My Best Friend's Brother

There was nothing different about this school. Not like Dad had promised.

“It’ll be a new start,” he had told me earlier that day, “I promise – the school is different, fun, uh . . .”

He couldn’t finish, because, really, he knew he was wrong. “But it’s . . . Fun,” he repeated, before rubbing his hair with his knuckles so it made a slight scratching sound. “You’ll love it,” he had added before going to get dressed.

And there I was surrounded by the usual clichés – popular kids, jocks, nerds, emos, just to name a few – with the same off-white walls, busted up lockers with chipped paint that was flaking off, and . . .

“What the,” I managed to mutter as the slushie hit me full on in the face, stinging my eyes and filling my nose painfully. I heard the laughter of many students.

“Welcome to New York, bitch!” somebody yelled, and more deep cackles and girly giggles flooded my ears. It was only a matter of time before I felt myself being pulled up and led to somewhere that my grape-slushie filled eyes wouldn’t allow me to see.

“Sorry about that,” the person, a girl, said to me kindly. Her voice was soft, like an angel. Well, if I’d ever – I highly doubted it – meet an angel, that’s what I’d imagine they’d sound like.

A damp tissue was passed to me, and I wiped my eyes, ears, nose and lips with it, as the girl presumably watched and giggled. I splashed my face with more water – I’d realised I was in a bathroom, propped up next to the sinks. The girl, from the other side, smiled.

“Again,” she said, “sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I blinked a few times, rubbing my eyes with my hand. When I got a chance to look at the girl properly, I was shocked to see that, well, she wasn’t as pretty as I’d imagined.

She had glasses, like me, though she didn’t wear contacts, and they weren’t as small as mine (not that I wore them ever, so it didn’t really matter). Her hair, thick, black and curly, was pulled back into a ponytail, and she had a small, pink clip pulling back her bangs.

I, on the other hand, had thin, curly, half-blone half-brunette hair, that fell down my back loosely. She seemed to be assessing me, too, and when we caught each other staring at one and other, we laughed.

“So, you’re new here, right?” she asked after we’d finished laughing embarrassingly. Her tone was still sweet, though her eyes were dark, locking on me like a series of 20 questions. I gulped.

“Yeah,” I told her, and started playing with my hands awkwardly. She smiled, and then broke out into a giggle, before her hand came rushing to her mouth.

“Sorry,” she said, again. “You remind me of myself. I moved here recently, to be with my mom and brother, while my dad’s still in California on work.”

I pulled my cardigan around my stomach tighter, the feeling of home hitting me harder. California, she had said. Home, was how it sounded in my head.

“I’m Elle,” she carried on, extending her hand. I shook it, smiling back at her politely. “You?” she asked.

“Riley,” I said, scrunching my nose. “It’s a boy’s name, I know.”

“No!” she said, grinning now. “I like it. It’s unique.”

“Weird,” I corrected her, but softened my tone as she blushed, “so, does that always happen?”

“What?”

“The slushie,” I said, “does that always happen to newbies?”

“No,” she said, and my eyes widened in shock. “I mean, not just to newbies,” she added, and I nodded understandably. “Those guys are jerks. Ignore them.”