Dahlia and I decided on Thursday. That would be the day that, after school, we would go over to her place to choose our outfits for the dance. It was a dangerous choice, picking out our clothes the day before the dance, but it was the best we could do. 

Actually, I was rather excited. All day, time seemed to crawl, each hour seeming to stretch out for days. 

Of course, Dahlia and I had both always loved having private time with each other to paint our nails or watch stupid and absolutely wonderful movies. This time would be no different. 

The best part was that we hadn’t had one of our ‘girl nights’ for a while. She hadn’t been over to my place since the week before my dad died, and I hadn’t been over to her place since then either. A sense of normalcy was finally settling into my distressing life, perhaps even overriding my bickering older siblings and the appearance of an apple. 

But, I still had to endure drawing said apple before I could go over to Dahlia’s place. 

“Hey, Iris,” a voice called as I walked through the doorway. 

“Hey, Emilio,” I responded once I reached my chair. 

“I’ll grab the... Apple,” Emilio told me, standing up. 

“Sure,” I said, nodding. 

When he came back, he looked a bit sympathetic. “I’m sorry about the apple... Again.” 

“It’s fine, really. I promise,” I told him reassuringly. 

“Are you sure?” 

No, of course not. My father died, and his memory tainted every single apple in the world. 

“Yeah, of course!” I said, smiling. 

He smiled nervously but also very kindly. He seemed relieved to hear that I was fine about the apple, even if I was lying through my teeth. 

I had sketched the outline of the apple and the stool it sat on, and now it was time to paint. 

I decided on a bright lime green to paint the apple’s base color. The stool would have a base of tan brown. Then, I would add on basic shading for shadows and lighting on both items. I’ve also decided that the background would be a muted dark red to contrast the green. Finally, I would add a few washes of darker shades and small speckles and splashes of discoloration to make it seem more realistic. 

I let my artistic side take over, letting it numb my mind. I just let it pour a painting out onto the canvas. 

Once I decided to ignore the fact that I was painting an apple, I actually managed to enjoy myself as I painted. 

“Are you... Okay?” 

“Huh?” 

I turned away from my painting, which was looking rather decent, and looked towards Emilio. He had his worried expression on his face again, the same one as last art class. 

“You’re crying... Are you okay?” he asked again. 

I was crying? Really? 

I reached up and touched my face, and started when I found my face covered with wet and salty tears. 

I took my hand from my face and sure enough, it came away dotted with a few tears that sparkled in the lighting. 

I looked back at Emilio and said, “Yeah, I’m fine.” 

“Are you sure? I’m... I’m really sorry about the apple. I didn’t know,” he told me apologetically. 

He looked so sorry that I couldn’t help but smile. “No, really. I’m fine.”

This time, I wasn’t lying. I really was fine. I didn’t even know I was crying. It was probably just a reflex thing. 

I turned away from him as I pulled the arm of my sweater farther down my right wrist to cover some more of my hand, and used the heel of my palm to wipe the few tears that had fallen from my cheeks. Once my face was dry, I pulled my sweater back up my arm to allow more movement for my hands to paint. 

I looked back at Emilio. His forehead was creased and he still looked anxious. I smiled, trying to show him that I really was fine. 

“People who are fine don’t cry,” he told me. His tone somehow managed to be both skeptical and also concerned. 

“I really am fine. Don’t worry about it,” I said. 

“But-” 

“I’m fine,” I told him. He seemed to get the gentle hint. It wasn’t a rude hint like “back off I’m fine,” but more of a reassuring hint like “chill, I really am fine.” 

He dropped the conversation and we both went back to painting. This time, however, I kept a closer watch on my eyes in case they involuntarily leaked again. 

And soon, class was over and I was waltzing over to building C. Dahlia’s last class was history in room 315, which was on the second floor, so I waited for her at the bottom of the stairs. 

Soon, a ginger ponytail and a pastel purple sweater accompanied by a simple black backpack walked down the stairs and into view. 

Dahlia, who had her nose stuck in a book, nearly ran into me. 

“Whoa!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide as she looked up at me in shock. 

“Geez, you really are a Brookworm,” I told her, rolling my eyes as I smiled. “How haven’t you tripped yet?” 

“I was using my peripheral vision to watch my surroundings,” she told me nonchalantly. We started walking towards the entrance of the school where some students were mingling about. 

“Your what?” I asked her, confused. 

“My peripheral vision,” she told me again. 

I swear she does this to annoy me on purpose. “I doubt anyone knows what that is, and just repeating it won’t trigger some epiphany.” 

“Well, how do you know ‘epiphany,’ but not ‘peripheral’?” Dahlia asked in a challenging tone. 

“I heard you say it once. We had this exact conversation that time, too,” I told her. “So what is ‘peripheral’?” 

She sighed, rolling her eyes, and told me, “My peripheral vision means the part of my vision that I see from the side of my eye. I watched my steps through the side of my eye. Like when you see something from the corner of your vision, so you don’t walk into someone or thing.” 

“Um, okay,” I said, deciding to change the conversation. “So, how was your day?” 

“My day was pretty good. But how was your day? We both know that you had more excitement in your day.” 

I don’t know what she was hinting at, but it was making me nervous. 

“You know. With your new friend,” she said, smiling that sly smile she had on the day before. 

Oh. That. That was what she was hinting at. I tried to smother my smile. 

“The one that was staring at you with goo-goo eyes?” Dahlia asked me, batting her eyelashes and staring up at me. 

“He was not!’ I exclaimed, losing control of my smile as it broke out across my face. I playfully hit my best friend on her shoulder with the palm of my hand. She laughed with me, playfully swatting me back. 

We laughed so hard we staggered as we made our way toward the gate joyfully, leaning onto each other and tripping. It was nice to have some relief from all of the stress in my life. Even if I couldn’t escape for long, it was still nice. 

We walked through the half full parking lot, towards a familiar silver car. A Tesla, Model X with the upwards raising doors. Something my family could never afford. 

As we neared the car, the passenger door closer to us lifted up to let us in. Dahlia let me enter first, and I stepped into the car and slid all the way across. I put my bag at my feet and swiftly buckled myself into the seat. 

When I lifted my head, Dahlia had entered and the door was coming back down to close us in. She buckled herself in, putting her things at her feet. 

“Let’s go,” she said to her chauffeur, Derek. He nodded and started up the car, slowly pulling us out of the school’s parking lot. 

Being in a car wasn’t a rare opportunity, but it wasn’t an everyday event, either. I couldn’t help but marvel at the streets and buildings that flew past in a miraculous and wondrous way. 

At least, it was amazing to me. Dahlia, however, didn’t even give her window a second glance, let alone a first. She was used to this view, so instead she turned to me. 

“But seriously, I think he does like you,” she said out of nowhere. 

I looked at her, shocked at this abrupt statement. “Huh?” I said. 

“Emilio. I think he likes you,” she said again, clarifying the ‘who’ in this situation. 

“Hah! No,” I said, waving my hand to brush away her statement. “You’re hilarious.” 

I turned back to the window with a giggle, chuckling over the crazy idea that my best friend brought up. 

It was quiet for a few minutes. I continued to look out the window, watching the tall apartment buildings pass. My own was around here somewhere, but I wasn’t sure if we passed it or if it was still up ahead.  

“I’m not joking,” I heard from behind me. I looked at Dahlia again, and she had on her I’m-dead-serious-don’t-question-me face. Apparently, she was dead serious. 

“What do you mean?” I asked her. I was pretty sure I knew what she was talking about, but I might be wrong. 

“I think Emilio likes you,” she said with a straight face. Well, I was right! My best friend has officially gone insane.  

“That’s not true,” I told her in a knowing way. It wasn’t true, I knew that. 

“How do you know?” she pushed. 

“Because-” I started, but Dahlia interrupted. 

“Did he tell you?” she asked, leaning towards me. 

“No, but-” I began. Dahlia cut me off again. 

“Did you hear him say it to someone else?” Dahlia questioned. 

“No, but-” I said, but guess what? Dahlia interrupted again! 

“Did you hear from someone else?” Dahlia asked intensely. 

“No, BUT-” I tried again. 

“Then why don’t you think he likes you?” Dahlia asked as if all of her previous questions were proof of Emilio’s interest. 

“Because he’s dating Vicktoria!” I told her, exasperated. Dahlia looked astonished. Like what I said was impossible to comprehend. 

Well, this conversation is getting heated! 

“He’s dating Victoria,” I said again, this time a little quieter. 

“What? Really?” Dahlia asked me. Apparently, I wasn’t in trouble with her for shouting. 

“It doesn’t matter, I don’t like him anyway,” I told her nonchalantly. Or in what I think was a nonchalant way. I’m not sure, but all the shouting was making me emotional. 

“You sure?” Dahlia asked. Her brow was furrowed in either a question or with confusion. 

“Yeah,” I told her reassuringly. 

“Okaaay,” Dahlia said, pulling out the last syllable of the word. We both dropped the conversation and sat together in silence. 

Eventually, she spoke. 

“You sure?” 

Apparently, she hadn’t dropped the topic. 

“Yes, Dahlia. Why won’t you drop it?” I asked her. 

“Because... I want you to be happy when...” she trailed off, looking away from me. 

“What is it?” I asked. Wow, the mood of this conversation swung from giddy to serious to concerning. 

“When I... Go off to boarding school,” Dahlia said finally, glancing up at me through the thick lenses of her glasses. 

“So it’s definite? There’s no ‘if’ or ‘maybe?’ You’re going?” I asked her. I felt the pit of my stomach twist in a way that wasn’t unfamiliar. It was similar to the feeling I got when I looked at the apple in art class, except it wasn’t a feeling of past loss, but of future loss. 

“I’m-” 

She paused, unsure. 

“I mean, the-” 

She paused again. 

“My mom-” 

She paused for a third time. This time, she looked away and began fiddling with the hem of her sweater, pulling at a loose string. Dropping the thread, she sighed, giving up. 

“Probably. I’m probably going. Like, ninety percent chance of me going,” was what she finally said. I could see her eyes misting over as my own did the same. She didn’t look up at me, and I looked away from her. 

We had been together since that fateful day in the third grade, and now she was leaving. 

When I turned back to face her, she looked like she both wanted and needed a hug, as did I. However, we were both in a moving car, so I doubt we had a possibility of hugging. 

“Is that why?” I asked her softly. 

“Huh?” she said, finally looking up at me. 

“Is that why you want to push me towards Emilio?” I asked her gently. 

“Y-yeah,” she stuttered, nodding and reaching under her glasses to wipe the tears that had built up in her eyes. 

“But why him?” I asked her, confused this time. 

“Well, I got to know him a bit when he was in my history class. He was nicer than I expected, and when I saw you two together...” Dahlia said, trailing off. She didn’t need to finish. I knew what she was going to say. 

“You thought that you could ease me away from you and towards him,” I said, completing the sentence. 

“Yeah,” Dahlia said. She said it quickly and quietly, but somehow it still felt like a slap in the face. 

“Dahlia, no matter what he does or what you do, you will always be my best friend. You can’t get rid of me that easily,” I said with a straight face before smiling widely. 

She laughed weakly, a single tear escaping from her eyes. I reached over and wiped it off her cheek. 

I took her hands and we smiled together.

“I won’t try to get rid of you again. I promise,” she told me softly. 

I squeezed her hands and said, “Don’t worry. You can’t push me away.” 

But before any more words could be exchanged, Derek announced, “We’re here.” 

We simultaneously looked through the front windshield and saw the long windy driveway that led all the way up to Dahlia’s house. It was made of simple gray concrete surrounded by green hills on either side. A small mock fence about five inches high lined the sides of the road, parted  every few feet by small lights that were currently unlit. There was a thick forest that blocked our view of the actual house, but we could see the second wrought iron gate and cinder block walls that guarded the house. 

Oh, yeah. I forgot to mention. We were already on the Brooke family’s property.