I yawned, letting my backpack slap the concrete school tile.

Last night, I stayed up until two am. Someone took a picture of Parker and me climbing out of Olivia's pool. Clearly, you can see my sports bra and my wet T-shirt clinging to my back and hugging all my back rolls. I might as well have been naked. There were no more secrets. Not when everyone could identify my dead body from the mole on my back in the shape of Teddy Roosevelt.

This made me too anxious to sleep, my mind circling the proverbial drain in a dirty rusty sink that matched my mood. I ended up on a weird side of Youtube, going from Vine compilations to Russian car crash footages and finally landing on pimple popping videos. I could taste my own exhaustion.

Our school, Riverview High, had long strings of green lockers and a speckled floor that might have once been white but aged a dingy yellow, complete with scuff marks and scratches. No high school would be complete without the cement walls. Every now and then you could spot especially white patches where a janitor painted over someone's artist rendition of genitals or their favorite curse word. It was wall-to-wall noise like I looked up a noise simulator for a bit of white noise during a study session and I usually kept my head down, making everyone faceless and me invisible.

"Whoa!" I slammed my locker shut, unveiling Parker, and my heart jumped up my throat. She wore an oversized pair of pink-rimmed glasses (without glass), a trench-coat-length cardigan and flowy striped pants. Her ginger hair was up in a messy bun. It was a casual look in comparison to her other costumes.

That was Parker, always putting on a show. She had to dress the part.

Meanwhile, I wore a sweater, my one pair of converses, and a braid. Like a regular person. Sometimes, I imagined Parker diving headfirst into her closet and emerging as the fashion creature from the over-priced thrift lagoon.

She leaned against the other locker, crossing her arms. She said, "Let's pretend we agree to do it."

"Huh?" I yawned again. "It's too early. Speak human."

"The bet." She whipped out her hands, waiting for my reaction. When I didn't, she rolled her eyes. "The thirty-day trial period."

To mock her, I rolled my eyes too. "Oh, that. What about it?" I started for my first period British Literature class. She controlled herself and her prime mantis legs to keep up with me at half her regular speed.

"We're talking in only hypotheticals," she said, but she used air-quotes. "Let's say we have a serious relationship, our first serious relationship for a thirty-day period. What would be the big deal?" She raised her hands in a shrug. "It'd only be thirty days."

Again. I considered it. We're the same, but so different. Parker has been on a lot of dates. She's been with multiple people. The tips and pointers she could give me could lead me to a real relationship. I might actually get to French a girl once in my life.

"Yeah." I nodded, unsure if I felt queasy from the bottle of Mountain Dew I drank this morning to go with my McDonald's hash brown or if it was from the bet itself. "It's just a month."

"Yeah, only a month. What harm could we possibly do in a measly little month?"

"Yeah." I eyed her.

"Yeah, we might even grow or something."

"Yeah."

"Yeah." She eyed me. I stopped at my classroom and Parker awkwardly fidgeted. Nodding, she skulked away, leaving the conversation in the air. I watched her go for just a few seconds before she ducked into her classroom. Even then, I lingered. I wanted to talk to her more.

#

By the time my Biology class ended and I had all my stuff packed up, Lizzie was by the door. She held onto her backpack strings, pursing her lips. She peered at me, maybe debating just leaving and never discussing this again. She could do that.

She wore her usual uniform, the jeans without holes or any flare and lightly colored. The mom jeans for the everyday teen. She paired this with the usual chunky sweater and white button-up underneath. She doesn't know that I know she owns five of the same sweaters in different colors.

Lizzie did everything I expected her to do.

Except for today.

Lizzie said, "So, we would date like date date? Hold hands and go on dates and all that. Would we tell people?"

She was asking a lot of questions I hadn't even considered. I didn't think about the future. Only the first few days. This trial had to last thirty days. We hadn't even started, and this conversation took the rest of the twenty-first century.

Finally, I landed on, "I think so."

She leaned in a bit closer. Her breath smelled like soured anxiety and Altoids. "Would we have to kiss? If we date, would that make it mandatory for thirty days, I mean."

"Well, I don't think we have to, but like let's be honest, we're gonna end up kissing after dates. No offense, but I'm guessing you'd like a few tips on kissing anyways."

"And I could help let out some of that air from your ego before it explodes and kills us all."

"Exactly." I grinned.

"Exactly... if we were being serious."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

#

I turned into the next hall and I could spot Camille and Parker immediately. Parker tried too hard. She dressed like she wanted people to talk to her and ask where she got it, like she was fishing for a compliment every time she started a conversation with someone as if it was impossible to continue without one comment on her overalls and the splattered paint all over them or someone needed to compliment her bravery for wearing a Hawaiian shirt in the fall. If someone could be a walking exclamation mark, its name would be Ashley Marie Parker.

Camille wore the spring musical shirt from last year when they put on Les Misérables and Camille was a part of the chorus and Éponine's understudy. She never actually got to play Éponine. It had the cast list on the back and in the smaller text, I could probably find my name as a part of the orchestra. The entire cast signed her shirt. She made me sign the collar.

I knew if I walked over, I could join them.

I knew that I always had a spot reserved by Camille's side, but she was busy laughing at one of Parker's jokes. She jumped up and down, emphatically smacking Parker's arm. They're going crazy over something, a joke that I'm already on the outside of. I didn't want to get in the way or make them start over. The moment had already passed me by.

At seventeen, I didn't know how to make new friends. It was scary to try to start something new, to try to reach a connection when I was too busy worrying about how I messed everything up.

My feet cemented to the floor and the bottom of my stomach fell out. Sucking in my lips, I gripped my backpack straps a little tighter and tore myself from that spot. I made my own way to the Band Room and nearly tackled Mr. Burka.

"Oh! Lizzie!" Mr. Burka fumbled out of my way. He adjusted his glasses and mustered a tight smile. "Good to see you, uh everything alright?"

That was a loaded question.

I chose to pretend I didn't understand its meaning. Instead, I just shrugged and pretended to be indifferent. "I was just wondering if I could have my lunch here?"

Mr. Burka paused. I broke him. He blinked and I imagined an analog window popping up, telling me his program wasn't responding and asking if I wanted to shut it down. Luckily, he got it together. Mr. Burka nodded, washing away his confusion.

"Of course," he motioned me to the setup of chairs, "take a seat. I've got to make a few copies, so hold the fort down for me."

"Sure," I agreed and let myself in. I pretended not to notice Mr. Burka linger. He scratched his neck, maybe regretting not pressing me harder on the truth. In his corner, he owned all the facts: I was ready to eat lunch alone, my eye baggage had upgraded to international travel luggage, and the last time he saw me, I cried.

I dropped all my stuff and hunkered down at the piano without a word, not looking away from the keys until he vanished from the threshold. I played with the keys, making a trill like a hand brushing across wind chimes until its sweet whisper faded into nothingness. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I needed something sad. Maybe hopeful. I was full of want and had nothing.

My hands moved on their own, feeling something take over me. I understood a puppet tied to a higher entity. The string pulled on my wrists and my fingers did the work across the keys. What started as light and cluttered, soon broke out into a sweet lower melody. It slowed like honey sliding down my spoon into chamomile tea.

I hummed along, sort of remembering what the words were supposed to be, bowing my head and pressing every key with purpose. All my problems fizzled away and I no longer cared about my own life, but that my arms should be lifted, and my hands should be curled in the "spider" position. The music sped up again, swelling up like my heart.

"Wow, you're pretty good," a voice sprang out like a horror movie jump scare. My knees smacked the underside of the piano and I slammed on the keys, creating a horrible crack of thunder that made me cringe.

I spun around to see Taylor Smith lugging her French Horn case with wheels into the room. She would be the fifth Taylor Smith in my graduating class. Four girls. One guy. However, out of the five, she was my favorite.

Taylor #5 had wavy brown hair that faded into a blonde with a subtle ombre effect. Today, she wore black leggings and a huge sweatshirt with the Zelda logo across the chest.

Her eyes locked onto mine and I swallowed my tongue. Already, heat trickled across my face, nipping at the tops of my cheeks. I could still feel the tremor of music inside my fingers, but now it spread across every limb.

"What was that?" She asked a simple question and I knew the answer, but my mind blanked.

"Um-" I swallowed, attempting to find my cool. I needed to be cool. Just be cool for once! I spoke up, suddenly remembering, "Uh, it's from Lights in the Piazza and it's," I cringed at myself, "it's actually called Lights in the Piazza."

She pursed her lips and nodded. "Cool."

"Cool," I agreed for whatever reason.

She glanced around the room while I just stared at her, trying desperately to think of something to say. I thought about commenting on her sweatshirt, but what if she asked me about Zelda? I've never actually played it.

"Where's Mr. Burka?" Taylor #5 finally asked.

"He'll be back soon- I mean," I raised my hands in clarification, "he went to go make copies and I'm holding the fort." The moment I got the words out, I bobbed a little the way dogs do after completing a trick and now it was the time for a treat.

Taylor #5 was not impressed by the very simple human accomplishment of answering simple questions. She smiled tightly and said, "Kay, well I guess I'll come back later."

"Cool," I squeaked.

She smiled once more out of pity and then escaped quickly because I heard crazy was in fact contagious. All the tension exploded inside me and I crumpled, smashing my forehead right into the keys and the crash of broken competing notes made my ears ring. I did this until I heard only the ringing and not my own dumb words. People like me needed to turn in a resume to every single person before I spoke to them, just to warn them that I had ZERO qualifications for talking to them and they should be ready for a world of awkward. Lizzie style.

I can't believe I'm considering the trial.

#

Part Two! It's a super short part. There are four parts in total! :)) Bet you can guess what part three will be about, haha.

I thought it was also fair to show how Lizzie is sort of a disaster too, lol. I mean, how does one words in front of cute girls? Please let me know. I hope you enjoyed the game of tug-a-war they're playing! Don't forget to tell me what you think! All comments are DEEPLY appreciated ;)