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You meet her in second grade. She’s the new kid, walking around with wide eyes and a binder pressed tightly to her chest. You decide to be her friend instantly, because she’s wearing leopard print leggings and clutching a 90210 lunchbox, and you even heard a rumor that she could smuggle in Vogue.
During snack time, you lean against her desk and introduce yourself. She grins while you talk, and nods excitedly, her black curls bouncing up and down. To her, you are a goddess extending an olive branch. She never stops to consider that you might be teasing her, like you would in her situation. You can’t tell if it’s cause she’s nice or cause she’s dumb, but you like her already.
--
Paris is scary. She’s either going to become president or have a mental breakdown on live TV trying.
Personality notwithstanding, she’s smart, hard-working, and desperately in need of a makeover and a couple of friends. Considering your gram is already set on Chilton, it’s a fair trade-off.
Paris solidifies you as a group. She makes sure you won’t drift away in a sea of middle school drama. Together, the three of you are unstoppable, the kind of kids who could take over the whole school.
Granted, that seems like a lot of effort.
And Madeline is way too nice for that, anyway.
--
You’d never tell Paris, because she would think you were trying to stage a coup, but you and Madeline have a tendency to hang out without her.
Nearly everyday after school you find yourself lying on her bedroom floor reading magazines, or giving each other makeovers, or talking about boys. A lot of boys. Sometimes too many boys.
Except that’s blasphemy. So you tell yourself the tight feeling in your chest is from your dumb juice cleanse and that all girls feel this way about their best friends.
--
You’re applying makeup side by side in the Chilton bathroom mirror when Madeline says, “I don’t know, Paris. Maybe you’re gay.”
Paris had been leaning, makeup-less, against the wall and complaining about “dumb Rory.” She said it like that, muttering under her breath, letting her voice edge from gravelly to shrill as she details all of the Rory’s flaws. (You don’t point out that the flaws are usually along the lines of, “She’s so smart and pretty, I bet she never works a day in her life.”)
The second Madeline says it, Paris kicks off the wall and draws near. You can almost hear the Jaws music. She’s red, her eyes piercing, her mouth just falling open. You glance over at Madeline, but she doesn’t seem to register that anything she has said might have repercussions.
“I’m just saying,” she continues, oblivious, “It’s like, Shakespeare, or something.” She whirls around, jabbing her makeup brush in the air to make the point. “The lady doth protest too much?”
“What is that supposed to mean?” asks Paris, glowering.
Madeline just shrugs. “It would explain all the problems with guys.”
At this point you have to step in, so you rest a hand on Madeline’s shoulder and say, “That’s not lesbianism, that’s just Paris being Paris.”
Paris rolls her eyes, but seems to have been diffused. She starts talking about an English assignment, Virginia Woolf or something.
You smack your lipstick together, and hand still on Madeline’s shoulder, you leave the bathroom. There is a weight in your stomach, but you try to shake it away. Madeline wasn’t being mean, you tell yourself. Her tone was innocent. She didn’t even say it would be weird.
Your hand flits up to check that your hair is in place. You give it a swipe and lower your hand, squaring your shoulders. You are Louise, you remind yourself. Boys want you, and girls want you to be their friend, and that’s what you want, too. You smile brightly, laugh in the right places. You are Louise, just a little heavier.
You feel as though the weight in your stomach should be gone by now. But even if you won’t admit it, you do have a creeping suspicion that you know why it’s there. Because if Paris Geller is a lesbian, if Paris Geller, harsh, smart, guys-hate-her-she-hates-them Paris Geller is a lesbian, then what the hell are you?
You like guys. They like you. You like fashion magazines. You like limos. You understand approximately 0% of anything Virginia Woolf ever wrote.
But you’ve snaked your arm around your best friend now, so that your hips are brushing. And god, you wish that you could kiss her.
--
She suggests you kiss. It’s out of the blue, just something she says, without even looking up from her pager. You hide your surprise and say, “Why? We’re not gay.”
“I know,” she says, “but I was thinking, we’ve got that party on Saturday, and everyone knows guys like watching girls kiss.”
“Okay,” you say.
You worry you've responded too quickly, but she just nods and kisses you.
She’s still sweet-as-pie, soft, just right, but she’s far from dumb. She’s had practice, and it shows. She licks your bottom lip and you feel like you’re drowning. But good drowning. Like, drowning in whipped cream, and feathers, and your best friend’s perfume.
And then she says something about Tristan and you understand why Virginia Woolf walked into a lake.
--
It’s Spring Break. You haven’t seen Paris or Rory in months, but it's okay. Madeline is rarely not holding your hand. (It’s always been just the two of you, somehow.)
And then you see them. In Florida. They’re the same old Paris and Rory, bickering, laughing, trying to watch The Power of Myth in their hotel room. It almost leaves a fuzzy feeling in your chest.
That night, you’re in a crowd, sniffing a red drink that may or may not be laced. The music is making the walls vibrate and there are boys all around, and it's pretty perfect. You finally decide not to risk it, and just as you start for the trash can, you see it. Paris is running for Rory, grabbing her and kissing her like… well, like she’s drowning.
Your eyebrows shoot up. You did tell her to do it, but you never thought--
Rory shoves Paris away, and you turn back to Madeline. “They might give us a run for our money,” you say.
She laughs and kisses you.
--
You corner Paris. "You're going to run out, aren't you?"
She furrows her brow. "How'd you know?"
You laugh. "You and Rory aren't exactly Spring Break people, Paris."
"Well, what? You want some tearful goodbye?"
You roll your eyes. “I just wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh?”
You nod and smirk. “You should kiss her again."
You wink and leave without looking back, ignoring Paris’ sputtering. If anyone deserves to live their truth, it’s Paris.
--
The two of you are laughing on her bed. It’s the one in her bedroom, at home, the same one you spent so many playdates in. You’re laughing, because if you don’t you will cry, because you’re single, and un-enrolled, and the last few keg parties haven’t even been that great.
She rolls over and kisses you. It’s unexpected and slow, and you take a minute to sink into it. You taste salt on her lips.
It’s not life or death anymore. You pull back and you’re in second grade again, feeling butterflies around the pretty new girl and being jealous when she asks anyone but you for a pencil.
It’s not like drowning. It’s like coming home.
She says, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
And just like that you’re laughing again, but for all the right reasons. No matter what else disappears, you have her.
--
You meet in second grade. And you never part.