rings when summoned by the fluttering
hand of a soon-to-be bride, and a pro at
the girly-girl gang greeting: Arms raised
high in the air, head back, eyes squeezed
shut, high-pitched Oh-my-Gods for all to
hear. For this, we call her Pink.
A decade later, I’m living in Los
Angeles and Pink is living outside New
York City— married with a bunch of
kids, natch. When she decides to take her
first solo vacation since becoming a
mom, and heads to San Diego to see her
best friend from college, she calls and
begs me to drive down to see her. I
agree, somewhat begrudgingly. It wasn’t
the two-hour drive that bothered me, but
the best friend from college, who I’d