supposed her mom actually had a lot of phrases.
“But anyway. The thing is, like, I know how silly it probably sounds, because Taylor and I haven’t actually met yet, but I’m telling you. I have a feeling.”
“Uh-oh. Is it a tingly feeling? Better get that checked out,” said Bailey, breezing out of the room.
“What does that even mean?” Bree asked.
But nobody answered. Because everyone had already left.
“It’s okay,” Bree said to herself, which is something she did when everyone else in her family was too busy to talk to her. “You’ll be at school soon and your friends will pay attention to you.” And just like that, she felt super excited for the day ahead.
All day, Malia couldn’t wait for school to be over. Not just because it was a Tuesday, which always felt like the dumbest day of the week, but because she couldn’t wait to tell her friends about the Baby-Sitters Club. Who would have guessed she could feel such passion for an old, mildly stinky paperback about the joys of wearing sweaters and minding children?
First, though, she’d have to endure the dreaded trip home. The minute Malia was released from environmental science, her final class of the day, she sprinted out the middle school’s front doors, across the soccer field, and over to the high school car park, her denim backpack bouncing forcefully against her body. Malia’s sister, Chelsea, was both punctual and impatient, and always insisted on leaving before the school buses had a chance to populate the roads.
Malia arrived at Chelsea’s green Mini Cooper just in time. The taillights were on, but she hadn’t yet pulled out of her parking spot. Malia angrily knocked on the passenger window. Chelsea rolled her eyes, then unlocked the door.
“Were you going to leave without me?” Malia asked, exasperated.
Chelsea just shrugged, as if stranding one’s little sister at school was par for the course. Which, in their family, she supposed it was.
Usually, Chelsea’s friend Camilla occupied the passenger seat, and Malia would be relegated to ride in the back, alongside the book bags, gym clothes, and discarded sporting equipment. But today, the front seat was empty, so Malia hopped right in.
“Where’s Camilla?” Malia asked.
“She got a ride home with her new boyfriend,” said Chelsea, expertly backing out of the parking space. “She’s been spending, like, a hundred per cent of her time with him these days. Because she’s lost sight of her priorities.”
“Her priorities?” Malia asked.
“School. Sports. Friends. SATs. Volunteering. Getting everything in order for university applications.”
Malia had only been in her sister’s presence for forty-five seconds and already she felt stressed.
“Some people are perfectly happy being average,” Malia said. “Some people prefer to, like, actually enjoy their lives.” She originally meant to imply that Camilla was average, but as soon as the words were out of her mouth, Malia realized she was talking about herself.
Chelsea took one perfectly manicured hand off the steering wheel and flipped her long brown hair over her shoulder. She smelled like light, flowery perfume and smug overachievement. Sometimes, Malia fantasized about cutting all of Chelsea’s hair off while she was sleeping.
“You lack so much context, Malia. One day you’ll see.”
“Alia,” Malia corrected.
“Malia, discarding a consonant isn’t going to change who you are.”
“I never said I was changing who I am! I just prefer it. Why can’t you take me seriously?” she snapped.
The car slowed to a stop as they approached a blinking construction sign.
“Huh.” Chelsea screwed up her face in a look of confusion. “It looks like Albatross Avenue is closed. Can you map something for me on your phone?”
“I can’t – the screen is broken.”
Chelsea let out a low whistle. “Mom is going to kill you.”
“I’m aware of that, thanks for the reminder.”
“Isn’t this, like, the fourth phone you’ve broken this year?”
“It’s the second,” Malia corrected.
“Not including the time you spilled juice all over Mom’s laptop.”
“Yeah . . .”
“And that time you somehow managed to break the whiteboard at school,” she added.
“Oh my god, Chelsea, what is your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem,” she said, her tone more like a parent than a sister who was relatively close in age. “I’m just saying, I understand why mom won’t let you have nice things when you clearly don’t appreciate their value. There’s no way she’s going to get you another phone.” They drove in tense silence for what felt like a million blocks as Chelsea navigated her way through neighborhood streets, accommodating the detour. Finally, she slowed the car down as they made the turn on to Poplar Place.
“Do you think I’ll be voted homecoming queen?” she asked for what must have been the thirtieth time that week.
“Of course,” Malia reassured her sister, in a tone she hoped sounded more sincere than jealous. Malia actually did hope Chelsea got it, mainly so she would shut up about it.
As soon as the car pulled into their driveway, Malia bolted out of the passenger door and down the sidewalk. She couldn’t get away from Chelsea – and back into the company of normal humans – soon enough. It was hard enough making it through her days without failing every test or breaking everything in sight. Chelsea’s presence only served to hammer home Malia’s inferiority. Luckily, Malia saw Dot and Bree already sitting at their regular spot, the little gray gazebo at the end of the cul-de-sac.
Dot and Malia had been best friends ever since Miss Kogan’s kindergarten class. With her long honey-coloured hair and lightly freckled face, Dot was ridiculously – almost unintentionally – pretty. And with her extensive knowledge of random vintage pop culture – like John Hughes movies and obscure nineties bands – she was chock-full of trivia that boys found charming. She always had an argument ready for anything. Other people could find Dot intimidating, but once you got to know her, it was impossible not to love her.
Bree moved here when they were in first grade, after her mom remarried and they bought the biggest house on Poplar Place. She and Malia immediately bonded over the fact that none of the crayons in art class effectively matched either of their skin tones (Malia’s was brown, while Bree’s was what her mother confusingly deemed “olive”). They also bonded over eating glue, which was obviously Bree’s idea. Later that year, the school replaced all the crayons to better reflect
