The Creeping

I look at Zoey out of the corner of my eye. “You do realize that I could rattle off a list of, like, a hundred names that proves your theory is crap, right? Like, aren’t most bajillionaires losers in high school?” But Zoey has turned her attention to reapplying her mascara and stares mesmerized by her own reflection in the rearview mirror. This is my Zoey: absolutely obsessed with bagging the most popular guys and always pursuing her idea of high school glory. And she does a bloody good job of it. Three-time homecoming queen, lead in five Wildwood drama department productions, and most Internet-stalked girl in Savage. Zoey is in it to win it, even if it’s not a competition. And she’s my life raft, my comfort blanket, the sister I never had. She’s kept me sane through my parents’ divorce, through years of Jeanie aftermath, through high school, which everyone knows is a living hell without a popular girl as your spirit guide.

Michaela and Zoey don’t agree on a lot, but they do see eye to eye about killing it in high school. Michaela just doesn’t value prom crowns and social chairs. While Zoey has a monopoly on pursuing social glory, Michaela’s pursuing tomorrow’s glory. She believes her ticket to college, a career as the founder of a monolithic social media site, and marrying some czar’s son or a progolfer is to take every honors class in math and science, every year. Michaela is likely the only person on the planet who could have made our twosome a threesome in the eighth grade and not gotten herself kneecapped by Zoey over the last four years. They have nothing in common except me and wanting to be the best at what they do. And thankfully, they want different things.

What I want is a little harder to define, blurrier. I’m not possessed to be the best like Zoey and Michaela. I’ve tried a bunch of activities—from my childhood stint playing the violin, to freshman year as the world’s least peppy cheerleader, to sophomore year in yearbook. Dad says I’m well rounded; Zoey says I have commitment issues.

The only thing that’s stuck is writing for the Wildwood Herald. Originally, I joined the paper to fluff out the activities portion of my college apps, but when my first article about sex trafficking was printed—very edgy stuff in comparison to the puff pieces on sports teams and marching band trips my colleagues produce—I was hooked. Just staring at my name in bold black font next to the word “by” gave me a sugar rush. Here was an article that was by me instead of about me and Jeanie. Sure our school newspaper is only a four-page newsletter that masquerades as a news-bearing paper, but it’s better than no experience if I want to write in college.

Cole—and I’d never say this to her face—is kind of an experiment. Girls have been vying to get in with the three of us for all of high school. It wasn’t until Cole strolled through the quad on a Monday morning in white jean short-shorts, strappy sandals, and a DEATH TO HIPSTERS T-shirt that Zoey took notice of a newbie. Every guy in a hundred-yard radius froze as her wavy blond hair caught the wind. I think it’s the first time Zoey ever felt fear. Don’t get me wrong, Zoey’s way hotter than Cole, and that’s not just my bestie-love talking. But exotic things have a unique appeal to guys, and a girl from a SoCal beach town is as exotic as it gets. Zoey knew she had a choice to make. When we met up in the parking lot to go off campus for lunch, Zoey had Cole in tow.

I’ve always thought Zoey could be one of those grand-master—although she’d insist on calling herself a grand-mistress—chess players. She understood that it was better to make a friend than to see the new girl become her rival. Don’t wage a war you can’t win.

My car groans and shudders as I accelerate over the dirt road riddled with potholes. After a sharp right turn, we emerge onto a gravel lot. There must be sixty or seventy cars already. I park alongside a burnt-orange Mustang that I recognize as Taylor’s. Cole jumps out of the car before we even stop. Zoey winks devilishly, leans over the emergency brake, and practically purrs, “You know we won’t be mad if you ditch us and end up making it with Taylor.”

“Doubtful. I’m still freaked over earlier.” She flicks her wrist like it was nothing. “Plus, I don’t really relish my first time being in a cramped backseat on the anniversary of . . . you know.”

Zoey juts out her pink-gloss-coated bottom lip in a pretend pout and then grins. “I understand. Let’s just have the best night ever then, ’kay?”

She tucks a rogue wisp of hair behind my ear as Michaela reaches for my keys and adds, “I’ll drive you home the nanosecond you want to go.” I smile gratefully at them both.

“Hurry up, lesbos!” Cole yells from outside the car, dancing on her tiptoes.

Out of the car, the pulsating music makes the ground quake; the bass works its way into my bones, and I can’t help but look forward to dancing under the stars. A few hundred yards from the shore, we walk through a labyrinth of parked cars. With every step, the details of the bonfire zoom into sharper focus.

The campfire is as tall as several stacked cars and as wide as the length of one. “Crazeballs,” Cole whispers in awe. Its heat warms my face from a hundred feet away. All around it stand girls and boys in little more than their underwear.