"The Wrangler's at least being fixed, though, right?"

Stevie followed me out of our anatomy classroom. Last period of the day. Doesn't seem like it will be too bad of a class, though our teacher, Mr. Webb, seems to be real into Buzzfeed. He had two quizzes open in two different tabs on his browser. He didn't care that they showed up on the overhead projector before he began lecture. Interesting, right? Probably more interesting than the coursework. I already know too much about anatomy to be curious about it. I only agreed to take the class as an elective cause of a favor to Stevie. She's dead set on pharmacology school and she thinks anatomy will look good on her college applications. Another plus for her is that Jesse's also in our class. Stevie peeked at him through all of our first-day ice breakers. He'd already fled the classroom the minute the bell rang, though, so there was no chance at any more of my Machiavellian matchmaking. Lucky Stevie.

"Dad took it to the shop yesterday," I started for the stairs across the hall. "Why are you so concerned about it, anyway?"

"Why aren't you?" Stevie pushed open the door to the stairway. "Your van would be social suicide for most people."

"His name is Gus," I insisted, "and that's very rude."

"You're about the only person I know who could pull off driving something like that." Stevie said, as we reached the ground floor stairwell.

People have a tendency of telling me I'm able to "pull off" things that they can't. This sentiment, as far as I'm concerned, is grade-A garbage. Who's the unspoken, all-mighty arbiter of "pulling shit off," anyway? John Roberts? Judge Judy? Gordon Ramsey? Whoever it is, he/she's got Stevie by the proverbial balls. The biggest risk she's ever taken was probably the time she tried grapefruit La Croix last week. Spoiler alert: she didn't like it. When all our friends went mini-golfing in July, she wouldn't even let me spend fifty cents to play the claw machine in the corner of the course-side ice cream shop, because "they're scams." Fifty cents! I've never seen her in clothing that couldn't be described as "basic" or "normcore" or "please-don't-look-at-me," and her relationship with make-up is "functional." Now don't misquote me, normcore basics with functional makeup have a right to be as sartorially laissez faire as they want to be- and I would even encourage that style if that was something Stevie genuinely wanted -it can be a cool look!- but I know the girl. She's my best friend. I've seen the way she's admired oversized, burgundy faux-fur coats in Forever 21; the flash-tattoo-inspo pictures she's added to her Tumblr; the weird Renaissance-art-inspired make-up looks she liked on Instagram. Deep down in that self-censored, 'no-fun-for-me' heart of hers, is a living, breathing weirdo aching to burst out.

You might say, "But Valerie! It isn't your place to free the weirdo from Stevie's normie-shell!" And I would agree with you, fundamentally. But it's our senior year already. Twelve months from now and she'll be at some -lulz, probably private- college somewhere, struggling to fit in amongst wannabe finance bros, sorority girls, and the politically conscious types who don't vote in midterm elections. If there's one thing I've observed of the twins' college experience, is that college is the middle school of real life. If Stevie isn't already comfortable with herself by then, the transition to fully-functioning, gainfully-employed adult will be downright brutal. Hell, even if she's able to squeak through her college years, going to honors society barbeques and crusty Panhellenic mixers, without ever letting her real weirdo out, all that self-repression will wreak havoc with her adult psychology. The weird has to emerge eventually. It's manifest destiny. You just don't want it to be when she's forty, married to the first guy who asked her out, and going mad listening to all those Christmas carols on repeat in a Target pharmacy EVERY FIRST OF NOVEMBER. Think about all the bad, midlife crisis-y decisions she'll make then. Decisions that will actually have real, possibly-life-shattering consequences. Who knows if I'll be around to bail her out then. It's best if she sorts this insecurity out while she's still a teenager. Nobody cares what you do while you're a teenager. I'm living proof of that.

"You know, Stevie," I said, as we exited the science building and started down the sidewalk that leads past the track and football stadium, "you need to cultivate some damn confidence."

Stevie folded her lips into her mouth. She does that when she's disappointed about how she'll never marry Benedict Cumberbatch, or when she's stubbed her toe, or when she knows I'm right about something but doesn't want to admit it. She calls that "her Irish face." She hates it but makes it unconsciously at least once a day. I'm supposed to point it out to her. We have a system.

I yanked on the back of Stevie's topknot. Immediately she puckered out her lips.

"Janey Mac," she groaned. "I thought I was outgrowing it."

"You'll never outgrow it," I said flatly, like an oncologist. "It's in your blood."

"My blood?" Stevie squinted. "What is this, race science?"

"Lamarckian evolution!" I sputtered, "Phrenology! Male pattern baldness!" By now we had walked far enough that we approached the narrow alley on which all of the bandos park their cars. I could see Gus's cute little curtains. I pulled my car keys from my left back pocket.

"What are you talking about?" Stevie crinkled her nose.

"Your Irish face is an inherited trait, forged in the crucible of harsh famine, British domination, and schmaltzy folk ballads-"

"Leave Danny Boy out of this." Stevie yelped.

"To hell with Danny Boy!" I giggled

I half-expected Stevie to punch me in the gut then. She can be sensitive about her Riverdance shit. I think it's because she was an Irish step dancer way back in the day. Or because it reminds her of her grandma. Her grandma was actually an Irish immigrant, straight-off-the-plane. Her life was all kinds of messed up because of the 'Troubles.' I know a lot about Grandma O'Shaughnessy, because Stevie would talk about her every opportunity she got. It's been about six years since she died, and she still comes up in conversation. You can see how big of an influence she must have had on the kid's life. When I think about it, I probably deserved a punch in the gut about then.

But Stevie did nothing. In fact, she stopped walking.

I glanced at her. She stared ahead at something down the alley. I looked down the alley myself to see what had seized her attention like that.

"Oh look, Jesse's car is parked next to Gus." Jesse's got a blue Ford Focus. He wasn't there yet, I'd guess because he had to stop first in the band room. He being first chair in the percussion section means that Lang has manipulated him into helping out after school: moving chairs around, collecting stray pieces of sheet music littered on the band room floor, packing up the school's cymbals and maracas and cow bells, if necessary. It's at times like these that I'm very glad that I'm a mediocre musician. As soon as the school day's over, I like to be out of there, if I can be. I recognized Jesse's car because he's got this weird, faded Ghostbusters sticker in the back window. It looks like it's from the 90s. Jesse's car isn't that old, so he must have stuck a used sticker in his car, on his own, for some untold reason. I was wondering what the story behind that was, when I got this real good idea.

"Hey!" I grabbed Stevie's closest arm, "Why don't we pretend to have car trouble and make Jesse jump Gus's battery? It'll make him feel useful," I shot my eyebrows up and down, "and guys love feeling useful."

"Shutupshutupshutup," Stevie's shoulders inched upward toward her neck. She assumed the posture of an angry cat or uncomfortable middle schooler fresh out of his growth spurt. "I can't do this, I can't do this," she dropped her gaze to the ground, and turned around.

"Can't do what?" I sprung after her. "You remember the weird shit I did to try to get Isaac to notice me last year," I stepped in front of Stevie. "Sure it seemed, uh, abnormal at the time, but he definitely noticed me."

In fact, he wanted to have my babies there for a while, but I didn't want to gloat. Stevie's sensitive about being single, don't ask me why (relationships aren't all they're cracked up to be).

"Can't do it," Stevie side-stepped me.

"I got proven results," I stepped back in front of Stevie, and clutched her shoulders this time so she couldn't escape. "Proven results."

Stevie finally lifted her gaze off the pavement.

"It's bad enough that we have a van," she said through clenched teeth, "but a broken down van?"

"Okay, but," I said, "I don't think you're following. Gus is not broken down, we're pretending he is to worm your way into Jesse's heart. Didn't your Western Civ class have to read The Prince?"

"What does that-" Stevie shook her head, "-Jesse's cool. He's in a band-"

"So," I shrugged. "We're in a band."

"We're in a marching band," Stevie didn't seem to be able to unclench her teeth, "he's in an actually cool band. One that plays at the Secret Art Space."

"Pfff. That place smells like piss anyway." I was surprised Stevie would actually be impressed by the Secret Art Space. I guess because she's never been, she's still buying into the 'only-the-cool-kids-know-the-location-because-the-place-isn't-advertised' marketing scheme. Like a normie.

"Valerie!" Stevie yelped, "I can't do it."

At first I thought I could press her into going along with my plan anyway. But then I saw this look in her eyes. I dunno. It reminded me of the time our class took a field trip to Hershey Park in fifth grade. I was dead set on making Stevie go on the tallest roller coaster with me (it was one of those where your legs swing free on top of its height, so double the scary points). She hadn't even been on a kiddie one before. Somehow I talked her into it and when we got off, she threw up her funnel cake and cried in the bathroom. It took her until eighth grade to feel ready to go back on any roller coaster after that.

Then and now, it was the same. She looked genuinely scared.

She couldn't do it. 

***