Free Wicked Sweet by Mar'ce Merrell

That I am just learning about myself.
    “I comprehend.”
     
     
    The partygoers are hungry. They gather in clusters of hair extensions and drugstore cologne and they feast on (I can’t put it any less bluntly) Jillian and me. Evidently, the best dessert is watching Jillian and me play Cranium. They underestimated our ability to kick Parker’s and Will’s butts to the couch, and they howl and hoot at our every right answer.
    Me as a star performer: I mime putting on my big shoes, fixing my bow between my big ears, holding my long tail.
    Horton the Elephant, Will yells.
    Lady Gaga! That from Parker.
    Jillian’s answer is the only one that counts. Minnie Mouse.
    And we’re not just great at charades. Jillian can spell words backward—gnilleps. And I know the answer to: The day that Ritchie Valens, Buddy Holly, and the Big Bopper were killed in a plane crash is also referred to as what?
    As I say with confidence glowing for the win, “The day the music died,” Jillian high-fives me. The girls on the sidelines cheer.
    I’m not saying I totally love being under their microscopes … but when I excel, I can handle a few spectators. If they’d tried to make us dance, they would have gotten what they really expected, a from-the-box yellow cake.
    Will and Parker react as if they’re each listening to the same music, but feel the beat differently. Parker occasionally drapes his arm around Jillian. Will punches me in the shoulder with his fist while he holds up his camera phone and takes a picture. So, Parker wants to look adoringly in Jillian’s eyes and Will wants to take a picture of me with him as if he was part of team Chantal instead of defeated by us.
    Maybe Will has grown since middle school and he regrets the humiliation he dumped on me. Maybe Will sort of likes me and he’ll get nicer and everything will be fine.
    My cake is relegated to the back of the dessert table, but I can’t move it front and center or make a place card with a snazzy name like Chocolate Infusion Craving. It’s got to remain a secret, just like my ninth-grade crush.

Jillian
    Party Paranoia .
    P arker is the most attentive date I could imagine. And in spite of the Cranium geekiness, Chantal is the best friend of my dreams right now, oh, except for the group visit to the bathroom. I think she thought the last pieces of the chocolate cheesecake she snagged for each of us on the way would keep me busy.
    I wait for her outside the bathroom door, locked in place by the crush of people in the hallway. The Girl Scouts make a delicious cake, even if it doesn’t look so great. It’s tart and sweet in perfect proportions. I eat the last bite and wipe away crumbs. As I apply my lip gloss I notice that my hand is shaking. What’s taking Chantal so long? I’m not the one who panics in this friendship, but I’m finding it hard to breathe when I’m not next to Parker.
    I can’t shake the feeling that I’m failing to integrate. I’m the girl Parker brought instead of Annelise, the girl who’s never been at their parties, the girl who has only finished half of a vodka cooler while girls all around her are at the stumbling stage. Culture shock fades , I try to reassure myself, they’ll get used to Chantal and me and we’ll get used to them .
    “That bitch doesn’t know who she’s messing with.” I hear Annelise’s voice and I keep my head down. “Board games? That boy needs booty and I’m sure Little Miss Brain can’t compete with me.”
Oh. My head throbs. What am I doing? What is taking Chantal so long? I tap the bathroom door. We need to go. I look down at my jeans from the sale rack, and my secondhand T-shirt that’s tight like everyone else’s but isn’t a great color. I’m pretending I’m ready for the next step, and everyone must see through it.
    “Jillian.” It’s Parker. “I was looking for you.” He checks to see if anyone is listening, but they’re all shouting over the music at each other. “I … um … can we go