After work one night, I drag Callie to the Crafty Corner to pick up upholstery fabric my mom special-ordered to redo our curtains this summer.
She shuffles in behind me with her nose glued to her phone. “What are you looking at?” I ask as I pull her just out of the way seconds before meeting a pincushion display head-on.
She shakes her head and huffs. “Just waiting for the stupid results from the state dance competition.”
“Oh.” There’s that guilt again, sticking to the inside of my lungs like August humidity. “How are they doing?”
“I don’t know yet. This website is so damn slow.” Her voice changes as she takes in our surroundings.
One entire wall at the Crafty Corner is dedicated to yarn, while the main floor is rows and rows of every type of fabric you can imagine, and on the other side of the store is everything from raw wood dollhouse supplies to glitter paint to scrapbooking scissors.
“This place is a little intense,” she says.
I can’t hide my giddiness. “You know how in Beauty and the Beast when Belle sees the library for the first time?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s how I feel walking into this place. Like the possibilities are endless.”
“Really?” she asks. “Because this place just makes me feel like the possibilities are really, really overwhelming.”
I click my tongue. “I’ll turn you into a crafter if it’s the last thing I do.”
She rolls her eyes. “Hey, speaking of you aggressively trying to manage my life for me, have you, uh, seen Mitch around? Like at the gym?”
I raise my eyebrows but keep my mouth shut, because oh my goodness, I think she actually, truly does have a crush on Mitch Lewis, and if that’s the case, my instincts could not have been more right.
Callie waves her finger in my face. “If you make a thing of this, I swear I’ll never talk to you about boys again. Or do whatever weird craft things you think you can get me to do!”
“Howdy!” calls Flora from the back of the store, where she cuts scraps of fabric for the clearance bin. Flora is sort of me and my mom’s crafting spiritual leader. She wears her same navy-blue smock every day with her name embroidered over the chest, and she is always armed with her red scissors and the mini ballpoint pen dangling from the long, thin gold chain around her neck. She taught me how to thread my first bobbin and is actually sort of a big deal on the West Texas craft-show circuit.
“Hiya, Flora!” I call back. “Just here for my mom’s special order.”
She snaps her fingers. “I’ll be right back!”
I turn back to Callie. “So Mitch. Okay. Mitch has been coming in early mornings before school starts.” I pause for a minute to wait for her response. “I could, of course, drop a hint that maybe he should come in one afternoon.”
“No,” she says defiantly. “Definitely not. No meddling. Promise me.”
I gasp. “What if me, you, Mitch, and Malik all went on a double date?”
Her eyes narrow. “No meddling.”
Since that’s a promise I can’t keep, I change the subject. “Any word on the dance competition?”
She pulls her phone out and waits a moment for it to update. Her whole demeanor changes in an instant as she slumps against the bolts of fabric. “They won,” she says flatly. “They’re going to Nationals.” She shakes her head. “Those lucky-ass bitches. How is it possible for me to be so happy and so disappointed at the same time?”
“Who’s going to Nationals?” Flora asks, her voice bubbling with anticipation, but by the looks of Callie you’d think she just asked who died.
“The Shamrocks,” I tell her. “The school dance team.”
Flora claps her hands together. “Oh, how wonderful! I’ll have to make some signs for the shop window!”
Callie sighs and slides her phone into her pocket. “Are we done here?”
“Just as soon as I pay.”
“I’ll wait for you outside.” Her voice cracks on that last word.
I feel so bad for her that she couldn’t be there with them.
After I pay, I spend the rest of the drive with a very silent, brooding Callie, as I try to dream up ways to cheer her up. Just as she’s getting out of the car, it hits me—the perfect remedy. “Your birthday!” I exclaim so loudly that I scare her, and she nearly trips getting out of the car.
“Yes,” she says. “I do have one of those. Once a year. Just like everyone else.”
“Let me throw you a party,” I beg.
She stands outside the open passenger door and shakes her head. “No can do. At my dad’s this weekend.”
“Oh. Well, maybe we can do something next weekend.”
She studies me for a moment. “I think I’d rather just keep things simple, if that’s okay, but thanks for the ride, Millie.”
That night, after Malik and I proofread each other’s AP Psych essays, I open up my notebook to dig into my journalism-camp personal statement again. For background noise, I turn on The Princess Diaries. I never get tired of the way Julie Andrews says Genovia.
“Genovia.” I let each syllable drag, trying to pronounce it as regally as she does.
What would Julie Andrews write? Just as I pick up my pen, ready to channel the one and only Ms. Andrews, my phone buzzes.
CALLIE: I guess y’all could come over to my dad’s.
CALLIE: It’s far.
CALLIE: Probably not even worth the drive.
I laugh to myself. Surely by now Callie has to know that an out-of-town drive is no match for my determination. Especially in the face of an impending birthday.
MILLIE: You’re talking to the girl who once road tripped hours on a school night for a Dolly Parton drag show. Your dad’s house is barely an hour away. We’ll be there.
CALLIE: Wow. Dolly. Parton. Drag. Show. Those are four words I never expected you to say in one sentence.
MILLIE: Don’t tell my mom, but it was more life-affirming than any sermon I’ve ever heard.
CALLIE: Millie, Millie, Millie. Always breaking your mama’s rules.
I drop my phone onto my desk and gasp. “That’s it!” It’s a true eureka moment.
I take my GIRL BOSS pencil and begin to write.
Sometimes we have to break the rules to get what we want. But now I think it’s time we change them.