Page 4 - My FlipBook

The words inside the moon are beautiful. It’s a poem of
sorts. About the tide, maybe. Or perhaps it’s a metaphor, but
the words are mesmerizing. Waves of stars, and saves and wars.
Behind me, I hear the hiss of whispering.
I glance over my shoulder.
Great.
The Sophias (yeah, they’re both named Sophia) are here.
They accompanied me—courtesy of my dad’s wallet—to a
Vagabonds show a couple years back, way before the band’s
hiatus. We got along for a while, the Sophias and me. We hung
out, talked about the band, stocked up at Sephora together,
and binged on coffee and scones. Then one day, on a text they
didn’t realize was a group text, I caught them talking about me.

Sophia 1: She’s kind of weird isn’t she?
Sophia 2: We’re all sort of weird.
Sophia 1: But she’s like not a GOOD weird.
Sophia 1: She thinks she’s so cool cuz she’s been
on stage.
Sophia 2: She’s not even that good.
Sophia 1: Must be nice to have Daddy hook you up
for the rest of your life.
Sophia 2: And can you say obsessed? Is she capable
of talking about anything besides Broadway and
bands and sheet music?

Um . . . obviously I’m capable, but what else of importance
is there to discuss? Did I complain about their constant chatter
about this guy or that guy, or mascara this, or lipliner that? It’s
not like the Sophias can handle a debate about the economy.
What else were we supposed to talk about?

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