The Other Girl

Chapter VIII

The clique—Quinn, Whitney, Stacey, Karen, and I—had known each other for different amounts of time, but we've been through so much of our childhood together. It's hard to imagine life after university when we'll pass from "best friends" to the adult "friends" label that's merely a polite, overly kind way of saying "acquaintances".

My mother went to school with Calum's father, Samuel, who was apparently an egotistical rich boy back in the day.

"He'd ask girls to dances and drop them like tissues afterward, pretending that it was their idea and not his," she'd told me with distaste. "Thank god he matured by university or he would have been insufferable."

Despite the fact that they were best friends during uni—I try not to dwell on the fact that their friendship may have been more than just the average "friendship"—the two now barely talk to each other, much too engrossed with their daily lives. Other than obligatory exchanges over phone on holidays and perhaps the invite to a gala now or then, the two may as well be co-workers. That's not to say that they're no longer friends—they're just not as close anymore.

Future aside, there are a few moments in our lives that have really tied the clique together. Among those include comforting Stacey after her breakup with Darrien, Stacey and Karen's big fiasco, and standing up for Quinn.

Seventh grade was an experimental year for both genders and the girls were familiarizing themselves with the wonders of cosmetics. Most girls were only brave enough to brush on some mascara and maybe eyeliner, but Quinn—after raving about helping out at her mother's studio during weekends—tried her hand at the awe-inspiring 'smoky-eye' look.

It didn't look that bad, although it wasn't good either since Quinn was only beginning her journey into the world of metallic lipstick and gel eyeliner. Still, it drew unwanted attention since there were only a handful of people with eyeshadow on.

"Does it look weird?" I remember her asking, a worried frown on her face. We had all reassured her that it looked fine—that she was beautiful and was worth more than judgements from others—but our thoughts were not reciprocated by all.

"The goth girl thing you have going on really suits you, Maynard," a boy—Mark—had teased during lunch one day. "You gotta hide all of that, unlike Stella and Whitney here."

"Shut up, Mark," Karen had snapped, shooting up onto her feet in Quinn's defense. "Take your idiodicy somewhere else."

"I'm being honest here," he had defended himself with a grin, looking around to the gathering crowd for support. "Stella and Whitney don't need makeup to be pretty, but unfortunately I can't say the same for you and Quinn."

"Excuse me?" I had asked sharply, rising as well.

"You should leave," Whitney had advised,standing and looking Mark—now fidgety and slightly pink—in the eyes.

"Girls! I didn't say anything wrong," Mark had said, looking around for support. "I'm just saying that Quinn's not very pretty when it comes down to it."

"If you haven't noticed, we have makeup on as well," I had ground out, purposely smudging the eyeliner on one eye to the side so that he could see. "I'm sorry you can't appreciate the time a girl puts into making herself look prettier—maybe you should leave."

"Fine! I'll leave!" Mark had retorted, retreating quickly. Cheers broke out—mainly from Calum and Chad—but we were all focused on Quinn's downcast head, eyes glistening with tears.

"Oh Stella! Now you've gone and ruined your make-up," she cried with a small sob.

"And thank god you're my friend," I responded with a grin. "Do I look like a raccoon or a zombie bride? The former's cute, but the latter has always been my dream Halloween costume."