Elsie laughs again. She taps her feet, her wriggly body settling into place. ‘We could consider it a social experiment,’ she says eventually. ‘You know, study the locals in their natural environment and all that? It’s … been a while since we’ve done that.’ Elsie grins, but this doesn’t make her eyes crinkle at the edges like her normal smiles do.
The idea of enforced socialisation makes my toes start to sweat. I’ve evaded enough family events lately that my parents now only insist on weddings, funerals and christenings, and I usually spend those hiding somewhere with my cousin Oscar, who is obsessed with fantasy podcasts and only speaks Dothraki. What do people even do at normal parties? The last one I remember semi-enjoying involved face-painting and a morbidly obese clown.
‘Yes, well, it’s lucky we weren’t invited,’ I say. ‘I don’t think I’m up for partying with a bunch of people who hate my guts.’
Elsie sits up. She smooths back her hair and proceeds to braid it into a rope. ‘They don’t hate you. They think you’re a giant freakazoid, true, but otherwise? They’re probably just scared you’re some sort of mechanised fem-bot from the future.’ Elsie gives me a wide, proper Elsie-smile as she leaps off the bed and grabs my Drama guide. ‘So how’s this going? You figured out how to mime a convincing tree yet?’ She dissolves into snorty laughter.
‘I’m glad you find my pain entertaining.’
‘Oh come on, it’s a bit entertaining. I mean –’ she opens the course book to an arbitrary page – ‘“Create a solo performance based on the character of Pinocchio.” Is this a life skill that’s in demand?’
I bury my face in my bedspread. ‘Elsie, I know! Why did I agree to this?’
The bed dips as she sits down beside me, a careful handspan away. ‘You agreed because your folks gave you hopeful-eyes, and you are secretly a giant sap.’ I peek at her through splayed fingers. Elsie’s face is suddenly serious. ‘Sophia, the average female lifespan is, what, about eighty-four years or something?’
‘Barring congenital defects or getting hit by a bus? Yes, I think so. Why?’
‘Because the solo performance is seven minutes long. Seven minutes, Sophia. Not enough time for a shower, or even a decent kiss.’
I snort. ‘How would you know?’
‘I shower,’ she says dryly. ‘And seven minutes is, like, point-oh-oh-three per cent of your year or something.’
‘More like point-oh-oh-oh-oh-two,’ I answer. I have a feeling I may be missing her point.
Elsie rolls her eyes. ‘You are wilfully missing my point, Reyhart!’
I can’t help but smile a little. ‘So what is it then, Nayer?’
‘My point, oh obtuse one, is that in the grand scheme of the universe, the exam will be a blip. You’ll do it, you’ll either ace it or not, and then it’ll be over.’
I close my eyes. ‘Elsie, I’ve started dreaming about that stupid Arts building. Is that normal?’
Elsie stares at me for a long moment. Her expression suggests that perhaps she is worried, though it’s a bit hard to tell under the layers of after-school make-up. She finally points to the juice in my hand. ‘No psychoanalysis tonight. Drink. Help me find a place to live next year that’s not straight out of a Girls Gone Wild video.’
She jumps off my bed again and grabs a pile of brochures, fanning them out on my bedspread. A booklet on top features a bunch of people in matching jerseys and a banner that reads, somewhat portentously: The First Year. And the gloom that’s been threatening to envelop me all week settles with a thud in my stomach.
Years ago, Elsie’s favourite uncle moved to America to take up a residency at some small research hospital. Ever since Elsie visited him when she was fourteen, Emory University School of Medicine, Atlanta, Georgia, has been her unwavering goal. I know how single-minded my best friend can be. But still, I think part of me has always expected her to change her mind.
‘Els, don’t you think it’s premature to be looking at dorms? You’re not in yet.’
‘Technicality,’ she replies cheerfully. She eyeballs me again, then sighs. ‘Fine, okay. Anyway, unless I ace this Physics exam, the only place I’ll be going to medical school is the online university of suburban Tajikistan. And since we’re clearly not partying or Snapchatting any duck faces tonight, I guess we’re studying.’
I swap the brochures for books, trying not to smile too triumphantly. It occurs to me that – barring a few of my Friday-night uni seminars and Elsie’s band recitals – this is pretty much how we have spent most of our Fridays for the past ten years.
‘Thanks, Elsie.’
She sits crossed-legged on the end of my bed. ‘Yeah. You’re lucky Bernoulli’s principle sucks both arse and balls. But I am calling dibs on the movie after. Be warned, there will be tonnes of kissing in it.’
I open my book to the homework I’ve left unfinished. It’s not like I ever deliberately slow down so Elsie can keep up or anything; it’s just, every now and then, it’s really nice to have someone to work alongside. I can’t explain why, but the blustery squall that my thoughts can whip themselves into just feels quieter when Elsie is around. Since we were kids, Elsie has accepted all my strangenesses the same way she responds to any of the random strange factoids she collects – with cheerful objectiveness. It’s one of the things I love most about her.
Fact: Elsie Nayer is the smartest non-freak I know. And even though she sometimes checks her answers with me, Elsie rarely needs my help.
So we work. Figures and formulas occupy the only segments of my brain that, for the moment at least, I know I can truly rely on. It’s like wrapping myself in a well-worn blanket, comfortable and familiar and certain. The ever-present tension between my shoulderblades lifts; the sensation of being somehow misaligned inside my skin disappears. As the stubborn patterns in the numbers resolve into answers before my eyes, for the first time today I feel the sparks of something like happiness. Because I may be hopeless at life in general, but this thing, I can do.
From the corner of my eye I watch the hands on my wall clock, pacing myself so as not to fill our time too fast. I try to steer our intermittent conversation to safe ground – rumours of our Chem teacher’s plastic surgery, possible future developments on Doctor Who – but Elsie, like always lately, keeps drifting to America and her plans for next year. I see her eyes flick to her brochures more than once, and before the ink is dry on our final equation, her hands reach for the glossy pile. I have no desire to ruin my precarious contented mood, so I chime in quickly with the only game that I know will reliably distract my best friend.
I polish off my apple juice and give her my best attempt at an irreverent smile. ‘So what am I going to be when I grow up, Elsie?’
Elsie stares at me with her faux thinking face. ‘Labrador trainer,’ she says decisively. ‘You’ll have your own TV show in Japan, one of those wacky ones where the audience gets to throw food and eels at you. It’ll be great!’
‘Dog whisperer could be fun,’ I reply vaguely.