I laugh. It’s pretty amazing to think that she’s Jade’s daughter. Unlike her mother, she’s actually sweet, and thoughtful, and she smiles every now and again, dimples and all. “Very. And she’s a fan of Sherlock. Like, every possible incarnation of it.”
“Aw, that’s cool, Vanny. You guys should hang out. Hey, hang on one sec.” There’s a crackling sound as her hand covers the receiver and then her muffled voice as she yells something to someone. Whoever it is responds, and as their conversation continues, I let my mind wander.
Would it be weird to ask Bri to hang out? Would she even want to?
I could ask her to come over for a Sherlock marathon, maybe. Or go shopping. Ally used to go with me, but now that she’s gone, I haven’t been in, like, forever. Or maybe to Pinkberry…Would that be sacrilege without Ally? Does Bri even like Pinkberry? Will she think that’s dumb?
“Van? Yoohoo! Are you still there?”
Whoops. “Hey, sorry. Didn’t realize you were back.”
She laughs. “I gathered. Sorry — just trying to figure out what movie we’re seeing, but I’ve got another few minutes. Have you been looking at any apartments since I left?”
“Not really,” I admit, feeling a little twinge at the knowledge it’s not the answer she wants. I don’t even know how to explain to myself, let alone to Ally, why I’m dragging my feet on moving out, now that I’m eighteen. It’s not like I have a cute little sister or family movie nights, like she did. But the fact is, I am so, so scared at the prospect of fully leaving my parents. Which I will never, ever admit to another living soul, not even my best friend.
“Did you check out that place in Liam’s complex? It sounded good, and they’ve got such a nice pool.”
“Not yet.” I pull my hair into a ponytail and determine to change the subject. “Speaking of which, how’s your new place? Boys walking around in towels everywhere?”
She laughs. “Not quite. Anyway, kind of hard to get excited at the sight of shirtless men, given my boyfriend. I think he’s ruined me.”
“Pretty sure that’s been his plan all along,” I tease. “How about the roomie? Is she your new bestie?”
“As if. She doesn’t even like The Beatles,” she replies in a mock-whisper.
“Sacrilege!”
“Right? And she insists on going to this fro-yo place that’s not Pinkberry, just because it’s closer. Like, who cares about a couple miles when it’s Pinkberry?”
I know she’s partly kidding to make me feel better, but it works. And at the same time, I sort of hate that she already has a new fro-yo buddy. When she was here, she barely hung out with anyone but me, Liam, and Josh. Now that she’s over there, she’s making friends a whole lot more quickly.
Meanwhile, I’ve got Josh — an actual hemorrhoid in human form — and Liam, who spends every spare moment working out for his stupid new movie role and smells like a walking protein shake at all times. Jamal’s great, but when we’re not on set, he’s with his girlfriend, Theresa, like, a zillion percent of the time. I guess Carly Upton, who plays my best friend on the show, is okay, but she’s a little boring. And needy. And okay maybe I don’t like her that much.
So maybe I should ask Bri if she wants to hang out. Worst that can happen is she says no, right?
“How are classes going?” I ask, because I don’t want to talk about her roommate, or the fact that New York City has Pinkberry too, or Liam, or the apartment I’m not renting.
Apparently that was the right question, because she launches into a whole thing about her core classes and how they will or won’t matter for her eventual law school applications. I do my best to listen while I put on my bare makeup minimum — essential in case of a paparazzi run-in on the way to yoga, but not enough to turn my face into a melting mess in the sweltering heat of the Bikram Yoga studio.
We chat for a few more minutes and then hang up, promising to talk again this weekend. I still have fifteen minutes before I have to leave, so I quickly check my Instagram and “like” some of Zander’s recent pictures, leaving a mushy comment on a selfie of the two of us from a premiere we went to last week. Then I flip through Ally’s pictures and “like” a bunch of those, too, even though the sight of her sharing fries and doing makeovers with people who aren’t me is more than a little depressing.
On a whim, I check to see if Bri has an account. There are about a zillion Brianna Harrises, though, and I don’t have time to look through all the little icons to see if any of them feature light-green eyes behind black-rimmed glasses, framed by red waves. I switch over to Twitter instead, respond to the few tweets from people I actually know, plus a couple from random fans, and then toss my phone into my purse.
My mother’s in the kitchen, and I pass through on my way out to give her a peck on the cheek and accept an apple in return. I’ve told her a million times that I get queasy during yoga if I eat right beforehand, but she’s afraid I’ll pass out if I don’t. As usual, she won that argument, the same way she’s been winning every minor battle since she and my father allowed me to go on my first audition when I was a kid, on the condition I prove myself “responsible enough to handle it,” whatever that means. The major fight — to continue on this path or to go to college — is still a quiet, passive-aggressive push-and-pull…for now.
But for all that my parents infuriate me sometimes, I know they love me and want to make sure I’m well taken care of. And if I move out on my own, who knows how long it’ll be before I find someone else who’ll feel that way about me?
I show up to yoga a few minutes late for the eight o’clock class, my rolled-up mat stabbing me in the butt as I try to let myself into the chokingly hot room as quietly as possible. Raoul, the teacher, just twitches his nose when he spots me; he’s used to me showing up late, even if he’s not terribly Zen about it. I roll out my mat and move quickly through the two poses I missed before catching up to everyone else at the tail end of Awkward Pose.
“Calm” isn’t exactly the word anyone would use to describe me, but the whole ninety minutes of chill-out time kinda works for me, even if the room is a bajillion degrees. I like having to clear my head of all the drama and obligations that fill it during the week. And as attached as I am to my phone, I’m even kinda glad Raoul would kick my ass if I so much as favorited a tweet under his watch.
So it’s pretty unsettling to look up during Standing Bow and see a familiar pair of light-green eyes making contact with mine in the mirror.
Unsettling enough that I break pose and nearly fall on my butt.
In the mirror, I can see Brianna struggling not to laugh as I literally bend over backward to avoid crashing to the ground. I suck a curse back into my lungs, knowing that while Raoul will forgive lateness, he’ll throw a total fit if anyone dares disturb the quiet sanctity of the studio. We’re not even allowed to wipe off our sweat under his watch. He’s almost as psycho as Jade.
Almost.
I get narrowed eyes from Raoul, but he’ll never get truly pissed at me because I once snuck him an old sweatband of Liam’s. (Our little secret, of course.) I force myself back into position and close my eyes, shutting out the rest of the world, including Brianna Harris.
But I swear, I can still feel her eyes on me.
It’s easy enough to look away through the next four poses — they all involve looking in directions other than forward anyway — but when we shift into Tree Pose, our eyes meet again, just for an instant, and I can’t help wondering what she’s doing here. I’ve been coming to this class for a year, and I’ve never once seen her. If she’s spying on me again…