HOW TO FAKE NORMAL

MEET THE CHAOS

Jules arrived like a hurricane in lipstick and combat boots. She kicked the door open with the flair of someone who’d never been told “indoor voice” or “private space.” Her tote bag hit the couch with a thud, followed by a coffee cup that smelled like ambition and poor decisions.

“You need a plan,” she announced, not even sitting down. “Or a sugar daddy. Or a viral t****k. I’m open to all three.”

“I don’t dance,” I muttered from the floor, where I’d been lying dramatically for the past hour.

“Neither do sugar daddies. That’s why they pay people.”

I sat up. “I think I’m allergic to ambition.”

“You’re allergic to effort,” she corrected. “There’s a difference.”

She pulled out a flyer like it was a winning lottery ticket. “Temp agency. They’ll hire anyone with a pulse and a vague sense of direction.”

I squinted at the paper. It had clip-art people smiling like they’d just discovered inner peace and a tax refund. “These people look suspiciously optimistic.”

“They’re stock photos,” Jules said. “Their happiness isn’t real. Just like yours.”

I groaned. “I’m not built for corporate life.”

“You’re not built for any life that requires punctuality.”

She started rummaging through my closet, which was mostly hoodies, sarcasm, and one blazer I wore to funerals and failed interviews. “You need something that says ‘I’m responsible but quirky.’”

“You mean something that says ‘I’m broke but trying’?”

She held up the blazer. “This says ‘I have a LinkedIn profile and unresolved trauma.’”

I took it. “Perfect.”

Jules tossed me a pair of black flats. “These say ‘I’m approachable but I will absolutely ghost you.’”

I nodded. “That’s my entire personality.”

She sat on the edge of the couch and looked at me seriously for the first time all day. “You’re smart. You’re funny. You’re weird in a marketable way. You just need someone to pay you for it.”

I blinked. “You think I’m marketable?”

She shrugged. “In the right lighting.”

I laughed, then paused. “What if I fail again?”

“Then we eat donuts and cry. But you try.”

I stared at the flyer. It was flimsy and hopeful and slightly bent from her bag. Like me.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll go.”

She clapped. “Yes! I’ll drive you. But I’m not stopping for gas, so pray we make it.”

I grabbed my bag, my blazer, and my last shred of dignity. “If I die in your car, tell people I was brave.”

“I’ll tell them you were dramatic.”

“Same thing.”

We walked out the door together—me, Jules, and the chaos we called friendship.