"I am telling you pistachio is the best-tasting flavor here."

It's around six o'clock at my favorite ice cream shop, Sweet Treat, and my indecisive friend Mina can't decide on a flavor, despite coming here countless times over the last four years. This wouldn't be a problem if we hadn't been standing in front of the counter for five minutes already, receiving angry sighs from the two boys behind us eager to get their hands on a sundae.

"But what if I-"

Before Mina can finish, I order us two pistachio bowls. The worker behind the counter, a grumpy teenage girl, mutters something under her breath and picks up an ice cream scoop. Even she is tired of Mina's indecisiveness.

"You didn't even let me order!"

I roll my eyes. "Mina, if I had waited for you to finally make up your mind, I could have hitchhiked to Mars and came back."

We take our bowls and start walking to the small red booth in the corner of the store, our favorite spot for the past four years.

"I swear you are the biggest exaggerator I know," she says, taking a seat in the red booth. She ties her straight black hair up and rests her fists under her chin like an upset five-year-old. "If this flavor tastes bad, you're paying me back."

"Haha-it won't." I take a big spoonful of the ice cream and regret it after feeling a giant brain freeze. I always thought I was stronger than this.

"You okay, Whitney?" Mina asks, putting down her spoon.

"Just peachy." Once I feel fine again, I take another spoonful and watch Mina take her third delightfully, her large coffee-colored eyes widening. Once again, I am never wrong when it comes to ice cream. "Guess I won't be paying after all."

"Do you ever think we have too much ice cream?" she asks. She looks down at her bowl and lightly pushes it away from her. Seconds later, she pulls it back closer and her fingers toy with the spoon, mentally debating whether to keep eating it.

Mina is forever conscious about what she eats, considering her mother has the body of a twenty-year-old at forty-six. Although they share the same Persian beauty, thick dark hair and a tan complexion that people pay money for, she still feels like she lives in mother's shadow, never quite perfect enough. I stopped reminding her that she's still pretty a couple years ago, realizing compliments only served to boost her strangely egoistic insecurities.

"Oh Mina, sweet, sweet Mina, you can never have enough ice cream," I answer, placing my hand on her arm. "Well, unless you're lactose intolerant."

"I guess not," she replies with a laugh. A distant look crosses her face, a look she gets when she's thinking about something on the back of her mind, and a sigh escapes her lips. "It's still not dawning upon me high school is over. It seems like yesterday we were clueless freshmen getting our hair stuck in lockers."

A wave of nostalgia washes over me at thought of how we met during our freshman year, helping each other get our hair out of our lockers, which we used to slam shut without looking. A month into high school, we grew out of that habit, and that was about the time we discovered Sweet Treat, our little haven from the drama of high school.

I had that dorky tween sense of fashion at that time, and Mina was a scrawny fourteen-year-old with braces, barely five feet tall.

I look between us. At least something has improved.

"Oh, it's hit me already," I say, "and I could not be happier. Hell school is over."

"But we're old now," she whines. "I'm not ready for all the responsibility yet."

"Mina, you're going to college not to war." My assertion lacks conviction, probably from all the times my newly graduated sister has informed me that they're almost equivalent.

"I know, I know," she says, "but what do you think you're going to miss? I mean come on, there has to be something."

Hard question. As the unpopular counterpart of Mina, high school was a blur of studying and embarrassments, not yacht parties and designer shopping sprees. Even after only a few days of being away from that place, I'm already working on completely blocking out all four years.

I already have the first semester of freshman year ticked off my mental checklist.

Only seven more to go...

"It's kind of hard between the mountains of homework, weekly gym torture, and... Willow Gerard."

In the bluntest terms, Willow is the most popular bitch at our high school-well, was the most popular bitch, now that she's graduated with us. You could have blamed almost anything bad that happened in school on her.

A circulating rumor that Juan and Michael are secretly dating?

Willow Gerard.

Robotics club president Alexa crying in the bathroom after lunch?

Willow Gerard.

A pounding headache after having two classes in a row with her?

Willow Gerard.

And how could I forget; the main reason I want all four years of high school erased from my memory?

No one else but Willow Estelle Gerard.

"Now you just gave me one full reason to be happy I am out of high school," Mina says, rubbing her forehead.

You see, everyone hates Willow, the teachers, the students in other grades, and even her best friends. Even Willow herself would admit it, yet despite her toxic and bitter demeanor, everyone manages to keep kissing her non-existent ***, Mina included. Between their texts and dinner parties and impromptu get-togethers, Mina has always been oblivious to my special hatred of that blonde-haired demon, brushing off my experiences with her as simply "Willow's regular personality."

"I guess we should-" My eyes flicker upwards, catching sight of a familiar bright blonde with a mousy face, sporting a handbag half the size of her rail-thin body. "Speak of the devil, there's Willow herself."

I continue to glare at her using my peripheral vision while I eat the rest of my half-melted ice cream. Unfortunately, my indiscreet ways catch her eyes, and she lets out a signature Willow white-toothed smile.

That's fake, of course.

"Hello, Whitney," she says, looking between us, although her eyes eventually rest on my reddened face. Mina has taken her hands off her head but doesn't look Willow's way. "And Mina, of course. A coincidence we'd run into each other, but then again, Whitney is probably always here, anyway."

Mina tries to come to my defense, but I hold a hand up. She seems less intimidating now that we're out of the four walls of our stuffy private school.

"You know, Willow, I don't recall me or Mina inviting you over here," I say, pushing my bowl to the side. Suddenly, I'm not hungry anymore.

"Oh, I just thought a friendly greeting wouldn't kill," she says, moving her tacky beige purse from her right arm to her left. "Besides, Mina, since you don't seem to be dead, I see no reason why you've avoided every one of my texts."

Mina lets out a breath. "Look, let's make something clear here." Brushing her sleek ponytail to the side to look up at Willow, she continues rather curtly, "Just because our mothers are still friends, doesn't mean I want to hang out with you this summer. And besides, you look a little desperate for someone with the largest friend group in high school. Did Daddy Dearest's funds finally run out? It's a shame you won't be able to afford your followers forever."

Willow's smug expression shatters, replaced by bug eyes and parted lips. For a second, I swear I see tears form in the corners of her eyes, but I don't know which part of Mina's impudent comeback hurts her most.

Staring at my still silent form, Willow shakes her head and hurries away from us, oddly broken for such a soulless person. The door to exit the store slams shut behind her.

Mina and I sit in silence for a moment before deciding to end our dessert date. As we walk into the parking lot, I wonder if I'll ever have the courage to put Willow in her place like that, or if the stupidly kind piece of my heart will rule forever. Forgetting her entirely, I groan as we're greeted by the humid June weather.

"Wait, Whitney, aren't you going to be late?" Mina holds her phone out to show me the time.

Late? But then it clicks. Tonight is the family dinner that my mother hasn't stopped talking about. I haven't figured out what we're celebrating, or if we're celebrating at all, but one thing I know for sure is that I have no choice but to be there.

"I don't even know how I forgot," I mumble, scrambling to unlock my car. From the driver's seat, I call out, "Let's hang out again soon!"

"No worries, just text me!" Mina yells back and ambles over to her Audi.

I pull out of the parking lot and head on to the main street, having to stop in front of a stoplight. I turn the radio on to a random station and run my hand across my puffy ponytail.

Often, there are events in my house that are absolutely mandatory. Like visiting a certain relative or going on a family hike (I manage to get out of the hike about halfway up the trail every time).

This time it's a dinner. My sister, Poppy, and her boyfriend, Levi, are finally visiting home after graduating from Columbia. They've spent nearly a month vacationing around the country, doing, in her words, "things Mom won't ever know about."

I can't say they didn't deserve the break, as they're both textbook overachievers and archers-I know right, archery-graduating summa *** laude with respective plans to head to law school and med school in the future.

I, on the other hand, like to keep the overachieving to a minimum, just having the grades to parallel my sister. Other than that, I'm a disaster at athletics, and the closest I get to the Ivy League right now is the wrinkly Yale brochure lying in my desk drawer.

My collected thoughts keep me entertained as I drive the rest of the way home. I pull up into the driveway, taking note neither Levi's nor Poppy's cars are here, meaning for once, I am actually early.

"I'm home!" I call to no one in particular, as I walk through the front door.

"Whitney, you're early!" My mother echoes my thoughts, walking into the kitchen at the same time as me. She fluffs her freshly colored and styled honey-brown hair and then pulls me into a bear hug. We exchange a few words, before she fittingly encourages me to fix my disheveled appearance.

As I put on some mascara and eyeliner and then straighten my puffy brown hair, I can hear Poppy with our dad downstairs. She's chattering on about how nice it is to be back home, and every now and then I hear him laugh at something she says. They've always had such a comfortable relationship, something I used to envy deep down.

Now, I just don't care.

I decide to join the party a few minutes later, finding Poppy sitting next to my father on the couch and Levi with my mother, giving her some advice.

"Whitney!" she squeals. She runs over and squeezes me into a hug.

"Hey, Poppy." I laugh and squeeze her back, enjoying the sisterly comfort for a few seconds. She angles her head down to look at me, while I tilt my head up, lessening the four or five inches that separate us.

Levi finally breaks us up. "Whitney," he says, stretching the syllables in my name. During the times we've met, we've created a convoluted handshake, a step of which we forget each time. I laugh when I mess it up halfway through, and we retry it.

"Dinner's ready," my dad calls to all of us from the dining room.

Before we eat, he pops open a bottle of champagne and fills everyone's glasses but mine. I hold mine out, wanting to fit in as the baby of these gatherings.

"Now, come on, tell us all about how you two have been," my mom says, bringing her glass to her lips.

Levi smiles and wraps his arm around Poppy's shoulder. "We've been absolutely great. I don't think either of us have had as much of a break in years." She nods from beside him, resting her hand on the blue sleeve of his shirt. Chuckling, he adds, "Well, I feel like I might have forgotten everything I've learned in college this past month, but I'm excited to get back into the groove of things soon."

"Oh, you know that's not true," my dad laughs, shaking his head.

Finally, there's something he and I agree on. Sometimes I wonder if Levi and my sister are actually robots, able to execute everything with the utmost perfection, and tiredness-well, it's not a part of their vocabulary.

"We didn't expect anything less of you two," my mom adds and takes a sip of champagne. She eyes my dad, and they share a puzzling smirk. "Don't you two have something else to say?"

The four people at this table look between each other knowingly, making me realize that while this dinner is about Levi and Poppy, maybe it's for me.

"Am I missing something...?"

I lock eyes with Poppy, whose cheeks are turning pink. Levi gives her a nod, gesturing for her to speak.

"Well, I guess I'll just say it. Levi and I are engaged!"

I wish I could remember my response as any bit classy. Instead, in a bout of surprise, my hand falls to the table and flings my fork into the air. It clatters against the hardwood, landing several feet away from me. My mom and I dive to the ground at the same time to pick it up and bash heads on the way up, each gripping one end of the fork. The impact feels almost concussive, duplicating both Levi and Poppy before me. I blink twice, and they merge into one person each again.

"Oh God, Whitney, are you alright?" Poppy rises from her seat in a panic, but I wave her off and let go of my forehead. "And Mom, you too, are you okay?"

She winces and nods but excuses herself from the table. I close my eyes in sheer embarrassment, unsure what to say now.

"Well, you could say I was a little taken aback." I try to laugh it off, realizing I transformed the atmosphere from celebratory to plain awkward. "But congratulations, really. I'm so happy for you guys. How long have you all been keeping this a secret from me?"

"Only a couple weeks," my dad says and adds, "trust me when I say the two sprung the news on us as well."

My mom returns from the kitchen with a tall glass of water, still rubbing her head. I try to utter an apology, but she waves it off and turns to the newly engaged couple.

"I think it's appropriate that we dive into some of the details now that Whitney knows, right?" she says, turning to us. We all nod, except for Poppy. "When exactly are you two planning on having the wedding?"

Levi's steel-gray eyes widen slightly, and Poppy clears her throat, finding the hardwood floor a lot more interesting now.

"Well, Poppy and I have thought this through for a while, and we agreed that we definitely want a wedding in the warm weather," Levi begins, "but we're still neutral on New York or Connecticut for the location."

"But when?" my dad asks, pouring himself another glass of champagne. "I think your mother and I took over a year-and-a-half to plan ours, and that was still short compared to some of Jennifer's wedding-crazed friends."

"We're well aware," Poppy mumbles, trying to avoid our mom's gaze. "But we were thinking something a little sooner than that. A lot sooner..."

"This summer," Levi adds, hardly audible.

Their jaws drop, mine included.

"This summer?" my mom repeats.

"Towards the end of August," Levi clarifies. Any trace of amusement vanishes from Mom's face, replaced with slight horror. "We feel that since we've been together for almost four years, there's no need to prolong the engagement. We never planned on an elaborate wedding anyway, so we can definitely make this work."

"But what about your future plans, Poppy?" my mom asks, furrowing her eyebrows together. "You're already taking a year off before law school. Are you sure rushing your marriage won't make you want to hold off on those dreams forever?"

Just as much as my father and I avoid each other, my mom and Poppy clash over everything. I can tell my sister knew this topic was coming, as she grips her champagne glass a little harder and closes her eyes.

"Mom, I don't think we need to talk about this right now," she says and forces a smile to preserve what's left of the mood. "How about forget the wedding plans and enjoy the rest of the night?"

We all agree to change the subject, but I soon tune myself out of the rest of the conversation, realizing I don't have much of value to add. Maybe it's younger sister syndrome, hearing everything that Poppy has accomplished, or that high school is wearing off, especially after having witnessed Willow's fragility with my own two eyes.

Whatever the reason, I convince myself by the end of dinner that I need to embrace the end of that era and welcome the next chapter of my life, that, just like Poppy's, starts at the end of August.

Only three undefined months lie in between those two stages, and I still have zero plans.

Zero plans, so far, I correct myself and get to thinking.

~The End~

Hola! How're you all doing?

I'm Ash, this is my first novel, hope you all like it~

Happy reading!~

"Whitney, can you come down?"

My mother calls me for the second time from downstairs. Unfortunately, since we're the only ones in this house, and she can yell louder than a foghorn, my plan to keep ignoring her is useless.

"I will soon!" I call back from my room.

I hear her loud footsteps at the bottom of the stairs interspersed by a groan. "If you're on your phone or watching TV, you better bring your *** down here right now."

I look around me and see the flashing screen of my Mac and the open app on my phone, cheeks turning red. She knows me far too well.

"My *** will make an appearance!"

I clamber out of my room into the hallway and head down the stairs. I find her in the kitchen, zeroing in on the cacophony of clashing pots and pans echoing into the living room. "I'm here, Mom."

She looks up at me, the same green eyes I have meeting mine. "I need your help. This kitchen is a mess, and to be honest, the only person I trust to organize it with me is you."

Or it could be the fact that Dad, Poppy, and Levi are all out golfing, and I'm the only person here, but sure.

"Sure, where would you like me to start?"

I walk inside and start recycling the stack of advertisement newspapers into the trash. My dad collects them for no reason, since I've never seen him pick one of them up and actually look at the deals on boxed pasta and toilet paper.

"Get started on the pantry," she says. She yanks out a large colander from the cabinet and sets it on the counter, mumbling, "Why is this even here?"

I open the pantry and scan shelves and shelves of different food groups. The room isn't entirely disorganized, but some cans and boxes would better belong in other areas, and some simply need throwing out. I pick up a box of cereal and read the expiration date.

"Mom, this expired last Thanksgiving," I say, chucking it into the trash. "Why is it here?"

"Oh, you know how your father is, 'expiration dates are only relative,'" she says, mimicking him in a deep baritone.

The prospect of cleaning this kitchen doesn't seem too bad when I realize it gives me the perfect opportunity to talk to her. My senior year was so hectic that our relationship was often reduced to formalities, and I desperately miss her advice, even though I don't take it half the time.

"Mom, I want to ask you something, and I need you to be honest," I say and put down the box of Honey Bunches of Oats in my hand. "Do you think I'm fat?"

She spins around, her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "Where on earth would you get that idea?"

"People," I say vaguely. She narrows her eyes for more clarification. "People, places, school. People from places such as school."

A person from school named Willow, I don't add.

"Oh, Whitney." She presses her fingers to her forehead, but her eyes widen slightly, as if a thought just occurred to her. "Does this have anything to do with that Willow girl?"

"No." The lie slips out of my mouth before I can stop it. "Well, I mean, I guess, but she's not the only reason I think that way."

"If you want my real, unfiltered opinion, no, I don't think you're fat," she says and stands up, looking me dead in the eyes. "Lazy, undoubtedly, but I'd love you the same at any weight, Whit."

"Why is that such a mom-ish answer, though?"

"Are you asking for a smack?"

"No, ma'am." I remember my manners and get back to where I left off with this pantry.

An hour passes by, and I'm only on the third shelf. I slide down to the floor and tug at the collar of my T-shirt, overheating in the thick cotton. My mom is just as over organizing kitchen supplies, as she's taken to shuffling through our stack of mail and magazines.

"Whitney, come here," she says. I drag myself across the hardwood and take the pamphlet from her hand. "This came in the mail last week as some sort of an athletic promotion. The back has a list of fitness camps you could look into."

I grip my chest in mock offense. "I thought you said I wasn't fat?"

"Lazy, Whitney, lazy," she clarifies, tapping the paper with a manicured nail. "Not like you really have anything better to do the summer before college, anyway."

"That I won't argue with," I mumble, realizing this might be the solution to my plan-less summer.

My eyes land on the second to last camp name: Bob Campbell's Intense Boot Camp.

This five-week program will leave you not only stronger and fitter but challenged to your utmost capacity. Whether you want to shape up or try something new physically, this camp is the right choice for you. Our summer session will run from June 22nd to July 27th, but spots are limited, so visit our website to learn more about us and get your application in by June 8th!

Well, that gives me a good four days to think about it.

"Looks like you found something," my mom says from next to me.

"But what if I'm too weak for this kind of stuff?"

She drops her hands to my shoulders and stares into my soul. "Confidence, Whitney. It goes a long way."

Confidence? Does that even exist anymore?

"Fine, I'll consider it."

"Good," she says and then whacks my shoulder, "now get back to that pantry."

***

"I just don't know, Mina," I say through a sip of cold strawberry-banana smoothie. "What if they kick me out for being so bad?"

"Whitney," she begins, lifting her oversized Prada sunglasses, "the point of the camp is to cater to less athletic people. They won't expel you for being unfit, which I don't think you are, anyway."

"I guess," I mumble back, looking up at the sky through brown-tinted aviators.

One of the perks of having a best friend even wealthier than you are is the house. This seven-thousand-square-foot monstrosity, owned by the dream-team plastic surgeon and appellate lawyer couple, comes with a beautiful round pool, hot tub, and a tennis court, and that's just the outside. Last summer I spent nearly a month just tanning on a chaise lounge of hers, enjoying those ten-dollar organic smoothies from her mother's refrigerator stockpile.

"I have an idea," Mina says, sitting up and taking off her floppy sunhat. She hops off the chair, walks over to a small compartment next to the patio, and pulls out two tennis rackets.

Oh God.

Mina has been playing tennis since probably before she could talk. Now about seventeen years later, she'll be joining a college team in the fall as one of the highest ranked tennis recruits in the country-which means I already stand no chance.

"There is no way I'm playing." I stand my ground, crossing my tanned arms over my chest. I didn't plan for tennis to be the cause of my death-not that I'm planning the cause of my death in the first place.

"We're not playing; we're training," she says, as if rephrasing the prospect makes it any more appealing. She pulls a sundress over her black and gold swimsuit while slipping into a pair of shoes. "Think of it as preparation for that hell camp."

I cover my face with my hands as she holds out a racket. "But you're so much better than I am."

"Stop being so dramatic." She huffs and tries to pull me off the chair. I grunt and oblige by putting on my coverup and following her to the blue tennis court. "I'm going to cover the basics right now: serving and hitting."

She shows me how to hold the racket correctly, rattling off something about continental and eastern grips, but the sporty terms all go over my head. I pick up my racket and try to follow her instructions, but it slips out of my hand like Jell-O. I take it in my right hand again and fumble around for a bit, until I finally get the hang of it.

She moves on to the actual hitting part. The ball sails across the court, bouncing right beside me. I jump to the side, as if the yellow sphere is made of fire.

"You expect me to do that?" I ask, picking up the ball. I toss it up and down for a bit and even bounce it on the ground. It does look pretty harmless.

"Eventually," she calls out and jogs to my side of the court. "But first let me break this down for you."

A long-winded tutorial of serving and hitting follows, complete with one too many demonstrations for my dwindling attention span. I find some entertainment as she begins yelling and clapping fervently like one of her many neurotic coaches over the years.

My insecurities somewhat alleviated after her tutorials, I pick up the ball and try once more. The ball hits the net again, but on the fourth try, it sails to Mina's side of the court. She dashes in its direction and sends the ball flying back to me again.

I try to connect the ball with my racket but find myself sprinting to the wrong side of the court. The ball sails into the thick bushes, never to be seen again. I don't feel too bad, since Mina has a lifetime supply of them. But maybe a Wilson sponsorship should be in the works if these fledgling matches start becoming a regular thing.

"Whitney, the key is to keep your eyes on the ball. This way you'll know exactly where to hit it."

I nod, repeating her words in my head as she serves again. My lack of athleticism has me huffing and puffing after only twenty minutes of playing, making the prospect of attending that camp slightly more attractive.

"You okay over there?" she yells.

I cough into the crack of my elbow and then put on my game face, which more or less makes me look like I'm constipated. "Serve it again!"

My request seems to unnerve her, but she still hits the ball sharply across the net. The trees spin before me as I strain to keep track of the yellow sphere soaring into the air. I lift my racket, but gravity is one step ahead of me. I yell out in pain and fall back onto my butt, experiencing a kind of pain I've never felt before: a tennis ball to the eye.

"Oh my gosh, Whitney, are you okay?"

Mina rushes over to me and slaps her hands over her mouth. She crouches down by my side and tries to take a peek at my eye. I swat her away with my left hand and keep my right hand pressed over my tender face, groaning in pain.

"I'm so sorry, Whit, genuinely. Come on, let's get you some ice. I'll help you inside."

She continues rambling in a panic as she takes my arm and helps me to my feet. As I stagger my way to the inside of her house, I accept my first defeat of the summer, before the camp has even started.

Tennis: 15.

Whitney: Love.

"Oh my gosh, honey, what happened?"

My mother dashes towards me as I walk-no, stumble-into the living room with a melting ice pack pressed to my bruising eye. I can see out of a mere quarter of it and almost slam into the wall, saved by Levi running in from the kitchen. He leads me to an armchair as my mother hovers over my head.

"I got hit by a tennis ball," I say, falling into the brown cushion. My funny bone hits the hard armrest, and I suppress yelling out a profanity. Anything else you want to do to me, world?

"It looks terrible!" she cries, crouching down next to me. "How did this happen? You don't even play tennis, Whitney. Wait, this was your friend Mina's idea, right?"

"Maybe you should let her rest for a moment," Levi says warily, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his white shorts. "A hit to the head or eye like this can cause a concussion in some cases. Do you feel dizzy or nauseous, Whitney? Have double vision?"

I shake my head. "No, God, I don't feel that bad. Really, I think I'll be okay with another ice pack."

Levi hurries back to the kitchen to the freezer, clearly preparing for his future medical career. At the same time, my dad walks into the living room clad in a navy suit, tie half undone. I slowly look up. When he zeroes in on my eye, horror overtakes his blank expression.

"Oh, dear God, Whitney, what did you do? Get into a bar fight?"

"Gee thanks," I mumble dryly. "I got hit by a tennis ball, thank you for your concern."

He comes to the side of the armchair and peers at my face. "Sorry, didn't mean it like that. How did this even happen, honey? You're not exactly the sporty type."

Embarrassed, I half explain the story, knowing deep down, he wishes I was more like Poppy. She was always willing to go throw a ball with him because guess what?

She could actually catch it, unlike me.

At the thought of her, Poppy walks in, and I begin to wonder if my mom has planned another family gathering, only I'm the guest of honor this time.

"Oh my gosh, Whitney, what happened?"

I can't take any more questions and announce that I'm going upstairs. I shut my bedroom door behind me, throw myself onto my bed, and stare up at the ceiling.

With one eye, of course.

***

I sigh as I walk out of my front door, overhearing some of Levi and my dad's discussion on the porch. Craning my neck, I try to spot my mom in the yard but remember she's still out on her daily run around the neighborhood, making me the only member of the family who doesn't live outside in the summer. Even my dad, who spends more hours working than sleeping, finds enjoyment in nature whenever he's not in the office.

I simply cannot fathom how you can pick grass and mosquitoes over air conditioning and leather sofas.

"Whitney, good that you're here; you're coming with me!" In a turn of events, my mom is back from her run and standing in the driveway, a walking advertisement for Lululemon.

"Um, why?" I ask, taking a nervous step back on the asphalt.

"We are going shopping."

I nod at the affirmative answer, hoping we're going to the mall and even better, makeup shopping. I've been needing some new eyeliner. I open the door and slide into the passenger seat of her silver Range Rover.

"Where are we going?" I ask as she backs out of our driveway.

"You," she begins, wiggling her index finger in my face, "are getting workout clothes." My happy expression disappears, a wince replacing it. First, the application form, now workout clothes; this camp is becoming too real. "Look, Whit, I can't force you to go to that fitness camp, but I can definitely motivate you, so I'm going to start with some good old-fashioned retail therapy."

"But Mom, my eye is still purple," I whine, looking at the concealer-covered bruise in my phone camera. I would have never thought tennis balls could do this much damage.

"We've already established you're fine," she says, unamused, opening a window and letting in the breeze. "Think of a better excuse."

I sigh and slide my phone back in my wallet. "You're right. I've been contemplating this myself, and although I hate to say it, I will do it."

Wait, what did I just say?!

In about twenty minutes we reach the mall, driving around the parking garage until we find a space to park. While Connecticut is a nice, quaint state, it can be quite boring, one of the main reasons why everyone is either out shopping at the mall or lying on the beach, contemplating whether or not they should move somewhere more fascinating.

"Now where do we start?" I ask, once we walk through the entrance.

"The athletic store; we're here for a reason, remember?"

She darts ahead, and I jog as fast as possible in my stiff flip flops to catch up to her as she takes the escalator to the second floor. We walk into the store together, and the athletic vibes seeping off the walls blind my lazy soul.

Running shorts, sneakers, soccer balls, yoga mats; my worst nightmare comes to life.

"Look over here," my mom calls, shuffling through a rack of cropped and full-length leggings. I pass on the tie-dye and camo ones that she somehow thinks are cute and get distracted by the fact that they all come with matching sports bras and sweatbands. "Will this size work?"

"I think so," I say, taking the pile of leggings from her with a thank you.

She shuffles through the tank tops and hands me a colorful assortment and then dumps a pile of short sleeves and mesh shorts on top. I follow the store associate's lead to the fitting room while trying not to send my heavy pile of clothing to the floor.

"I'm Tracy if you need anything else, okay?" the worker says, holding the door open for me.

I smile and lock the door behind me and take off my boyfriend jeans. The leggings fit, but I know it's going to take some time for me to get used to how I look in bottoms as form-fitting as these are. I then pull on the tank top and tug at the end, standing up straight and feeling like an absolute idiot.

I always admire how girls can look so cute and fit wearing this kind of attire in their posts on Instagram, but I just look like an out-of-place Whitney. As I'm about to open the door to show my mom, I hear a high-pitched whine coming from the room next to me.

"Mom, seriously, these extra smalls are too big! Is there an extra-extra small here?"

I'm pretty sure I wore an extra-extra small in fifth grade, making me wonder if there's an actual child next to me-but the voice is oddly familiar. She calls for her mother again, and I back up into the wall, my back slamming into the solid surface.

I know exactly who this voice belongs to.

Willow.

"Whitney, are you done yet?" I hear my mom call, and I cringe, sliding farther down the wall. Of all times, she had to yell out my name.

"In a second," I hum, fiddling with the lock and stepping out.

As I do, Willow walks out on my right. Our eyes meet, and we each take one large step back.

"You look so cute," my mom gushes.

Willow rotates between staring at me and the ground, until her mother makes a grand entrance. "Whitney, so nice to see you!" Claudia exclaims.

I take note of the gray pencil dress and ashy-blonde hair twisted in an updo, despite the fact she is only out shopping at a mid-tier mall. The only reason she even knows me is from the years of volunteering she did at my high school, never realizing the sheer animosity between her daughter and me.

"It's great running into you, too," I say awkwardly, trying to make eye contact.

Willow's mother reaches over to shake my mom's hand. "Claudia."

"Jennifer, nice to meet you."

"It's funny we haven't met before," Claudia says, retracting her hand. "Your daughter is a lovely girl. You must be so proud to be the mother of this year's valedictorian."

I am about to vomit hearing a compliment from Willow's mom while Willow herself is just standing there, arms folded across her chest, staring at me as if a ripe lemon is lodged behind her flat lips. Neither of us dare utter a word to each other, and my mom takes notice.

"I think we need to go now, Mom, right?" I ask and give her another fake smile.

I send my fake goodbyes to Satan and Satan's mother and drag my mom out of the fitting rooms, clothes spilling out of my arms. She buys them all for me, even though I haven't even tried half of them.

"What was that for?" she hisses once we step away from the entrance. "You didn't even talk to the girl."

I bite the inside of my lip. "Mom, that was Willow. The Willow."

Her eyes widen. "Wow, how am I just realizing you've never shown me a picture of her? Huh, and to think her mother seems so lovely."

"I guess it's not always like-mother-like-daughter..." I grumble.

I take a left to my favorite makeup store indiscreetly, but my mom notices and steers me away to the escalator. I try to forget about Willow as my mom drags me into a shoe store and gravitates to the rows of running sneakers, the only apparel I have yet to buy to finally make this awful decision feel official.

Here goes nothing...