I know she really means it, too. I didn't tell Gretchen my parents needed both cars this weekend. She just caught me checking the Yates Transit bus schedule and swept in for the rescue. Say what you want about Gretchen Patterson, but she's a drop-everything kind of friend, through and through.
"I can't believe you're meeting Lili's queer college friends." Edith stares out the window, puffs her cheeks out, and sighs. "I want queer friends."
Gretchen blinks. "Um. Hello?"
"See, but you're more of a mentor," says Edith.
I breathe in. "Okay, texting Lili now."
"Are you sure you don't want-"
"Yup!"
Edith claps. "Look at you. Lone wolf, living up to your badass reputation."
Right, so now I’m trying to picture the alternate universe where my reputation falls anywhere in the vicinity of badass.
Like, let’s just put that in bold for a minute. Imogen Scott: badass. It barely even makes sense as a concept. I’m the kind of person who has a favorite adverb (obviously, obviously).
Edith, on the other hand.
I mean, our baby pictures tell the story. Like the one from the Yates County Fair animal barn, where I’m standing next to an all-caps sign that reads: PLEASE DO NOT PET DONKEY!!!!!
Edith is in the corner of the frame, petting the donkey.
Or the one of me at an easel, carefully painting a blue stripe for a sky. Edith is crouched beside me in a diaper, chest fully covered in her own tiny green handprints. And of course, there’s a whole series from my seventh birthday where Edith is literally dressed like Jason from Friday the 13th.
To be fair, my birthday is Halloween. But.
It was noon. And she was five.
I haven’t quite unclicked my seat belt, but I’m getting there.
Obviously. Just waiting for my brain to stop doing the thing where I’m being interviewed on a talk show in front of a vaguely hostile live studio audience.
Imogen, is it true that it’s your first time visiting Lili on campus, even though she’s one of your two (2) best friends, and she’s invited you fifteen billion times, and Blackwell College is so close to your house, you literally drove by it last weekend going to Wegmans?
Gretchen raises her eyebrows at me from the driver’s seat.
“Want us to hang for a sec?”
“Or more than a sec,” adds Edith, and I twist around to look at her. She’s buckled in, legs crossed, denim jacket spread over her lap like a blanket. Bright blue eyes and wind-ruffled curls. My hair’s two shades darker and a little straighter, but besides that, we’re almost identical. Everyone thinks so.
Otávio’s back there, too, playing a game on his phone. This campus isn’t much of a novelty for him at this point—he and his parents come up here a lot, even just to take Lili and her friends out to dinner. But this time, he’s just along for the ride. I’m the only one who’s staying.
For three nights. Approximately sixty-five hours. Not that I’m counting.
“I’m good.” I tack on a smile. “I don’t want you getting caught in rush hour.”
“I don’t give a shit about rush hour,” says Gretchen.
She springs out of the back seat as soon as I open the passenger door—as if Otávio Cardoso, certified teddy bear, is going to fight her for shotgun. But instead of moving up to the front, she follows me around to the trunk of Gretchen’s car.
“Immy, hear me out. As your big sister—”
“That’s factually inaccurate—”
“Chronologically? Sure,” she says. “But spiritually? Aesthetically?”
In effect, Edith’s a modern-day Amy March. Whereas I fall squarely in the category of Wants-to-Be-Jo, Is-Actually-Meg.
“All I’m saying is, the whole point of college—”
“According to you, a junior in high school.”
“The whole point of college,” she repeats, “is that it’s a chance to break out of your comfort zone. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and—Immy, I really think you should give up flossing for the weekend.”
“The point of college . . . is me not flossing.”
“Exactly.”