We, Like, Share Everything
“Does this top make me look straight?” Applette twists herself as she examines her reflection.
“It’s a t-shirt,” Peaches replies as she bounces her rear on Applette’s bed.
“That’s not what I asked, Peaches,” Applette whines as she combs her pitch black hair from her brow. “I know it’s a t-shirt, but does it make me look hetero?”
“Oh. Sorry.” Peaches momentarily ceases her bouncing. “Yeah, it looks super straight, Antoinette. Straight girls wear t-shirts all the time.”
Applette glares at Peaches. “I told you to call me Applette.” She tucks her shirt into her jeans.
“Right. Sorry, Applette,” Peaches says sincerely, resuming her bouncing. “Why am I calling you that again?”
“Oh my god, girl,” Applette groans as she turns away from the mirror to fully face the ginger girl. “I told you already. Our names are dumb, and we’ll have more synergy this way.”
“Synergy. Right.” Peaches nods her head enthusiastically. “I like my name though. I don’t think it’s dumb.”
“Peach is a stupid name, Peaches,” Applette insists. “And so is Antoinette. We’re never going to get a date to prom with names like that.”
“But everybody already knows our names…” Peaches purses her lips in thought. “And If I’m Peach, but now my name is Peaches, then why aren’t you Antoinettes?”
“Peach. I mean, Peaches. You’re my best friend–you know this, but sometimes you’re as dumb as rocks.” Applette sighs. “Synergy. You’re Peaches, I’m Applette.”
“Shouldn’t you be Apples?”
“Who came in first place for the regional spelling bee, Peaches?” Applette smiles smugly.
“That blind guy,” Peaches responds. “Eddie Dubroix.”
“Okay, but who came in second place?”
“You did,” Peaches says with a proud beam.
“Exactly,” Applette says, tilting her chin to the air with pride. “So I think I know what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t think I see the correlation… Applette…”
“Eddie Dubroix didn’t see the correlation either,” Applette says. “If I was listening to thousands of hours of audio spelling books or whatever instead of reading like a chump, I probably could’ve spelled correlation too.”
“I think the word you got wrong was coronation, not correlation," Peaches gently corrects. “I remember because you asked the judges for the definition like nine times, and when you got to the third ‘R’ you just kept saying ’R, R, R, R,’ and then you cried on stage for almost ten whole minutes until the janitor came to calm you down.”
“It was a stressful situation!” Applette wraps her arms around herself.
“And then you cried even harder when I said that it was okay because nobody saw you mess up, since spelling bees are boring, and there wasn’t really anyone in the audience.”
“Okay, Peaches. You have a really great memory. Let’s just–”
“Then you cried so much you got the hiccups and they had to call the school nurse,” Peaches continues with a giggle.
Applette crosses her arms more tightly. “Are you done?”
“And the next day everyone was calling you ’Queen Crybaby’ because the whole thing was in the school newspaper.”
“I’ll wait,” Applette says, a light venom in her tone.
“I thought ’Queen Crybaby’ was a little juvenile, to be honest,” Peaches laments. “I would’ve called you, like, Queen Cornea Lactation or something.”
“Queen Cornea Lactaction?”
“Yeah, because corneas are, like, in the eye, and–”
“I get it, Peaches,” Applette says with a roll of her eyes. “Queen Cornea Lactation. That’s awful.”
“If you’re gonna get bullied, wouldn’t you rather it be in good taste?”
“Peaches, it’s okay to have inside thoughts.”
Peaches’ eyes seem to sparkle. “Like about women?”
“What? No. Don’t think about women, just…” Applette runs a hand through her hair in frustration. “Think harder. Use that beautiful redheaded brain of yours for something other than school. You don’t have to share every single thought that pops into your head.”
“Actually,” Peaches begins as she picks her phone up from the mattress and starts to tap and scroll. “On May 9th, at twenty-one hundred hours and nine minutes, you said–and I quote; ‘How could you not tell me about this? We’re best friends. We tell each other everything.’ Remember?”
Applette grits her teeth. “You let me walk around all day with toilet paper hanging from my pants!”
“That’s because on April 19th, at nine hundred hours, you said–and I quote; ‘You don’t have to tell me everything, Peach,’ after I told you about the dream I had where I was in the corner of the hotel room, and you were on the bed, but your nose grew an inch every time you lied, so I lifted up my legs to–”
Applette watches as Peaches mimes her dream. “Stop writing down everything I say!” Applette balls her fists. “Why are you writing everything down in military time anyway?”
“It’s more efficient,” Peaches explains with innocent eyes.
“How is it more efficient?”
“You didn’t have to ask me if it was morning or evening, right?”
“Oh my god, Peaches.” Applette slaps her own forehead. “Just stop writing down everything I say. Okay?”
“Okay,” Peaches hesitantly agrees. “I really think I should write that last one down though, because my memory isn’t that great. I mean, it’s almost photographic, but not like 8K. I have notes for everything. It’s how I remember everything about you. Don’t you have notes about me?”
“Normal, straight, girls don’t have notes about their best girl friends, Peaches.”
“They don’t?” Peaches seems to contemplate the remark. “How do you remember how many times I used the bathroom last week then?”
Applette’s lips tighten. “Do you know how many times I went to the bathroom last week, Peaches?”
“Yes, but I added a few columns to my spreadsheet and I’m missing some data,” Peaches says as she taps away at her phone again. “Let’s start with June 1st. How many times–”
“I said to stop writing everything down! It’s creeping me out!”
Peaches pouts. “Well, if I can’t tell you everything, and I can’t write it down, what am I supposed to do?”
“Tell your therapist,” Applette replies with exasperation.
“About your irregular movements?”
“W-what? I’m not irregular, Peaches! Don’t talk about me! Just tell her normal stuff. About you.”
“I can’t,” Peaches whines. “She has these really pretty eyes that just make me want to be, like, honest with her and stuff. I can’t tell her anything.”
“Really?” Applette feels her annoyance dissipate. “Do you have a picture?”
“No,” Peaches says, a layer of disappointment in her voice. “She says taking pictures of people without their permission is rude.”
“You told her about, like, the public spaces law and stuff?”
“Yeah,” Peaches says bitterly. “She says that a therapist’s office isn’t a public space.”
“What’s the name of her practice?” Applette pulls her phone from her pocket. “I bet she has a picture on her website.”
“I can’t tell you that, Applette. There’s, like, patience-doctor confidence or something. I read it in one of my dad’s books.”
Applette raises an eyebrow. “You mean hippos?”
“Yeah, the hippos,” Peaches confirms. “I can’t tell you because then her private parts would be violated.”
“That sounds wildly inaccurate, but you’re the future med student,” Applette relents. “Still… We’re best friends. Can’t you tell me? I’m obviously not going to violate her private parts or anything. We, like, share everything with each other. You and me.”
“Actually…” Peaches glances at her phone. “At nineteen hundred hours–”
“I just told you to stop writing down everything I say! Twice! Or maybe three times. I’m already losing track.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t let me write that down, so I’m losing track too. I don’t know what you want me to do…”
“You’re losing track? There’s nothing to keep track of Peaches,” Applette snaps. “Don’t track anything!”
“B-but…” Tears begin to well in Peaches’ eyes.
“Okay, okay. Calm down. Don’t cry. Forget everything I said–or remember it all. I don’t care.” Applette takes a deep breath. “Let’s just focus on the mission.”
Peaches wipes a tear from her eye before it falls. “Mission Invitation?”
“Mission Invitation,” Applette confirms. “We graduate in a week and a half, we’re in our sexual prime, we’re old enough to smoke and–”
“We don’t smoke,” Peaches states in confusion.
“I’ve been thinking about picking it up,” Applette replies thoughtfully. “It fits my whole hetero aesthetic. Anyway, shush. My point is that we’re women now–or we will be, after one magical, life-changing night with Tommy Matthew Sails. I can feel my vagina tingling already.”
“Me too, me too!” Peaches bounces excitedly on the bed. “It’s tingling so much! Penis. Mmm, I love penis.” Peaches gestures her hands and squeezes the air.
“Stop that,” Applette demands. “It looks like you’re squeezing a pair of invisible tits.”
“I’m The Tit Goblin!” Peaches lurches towards Applette with a growl.
“Stop it!” Applette backs up from Peaches with a laugh she can’t contain, tripping over her own feet, her bottom landing on the carpeted floor. “That’s not hetero!”
Mission Invitation wasn’t just any mission. It was the mission to end all missions. At least that’s how Applette framed it. It was a mission that hinged on the dynamic Applette and Peaches had fostered for nearly a lifetime; they shared everything.
The mission parameters were simplistic, though achieving them would be of no such simplicity. The first step was, obviously, dress. There would be no chance of winning Tommy Sail’s heart without the most immaculate and alluring fashion. Peaches had brought over what little wardrobe she still kept at her own home. Most of her clothes had already found a permanent home in Applette’s drawers, closet, laundry hamper, and floor. With their combined wardrobe, Applette and Peaches outfitted and planned their tops, bottoms, shoes, accessories, and undergarments for each day of the school week.
“How comes you always get the new panties?” Peaches holds up a pair of stained white panties with a unicorn pattern and holes in them. “I always get your old ones.”
“Because you always wear them twice,” Applette snaps back. “I don’t wear and tear them as much as you do.”
“I’m not sure that makes sense, Applette. You wear them for days at a time, so, like, isn’t that more wear and tear?” Peaches places the panties on the bed, lining them up with a pair of ripped jeans and a crop-top. She eyes the lacy pink thong that Applette is matching with her own outfit. “I buy all the expensive ones with my allowance. It’s only fair I get one or two. You only buy cheap ones.”
“Fine. Take it. Just stop yapping.” Applette throws the thongs at Peaches. “You’re gonna have to wash them yourself.”
Peaches clumsily catches the panties before they hit her face. “T-thanks…” The raw scent is potent in her hands. “They smell fine to me. Earthy.”
Applette flicks her hair in the air with a proud smile. “My natural scent is going to be the reason we take Tommy Sails to prom.”
After coordinating their outfits, the duo venture into the kitchen for dinner. Applette had grown into quite the competent cook since her birthday. Her father had insisted that Applette learn to fend for herself. Tonight, he had gone to dinner and a movie with a girlfriend, leaving the culinary domain solely in Applette’s hands. She places two waffles in the toaster, pulls milk from the fridge, and a tin of cocoa powder from the cupboard. She pours cereal into a bowl, followed by the milk–the correct method–and when the waffles are ready, she plates them and pours the perfect amount of syrup. The trick was to pour syrup onto the top waffle, flip it onto the next, flip the whole stack, and finish it off with one last drizzle of syrup. Gordon Ramsay would be proud. She pours the rest of the milk into a cup and stirs cocoa powder in it.
When dinner is ready, Peaches sits opposite of Applette. Applette places two spoons into the bowl of cereal and the plate of waffles and cup of chocolate milk between them. The girls eat the cereal, scooping the sugary bits into their respective spoons, Applette more gluttonously than Peaches. Applette soon abandons the milky delicacy and picks up her fork and knife to dive into the waffles. Letting the waffles grow stale and cold would be a sin against her tastebuds. Each bite of the waffles tastes even better than usual–the benefit of putting in the work herself. Peaches picks up the cereal bowl and tilts it into her mouth, gulping down the last of the milk and letting out a wet burp.
“Hey!” Peaches puts the bowl back down. “You didn’t save me any waffles!”
“Hm?” Applette’s eyes widen, her lips still wrapped around the fork. She opens her mouth and hangs her tongue out, letting the half-chewed last bite of waffle fall back down to the plate. “Sorry. I can make more. I was hungry.” Applette pushes the bottle of syrup towards Peaches and then gets up to pull more waffles from the freezer.
“You can be so selfish sometimes,” Peaches mutters as she pours syrup onto the mush. “I don’t need more anyway. I already picked out my prom dress, so I’ve gotta keep my figure.” Peaches pokes her fork into the mushy waffle and brings it to her mouth.
“Fuck,” Applette says with a sudden realization, freezing with the box of waffles still in her hand. “I didn’t think about that. We’re probably gonna need two dresses, aren’t we?”
“We could always swap back and forth,” Peaches says as she chews. “We just have to be the same size.”
“Did you get a long dress? I’m like a foot taller than you.” Applette places the waffles back in the freezer.
Peaches swallows her mush. “It’s kind of short, but it could be like a mini-dress on you, Applette.”
“Why would you get a long dress, Peaches?” Applette sits down again, picking up the cup of chocolate milk. “You’re gonna give people the wrong idea. Straight girls show off their assets. You’re gonna be too covered up. At least I’ll look good though.. Is it blue? Blue’s my color.”
“I-it’s green,” Peaches admits. “I’m sorry, Applette. I should’ve asked you.”
“Ugh. Don’t worry about it. You probably didn’t get the right color anyway.” Applette takes a generous sip of the chocolate milk, her face twisting in disgust before spitting the contents back into the cup. “What the fuck?” Applette sticks out her tongue, wiping it on the back of her hand. “This chocolate milk is disgusting.”
“Let me try,” Peaches says, taking the cup from Applette. She sips from the cup then smacks her lips. “I think this is coffee…”
“Coffee?”
“You must have put coffee grounds in it instead of cocoa powder,” Peaches theorizes before taking another sip.
Applettes looks over her shoulder at the tin on the kitchen counter. “Oh, fuck. You’re right,” she says. “Anyway, we’ve got homework to do.”
“I already did our homework, Applette.” Peaches takes another sip of the coffee concoction.
“No, you idiot.” Applette rolls her eyes. “I mean prom homework. We only have a week to pull off Mission Invitation.”
“Five or six days actually,” Peaches says, still sipping away.
“Okay, loser. I’ve been doing some reading,” Applette says.
“Smutty stuff? Sappy stuff?”
“No,” Applette denies the allegation. “I mean, yes, but no. I’ve been reading about reading. Have you ever heard of Sun Choo?”
“Sun Tzu?”
“Yeah, whatever.” Applette waves her hand dismissively. “He wrote this book called The Art of Seduction.”
“I think you mean The Art of War, Applette,” Peaches corrects, briefly lowering her cup. “And I don’t think he really wrote it. Historians believe–”
“Blah, blah, blah,” Applette interrupts. “All is fair in love and war. Sun Choo said that. I figure we stay up tonight, skim it, and find out what works on Tommy Sails.”
“But I don’t think the book is about–”
“Hurry up. You can buy the ebook online, and then I’ll listen while you read,” Applette says as she leaves the kitchen, vanishing around the corner back towards her bedroom. “I’ll take mental notes!”
Peaches gulps the rest of her coffee and follows after Applette. True to her word, Applette lays back in her bed as Peaches sits and reads aloud the book. Applette listens to Peaches’ struggling dictation. She closes her eyes and lets the sweet tones of Peaches’ voice lull her to sleep.
Applette dreams of Peaches and cream.
