Where Were You?!

A shout of “Where were you?!” reverberated throughout the hallway. I turned, cheeks hot and eyes widening, as my best friend, Pascal, rushed towards me. Her two-inch high heels clacked loudly on the beige and black tiled cement floor. Teens parted like the Red Sea, some of them whimpering and then scrambling to retrieve their dropped pencils rolling under and sheets of paper flying around her tanned, stick-skinny legs.                       

“Ow!” I yelped when Pascal yanked my arm, her manicured nails piercing my skin as she pulled me with her.     

“Maybe if you had listened to me—now, we’re going to be late for the fashion show!”

We soon burst through the two sets of double entrance doors as Pascal clacked and clicked towards a shiny, black limousine parked right outside Waterfalls High School. “Now,” she ordered, stopping and extending a light blue painted fingernail towards the honking car, “let’s go. I’ve never been late before. No, we have never shown up—even five minutes—into the contest!”    

But I jerked my index finger at my navy blue Converse sneakers, and Pascal widened her eyes. 

“Miranda, I can’t believe you’re actually just giving up!”

I jerked my eyes at the driver, and he stopped. Then I rolled them at Pascal and pursed my lips. I just wanted a life-long best friend. I never understood why the fashion had driven a wedge into our friendship. But Pascal thought good looks looked good—for her.    

Pascal clenched her jaw and closed her eyes. Then she jabbed the same finger at my chest. “Don’t know why you suddenly don’t care! Miranda! Yeah, you weren’t born for fashion—it wasn’t like your parents named you directly after the boss from The Devil Wears Prada.” She placed her whole hand softly on her dark purple velvet sweater, furrowed brows knitted together to guilt-trip me into giving in—again. “But could you at least care—for me?”      

I rolled my eyes and then gushed out before the tears came, jabbing my finger in her face, “I’m losing you, Pascal. We were best friends, and I thought we’d always be that way. We’ve grown up together so far. Sorry it’s so boring to crack jokes and sip French Vanilla coffee with a hardworking, C-average, school-enjoying girl. But now that you’ve replaced me with fashion, I can’t…” I heaved a sigh. “You’re rejecting me—and always have—because you’ve chosen the gods of clothes and attention over our relationship!”    

I shoved my hands in my pockets, sprinted to the doors and rammed an arm against them. Rubbing my nose furiously with the back of a free hand, I wished I could wake up from this nightmare.           

Both sets of doors clicking and then shutting together behind me, I rubbed at my nose harder. I averted some students’ stares while rounding into my last class. Slouching into my desk, I shrugged my backpack off and peeled back the zipper with the other hand to retrieve my binder and pencil case. I showed my tomato-red tangle of hair to my classmates as the striding, walking, jogging and scurrying to their seats began seconds before the afternoon bell shrieked from up above the clock.               

Mrs. Champion, when I looked up at her, took each front-row student’s homework assignment. I stared at the floor as her black stilettos pounded each step.     

“Can I see your math work, please, Miranda?”   

I jumped and opened my binder, automatically handing over a completed sheet of paper. When the teacher’s thumb pressed down onto the white space above all those perfectly drawn charts, lines and graphs, Mrs. Champion muttered her gratitude and then strutted over to her desk, dropping the stack.

“Now will you listen?” She ordered. 

I jerked a nod, cheeks burning. My freckled face probably was pinching together into one tight scowl. Maybe pulling my knees up to my chin would help me at least feel as if I was all alone. But as I wiped my clammy hands onto my jeans, classmates’ snickers and hoots tested me. Fortunately, my clenched answer saved me from hurling my chair at their stupid laughter.                        

“Okay.” 

Class whirled by, but I didn’t forget Mrs. Champion’s commands or my humiliation. It was bad enough losing Pascal. Did everyone have to pile more hurt onto me?

“Miranda, please come here. We need to discuss your project grade.” 

I sighed reluctantly, forcing myself out of my plastic blue chair. Just let me go shuffle off towards home to de-feather my pillow! I hurled at her.

But as I dragged my sneakers up to the frizzy-haired woman’s wooden desk, I wondered how Mrs. Champion taught my Calculus class every afternoon. I mean, with desks strewn and chairs knocked over from students wildly escaping out of this room, wouldn’t she at least want to resituate everything again before continuing her life here on Monday?      

“Yes?” I finally stood before her. 

“Miranda,” she began, reaching for the pile of math homework. “I noticed you deliver your projects like a professional speech.” Laying it on her keyboard, she looked at me with those piercingly blue eyes. “You just don’t work on them as hard. Now—your grade.” Mrs. Champion turned to her computer and maneuvered the mouse for a bit. She pushed a corner of her desktop computer towards me, and I slid my eyes to the screen’s information. Pursing my lips, I let out a sigh as my own project grade glowered back at me. 

D-

I nodded, forcing myself to accept. “Okay.”  

Knowing how my parents were going to respond to such an academic excuse, I sucked in a huge breath. They were ultimate when it came to grades because these letters were based on whether I was going to make it to college. Even Community College. But then I shrugged mentally. I mean, it was just a place you could sign up and attend. Why were my parents so harsh? 

“Miranda.”

“Yes?” I shot my attention to Mrs. Champion. 

She pointed, and I looked miserably at my name, my picture—a bleached version of my pale, freckled face—and of course, worst of all, my grade for this Calculus II class.   

B-.

Well, I thought, smiling a little, I didn’t get too low. Maybe I’ll just say it dropped a few points. 

“That’s not a good idea.” Mrs. Champion retorted, making me now widen my eyes and stare right at her. “You had an A+ in the beginning. It’s now May, and I fear you sitting in that same seat again all because you almost failed your project.”     

I tried pulling myself together despite my racing heart and sweat forming on my hands. “Yes, ma’am.”   

Mrs. Champion, oblivious, nudged a rouge hair out of her face. “I’m Mrs. Champion because I believe in the power of overcoming. Your lack of self-confidence is why you did so poorly. Therefore, you shouldn’t wallow in ‘I don’t care.’ Because you’re not Pascal.” 

Her again. I jerked a nod. “I’ll try.”             

She raised her eyebrows. “I believe in you.”

“Harder.”

She nodded her head sarcastically.

“I will care!” I shot out.

“Thank you!”

She dismissed me with a stale smile. I bolted towards my desk and then tore out of that place. Zipping my backpack up, I crashed through the first set of double doors and then the second pair. As I hurried towards the black and white-edged stairs, I soon reached the top. Apologies spewed automatically from my mouth hopefully into Mr. Cokes’ ears as I launched my backpack basketball-style onto an empty seat. I thanked Mr. Cokes for his gracious words, and then collapsed onto the dark blue leather booth. After taking deep breaths, I moved my backpacked over and then looked out the window.         

Since Mrs. Champion’s ability to read my mind freaked me out too much to wonder about it, I let sadness fall on me. I looked away from the never-ending lines of trees go by past our school bus like scenes do in a rolling film tape. Snuggling down in my seat, Pascal came to mind, but I shook my head. On Monday, I’d tell her she never had even been my friend at all. She made me take those trips to her fashion design contests, fashion passion weekends—where I ended up staying up until midnight cramming my homework in until the seconds from handing it in—and fashion clothes all because she wanted nothing more than glamour. She never wanted my friendship—she wanted fashion as her life-long best friend, not me. So, if I hadn’t gone to those stupid things, I would have had enough time to not only work on my project better but present it to my Statistics classmates and, most importantly, Mrs. Read My Mind All of a Sudden—thus, ending with the knowledge I’d earn a good grade.  

I would’ve been the champion that day. And thus walked away a champion with an A instead of an unnecessary D-, which continued to torment me. I could’ve received a grade my parents would turn to me and reward me with a smile and hug, not, I know, a frown and a request to make the whole thing up again.   

I blinked at the leather seat in front of me. The bus growled loudly, and I felt its lurch as we finally crawled into driving mode again. But I decided to tune out again. Everything—the grade, the seat in front of me—didn’t matter anymore. I wished I could start the day over. No—I imagined shapeshifting into a gorilla, charging my way through this bus and all the way to the fashion show to let Pascal know the truth!  

Like her with her fashion shows. Like her with her fashion dreams. I mean, she could conquer any class, D or A, and still know she’d make it to lunch. She would chew not only her salad but also her way through academics until she reached that Ivy League doorstep—

I jumped a few inches off the pad of the seat, and jerked over to someone next to me. Her chestnut-red, curly hair, however, just made me want to punch my surroundings, and I twisted away. 

“Hi!” She announced. 

I was tempted to just mutter, “Hi,” but then I turned and smiled half-heartedly at her. “I’m Miranda.”    

She smirked. “Autumn.” Then her tone changed. “But—like from The Devil Wears Prada?” 

“Yeah.” I threw out. 

“Hey, I was making a comment!” The other redhead shifted away from me. “You don’t have to be rude.”

“I just get that a lot from people.”

“So you don’t like being named after the boss?”

“No—I wasn’t. But I just…I can’t stand people seeing me that way. I’m not Pascal.”

“What do you mean?” She raised her sandy eyebrows at me, her curls swinging. I shot Autumn another lame smile and huffed.

“She’s pretty, and pretty popular. She would never let me go when it came to her stupid obsession with fashion. She had always dragged me to those dumb shows. I had to cram all my homework, schoolwork and make-up work on Sunday nights before dragging myself through Monday. But,” I shrugged. “She’s not my friend.”

When Autumn pitied me, I shrugged and smirked.

“This Sunday’s different!”

“You have it lucky!” 

“Yeah!” I congratulated myself. Then I listened as she described pain in her life—someone gave up in his friendship with her by seeking a more outspoken and, worse, narcissistic young woman.

“I know what it feels like to have to grow up!” She ended, chuckling, and looked at me. I nodded, understanding. 

Yes, Autumn had to do with the same movie because Miranda the boss got rid of all the autumn fashion designs somehow, some way, somewhere. But it didn’t matter. What if Autumn collected fall leaves in her room—even if she didn’t look like the person to do such a thing? She’d be a better friend than Pascal ever could. Ever did. Ever since she had embraced fashion and, thus, proved she was only pretending to be my friend. 

“I’m not following Pascal everywhere, supporting her strutting, walking, talking, hair flipping, ring boasting and, most importantly, crown idolization. I’m done. In fact, before my last class, I told her, just like that,” I snapped my fingers, “and that was it.”

“Apparently not!”

“What—” I half-stood, tearing my attention to the scene outside Mr. Cokes’ windshield. 

Halting the bus was the limousine. Some similarly brown hair, curled to perfection, was slowly emerging from the car, followed undoubtedly by three inches of silver high heel. The queen of fashion, alright.

“Wow,” Autumn whispered to me, probably in awe, as Pascal revealed herself to thousands of people all on the grass behind another high school. As she waved exuberantly to some hysterical fans, others hoisted picket signs, waved wildly to her and screamed that they loved her. Others flapped their hands at her so, I answered Autumn when she wondered about them, they could shake her hand. Some guys yelled for Pascal’s signature as they jabbed their forearms with index fingers. A lot of teenage girls even waved untitled books, craving her autograph.       

She better sign those books! She’s not getting away with selfishness this time! I narrowed my eyes and watched Pascal’s every move as she waved again and stretched out the same hand for one.

Come on, she’s got it—

Yes! But it actually didn’t matter—she probably just scrawled her initials. When she practically shoved it right back at the poor girl, Pascal continued soaking up her fans’ attention.  

I slammed back into my seat and twisted my head away, the white fury of my face reflecting off of my bus window. Never will I ever trust Pascal again! If her fans thought she loved them like she did her fashion, then so be it.

I felt eyes on me, and gratefully looked back at Autumn. But she was staring at me, wide brown eyes sparkling with excitement. I scowled.

“What?” I forced when she didn’t say anything.

“I just… you don’t agree with any of this?”

I almost took my hand to slap sense into her. Instead, I pursed my lips and said, “No. I don’t. I’m forced to wait for the stupid limousine to move out of the way!”

“Miranda,” Autumn shook her head. “You’re upset. But if you come to my house, we’ll get the matter settled.”

I nearly bent over laughing. But I instead widened my eyes. “I barely know you!” 

“Though you’re graduating, I need you.” She looked down. “I don’t know if you know, but I’m failing almost all my classes.” Sniffing, Autumn rubbed her nose. “If I don’t graduate from Waterfalls next year, I won’t get into Brown University.”        

The bus’s rumbling was the only other audible thing as I stared at her, confusion swamping my mind. Autumn was almost going to repeat her junior year? Maybe her pain of losing her guy friend caused her to also lose interest in caring about college. Studying her picturesque hair falling neatly to her shoulders and perfectly plucked eyebrows, she should be almost as effortlessly smart and able as Pascal. No, even more so. 

“I didn’t know that.” I finally answered, quietly. Then I quickly added, “Well, I need to go. This stop is mine.” I got up, grabbed my backpack and hiked it over my shoulders as I scooched past Autumn.

“Sorry.”

“For what?” she called when I descended the steps towards an ugly blue house with a brown roof, I always thought, just plopped on top. 

“For helping me figure things out!” I called before leaping through the open bus doors onto the sidewalk. As they whined closed, I swung around and stepped back. Autumn’s hand was waving to me. I returned the gesture, grinning.

I heard a buzz behind me. I whipped my backpack off, yanked the zipper and snatched my phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey. It’s me, Autumn. I saw your number on a sheet of paper somewhere in the cafeteria. You wrote it down, like, a while ago. But I decided to have it because you’re a pretty smart student.”

“Well,” I laughed. “I—”  

Something made me look over, and I saw someone waving enthusiastically. My jaw dropped. Did Autumn seriously live two doors down?

“Yes,” she answered as if she could actually see my reaction, “I am right next door! At least I feel like it.”

I collected myself. “So…?”

“I could hear the shock in your voice.” She admitted, giggling. “But anyway, I just called to see if you could study with me.”

I furrowed my brows. Considering Autumn was struggling, couldn’t she call a tutor?  

“Like, tonight.” She sounded desperate.

“Yes. But I need to talk to my parents about something else first.”

“Oh.” She apologized.

Mrs. Champion sprang to mind. I pressed the phone to my ear and demanded, “What time?”

“Great!” she brightened up. “How about … tonight? 9:00?”  

“Yes, tonight!” I hit the ‘off’ button and clambered up our white wooden boards of a front porch staircase. Bursting inside, I dashed over to my parents who were on the couch watching TV. 

“You guys,” I announced, startling them, “I’m meeting with a peer tonight at 9 to help her with school. I know what I’ll say next will make you both angry and sad, but, boy, do I have good news!” 

Hey, it’s Miranda!

I almost struggled to text the sentence my hands trembled with such excitement. I rocked back and forth in place while waiting outside Autumn’s brown oak door that night.        

Yeah. Come downstairs. Got all my studies out. Just need you here.

Got to tell you something first. I actually wrote back, my thumbs flying. It’s crazy!

I pocketed my phone, stepped up and almost pounded on her door.