Page 5 - My FlipBook

Let me pause for a second here.
You know the Sophias.
Both their profile pictures are close-ups of them together
because they do everything together. Occasionally, one of them
will post a picture with a guy, but the other is always in the
frame, too. Their pages are littered with posts about their latest
haul—miniskirts, makeup, hair accessories, shoes. Their bios
read something like: If you’re looking for the brightest star in the
universe, you found me. Location: on top of the world.
After I saw those texts, I realized they probably just wanted
me around for Dad’s concert connections, anyway. Fool me
once. I haven’t spoken to them since.
God, I wish I’d never brought them here, to the café at the
Factory, when we were all friends. Just their being here makes
this place feel mainstream. And I liked that this coffee shop
was mine, that it was a little slice of hipster heaven outside the
boundaries of queen bees and wannabes.
Sophia 1 cups her hand over Sophia 2’s ear. For not more
than a third of a second, our glances meet, and just after, the
two of them erupt in laughter.
Rationally, I know they’re probably not talking about me.
And even if they are, it can’t be anything of substance. But their
secrets, their laughter . . . the situation feels like judgment, like
criticism. Because they are what they are—stick thin, gorgeous,
cool, as if even the rain can’t cramp the style they have by the
boatload . . . and I am what I am—weird and alone.
I shrink a bit lower in my seat. Maybe if I duck low enough
I can simply disappear.
I yank the sleeve of my too-large sweater over my hand
and use it to wipe away the condensation on the window for a
clearer view of the street outside.

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