“Two suitcases? Two? ”
Kolbie pants as she lugs the second leather suitcase into my room. “You could have helped.”
I cross my arms. “Uh, I asked you to bring over a few outfits, not your entire wardrobe.”
Kolbie gives me her sassiest hair flip. “Seriously? Don’t exaggerate. You know it would take a moving truck to get all my clothes up here. Plus they wouldn’t fit in your pitiful excuse for a closet.” She casts her eyes toward my non-walk-in closet, which holds all my clothes quite nicely, thank you very much.
I hold up my palm. “Okay, can you tone down the sass, please? My wardrobe is actually pretty serviceable. I just want to try something new.”
“Well, your wardrobe isn’t pitiful. It just needs expansion. Oh, and I bought you makeup! I’m so excited to be able to make you over!” She does a happy little hop.
“I have makeup.” I nod toward my little bathroom, where I have a couple of things I apply to my face every morning. It’s very conservative, but it’s adequate. I look perfectly presentable.
She unfolds a cosmetic bag across my bed. It looks like an artist’s palette. “No, I have makeup.”
I approach my bed cautiously. What is this girl doing? I asked for new style, not to appear on What Not to Wear: Kolbie Edition. I am looking for exploration, not a whole new Riley.
“It’s okay,” Kolbie says slowly, guiding me to a chair and sitting me down. “It’s not a wild animal. It’s not going to bite you. Besides, I owe you, don’t I?”
“No,” I say.
“Please. You were up with me until midnight going over my college applications with me, and I know for a fact you half wrote an entrance essay for Neta last week. The least I can do is fix you up.” She tousles my hair, and I resist the urge to smooth it down.
“I’m not, like, fashionably challenged here,” I say. “I don’t want to go straight to Crazytown. I just want a little flair.”
Kolbie begins sharpening an eye pencil. “Girl, I have got you a little flair. Relax, okay? This is going to be fun. And if you hate it, you can go straight back to J.Crew with the rest of your kind, okay?”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” she says innocently. “Now, what do you use for an eye primer?”
She groans theatrically and makes fists. “I have so much work to do with you. I for real need your foundation, though, because mine is not going to work on that pasty-ass skin of yours. Now stop squirming.”
“I’m not even!”
“You are too!”
“Then stop pointing that eye pencil at me like it’s a weapon!”
She puts it down and laughs. “Damn, Ri. Has anyone ever told you your room is too clean?” She leans over and unzips her other suitcase, and then pulls out the Bluetooth speaker she brought to study hall and turns it up. “Do your parents care if we have wine?” She pulls out a few little Sutter Home bottles.
I shrug. “If we don’t drive, I guess.”
The truth is, I don’t know what they’d think. But as long as we aren’t incredibly obvious I don’t think they’d mind. Besides, the last time my mother checked on me in my room, I think I was, like, nine and playing with toy horses and had some sort of accident with red Kool-Aid that resulted in my mother having to replace my carpet.
I unscrew the cap on mine and try a sip. It’s a little bitter and sugary all at once. “What is this?”
“Uh, chardonnay, I think.” She tries a sip too. “It’s good, right?”
“I guess. I don’t really know anything about wine. My parents only let me drink a glass on holidays. And at communion at church.”
“I thought that was grape juice.”
I give her a withering look. “Please. The blood of Christ is not grape juice at my church.”
She holds up a perfectly manicured hand. “Whatever. Hey, I was going to ask you. What’s the deal with the sudden makeover request? And you wanting to go to parties and skip class all of a sudden?”
“Because I want to.”
Kolbie gives me a look. I know the look. It’s basically saying, Come on, I’m not that stupid. That is the problem with having smart friends who are not total clichés. In movies, the three popular girls are always, like, traipsing down the hallways at schools in tiny clothes and looking gorgeous and never actually doing schoolwork. But my girls are not just caricatures.
“It’s not about a guy,” I say. “It doesn’t always have to be about a guy.”
Lie number one.
“I know it’s not.”
“I’m just tired of being the same and looking the same. I’m bored. I want to have some fun, you know? Before high school ends? Isn’t this supposed to be, like, the best time of our lives and stuff?”
Kolbie takes another sip of her wine and sits it on the end of my dresser. She begins laying the clothes out along my bed. “First of all, no. If high school is the best time of our lives, that’s kind of sad. That means you’re getting all the good stuff out of the way pretty fast, doesn’t it?”
I smile at my friend. She really is brilliant. And of course she doesn’t get enough credit for it on account of being super beautiful.
“I guess so. But still. Even that idea . . . doesn’t that mean I should be having more fun than I’m having?”
Kolbie starts hanging her clothes along my closet doors. “If you want to have more fun, have more fun. Just do it, you know? Seriously. I’ll tell you what. Jamal is going to be in town this weekend, he’s bringing one of his good friends. And honestly, it’s fun to date. So why don’t you come along next time?”
“I told you this wasn’t about finding a man.”
Kolbie looks back at me over her shoulder. “It doesn’t have to be. It’s about getting out of the prison you call a comfort zone. So have fun. And if you like the guy, awesome. And if not, well, you hopefully had a good time and you ate some pizza or whatever. And I promise it’ll be better than a lame party. Okay?”
I hesitate.
What about Belrose?
What about Alex?
But that’s why I need to. I can’t look like I have any attachment to him whatsoever.
I have to do this. For us.
“I’m in.”
Kolbie beams at me. She pushes her hair back into a knot on top of her head, like a ballet dancer.
“Now, the look is professional chic. I am thinking this”—she pulls a pencil skirt off the bed—“with these and these”—she yanks a pair of patterned black tights out of her second suitcase. “And I’m thinking maybe a cute V-neck, fitted, of course, with a scarf.”
“I have the scarf. It’s special.”
I pull the scarf from the night before out of my closet and wrap it around my neck. It still smells like him—just a hint of his cologne lingers.
Kolbie taps a finger on her lips and juts her hip out, considering. “Why that scarf? You wear it all the time.”
“This look has to have a little me in it, right? Besides, I got it shopping with you and Neta.” I bury my fingers in it, daring her to make me take it off.
Kolbie shoves the clothes into my arms. “Okay, okay. Go. Try on. I have three more combos we can go through, and yes, you can borrow these. And I know you don’t wear glasses, but it would be totally on point if we could get you some nonprescription frames. I’m thinking a round black plastic frame? Yes?”
I make a face. “I am not going to be one of those girls.”
“There is nothing wrong with being one of those girls, Riley. Stop being judgy. Listen to the master.” She points at herself. “Wear things because they make you feel good about yourself. Not because you think you should or shouldn’t.”
“Are you going to write a self-help book in the near future?” I ask innocently. “I think Oprah has it covered, but if you want to go for that, I mean, shoot for the stars—”
“Are you going to keep being a bitch to the girl who is going to do your mascara in about ten minutes?”
I laugh. I can’t help it. I love Kolbie. “Point taken.”
“Good. Now try on those clothes before we worry about the makeup, I guess. And then we’re going to Instagram the hell out of this.”
I smile a little to myself. Normally I wouldn’t let her put anything on my Instagram. I reserve it for cute coffee mugs and perfectly round waffles and generally keep my face out of it.
But maybe, just maybe, someone important will be checking in.