If that’s what this friendship is always going to be, then I want no part in it. I refuse to be the miscreant to your fragile-little-rich-girl act. And yeah, I know words like “miscreant,”’cause I’m actually just as smart as you are. The only difference is that my parents can’t afford to send me to Harvard.

But, you know, who am I to complain? At least I’ve got my looks.

Gabs

Gabriela

Parisa, answer my FaceTimes!

PLEASE ignore that email. I wrote it a long time ago when I was mad and I sent it by accident.

Come on. Please don’t do this. Can we please talk about this?

You’re just going to let one screw-up undo years of friendship?

You said a lot of terrible things to me, too, but I forgave you.

Parisa, I swear I will take the bus to your house and break down your door to get you to talk to me.

Okay, I get it. You need some time and space. I’m here when you’re ready to talk to me.

Parisa

Please stop texting me and calling me. I NEVER want to speak to you again. I am blocking your number.

PARISA

I have both dreaded and looked forward to this exact moment for more than half my life, and now that it’s here, I feel numb. Maybe trying to survive the spread of a fatal virus and finding out my former best friend hates my guts has helped give me perspective… or I’m just very clinically depressed. Either way, the details of this day have veered off course from the way I’d always pictured them.

For starters, in my head, Neda was never here. She was far away, at her own Ivy League school, all the way across the country. My parents were usually absent, tied up in whatever important business meeting they had at the last minute. And Gabs would be here, squeezing my hand until my knuckles hurt. Those discrepancies aside, my fantasy usually always ended with me screaming that I got into Harvard. And now that it’s happening, and now that we’re actually here, and my parents and sister are all breathing down my neck, I wish no one was huddled around me and my computer. I want to be left alone to process the glee or disappointment or crater of emptiness on my own.

“What are you waiting for?” my mom asks impatiently. “Log in already! The suspense is killing us.”

I take a deep breath, then enter my username and password.

“I think I’m going to have another panic attack. There’s no way I got in after that interview,” I say, as the rainbow pinwheel spins around on my screen.

“It’s going to be fine,” my dad replies, probably terrified of witnessing me at my worst again. “We’re proud of you no matter what.”

“Famous last words. Here goes.”