I meet Michelle and Steph at the Thousand Oaks
Mall on the Friday before our last weekend as do-nothing ex-Seniors. Michelle’s been hired as a personal
assistant by some rich woman who makes jewelry in Santa Monica and Steph got a
job folding at The Gap. What I
like about Michelle is that she’s tough, and never moody, and what I like about
Steph is that she’s sensitive and really pays attention. I guess I round out the group by being
some mixture of both. I like to
think of myself as the glue that holds us together, and I also like to think
that if I wasn’t around maybe Michelle and Steph would never really see each
other, that’s how much I connect us all.
Michelle’s trying on a fitted blazer
which feels very East Coast, very Boston, so I try one on too. Someone makes a Sisterhood Of The
Traveling Blazers joke and it kind of makes me feel old, like I wish it was the
summer before Senior year and not the
summer after. I don’t want to get
a job or, rather, I don’t want to have
a job, but I do, and can’t stop complaining about it. What I don’t like about Steph is that she lets everyone
complain, on and on, because she thinks it’s therapeutic to just get everything
out, even though sometimes it isn’t.
The
three of us are definitely clique-ish though, which has been getting a bad rap
lately in movies and books and overall culture. There’s this backlash against people “wanting to belong,”
but the truth is I don’t want to belong in
general – I want to belong to these
two, and I want them to belong to me.
Courtney says that being too close to people can become toxic, and that
you have to watch out for that, especially with high school friends. She also says I shouldn’t forget to
“spread my wings” because in a year I might not even know them – maybe in less
than a year. Which makes this
blazer, this iced coffee with soy milk, these receipts for candles and hoop
earrings, all feel like ticking bombs, and that gives me an idea for a story: a
seventeen year-old girl is visited by two forty-seven year-old women claiming
to be the future versions of her two best friends from high school come back to
make sure the girl keeps up their friendships so as to change the course of all
three of their lives. This is a
good one; Mr. Roush might like it.
I scribble it down on something.
“Anyway,”
I say, “Foster will be at camp with me.
So that’s something.”
“Foster,
huh,” Michelle says.
“Don’t
say his name like that.”
“I
like Foster,” Steph says. “We all
think he’s cute.”
“We
don’t all think that,” I say.
“What
about that guy Elliot?” Michelle says.
“Has
he called?” Steph asks.
“He
texted.”
“That’s
better,” Michelle says. “It’s
like, ‘Hey boys, text me don’t call me, okay?’”
“Calling
is committing,” Steph says.
“And
Eva doesn’t want to commit.”
“You’re
leaving for Boston in like two months anyway.”
“And
he’s leaving for tour...”
“There’s
also Foster...”
“Guys,”
I say, interrupting. “I’m not the
protagonist in some rom-com and you aren’t my pushy, sentimental sidekicks.”
“Hmm,”
Michelle says and then Steph says, “Yeah, hmm.”
Later
we’re at the food court and since I can’t find anything vegan at Panda Express
I just watch Michelle and Steph go wild on some chicken chow mein. Michelle keeps dangling the noodles in
front of me, saying if I want to take a bite she won’t tell anybody. This is what everyone thinks: that I’m
dying for their chicken chow mein but because there’s some noble agenda, some
lofty idea to stand behind, I won’t let myself indulge. They think at home, alone in my room,
I’m slamming turkey cheddar sandwiches and they also think I just need a
friend, or anyone, to convince me to chill on my principles for a minute so I
can enjoy life and a big piece of lasagna. But what they don’t know is that their egg rolls are time
bombs, that they’re ticking, because these could be the last egg rolls Michelle
and Steph ever share, and isn’t that a bigger deal than my dietary choice to
slowly save the planet? I tell
them all of this, then pound on the food court table and take away their forks
so I can hold their hands.
“You
have to stop listening to Courtney so much,” Michelle says.
“Your
sister doesn’t know how it is with us,” Steph says.
“Yeah,
we’ll be friends for a supremely long time,” Michelle says.
“We’re
in no danger of not being friends,” Steph tells me.
“And
didn’t someone say something about absence and the fonder heart?”
“And
don’t our keychains say something about friends and forever?”
“Guys,
are we being naïve?” I ask.
“Of
course we’re not being naive,” Michelle says, and then Steph says, “Two of us
are eighteen, Eva.”
I
force Michelle and Steph to make firm promises for the summer concerning
multiple weekly hangouts and lengthy phonecall catch-ups and constant text and
email updates. I don’t know why
but I feel a little desperate, and even though I’m not that interested in the
daily business of handmade jewelry from Santa Monica or ribbed v-neck tees and
tanks, I feel like I need to hold on to this connection or else I’ll be so
lonely. So I promise not to slip
if they won’t slip, and I know that I won’t slip because it’s summer camp and, really, after a long
day of being stuck with nine nine year-olds all I’ll want to do is bond with my
friends before we have to say goodbye in August.
“You’ll
also want time to write though,” Michelle reminds me.
“And
talk to Elliot on the phone,” Steph says.
“And
what about Foster?”
“Or
some other counselor you might meet that you want to hang out with.”
“Guys!”
I say, frustrated. Then I pick up
Steph’s fork and shove a big bite of greasy noodles in my mouth, to show that I
can commit and that I will commit, all summer long, until the
day I get on the plane for Boston.
I think they’re impressed because they immediately feel bad and hug me
and tell me I don’t have to swallow the chow mein.
