Page 13 of So Thirsty

She was right. I did. Still do. “Okay. What else?”

“The Yeah Yeah Yeahs.”

Right again. “Okay, and…?”

“The Strokes,” she said, and sipped her soda. “And then, like, Billie Holiday. On vinyl.”

“Okay, fine, you have me all figured out. Congratulations.”

She laughed again, snorting root beer through her nose. She wiped her face with a napkin, then started pressing those little buttons on the plastic lid of her cup, fidgeting with the straw. “So. Who’s judging who here?”

I looked at her, lowering my eyebrows, inquiring.

“You thought I was going to judge you, but you judge me.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do! You’ve been judging me this whole time. You assumed I asked you about music so I could, like, figure out if you were cool. Like I’m some total uppity hipster bitch. But I was only asking because I already think you’re cool and was genuinely curious.”

I was taken aback. She was right again. And—and—she thought I was cool. Naomi Rowe thought I was cool. She wore Doc Martens to gym class and didn’t even get in trouble, because she was a track star and won a bunch of medals and could do whatever she wanted. She’d hang out with Coach Laura on the bleachers while the rest of us did jumping jacks. Everyone had a crush on her. She got straight As. Never had an awkward phase. Perfect teeth without orthodontic interference, flawless skin without ever agonizing over benzoyl peroxide or salicylic acid. She always showed up to school in some inspired mix of thrift-store finds and designer labels under her varsity jacket, inspiring trends throughout the halls.

“To be fair,” she said, filling the silence, “I can be a total uppity hipster bitch.”

“I guess me, too.”

“Want to go try on ugly dresses?”

“Yeah, okay.”

She took my hand and dragged me to JCPenney, where we picked out horrible mother-of-the-bride-type gowns for each other. We paraded in and out of the dressing rooms giggling like lunatics.

Afterward, we went back to the food court to meet up with the rest of the girls and wait for Meghan’s mom to pick us up. But the girls weren’t back yet, so it was still just us. That was when we discovered that we both have dream malls. We were describing our respective malls and splitting a milkshake when this boy approached us. Approached Naomi. Some cute skater kid who was old enough to drive. They flirted for a while; then he offered Naomi a ride, and I watched her toy with the idea of taking it. I think she would have had the other girls not shown up a few minutes later, Meghan in her garish pink birthday dress, her braces gleaming under ruthless fluorescent lights.

“Sorry,” Naomi told the boy. “Not tonight.”

She gave him her number, then took my hand again as all of us headed out to the parking lot to pile into Meghan’s mom’s minivan.

“It was a fake number,” she whispered in my ear as we sat smooshed in the back seat.

“Really? I thought it was true love.”

She laughed, squeezed my hand, and said, “I think this is. I think I love you.”

I dropped all my defenses, the façade. “I think I love you, too.”

6

S he squeezes my hand now as we wait outside the bar after calling for the shuttle. It’s past midnight but shy of one, dark and bitter cold. My toes are numb again, my fingers, my face. My wrist aches like it does sometimes, just to remind me it was once broken. Little flurries whirl around, not really sticking to anything.

“We should just walk,” Naomi says, hiccuping. “Can’t be that far.”

“We’re not walking,” I say, craning my neck to look for the van.

“Why not? It’d be an adventure. The night is young!”

“First off, you can barely stand.”

“I could run a fucking marathon right now,” she says, and she means it. Her endurance while she’s drunk is pretty remarkable, her resolve transcending intoxication.