Turns out that academic classes are pretty much the same at Chrysalis as they would be at any other school, with the exception of my US history teacher, Mr. Gaines, trying to rap along his syllabus to the Hamilton soundtrack. It takes immense physical restraint not to roll my eyes.
The difference is the students, though. They’re nothing like the boring pod people I was surrounded by at South High (with the exception of Caroline, of course). I find myself getting distracted by everyone sitting around me, trying to figure out if the hippie-looking girl in a long floral skirt, with hair full of dry shampoo, is in the visual arts conservatory, or maybe instrumental music. The guy vlogging all of precalc until Ms. Hernandez makes him turn off his phone has to be in film and television.
Another thing that keeps grabbing my attention is just how diverse the school is compared to Roseville. The area got a little more swirl from when Caroline and I first met, but at South High, there was always at least one period in which I was the only the brown face. I am painfully familiar with being asked to speak for the delegation of all Black people in too many history-class discussions, with English teachers who barely spoke to me all year telling me with confidence, “You’ll like this one!” once we got to the one short story by James Baldwin.
At Chrysalis, though, I don’t exchange any knowing glances with the other brown people in the room because there are so many of them, in so many different shades. And though each teacher allows us to sit wherever we want, there isn’t the natural segregation that I always noticed, people sitting with people who looked like them, where they felt comfortable. When this happened, I always felt like I didn’t belong anywhere, white or Black or somewhere else. I always felt like I had to perform what each group expected me to be as a Black girl, so it was easier to just not try with anyone.
But apparently no one at Chrysalis has been informed of the rules. People seem to flock to those who share their passions instead: a group of girls doing scales in the corner before American lit begins, a pair in matching Slytherin robes looking like they’re on their way to their first day at Hogwarts. It’s amazing what a different setting six hours and a few freeways can bring. Here, maybe I can fit in with anyone.
When it comes to lunchtime, though, a lot of that “It’s a Small World” kumbaya positivity disappears, and I’m in the bathroom, panicking like usual.
Caroline and I always sat alone. We had our own little corner outside the D building, where the Wi-Fi was strong and we could pass the laptop back and forth in peace. Every once in a while, one of Caroline’s other friends from Yearbook would join us, Glory McCulloch or Brandon Briceño, but I liked it better when it was just us.
Caroline isn’t here to save me today.
I’m looking in the mirror, trying to calm my nerves and will myself to leave (because eating alone in the bathroom is a whole other level of pathetic that I’m not willing to reach yet), when a girl walks in.
I try not to stare, but she looks like a model. With dewy deep bronze skin, high cheekbones, and a perfect little mole under her right eye that looks like it was drawn on just so, this girl must be used to stares. She’s gorgeous. Plus her outfit is aspiration-worthy. She’s wearing high-waisted, wide-legged black-and-white polka-dot pants and a sleeveless chambray button-up tied in a knot at her waist. There are gold bangles up and down her thin arms, and matching gold wire woven through her long locs. A scarf, in bright shades of pink and orange and green, is tied over the top of her head, a complicated bow in the front like a crown. Her outfit makes me want to take a picture and start my own street-style (or bathroom-style) IG account, if that wouldn’t be so creepy. Of course, she catches me looking in the mirror.
“I love your hair,” she says, her bubble-gum-pink painted lips stretching into a wide smile. “Is that a twist-out or a wash-and-go?”
“A wash-and-go,” I say, smiling back.
“Man, I could never get my wash-and-gos to look like that.” She nods approvingly.
I’m about to say thank you, but that may seem snobby, like I know my hair is great and I have a big ego or something. And then I’m about to compliment her hair, but I’m worried it won’t sound genuine, coming right after what she said, and I don’t want her to think I’m a faker. I need to figure out the perfect thing to say to segue this little interaction into a lunch invitation, because this girl is the stylish, sophisticated friend of my dreams. But then her nose wrinkles and her eyebrows press together, and I realize I’ve been smiling for too long and not saying anything. And I can feel how awkward I’m making it, but I just keep smiling, paralyzed.
This is why I only have one friend. I can’t even respond to a routine compliment without spiraling into a panic.
“Well, see you around,” she says finally, giving me a sorta half wave before leaving, and I put my head in my hands and begin obsessing about what a complete social disaster I am.
But her voice interrupts my thoughts. “Uhhh, sis? I don’t mean to, like, offend you if this is some kinda performance art thing, but you don’t seem like the type.”
“What?” I turn around to face her, and see her eyes bugged out as if she’s watching a car wreck.
“It looks like you got a visit from that bitch Auntie Flo,” she says, gesturing toward the mirror, and I follow her eyes to see my worst nightmare: a dark red stain spread on my off-white lace dress, just below my butt.
Those stomachaches I’ve been feeling all morning haven’t been because of anxiety.
“Oh my god. Oh no no no.” My neck gets hot and my chest feels heavy as I wonder how long I’ve been walking around like that, and I start to reexamine every interaction I’ve had today to determine if they were laughing at me without me even realizing. Before I can stop it, my eyes start to burn and then I’m crying. Freaking crying! Having a full-on meltdown in front of this model-looking girl who probably already thinks I’m a nutjob.
“What am I going to do?” I croak, staring at the floor as it starts to spin. I can’t call my mom. She already went in late today for Miles, so it’s not like she can leave early. I don’t have any other clothes. Should I have been carrying extra clothes? Apparently so, if I’m going to have accidents like a freakin’ toddler. I’ll just have to stay in this bathroom forever.
“Uh, you good?” the girl asks, and I look up to see her hand hesitantly reaching in my direction.
“No.” My breaths are coming in short and fast, and now my whole body feels like it’s burning. I want to curl up and be done.
“Okay, it’s okay—just, breathe. Breeeeathe.” She comes up and pulls me into a tight hug, her right hand rubbing my back in wide circles. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
And I don’t know what kind of magic she’s wielding. But one moment I’m teetering on the edge of a full-blown panic attack, and the next I’m believing her words like it’s the gospel. I’ll be okay.
We part, and I gape at her, amazed.
“Now, what are we going to do with you?” she asks, tapping her chin as she considers me. “Oooh! I got this.” She quickly unties the scarf on her head and whips it off, revealing a halo of frizz at the top of her locs.
“I couldn’t get in for a retwist this weekend, so I was tryin’ to hide this mess.” She scratches her scalp. “But desperate times and all.”
A look of concentration on her face, she shakes the scarf out wide and then pulls it around the back of my hips, tying it in the front just under my belly button. She adjusts it a couple of times, making the bow look like a little flower, and then spins me around toward the mirror.
She presses her lips together, satisfied, and snaps a finger. “There you go, girl. Work!”
With the exception of my tearstained face, I look pretty okay. The bright colors of the scarf contrast well with my lace dress, and my outfit looks put together, intentional.
“Thank you,” I say, quiet and unsure.
“No thanks needed.” She shakes her head. “You would have done the same for me.”
I wouldn’t. I know that. The conversation would have been too awkward. “Yeah . . .”
She digs in her purse and pulls out a tampon. “Now go take care of business, and then we can go get some food.”
“Oh, you don’t have to sit with me . . . ,” I start. My computer is fully charged. I can probably just eat in the bathroom after all, and get some more words in for Caroline’s Colette story.
“Girl, after all we been through? You trying to ditch me already?” She laughs. “Plus, you got my favorite scarf. I gotta make sure you don’t try and jack it.”