in the brochure,” she laughs, pink touching her cheeks. “But even that was exciting. This guy stopped me just in time but was so nice about it. Everyone there just seemed... I don't know, less small-town-y? And holy shit, Rox, the Gardens were so beautiful that day. It felt...” she pauses, searching for the right word, “It felt like I could breathe, you know?”

She takes a breath, then adds, “Plus, you know BU has this amazing education program.”

It's true. Ever since the first day we met in seventh grade, bonding over our shared disdain for Mr. Line’s constant use of the word ‘tangent’ , she’s always said she wants to teach. Which, personally, I think sounds disgusting.

Who wants to spend all day with a bunch of snot-nosed brats? No, thank you. However, if I had Stephanie as my third-grade teacher, I would have hated school a little less.

“I submitted my application,” she barrels on, wringing the hot dog wrapper like a stress ball. “I had to write an essay, fill out a million and one forms, pay this huge fee… It was a whole ordeal, and I’m still waiting to hear back. I’m freaking out, of course. I haven’t even told my mom yet.”

She sucks in a breath that sounds like it hurts, and it hits me what a huge, brave decision this is for her. This is Steph—my anxiety-riddled, small-town Steph—taking a leap that would terrify most adults. She'd confessed to me once how she never dreamed she’d have the guts to take this kind of plunge when the thought of being away from her mom made her think of drowning.

My throat tightens that we could all be scattered across the globe in a few short months, heading off to different colleges, leaving our old lives behind. I always knew I’d be getting the hell out of Bellpond, but it’s now sinking in that everyone else might be doing the same. I at least expected that if I wanted to visit this town again, I’d have all my friends here.

If anyone deserves to spread their wings and fucking soar to their highest dreams, it’s her.

“Well, hot damn, Steph,” I say, a grin spreading across my face. “Look at you, you rebel!”

She laughs wetly, wiping at her mascara. “Stop, I’m terrified. Like, we’re in the middle of senior year, and then I’m gonna go off to Boston if I get in? Where, by the way, I’ll be going to school with geniuses? People who have 1700 on their SATs and can quote Shakespeare at me?”

“Steph—” I grab onto her shoulders and stare into her pupils. Hers are swimming, and she looks away while sniffling. “I’ve never been more proud of you in my life. You’re scared shitless and I admire you for that, but you’re not backing down. You have more guts than most adults I know.” I give her a little shake. “Even if you do get into Boston, it doesn’t mean you absolutely have to go. The option is there, though. And I really fucking hope you get your chance.”

Drawing herself up to her full height of five foot three, she sets those bony shoulders. “Oh, if I get in I am going . And I’m not just getting the undergraduate degree. Oh, no. No, no, no. I am going to grad school, and I will have a Master’s in Early Childhood Education.” She smiles, a real one this time, bright and hopeful. “Then, if the world hasn't ended yet, I’ll teach kindergarten and take up knitting while my little munchkins nap. And I will be the best damn kindergarten teacher and there will be nothing stopping me.”

“Fuck yes, you will be!”

I feel so envious at the clarity of her dreams. Her knee-deep in finger paint with a classroom full of kids is so vivid I can imagine the colorful handprints she’ll wear like badges of honor.

My future has always been a big, fat question mark, so consumed by surviving my youth that I’ve never thought of what I would do beyond simply escaping this town.

I only knew I was getting out of here. That was all I needed. But whether she flies off to Boston, or stays here kneading bread dough in her mom’s bakery, my dear friend will bloom wherever she’s planted.

Me though? I’m a weed—tenacious but directionless.

“Your plan sounds perfectly perfect,” I whisper, cheesing hardcore at her.

She smiles back and giggles. “In short, to answer your question, I cannot say I will marry and procreate with Daniel.”

“Shit, what does that mean for two?” I ask, remembering that’s where this whole conversation started. “Won’t it be hard leaving him behind?”

Stephanie sighs, her enthusiasm sagging under the weight of her Godzilla tee again. “Honestly, I don’t know if me and Daniel are gonna go the distance. I mean, I care about him, but am I really gonna give up everything for a guy I’ve only known for a couple months?” She finally tosses the hotdog wrapper and turns up toward the ceiling. “I guess I want more, you know?”

“That makes total sense to me.” Especially since Daniel is always talking about heading out to Venice Beach someday to skate with the pros. Long distance and big dreams don’t usually mix.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you decided to get as far away from this town as possible.”

She nods slowly, then visibly shakes off her funk, those shiny teeth of hers brightening. “Okay, enough soul-searching! We have a dance to get hot for.”

She grabs my hands, swinging them back and forth, then yanks me out of the store and into the sprawling mall, back to her irrepressible, colorful self.

This mall is a fucking labyrinth compared to the thrift store back in Bellpond.

Shop fronts line the wide tiled center aisle, full of zombified shoppers shuffling from one sale to the next, some fighting with their boyfriends while others are dragging their screaming kids out of stores. It’s a nightmare for me, set to Bananarama’s Venus crackling through blown-out speakers like an ice cream truck from hell.

All of the sound gives me a headache as we go up an escalator, and I hardly have time to take in the second floor as my friend pulls me along.

When we step into the big dress store, Steph’s running for the racks and already piling every pink dress in her arms while my lungs adjust to the air full of floral perfume and cleaning spray.

I start wandering through the racks, letting my fingertips touch all sorts of different fabrics while pretending I’m in some high-fashion daydream and can afford anything in the world.

Until my wallet rudely taps me on the shoulder.

With a sigh, I steer myself toward the discount section. Flipping lazily through gowns with sad, frayed hems and missing beads.

The dressing room curtain flies open and Stephanie bursts out in a pink explosion of tulle. My fingers freeze over a drab gray gown with stains under one arm.

“Holy shit, Steph,” I murmur, blinking rapidly as if that will change the vision before me. “You look—”

“Hideous?” She laughs, inspecting herself in the mirror with a critical eye. “It’s too pink, isn’t it?”

I blink hard. Is she seriously asking that?

“No such thing as too pink, babes. You look like a goddamn fairy princess.”

We dissolve into giggles as she twirls, the skirt ballooning out around her thighs as poofy as a cotton candy cloud. She takes one last spin, then disappears back into the dressing room to change out of the gown.

My smile fades as I catch the price tag when she reemerges. Two hundred bucks. Two. Hundred. That’s like, what, fifty pizzas? Even at a deep discount, that’s over two months’ pay for me. She follows my gaze and her face softens, reading my thoughts as easily as if I’d spoken them aloud.

She tucks the tag away, out of sight.

“Here, what do you think of this one?” She pulls a long fuchsia number from a nearby rack and holds it up to me.

I eye the gown, trying to picture myself in that much hot pink. “You’re joking, right?” I laugh. “I need straps. This body isn’t made for strapless.”

“What’s wrong with showing a little bit of cleavage? It’s winter formal, not church.”

Before I can tell her to get that pink nightmare away from me, a bright voice cuts in behind us. “Wow, that pink looks great on you!”

We turn to see Wendy striding up, an emerald green dress draped over her arm, looking for all the world like she owns the damn place.

I bristle, my fingers fisting in the sleeves of my flannel.

It’s been one month since I watched her stare at Noah in the kitchen, one month since it took three beers and multiple shots of tequila before I worked up the nerve to full-on make out with him right in front of her. The look of outraged surprise in her eyes was so damn satisfying.

I smile thinking about it again. She deserved it.

But now, seeing her here, in my space, complimenting my best friend like they’re buddy-buddy? It makes me want to hurl that hideous pink dress right in her smug little face.

I open my mouth, ready to tell her exactly where she can shove her fashion advice, but Stephanie beats me to the punch.

“Thanks, Wendy. I didn’t realize you shopped here,” Steph greets her, completely oblivious to the tension between us two. I hadn’t exactly told her about that kitchen makeout session either. “I wasn’t sure about the color, but if you think it works.”

Wendy’s lip twists to the side as she gives Stephanie a once-over, then the dress she’s holding up for me.

“Yeah, well, pink can be tricky for some coloring,” she amends. “But I’m sure we can find something perfect for both of you.”

My hackles rise at her thinly veiled insinuation and Stephanie blinks, looking at me unsure if Wendy is being intentionally bitchy or if she’s socially stunted.

I step slightly in front of my friend, eyes narrowed. “Thanks, but no thanks. We can shop around ourselves.”

My voice comes out all shy and tongue-tied, so naturally she pays me no mind as she shakes out her dress. It’s short, tight, and costs more than what’s in my savings jar.

“Oh, don’t be shy now,” she says perkily, steering us toward a rack I know will be out of my budget. “I haven’t seen anyone in a pink dress that color since last spring’s Miss Bell pageant. They got some new inventory in, let me show you!”

She really did steamroll right over me like I’m invisible.

“I said we can manage by ourselves,” I snap, this time harsher.

“I’m trying to help you,” she enunciates slowly. “Not everybody has the fashion sense to know what to look for.”

“I think I know my own style, thank you.”

Her eyes turn to slits, and she smiles like I’m a child who doesn’t know any better. “There’s no style in that dress.”

“That’s not—my dress isn’t—”

“This is Midwest Chic fashion. I know what you need.”

“What I need is some goddamn space away from you.” Her giant smile wavers and Stephanie shoots me a pleading look, begging me not to make a scene. Too late because I’m not sure if I can stop unless I want to stoop to angry crying. “I’m sure you have the money to cover whatever you want, but we are perfectly happy with the clearance racks.”

Wendy blinks, taken aback.

I feel bad for stripping away her cheerful smile, until she rakes me over with a pitying look, all sugary sweetness gone.

“Well, not everyone can afford the nicer things,” she simpers, and I swear to god, I’ve never wanted to punch someone so badly in my life. “I’m sure we can find something that works with your... limitations.”

Record scratch. Hold the fucking phone.

Limitations?

“My limitations?” I repeat, seeing red. “Sorry, I didn’t realize it was a limitation that some of us have to work for what we have instead of mooching off parents.”

“I’m not a parasite,” she hisses. “Daddy understands the value of investing in your appearance. Not everyone can settle for flannel and thrift store finds, you know.” Wendy’s face turns an unflattering shade of red, clutching her stupid dress like a shield. “Must be sad, not being able to afford nice things. I’m sure there’s a nice consignment shop somewhere that caters to your... unique style.”

My hand clenches the closest dress until my knuckles hurt.

All I can focus on is that word: unique .

That single word makes an ugly feeling come over me, an old insecurity from being called weird before I knew how to deal with it in a healthy way.

I’m not that kid anymore.

Now it’s my turn to give her an ugly head-to-toe appraisal, letting my gaze linger on her knock-off designer purse. Yeah, that’s right, I know a fake when I see one. Hard not to after Stephanie drug me through the real deal store an hour ago.

“Consignment shops must be more in vogue than I realized.” I smirk as she hides her purse behind her dress. “Though I guess with the economy being what it is, even the mighty have to slum it sometimes, huh?”

Wendy sucks in a sharp breath, her face going from red to purple faster than a mood ring. “Daddy spoils me because I deserve to be spoiled,” she barks, getting defensive. “I think you’re just mad because you don’t have a dad to spoil you. How do you like that for limitations?”

I flinch hard as if she had struck me across the face instead of a few ugly words.

“My dad is—” My voice cracks. “You leave him out of this. Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”

“And you don’t understand anything about me,” Wendy hisses, all pretense of civility gone. “But at least I don’t have to dress like some chain-smoking punk loser to get attention. I mean if you want to look like a disaster, go right ahead. Noah must have pretty low standards these days anyway.”

I reel back, my stomach dropping to my boots.

Low standards? Chain-smoking punk? Is that really how people like her see me?

Suddenly I’m 12 again, watching the popular girls whisper as I walk by in my hand-me-down shoes. I’m the stray mutt pressing its nose up against the glass, looking in on a world I can never truly be part of.

It takes a lot of self-control not to rise to her bait, to fire back with some comment about how the only time I smoke is when I’m drunk off my ass and making questionable life choices. Like, oh, I don’t know, swapping spit with Noah fucking Jackson.

But that would be stupid. And petty. And would only prove her point that I’m nothing but a low-class loser who doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as Noah.

I see that ugly, jealous, irrational wave that comes with any mention of Noah, too. We’re in public though, so I can’t do what I want, which is get up in her face.

I brush it off, telling myself that her opinion means less than nothing to me. That whatever Noah and I have going on is none of her business. But down, in the dark, twisty place I try to pretend doesn’t exist, her words strike a chord. And the music reawakens that slumbering beast of insecurity.

I really am so far out of Noah’s league. I’m ripped jeans, and cheap lipstick compared to Wendy’s smooth designer perfection, country clubs, and caviar. We’re from two different worlds, and no amount of sneaking around in supply closets is going to change that.

What does it say about him, that he’s slumming it with the school stray? That he’s trading in his usual diet of pristine, perfect angels for tainted, damaged goods like me?

Am I a temporary walk on the wild side before he inevitably goes back to girls like Wendy, who look like they belong on his arm?

I bite the inside of my cheek, hating myself for letting her make me question, even for a second, my own fucking worth. For stroking that voice in the back of my head that hisses I’ll never escape being seen as lesser-than.

It took me so damn long to silence it, to build up my armor and my attitude. Now with a few well-placed barbs, Wendy has resurrected all those thoughts I thought I’d buried for good.

You’re kind of a shitty drummer.

Neither one of us got anything out of it.

Noah must have pretty low standards these days anyway.

I shake my head, determined to erase this toxic spiral. No. Fuck no. I'm not going back to that dark place again.

I am not that scared girl anymore, and I sure as shit am not going to let Wendy Turner tell me I am.

Her opinion means nothing to me. She doesn’t know the first thing about me and Noah, and even if all we have are secret hookups, that’s still more real, more meaningful than anything she could ever hope to have with him.

He reminds me who I am now.

I’m Roxanne fucking Wishmore. I’m a badass drummer who knows she’s good. I’m a girl who’s learned from shitty relationships and won’t settle for less. And I’m someone who knows her own worth. I’ll never let myself believe anything less.

Squaring my shoulders, I lift my chin, and link my arm through Stephanie’s. “Come on. Let’s go try on some dresses that aren’t covered in cow shit.”

Wendy and her designer gown can go to hell. This chain-smoking punk loser is going to rock Noah Jackson’s world at that dance and she can sit back and fucking watch.

We leave the store without saying another word, but Stephanie keeps flashing me these awkward, toothy smiles that I think are meant to be reassuring. I shake my head, not wanting to rehash what just happened and let that girl ruin our fun day.

We wind up in this tiny, hidden gem of a boutique tucked away at the far end of the mall’s north wing. Dusty rose lamps with tasseled shades cast a soft, romantic glow over racks bursting with gowns in rich, jewel-toned fabrics.

Stephanie gasps when she spots the dress, jumping up and down in her white Keds.

“It’s perfect!” she gushes, eyeing the dress from every angle as she holds it up to the ceiling. “Oh my god, Roxy, isn’t it divine?”

“You have to get that,” I tell her. “That’s definitely a dress that screams ‘future badass kindergarten teacher.’”

She skips to the changing room, snagging a few more pink options on her way to round out her arsenal. I wander the boutique while I wait, tracing over the dresses like I’ve been doing all day. This place has an interesting feel—part old Hollywood glamor, part modern day luxuriousness.

I lounge outside the dressing room, cracking up at the random squeals and frantic rustling noises coming from behind the curtain. When she finally makes her grand entrance, I let out a cat-calling whistle.

The dress fits like it was made for her, the sheer puffed sleeves adding a touch of innocence even as the front skirt of the dress cuts open like a V and screams bombshell sex appeal.

“Yeah, we’ll definitely have to beat the guys off you with a stick.”

Her smile could power a small city as she does a slow twirl in front of the mirror, watching the silky skirt flare out around her legs. For once, her inner light is shining just as brightly as the rhinestones around her waist.

“So?” She turns to me, eyes bright. “Think Daniel will like it?”

I snort, lounging back in my chair. “Girl, every guy there will beg you to dump Daniel and run away with them instead. But yeah… I’m pretty sure he’ll manage to appreciate it too.”

Stephanie covers her grin with one hand, clearly envisioning Daniel’s gobsmacked reaction. “Okay, but what about you?” She plants a hand on one hip, a perfectly shaped eyebrow raised. “Don’t think you’re getting out of here without a dress.”

I wave her off. “Ah, I haven’t really looked yet.” Not a total lie. I’d scanned the options but doubted this boutique held anything I could actually afford. I was still a little too wired up from Wendy to pay much attention, too.

Stephanie hits me with her best mom glare, the effect somewhat diminished by the puffed pink sleeves. “Well, I’m gonna go change, and by the time I get back out here, you better be holding something and waiting your turn in the dressing room, missy.”

She whisks the velvet curtain shut behind her so I can’t say anything.

I roll my eyes. Bossy Stephanie is my favorite Stephanie.

Wandering the boutique again, I’m on the hunt for anything dark at this point. I don’t care what it is as long as it’s not covered in sequins. I linger by the sale section, flipping through gowns with yellowing tags, but even with the discounts, most of them are out of reach.

God, I hate shopping.

I’m about to throw in the towel and make a break for it when I spot a dress tucked away at the very back of the store, half-hidden behind stacks of boxes and holiday decor.

It’s a simple satin thing. A tea-length with a classic A-line silhouette. It looks like something straight out of a 1950s Hollywood movie, which isn’t exactly my usual vibe, but…

I ease it off the rack. My mind is already showing me glimpses of Noah’s reaction if I show up to the dance wearing this. I can see his eyes roving over the thin straps, lingering on my cleavage framed to perfection by the sweetheart neckline.

The best part? It’s a dark red.

Oh yeah, this dress would be perfect .

There would be so much desperation clear in those hurricane eyes if he saw me in his favorite color.

My heart beats faster as my fingers brush over the smooth satin, imagining what it would be like twirling on the dance floor, the softness swishing against my knees.

For the first time in my life, I might actually feel feminine. Pretty .

My thoughts drift back to blue eyes locked on mine, fingers toying with the thin straps as he leans in close to whisper—

I have to get this dress.

Miraculously, it looks to be my size. Though it seems like it would be worlds away from my financial reality.

I search eagerly for a price tag, hardly daring to hope...

Only to spot a giant red sticker slapped on the bodice: "50% off."

Holy shit. Forty bucks . I can totally do that! I’d have to avoid my Friday night pizzas for a couple of weeks but for this dress? Worth it.

My hand goes empty when quicker hands yank the hanger out from my grip.

“Hey!” My mouth flops open, and I whirl around to see Stephanie as she swings the dress over her shoulder with her pink one.

I’m all set to unleash— give it back, I saw it first, you already have a dress, you ass! —but I draw in a staggering breath against that typical serpent of shame that constricts around my gut when I realize what she’s doing.

Its scales scrape against my insides as it tightens. It's the beast of burden that tells me I'm nothing but a dead weight dragging down my friends. Lately, its visits have become more frequent, every time her or Tyler insist on covering my share at The Burger Shack, or offer to pay for my gas when I drive them around.

I hate feeling like a charity case. I should be used to this ritual by now, but I don't want to be some poor little Dickensian orphan with a bowl perpetually outstretched.

“Don’t even start, Roxy,” Steph says, her voice brooking no argument. “You think I can't rock a color other than pink?”

“Is that what you’re doing?” I grumble, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Don’t pout,” she teases. “You’ll get frown lines.”

“Steph—”

“What, you don’t believe me? You think I don’t look good in red?”

“That’s—”

“I know that look, and I don’t want to hear it.” She leans in, eyes twinkling. “You’re my best friend, you deserve to have something that makes you feel good about yourself, and I am buying you this damn dress.”

Laughing, she dodges my grasp and weaves through the racks, leaving me no choice but to trail after her like a grumpy shadow. At the register, she’s already pulled out her wallet—one of those neon monstrosities held together with Velcro that she thinks is the height of fashion.

“Steph, come on,” I hiss, but she pretends not to hear me.

The cashier, a bored-looking guy with a rat-tail haircut, perks up as Stephanie launches into some story about her last babysitting gig. I roll my eyes, and my frustration melts fast.

Only she can get away with a stunt like this and leave me grateful instead of embarrassed. And make friends with a total stranger in the time it takes to ring up two dresses.

When she turns to me, shopping bags looped through one arm as if she didn’t drop a small fortune on a dress for me, I find my voice again.

“Steph, seriously, you didn’t have to—”

She cuts me off with a look, pressing the bag with the red gown into my hands. “Hush your mouth, Roxy. What’s done is done, and that’s that on that.”

I take the bag, and to my horror, my eyes start to burn. Stephanie watches me closely, her head tilted to the side, definitely bracing herself for another round of my protests.

Instead, I spring forward and tackle her in a lung-crushing hug, almost sending us both toppling into a nearby rack of gowns.

“I hate you,” I mumble into her shoulder as I sniffle against the leaky tears. “You’re the absolute worst. And I love you.”

Stephanie laughs, staggering back a step as she returns the hug. “Love you too, babe. Even if you are getting snot all over my new dress.”

I give her one last squeeze before pulling back and swiping at my damp cheeks. “Seriously though. Thank you. I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m really fucking glad I did it.”

She grins, looping her arm through mine as she steers us towards the exit. “You existed, duh. That’s more than enough for me.”

I roll my eyes and pretend to be put out, but my eyes burn up again because… yeah, maybe I hate feeling like a charity case. Maybe my pride stings a little every time my friends have to bail me out. At the end of the day, I’m damn lucky to have people in my life who care enough to do it anyway.

Thirty minutes later we end up sitting at the food court, a mountain of hot funnel cake fries dripping caramel between us.

Steph grins from ear to ear, sugar dusting her pink lipstick as we people watch and laugh at the mom chasing after her toddler as he makes a break for the fountain.

As soon as the last crumb is gone, she leaps to her feet with a little hip shimmy. “Ooh, Roxy, look!” She points to a record store across the way, its windows showing off the rows of cassettes. “The new Sinéad O’Connor album!”

I bolt. Like the same toddler I’d finished laughing at.

Once I step through those open doors, the rock angels themselves are smiling down upon me. It’s nothing like our store, where we only have three genres and are the size of a broom closet.

This place is a paradise of pop, rock, and metal stretching as far as my eyes can see. Aisle after aisle of cassettes, vinyl records, and enough band posters to wallpaper my whole bedroom twice over.

I move through the rows of tapes, the fresh smell of plastic cases and paper sleeves putting a smile on my face as I race past all the categories I’d never even heard of before.

My eyes ping pong wildly—Madonna this way, Metallica that way, and holy shit is that an actual Janet Jackson poster?!

Stephanie heads straight for the pop section, already flicking through the tapes. But my attention snags on the poster display up front, featuring none other than... WHAM!

The exact one a special guy has hiding in his bedroom behind his dresser.

My eyes cut to the Van Halen poster next, taped up behind the cash register. It’s the same one we have back at our store. My smile grows because of a certain song that started this whole chain of events.

“I can’t listen to them the same anymore either.”

I straighten up at the sound of that voice, fingers clenching tightly around the cassette in my hand.

Slowly, I pivot to find Eden standing there. All awkward smiles and rumpled black bob, chipped nail polish picking at the hem of her Slayer tee.

Is every- fucking -body at the mall today?

I haven’t spoken to her since the day of The Incident. Haven’t been able to look her in the eye when we pass in the halls. Even though we were friends before we were old enough to hate each other, I’m surprised she’s acknowledging my existence.

“Yeah… well, I think the B-52's might have left more of a scar,” I mutter, my voice flat.

I see the flash of hurt in her heavily lined eyes before she smooths her features.

An uncomfortable beat passes. Then another.

And another.

“Roxy,” she starts, her voice gentler than I can handle.

A ripple of rigidity cascades down my spine, and one hell of a headache starts to form at my temples. I’m not in the mood to hear her apologies or weak excuses right now. She chose Riley, end of fucking story.

“Are you only talking to me right now because the red witch isn’t with you?” I ask, cocking a brow.

Eden sighs, her shoulders slumping. “You know I never wanted things to end up like this between us.”

I wish it wasn’t this way either. I miss you. I always will.

I harden myself against those thoughts. “Yet they did.”

She flinches, but soldiers on. “I know I fucked up, okay? I know I should’ve had your back, but it didn’t feel that simple at the time. The band was everything to me too, and Riley was...” She trails off, rubbing at the muscle on the back of her shoulder.

The pattern is so regular—it’s the exact spot where her guitar strap used to dig in during our marathon practice sessions.

I meet her gaze, hating how sincere she looks because those small hazel eyes are the same ones that would light up whenever we’d play dinosaurs as kids, accidentally swallowing leaves when one of us was the herbivore. Eyes that joined me in digging up worms so we could let them dry out in the sun to use as makeshift Barbies.

It's the eyes of the girl with mudpies on her overalls who shared my obsession with music. The girl who flung a cupcake tin full of sand at a girl’s face because she was being mean to me on the playground.

Her betrayal gutted me, but fuck if I don’t remember those early days with the band. I know firsthand how the rush of wanting to win is, the promise of getting out of this town... it had a way of twisting loyalties.

It makes the anger inside me soften. Annoyingly.

Fine . Eden and I did have something special once. Back when we were kids, our dads—best buds from way back—forced us to “hang out” so they could get drunk around a backyard fire pit. They’d ply us with pizza and make us “work out our musical differences” while they worked on draining a six-pack. Friendship by parental order that somehow stuck.

Those early days were magic. Singing songs together while putting on fashion shows, and watching Eden’s tiny fingers learn her first guitar. We were bonded by music before jealousy and boy drama corrupted it all.

And I’m fucking exhausted from all this bitterness.

So, so tired of feeling angry. Because in the end, I’ve moved on to bigger and better things.

Things happen for a reason, and I really fucking like the thing that happened because it brought me to my reason.

Noah .

“I get it,” I grumble at last, my fingers drifting over the cassette cases. “It was a shitty situation all around. What’s done is done, I guess.”

It’s not forgiveness, exactly. I can’t erase the hurt like a misspelled lyric. But it’s a tiny crack in the wall between us. We were musical sisters long before we ever became rivals—that has to count for something. Why should mine and Riley’s relationship affect mine and Eden’s?

“I know, and I really am sorry, Rox. Our friendship and what we had is too important to me to not ever try to say anything, so I really want you to know that I’m sorry,” she says, still looking at me like that pigtailed, gap-toothed, leaf-eating version of Eden. “And I hate that I hurt you.”

With a sigh, I let the tape in my hand slip back into the bin. The old me wants to keep clinging to the grudge and nurse that rage like a baby with a bottle.

But that’s not the type of girl I want to be anymore. Life’s too short, I’ve realized, to let the bad shit fester. If I can bring a little more light into this craphole of a world, even if it’s by cutting someone a tiny bit of slack... Well, that’s the kind of sucker I want to be.

Besides, it’d be nice to have someone around who remembers my dad the way I do. Someone who shares those memories of happier times, before everything went to hell.

“I know you’re sorry,” I concede at last, the words only slightly sour on my tongue. “I get why you did what you did, I guess. Can’t change what happened now anyway.”

I risk meeting her eyes again, and damn it all to hell, I see more flashes of the girl who spent hours patiently teaching me guitar, who snuck me extra cookies when her mom wasn’t looking. Apparently, that’s not a tie I’m ready to cut quite yet.

Eden lets out a shaky breath, looking on the verge of either laughter or tears. “I’ve missed you, lots. You think we could try being friends again someday?”

My first reaction is to tell her to go pound sand, but then Steph sets a hand on my shoulder in silent support. And Eden… She’s looking at me with such naked hope and remorse, that I half expect the record store to burst into a rock version of Kumbaya .

After all we’ve endured together—alcoholic moms, hand-me-down clothes, big dreams of escaping Bellpond. Hell, I even held her hand that one time she accidentally sharted in the middle of PE, thinking it was a harmless fart. If that’s not the mark of true friendship, I don’t know what is.

We both owe it to our history to try.

I nod slowly, offering her a tiny smile. “Maybe,” I say, and it comes out like a question directed more at myself than at her. Wondering if I can trust her again without fearing betrayal.

Guess there’s only one way to find out.

Her answering smile warms me, and after an awkward beat, I jerk my chin toward the exit. “Anyway... we should bounce.”

She takes a step back, swiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Yeah, I’ll... I’ll let you get back to your shopping. I—thank you. For not telling me to go fuck myself with a cactus, even though I would’ve totally deserved it.”

A surprised laugh bubbles up in my chest, sounding a lot like old times. “See you around, E.” I nod, and then Steph and I head for the door.

It’s so weird. The tension between us is similar to the way the air feels all cold and cleansed right after a big storm. Except now, the rain has stopped and the clouds are starting to break up, letting little bits of sunshine through. It’s not totally gone, but it’s a start.

Maybe storms really are chaos before the beauty, and we’d finally come out of ours.

I didn’t score any new tunes for the ride home, but at least I’m leaving with one hell of a dress. And my heart feels a fraction lighter.

Though I still can’t believe I’m willingly gonna squeeze my ass into a fancy gown and subject myself to hours of dancing. For Noah Jackson .

Stephanie yanks at my arm, and as I quicken my pace through the parking lot, my pulse starts thumping.

This weed is ready to bloom and I’m going to make him forget his own goddamn name.

My friend is mid-ramble as we climb into Kevin, going on about our narrow escape from Wendy’s claws or something. I give the dashboard a loving pat before turning the key and throwing the car into reverse. We’ve barely pulled out of the parking spot when Stephanie lets out the most ungodly, ear-piercing gasp.

“Oh my god! I meant to tell you this earlier, but I think you should give my Pulvertongue ticket to Noah.”

I slam on the brakes so hard, we both would have face planted into the windshield if it weren’t for our seatbelts. An angry horn blares behind us.

Slowly, I turn to gape at my so-called best friend, my hands strangling the wheel. “I’m sorry, I must have had a fucking mini-stroke. I could’ve sworn you just said—”

“That you should take Noah to the Pulvertongue concert instead of me.”

I stare at her, my jaw denting the floor mats. “You wanna run that by me again?”