Boys Like Him

Girls' night

The final bell hadn't even finished echoing through the hallway when Mariah snatched my wrist and hauled me toward the school gates.

I barely had time to sling my bag over my shoulder.

"Where are we going..?"

"C'mon, you're coming to my place. I'm helping you pick an outfit, you'll be feeding me, and we're having a full-on girls' night!"

"I have homework," I started, but she yanked me toward the gates with a laugh that bounced off the concrete walls.

"Homework survives without you for a few hours. Trust me."You need it."

The moment we stepped outside, we nearly walked straight into her boyfriend, tall, tatted, smelling like mint gum and motorcycle oil, who instantly pinned her to his car and kissed her as she owed him overdue rent.

Mariah squealed into his mouth, arms thrown over his shoulders.

I froze mid-step.

"Oh... wow. Okay. I'll just... yeah."

I turned around like a malfunctioning robot.

"Nope!" Mariah grabbed me mid-kiss-break, hooking my elbow so I couldn't escape. "Don't run. He's seen you like a thousand times."

Her boyfriend grinned at me. "Hey, Nyelle."

"H-hi."

I awkwardly waved like a preschooler saying hi to their dentist.

They kissed one more time, loudly, enthusiastically, unnecessarily, and then he hopped into his car.

"Text me when you get home!" he called out.

"I'll text you if you deserve it!" Mariah shouted back.

Then she sighed dramatically, fanning herself. "God, I love that man."

I laughed, falling into step beside her as we crossed the street to her little red sedan. "You two are disgustingly cute."

"We're disgusting, period." She winked as we climbed in. "Seatbelt. We have deep things to discuss."

The car smelled like coconut body spray and leftover fries, and the AC was doing its best impersonation of a dying dragon.

Mariah tapped the steering wheel to an upbeat song as she pulled out of the school lot.

"So! Clothes. We are curating you into fashion perfection."

"I... do I really need this?" I muttered, slumping into the passenger seat.

"Yes. Yes, you do." She jabbed the steering wheel for emphasis, then tossed me a mischievous grin. "And while we're at it, life talk."

We drove through the buzzing streets, windows down, wind tossing our hair, and for a while, I just listened as she spoke.

" Ah! Finals!" Mariah exhaled, sticking a piece of gum into her mouth. " A few more months and boom, we're out."

"Out to where?" I asked with a half-laugh. "The streets?"

"Hopefully not."

She chewed thoughtfully. "I want my salon to actually take off, you know? A real storefront, not just me renting that tiny space near the bus stop. I want something my kids, if I have any, can point at proudly. Something I built."

I watched her profile, the confidence, the resilience, the fire.

"You will," I affirmed softly. "You're already halfway there."

She shrugged, then turned the music up.

"What about you? You still want to do educational therapy aside from being a professional chef?"

I nodded slowly. "Yeah. I want to work with kids who struggle with what I struggled with. And I want to create programs that actually work, not just worksheets and empty encouragement."

I tucked my hair behind my ear. "I want to make a difference. Even if it's small."

Mariah smiled at me.

"You're going to be amazing."

The highway hummed beneath us.

The sun dipped lower, turning the sky pink-gold.

We rolled the windows down and let the wind slap us in the face while we belted out the song playing on the radio, off-key, loud, and joyful.

We arrived at her apartment, small but cozy, cluttered in that lived-in way.

She tossed her keys onto a dish by the door.

"Shoes off, bag down, trauma at the entrance," she declared.

I snorted. "If I leave my trauma at the door, someone's gonna steal it."

"We can only hope."

She kicked off her sneakers and stretched. "Damn, my feet are sweaty."

"Mariah!" I gagged dramatically.

"It's the truth!"

She laughed, throwing herself onto the couch. "Ugh, this weather. Shower. Now."

"You go first."

"Nope. If I go first, I'll use all the water. I know myself."

Fine.

I headed into the bathroom, letting the warm spray wash the day off my skin, feeling my muscles loosen, and the knot in my chest finally uncoil.

When I returned to the living room, towel in my hair, Mariah was singing into a remote like a microphone, dancing horribly.

I laughed so hard I almost slipped.

Her shower was faster, though I did hear her swearing at least twice about the heat.

"Okay," she said, coming out in her robe. "Food?"

"Yes, please."

We cooked together, bumping hips, laughing, stealing bites of half-cooked food.

It was two girls standing in a warm kitchen, chopping vegetables to the rhythm of a Drake song, dreaming out loud, shoulder to shoulder.

When the food was done, we sat cross-legged on her couch with our bowls, the TV playing some random home renovation show we barely watched.

Mariah leaned her head on my shoulder.

"You know," she mumbled, "this right here? This is our soft era. We deserve this."

I smiled into my spoon.

"Yeah. We do."

"And tomorrow," she added, nudging me, "we'll make you look so good you'll forget every bad thing that's ever happened to you."

I rolled my eyes, but the warmth remained.