I Won't Call This Hell

"Is this really necessary?" I asked, trying to pull away from the maniac holding the curling iron to my hair. "I mean, we're just going to get sweaty anyway."

"It matters!" The maniac screamed, and she started curling my hair, occasionally resting a hand on my shoulder so I wouldn't run away. "Have you seen the band? They're gorgeous, and we're getting pictures afterwords. Sweaty or not, the pictures are going to be unbelievable."

The maniac was Sophie Lauren, my best friend. I wasn't lying when I said she was a maniac. She was, in the all-fun and good nature type of way. I'd known her since the first day of second grade. We'd been outside at recess, and we'd both been playing in a messy game of kickball. I'd been running towards second, and she'd been too confused to understand what was happening. She tackled me to the ground, demanding I tell her how to play the stupid game.

"As long as you help me back up," I said.

"Of course," she smiled, and held her hand out to me. I reached up, wrapped my hand around hers, and she pulled.

"So," I said, and we walked away from the game and under the slide, "first off, you don't tackle people.." She had laughed and pushed her strawberry blonde bangs out of her eyes...

She was still impulsive and demanding. She hadn't changed one bit, unless you count the fact that we both grew boobs and discovered that boys did not, in fact, have cooties.

I had gotten home from another day at school only half an hour ago. I'd taken one step into my old room, looked at all the boxes I was expected to unpack and the list of chores my mom had set out for me to do. This was hell, I'd thought, and closed my bedroom door again.

Instead, I went into the living room and turned on my TV, watching reruns of House. Not even 15 minutes into the show, I'd gotten a text message from Sophie, telling me to open up. The text was followed by her fist on my front door.

We're going to a concert, she said.

When? I asked.

We're leaving in an hour and a half, she smiled.

Now, she set the curling iron aside, and left into my room. I heard the boxes falling onto the ground, the sound of fabric over cardboard, and I cringed, thinking about the mess I'd have to clean up later. Sophie came back, a purple v-neck and my black skinny jeans in her hands.

"Change," she ordered, pushing me into my room. She followed behind me and took a piece of printer paper from the stack and scrawled the words at concert, with Sophie. Call me if you want. onto the paper.

"Who's playing tonight, anyway?" I asked, carefully pulling the shirt over my head and trying to avoid messing up my hair.

"The Maine."