become one of those girls who gets in a relationship and goes MIA.”
I’m very familiar with “those girls,” because Chris disappears every time she meets a new guy.
Before I can remind her of this, she goes on. “And don’t be one of those lax groupies either. I fucking
hate those groupies. Like, can’t they find a better thing to be a groupie for? Like a band? Oh my God, I
would be so good at being a groupie for an actual, important band. Like being a muse, you know?”
“What happened to that idea about you starting your own band?”
Chris shrugs. “The guy who plays bass fucked up his hand skateboarding and then nobody felt like
it anymore. Hey, do you want to drive to DC tomorrow night and see this band Felt Tip? Frank’s
borrowing his dad’s van, so there’s probably room.”
I have no idea who Frank is, and Chris has probably only known him for all of two minutes. She
always says people’s names like I should already know who they are. “I can’t—tomorrow’s a school
night.”
She makes a face. “See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. You’re already becoming one of
‘those girls.’”
“That has nothing to do with it, Chris. A, my dad would never let me go to DC on a school night.
B, I don’t know who Frank is, and I’m not riding in the back of his van. C, I have a feeling Felt Tip is
not my kind of music. Is it my kind of music?”
“No,” she admits. “Fine, but the next thing I ask you to do, you have to say yes. None of this A-B-C
‘here are all of the reasons why’ bullshit.”
“All right,” I agree, though my stomach does a little lurch, because with Chris you never know
what you’re getting yourself into. Though, also knowing Chris, she’s already forgotten about it.
We settle onto the floor and get down to the business of manis. Chris grabs one of my gold nail
pens and starts painting tiny stars on her thumbnail. I’m doing a lavender base and dark purple
flowers with marigold centers. “Chris, will you do my initials on my right hand?” I hold up my hand
for her. “Starting with the ring finger down to my thumb. LJSC.”
“Fancy font or basic?”
I give her a look. “Come on. Who are you talking to here?” At the same time we both say, “Fancy.”
Chris is good with doing script. So good, in fact, that as I’m admiring her handiwork, I say, “Hey, I
have an idea. What if we started doing manicures at Belleview? The residents would love that.”
“For how much?”
“For free! You could think of it like community service but not mandatory. Out of the goodness of
your heart. Some of the residents can’t cut their own nails very well. Their hands get really gnarled.
Toes, too. The nails get thick and.. .” I trail off when I see the disgusted look on her face. “Maybe
we could have a tip jar.”
“I’m not going to cut old people’s toenails for free. I’m not doing it for less than fifty bucks a set at
the very least. I’ve seen my grandpa’s feet; his toenails are like eagle talons.” She gets back to my
thumb, giving me a beautiful cursive C with a flourish. “Done. God, I’m good.” She throws her head
back and yells, “Kitty! Get your booty in here!”
Kitty comes running into my room. “What? I was in the middle of something.”
“‘I was in the middle of something,’” Chris mimics. “If you go get me a Diet Coke, I’ll do your
nails for you like I did Lara Jean’s.” I display my hands lavishly like a hand model. Chris counts with
her fingers. “Kitty Covey fits perfectly.”
Kitty bounds off, and I call after her, “Bring me a soda too!”
singke
(singke)
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