She is Not Made of Roses

ten: i put on my chanel espadrilles one foot at a time, just like anybody else

TEN: I PUT ON MY CHANEL ESPADRILLES ONE FOOT AT A TIME, JUST LIKE ANYBODY ELSE

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AURORA CAN’T QUITE believe what she’s hearing.

“I’m sorry, but you want me to what?”

She and Rosie sit on a pile of throw pillows on Rosie’s unmade bed, deep engaged within the midst of a Project Runway marathon in what is their 201st sleepover (they started keeping count in seventh grade – and at the last sleepover, for their two-hundredths celebration, they put temporary pink hair dye in Lewis’s shampoo). And for some reason, Rosie’s always loved to sleep with a mountain of unnecessary pillows underneath her head, and Aurora’s propped up on them, gazing down at Rosie skeptically as she paints her nails, listening to Tim Gunn’s voice buzz throughout the room.

Rosie wipes the excess polish off on the bottle, carefully moving to coat her pinky finger with a thick layer of magenta. “It was Ella’s idea. She texted me after I left Frosting,” she explains. “She thinks it’d be a good idea if we all bonded.”

“And why is that?” Aurora snaps, on the defensive. “I don’t need to get along with Princess or the little choir boy.”

“I’d like you to,” Rosie urges, releasing Aurora’s hand after she’d finished. She caps the nail polish, reaching over to set it on her nightstand.

Blowing on her nails carefully, Aurora looks up at her best friend with worrisome eyes, “And why’s that?” She asks, “Since when do you care about what anyone thinks of us?”

“It’s different with Ella and Peter,” Rosie insists. “They’re my friends. I want them to be your friends, too.”

“I’m a lone wolf,” she tells her, reaching over a throw pillow to clumsily grab a piece of pop corn in between the palms of her hands. “I don’t need any more friends.”

“Oh, please. You love being the center of attention.”

“I’m not debating that,” Aurora says with a shrug, grabbing the rest of the bowl and nearly nicking her freshly painted nails on the glass. “But I don’t have to be friends with the people admiring me.”

“Well, they won’t be admiring you,” Rosie says flatly, snatching the popcorn away from her. “We’ll be bowling”—she scowls—“Also, be careful with that paint job. It’s fresh.”

“I will, Comrade Rosie. Yeesh,” Aurora groans, lying back against her bed. From her spot on the bed, she can hardly see Project Runway past Rosie’s stone set frown. She sighs, “Anyway, what I’m saying is that I’m just…skeptical.”

“Skeptical? Of what?”

She scoffs, “That by the end of the day, we’ll all be making daisy chains and sitting around in a circle singing kumbaya, smoking from the good ol’ peace pipe.”

Rosie stiffens, shaking her head, “Yeah, not so comfortable with the cultural appropriation of the Native American peace pipe, but like, I was thinking maybe nachos, or something—”

“—You know what I mean!” She snaps back, so impassioned she nearly slams her freshly coated nails against the bed.

Rosie frowns, giving her a desperate look. “Come on. It’s just for the day. It’ll just be you, me, Ella, Peter, Raj, and Chester—”

Aurora’s eyes widen, her lips falling ajar, “Wait. Raj and Chester too?”

“Well, yeah,” she says simply. “I thought that was obvious.”