Just before school ends on Wednesday, students at Pearville High vote for student council officers.
They check little boxes next to black and white xeroxed names and pass completed ballots to people in front of them. Teachers collect thin piles from front rows and combine them with practiced precision. Stacks are stuffed into manila envelopes. Clasps are sealed. The last bell rings.
Taylor texts from inside her parked car. It's her mother's old sedan—gray and androgynous and half as cool as a little yellow convertible—but it's all hers, already filling with her accoutrements. Soda cans and discarded cardigans fill every cranny. A curious smell drifts from the backseat.
Shelby stands outside Future Stars Tutoring, an SAT prep outfit and former insurance company at the edge of a strip mall. Repurposed cubicles separate high schoolers from screeching children. She does not go in.
Taylor is stalling. Her face is all flushed. She wants Shelby to grasp the gravity of the situation. Ahead of her, detention ends. Rebellious energy fills the the school parking lot. A group of boys knock on Taylor's window and run off laughing.
Shelby decides to skip the class. Last weekend, during a “family meeting,” her parents extolled the virtues of healthy risks. Her mother read an article online somewhere and even printed out a PDF. It explained that Shelby should learn to push boundaries in situations where very little harm could arise, and what harm could arise from skipping an after school cram class?
Band class usually gets out around 3:30, so Taylor has about fifteen minutes to get to the point.
On the opposite end of the strip mall is a smoothie restaurant. Shelby heads toward it, head swiveling nervously. Nobody seems to have seen her. The coast looks clear.
Taylor lets out a deep breath, imagining the horror that must be falling over Shelby's face at this news.
Entering the smoothie restaurant feels more illicit than the half cigarette Shelby smoked once as a sophomore before dropping it on the sidewalk “by accident.” Maybe this is how sex feels.
A group of freshman girls totter out of the school. They wear cheap high-heeled boots from the mall, the sort that don't properly form around feet. In detention for dress code infractions, no doubt.
Shelby is not laughing out loud. She orders a Blueberry Peach Surprise with almond milk. This is so much better than rows of math problems.
The girls mill about, likely waiting for parents to pick them up—crossing their legs, jutting their hips, flipping their hair. Taylor wonders who will be the first to rebel against the tyranny of heels.
Stupid autocorrect. Shelby watches a blender pulverize ingredients one by one: frozen blueberries; a peach; mystery syrup; a banana; almond milk. No longer recognizable, they whip around, climb up the edges, out of control. Perhaps everybody thinks she is a bitch.
Taylor had befriended Shelby first, back in seventh grade, before Mae had ever moved to Pearville. Back then the girls wore precise jumpers and oxford shoes and threw birthday parties that included the entire class.
Shelby sips the smoothie on her way back to her convertible. A sudden sense of dread. Perhaps the tutoring center will call her parents, ask why she is not there. It is the first time she considers the possibility.
Tears well up behind Taylor's nose. A minivan pulls up and the girls rush in. The parking lot feels lonely in their absence.
Shelby doesn't know what Taylor is talking about. The smoothie gives her a headache. She resolves to pay more attention to her text messages.
Taylor reclines her seat and presses one hand against her nose to shove the sorrow back inside. Emotional tickles pass like sneezes.
Perhaps it is true, but aesthetics matter. Is she sometimes harsh? Maybe, but only because Shelby wants Taylor to improve. It's not Shelby's fault if others can't live up to her standards.
Taylor's sneakers tap lightly against the dashboard. Band students begin to trickle through the double doors in sections: percussion, then woodwinds.
Jasper had said that to Shelby, nine days ago in another parking lot. It is a rejectee's response, a desperate attempt at self protection.
Grant comes out with the brass section, French horn hoisted over his shoulder, towering over the others. He wears a fitted black thermal. Taylor's eyes drift to his midsection.
Shelby doesn't know anybody named Grant. This conversation exhausts her. She inspects her reflection in the rear view mirror and applies rose lip gloss.
Grant spots Taylor's sedan. He waves goodbye to the rest of the brass section and heads her way. Taylor has said everything she wanted to say. She feels physically lighter.
Shelby drops her phone into her quilted bag. Lost, she's not sure where to go. She could go to the mall, she supposes, though it always depresses. Perhaps see a movie? Too likely to be discovered. “That's your whole problem,” Shelby tells herself out loud. “You don't need to have a destination.” She slots a key into the ignition, turns up the gangster rap, and presses a kitten heel onto the accelerator.
Grant clumsily fits his horn into the backseat. “You look happy,” he remarks as he buckles in next to Taylor. “Who are you talking to?”