My Best Friend is Weird

Maggie

“Mags, isn’t eight supposed to be a lucky number?” A soft, endearing voice drifted from my phone, precariously balanced on a pile of unfinished summer reading books. That deliciously enchanting voice belonged to none other than my best friend, Jane, who, at this very moment, thought I was bat-shit crazy. But, like, what else was new?

“Technically, in numerology, eight can signal balance-you gain something good but lose something good or bad in return. But Jane, numerology doesn’t mean shit when we’re talking about crows!” I shouted, my eyes narrowing as I stared out the window.

Perched in mocking formation, eight crows lined up perfectly, their heads twitching in unison as they seemed to size me up.

“God, they just keep staring, Jane. This is a sign-bad luck or death. Either way, this is the universe telling me I shouldn’t go to school.” I shifted off the edge of my bed and moved to yank the curtains closed. My hand curled around the phone as I pressed it closer to my ear, my legs twitching nervously beneath me. Even behind the drawn blinds, I could feel their beady little eyes watching, waiting for the big bad to make its move.

“Maggie!” Jane was on the verge of laughter. She probably would’ve burst out laughing already if she didn’t know I was dead serious. Her voice, though teasing, was soothing. “Come on, they’re just some dumb birds looking for breakfast. Your dad’s probably late feeding them. Hasn’t he been busy with that weirdo case lately?”

Her common sense cut through my paranoia like a knife, and I exhaled. Jane’s brain was always better at piecing together the world’s craziness than mine.

My fingers stopped digging little crescents into my palms and moved to rake through my hair-instant regret as I hit knots. With a groan, I rolled my eyes and swapped my phone to my other hand. I slid to the floor, glancing at the mirror across the room. The reflection that greeted me was, as usual, lackluster.

Jane would call it “eclectic” or “natural.” My mom would just nag me to use the skincare products she kept sending. Pale skin forever sunburned on the cheeks, freckles in all the wrong places, a nose that seemed to be growing despite my best efforts, pale green eyes flecked with brown on the outer rim, and, to top it all off, a wild mop of red curls. Pure ginger chaos. I looked more like my dad than my mom, except for my body, which I thankfully inherited from her. Someday, I hoped, I’d stop looking like a lanky piece of plywood and actually fill out. Adulthood couldn’t come fast enough.

“Yeah, he has been busy with that case. Wait-how do you know about that?” I asked, breaking the trance my reflection had cast. My hands fumbled with a pencil case still decorated with Disney Princess stickers. Opening it revealed my sparse makeup collection-all gifts from my mom.

“I know because it’s front-page news. I was shocked it wasn’t about those Rotherwreck assholes but about Zaddy Lorenzo instead.” Jane’s sharp laugh cut through the line.

“Please never call him ‘Zaddy’ again. That man helped us figure out periods, for God’s sake,” I said, rolling my eyes as Jane dramatically swooned.

“Fine, fine. I’ll refrain as long as you’re within earshot. But seriously, Mags, he’s front-page news. Apparently, there’s some killer on the loose-a vigilante-type who’s been offing bad guys for years. Your dad hasn’t mentioned it?”

I frowned, applying a clear lip gloss while thinking back to recent conversations with my dad. Nothing exciting came to mind, and certainly nothing about vigilante killers. He had been exhausted lately, but I’d chalked it up to his usual professor workload. If he’d been called in to consult on something like this, though, that explained a lot.

“No,” I finally answered, mashing my lips together to even out the gloss. “He’s been grumpier than usual, sleep-deprived, and he burned dinner last night. So yeah, I guess he’s been busy. Maybe I should take over cooking for a bit.” I phrased it like a question but knew it wasn’t one. I’d be stepping up until he got some rest-and, hopefully, a chance to clue me in on whatever was going on.

First things first.

I stood, grabbed my phone, and yanked the blinds open again, groaning at the sight.

“Jane, they’re still there!” I whined, thunking my head against the cold glass in defeat.

Jane’s laughter bellowed through the phone, and I couldn’t help but pout as she lost herself to the hilarity of my very serious predicament.

****

Rotherwreck High School wasn’t where I thought I’d end up. Truthfully, I pictured myself at an art school, splattering paint to express my feelings and doing unpaid labor in the name of Theater Arts. My parents wouldn’t have argued, but then I met Jane.

Meeting someone in elementary school isn’t a rare story in a town this small-it’s practically impossible not to meet everyone by then. But for us, it was like the universe tilted just slightly, and everything changed. Jane stood out from the start, wearing designer clothes and teaching the other girls how, even at five years old, you could flip a bully over your head with ease. She sparkled in front of everyone, and I knew instantly I needed to be her friend.

Why Jane chose to befriend me, I’ll never understand, but by nap time, we were already planning what our conjoined funeral would look like. A little odd? Sure. But Jane and I have always been weirdos.

The sight of the school building yanks me out of my memories. It looms in the distance, all ancient bricks and questionable upkeep. It wasn’t always Rotherwreck High. Originally, it was named after the guy who founded this town. But when the Rotherwrecks took over every business in town-and earned enough sway in county votes to matter-the name changed. The mascot, however, stayed the same.

I grin as I ride past rows of cars filled with my fellow students. Some are honking at a new driver taking way too long to park. My attention shifts to the drop-off zone, where our mascot is making an absolute spectacle. A pink ostrich, complete with an oversized tail of fake feathers, flails its arms dramatically. New students still avoid the mascot like it’s contagious, even though the school year’s been in session for months. I get it-it’s giving serious “too much caffeine” vibes.

Slowing my bike, I stop near the flurry of feathers. The mascot’s chaotic energy only ramps up as I approach. I can’t help but laugh.

“Hi, Orion,” I snicker, watching the mascot’s oversized head shake in mock disapproval. “Oh, right. Mascot rules. Hi, Sir Squawky! Go feathers!” I roll my eyes as Orion, hidden inside the ridiculous suit, squawks enthusiastically and offers a fist bump.

I grab his fist and shake it instead, doubling over with laughter as the move earns even more dramatic squawking. “See you in class later!” I shout, clicking my bike back into motion and weaving effortlessly through the crowd to the bike hut.

“You better have actually flirted with Orion this morning instead of just saying hi,” Jane’s voice cuts in behind me, sharp and sparkling as always.

I gasp, whipping around like I’ve been caught sneaking smut past my parents. Her accusing glare pins me in place, and I let out a defeated sigh.

“He isn’t Orion right now; it’s Sir Squawky,” I informed Jane, snickering at her groans of protest. Taking advantage of the moment, I admired her ever-fashionable outfit for the day.

Ever since we watched The Labyrinth, Jane’s been on a romantic goth kick, and today’s look didn’t disappoint. She wore a knee-length dress that flared at the hem like a flower in bloom. At first glance, it looked black, but the subtle movements revealed a glittering red shimmer hidden in the pleats. A red corset top cinched her waist, making her already perfect posture even more impeccable-Tyra Banks would be proud. She paired it with her signature ripped and bedazzled tights and chunky combat boots. Her shaggy, platinum blonde hair was styled with pointed edges that added an extra touch of menace, perfectly complementing her makeup. It was softer than you’d expect from her goth aesthetic-red accents around her eyes and a smooth foundation that gave her skin the look of a porcelain doll. The crowning touch? Classic black lipstick over her plump lips. Truly, Jane was an icon.

She didn’t look anything like me-all awkward bones and mismatched lines. Jane was curvy in all the right places, toned in the better ones, and her bright blue eyes could either make you feel like you’d met a goddess or scare you half to death. Jane was still growing, like me, but I couldn’t even imagine what kind of badass adult she’d become. Knowing her, she’d be unstoppable.

“Hellooo? Major Tom to Mags?” Jane’s voice sliced through my admiration, and I felt the blush on my cheeks deepen. I quickly locked up my bike and stood next to her, trying to play it cool.

“Sorry, sorry! What were you saying?” I shrugged, adjusting the straps of my beat-up brown leather bag. Compared to Jane, I looked like her crazy aunt. My jeans were a patchwork of fabric and embroidery, each rip covered with scraps I’d stitched on over the years. Jane had gotten her hands on them at one point, embroidering colorful butterflies over the patches. My sneakers had once been bright white with green flowers, but now they were caked in mud and dirt. My shirt was an old summer camp tee hidden beneath a long, rainbow-knit sweater Jane had made one summer. She called it my “grandma sweater,” but I loved it too much to care. The frayed edges at the cuffs proved how much wear it had gotten. My red curls were tamed into two French braids tucked behind a purple bandana, and my makeup-or lack thereof-was practically nonexistent compared to Jane’s flawless look.

We might have looked like the unlikeliest of friends, but when Jane hooked her arm through mine and tapped our wrists together, the sound of our friendship bracelets clinking told a different story. It was our way of showing just how much we adored and were committed to each other.

Except... this time, there was no clink.

We both paused, staring down at our wrists. Mine still had the faded pink and green braided bracelet with Jane’s name spelled out in glittery beads. Her wrist, however, was bare-pale and naked. I gasped dramatically.

“HARLOT!” I shouted, earning a few curious stares from nearby students. Jane doubled over with laughter, shaking her head.

“Wait, no! I don’t know when it fell off! Oh shit, Mags, I’m so sorry,” she managed between snorts of laughter. I kept up my dramatic act, fake sobbing and staggering as if her betrayal had struck me down.

We were still giggling as we walked into the school, Jane apologizing the whole way.

“Okay, okay, honestly? We were due for new bracelets anyway,” I admitted, holding up my wrist. “I think mine still smells like the cooking class incident from a few months back.”

Jane leaned in for a sniff, immediately gagging in mock horror. “Oh, gross!” she laughed, nudging me playfully.

“We’ll meet up this weekend to make new ones,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll handle the supplies since I lost mine first this time. Damn it.”

I nodded, already imagining the sacred ritual of replacing the bracelets. We’d made the first ones during our first summer at Girl Scouts. The rules were simple: never take them off. If one fell off, the person who lost theirs first had to buy the supplies for the replacement. If we had a fight and made up, we’d both remove and remake them to signal that our friendship was still standing strong. In those cases, we split the cost.

Maybe we put too much emphasis on those bracelets, but our friendship was something sacred. Having a symbol to represent it just felt right.

Walking into the hallowed-and perpetually stinking-halls of Rotherwreck High, I was once again reminded of how much I loathed this school. The cream-colored walls were dulled with age, and the dirt-colored floors somehow looked worse with the layers of grime and sludge tracked in from outside. The main floor was alive with chaos as students groggily woke up, their voices already rising in loud, excited gossip.

Some clung to the walls, frantically scribbling homework or test answers onto their hands, while others were firmly entrenched in their cliques. The cheerleaders moved in perfect sync, clapping out their new routine in preparation for this week’s pep rally. The student council huddled together, furiously jotting down notes as their president rattled off what I could only assume were plans-or possibly demands-straight from their phone. And then there were the jocks.

The jocks ruled the main floor. They claimed all the best spots to sit, enjoyed the prime lighting, and conveniently had direct access to the heaters in winter and the A/C in summer. At the center of it all, sitting like a king on his throne, was none other than Shane Rotherwreck.

Yes, that Rotherwreck.

Shane was the golden boy of Rotherwreck High-football captain, star quarterback, and the collective teenage dream of girls around the globe. His fluffy, golden hair swooped so perfectly it could make Prince Harry beg for his stylist’s number. Actually, I think that might’ve happened once. Or maybe I just misread a tabloid. Shane’s eyes were a vivid, mouthwatering green. Then there was his body. Buff, toned, and broad enough to be slightly intimidating. At just under six feet tall on a good day, he had the kind of presence that demanded attention, even if his slouch hinted at his lack of enthusiasm for it.

Of course, his slouch was also rumored to be from constantly accommodating the endless parade of girls vying for his attention. At least, that’s what the kinder whispers about him claimed.

Ask any student who’s not a clueless freshman, though, and you’ll hear the real consensus:

Shane Rotherwreck is a misogynistic pig who spends more time chasing girls than chasing wins on the field.

“Ugh, he’s just extra sleazeball-coded today. Maybe that’s what the crows were warning us about-’Shane Dick-for-Brains will somehow look even more puke-worthy,’” Jane’s voice sliced through my thoughts, sending me into a snort-laugh that quickly spiraled into a giggle fit between us.

“I see you two have decided to come to school happy for once.”

The deep, rough voice, dripping with judgment, cut through our laughter. My grip around Jane’s arm tightened before relaxing as I recognized none other than Matthew Grayson and his little sister, Mary-Anne. They stood watching us, Matthew’s perpetually raised, split eyebrow silently questioning our display of joy.

“Ugh, must you ruin our happy mood already, Matt?” Jane rolled her eyes, smirking as Mary-Anne covered her mouth to stifle her giggles.

Matthew-Matt-was the resident grump, a tall, skinny mess of a guy who had the distinction of actually breaching the six-foot mark, unlike most of the seniors at our school. His short brown hair was a perpetual victim of his bed’s whims, sticking up in unruly directions. If Matt wasn’t glaring at you, he was silently judging you with those hazel eyes of his.

But beneath the grouchy exterior was a hidden soft spot. Maybe it was because he had a younger sister, or perhaps it was growing up with just his mom until she remarried. Matt never talked much about his stepfather, and no one dared to ask.

“Oh, my apologies,” Matt retorted, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “I was just impressed the vampire bitch made it out of the sun to join us peasants.”

Jane scoffed, smiling up at him with her own brand of sass. I rolled my eyes. This was routine by now. Morning banter between Matthew and Jane was like clockwork-grumbly but never crossing any real lines. They’d bicker just enough to carry the annoyance through the day until we all saw each other at film club.

Wait-film club.

“Matthew!” I interrupted their snarky exchange. “Are we going to discuss our school project today?”

Matt’s gaze shifted to me, a flicker of excitement breaking through his usual hazel glare. There he was-teddy bear Matthew.

“Yeah,” he said, a spark of energy lighting his voice. “I finally finished the script last night with April’s help. You’re still good to be the lead, right, Maggie?” His tone softened as he ducked his head, studying my reaction. “It’s a horror film. Sure, it’s all fake, but it can be pretty exhausting work from what I’ve read. If you ever want to back out, just say the word.”

He offered me a smile-meant to be reassuring-but the glimmer of hope in his eyes was unmistakable. He didn’t want me to back out.

Sweet, soft-hearted Matthew.

“Relax, Matt. Our Mags here is going to be the next Jamie Lee Curtis. All the best actors start with horror, after all,” Jane chimed in, her arm snaking around mine and nudging my side.

I nodded at her, then at Matthew, whose grin widened just a bit more. That’s when Jane and I noticed something for the first time: Mister Grump himself, Matthew Grayson, had dimples. Dimples. We exchanged a knowing look, a silent agreement that this would be thoroughly discussed after school.

“I don’t know how you can commit to all that blood and screaming, though, Maggie. It seems very... impure,” a soft, judgmental voice joined the conversation. Mary-Anne had finally spoken up.

Mary-Anne was a lot like her brother: the same muddy brown hair-though hers was always tamed into submission with French braids-and the same hazel eyes. Being a sophomore, she was shorter than most people in school, and somehow, she seemed more childlike with each passing day. But unlike her brother’s perpetually disheveled vibe, Mary-Anne was precise and polished, always dressed like a model for a hypothetical Mormon Guide to Modesty. Her outfits mirrored her personality: demure, self-contained, and occasionally maddeningly judgmental. But she wasn’t the type to gossip publicly. Oh no, Mary-Anne Grayson saved her gossip for her diary, because she still aspired to be a “good Catholic girl.”

“It helps that the blood is minty,” I said breezily, addressing her concern. “It’s all fake, and I know I’ll be safe the entire time. Plus, I like the challenge. And, well, I do love being the center of attention.” I winked at Mary-Anne, who sighed and shook her head in mild disapproval.

“But what if it wasn’t fake?” she asked suddenly, her voice low. “What if you were really stuck in some creep’s house? What would you do?”

We all tilted our heads at her, surprised. This was... out of character for Mary-Anne. My eyes immediately snapped to Matthew in accusation. He flinched under my glare, raising his hands in mock surrender.

“Okay, weird question,” I muttered. “Where is this coming from?”

But Jane’s voice interrupted my thoughts, her tone shifting as she considered the question. “Well, it depends,” she started, her expression softening as her eyes turned distant. “Let’s say it’s like the scene Matthew wrote. You’re kidnapped and held hostage. You could break free, but it takes a few steps.”

“Step one: play along,” she continued, her voice calm but unnervingly intense. “Really play along. Bite the inside of your cheek-hard-on the side where your hair covers it. It’ll help you stay present, keep you from screaming or crying. If they try to force-feed you or-God forbid-force something else, tuck your thumb into your fist to open your throat. That’ll help you breathe.”

Jane pulled her arm out of mine and demonstrated the posture she described, her shoulders drooping, eyes downcast. “Keep your eyes low, forehead hidden. Look submissive. Stay small-tuck your shoulders in. Only make yourself bigger, like rolling your shoulders back, if they touch you.”

Her voice darkened, and she began to pace slightly. “If they’re smart, they’ll set traps, little tests to see if you’ll fail. Don’t fall for it. Stay stupid. Keep playing along. And if you see a way out, don’t run-shuffle closer to them. That’ll drive them insane.”

Matthew and Mary-Anne stared at her, their awe barely concealed. Meanwhile, I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying not to laugh. Jane got far too into these hypotheticals, especially when fueled by her endless late-night true crime documentaries.

Mary-Anne’s face had gone pale, her complexion ghostly as Jane finally stopped her lecture. I bit back another laugh, making a mental note to confiscate Jane’s true crime podcast subscription before she terrified the poor girl even more.

“Finally, once you see an easy way out, take it. And then-run, baby, run,” Jane concluded with a self-satisfied nod.

That was it for me. I burst into laughter, clutching my sides as I doubled over.

“Damn, Jane. You’re seriously disturbed,” Matthew said, his grin betraying the laughter he tried to hide behind a hand.

That single comment set off another round of banter between the two, their voices blending into playful jabs and retorts. But Mary-Anne didn’t join in. Instead, she brought her hands together in a prayer-like pose, holding them close to her chest. Her head turned away from us, her expression unreadable.

Curious, I followed her gaze-and immediately frowned. Sweet, innocent Mary-Anne was staring at Shane.

Well... that can’t be a good thing, I thought, my stomach twisting uneasily.