“Nope, definitely not.” I shake my head so fast the illuminated apple on her laptop doubles. “Let’s start fresh.”

“You at least have to tell me what it was about so I can know where to go from there.”

“No way.” I trace my finger on the glass, where cool drops of water are starting to condense. “We gotta just start over.”

She glares at me and I glare back at her. My eyes are fully lubricated and good to stay open for the next two and a half minutes if they have to. She blinks first and I cackle. “What did you write about?” I ask.

She points to the postcard on her refrigerator that says ¡Hola from Spain! with two cartoons dancing cheek to cheek. “I wrote about me and Hilary’s trip to Europe over the summer and how it made me want to study Spanish in college or maybe art history and just eat up the world. I could show you if you want.”

She turns her laptop to face me. I rest my chin in my hands and offer to read aloud to her because that at least will guarantee I won’t fall asleep.

“Go for it,” she says, and closes her eyes like the delicious, overconfident ham she is.

“Ahem!” I say, using my empty water glass as a microphone. “‘With just one look upon the garish decorations splayed across the Gaudi House Museum in Barcelona, the clandestine exchanges between patrons experiencing for the first time the eponymous designs, I too suddenly understood the thrill of such outrageous, one-of-a-kind mosaics, and knew that I would not rest until I’d seen the plethora of history and culture Spain had to offer.’”

I look up at her to find she’s smiling. With her eyes closed. “What the hell do all those words mean? And who talks like that?”

“It’s good, right?”

I listen to the dishwasher laboring over the plates and glasses it didn’t get dirty but still somehow has to clean. “I mean, it just doesn’t sound like you at all. When you talk about Spain, you talk about the club you got into and how you drank sangria and danced all night long in tall heels that you’re probably gonna have to see an orthopedic surgeon about but it was so worth it because for once you found people who want to break it down all night just as intensely as you do.”

“Well, duh, but I can’t talk about that.” She flicks me in the forehead. “The point is to come off in a very particular way, like cultured and curious and smart and—oh, come on, Cham, don’t make that face.”

“I’m not making a face,” I say, fixing my face, then breaking into a smile. “Listen, I’m not writing some phony bullshit essay about some life-changing event some rando adults want to hear.”

Abigail slides a bottle of nail polish across the counter and unscrews it. It’s a pinky-bluish-purple shade of iridescent marvelousness. “What do you want to do, then?”