How To Be The Best Third Wheel

Tip One: Don't Overreact; Upgrade

People might consider me ever so slightly overdramatic.

But I pride myself on the fact that I have the perfect amount of drama and paranoia for the average teenager. For example, I may have performed multiple soliloquies in front of my mirror this morning, practicing what I would say to my best friends after not seeing them for the entire summer because my family and I were in the Philippines. I also may have pictured the absolute worst-case scenario that could happen at school, which is basically a zombie apocalypse preventing me from escaping the school (and also my friends completely ghosting me). All of the above is natural, human behavior. It has nothing to do with the potentially catastrophic, life-altering first day of grade twelve.

Stepping into the Keele Street–side entrance of the school, I open the infamous LKJC (a fun acronym for Lara, Kiera, Jasmine, and Carol) group chat to ask my friends if they're around.

Me: You guys here yet?

Kiera: Yeah, at our usual spot

We've claimed a particular section of the hallway near the art department on the third floor as our spot. With large windows that overlook the first-floor atrium, it's where we've been doing our morning meetups since tenth grade.

Jasmine: Not Carol, though, she's probably going to get detention on the first day for being late LOL

Me: For real ha-ha

Carol: Wowwww I'm literally 2 minutes away!

Kiera: Sureee . . .

Carol: It's true! Watch, I'll be there in less than 5

Jasmine: Okayyy . . .

I manage to huff my way up three flights of yellow-painted stairs to the third-floor landing. Needing one last moment to compose myself (and my heavy breathing) before pushing the doors open, I sweep some stray hairs away from my glasses and pull out my cell phone to take one last look at my reflection. The straightener did its job because my long, black hair is still not frizzy. The T-shirt tucked into baggy jeans looks cute enough, and my white shoes are . . . they're not white anymore, but it's fine.

One last breath. Inhale. Exhale.

Pushing the heavy metal doors open, I stride confidently into the packed hallway. By "confidently," I mean that I manage to walk without falling, tripping, or doing anything remotely embarrassing. Schedule in hand, I search for my friends, but am greeted instead by half-asleep fellow seniors and frantic, stray puppyesque freshmen heading to their classes twenty minutes early.

Turning left at the next hallway, I finally see two of the three girls. Kiera is gesturing frantically (probably talking about an anime or her own life drama) and Jasmine, leaning her head against the blue lockers, is either uninterested or sleepy.

Jasmine looks the same; her short black hair still in a bob with bangs clipped to the side. With each passing year she looks more like her mom, who has dark eyes that kiss in the corners and rosy cheeks against pale skin. The only difference between them is that everything Mrs. Zhao wears is fresh off of the runway, while Jasmine values simplicity over anything else. Today that means Jasmine's got on a light-gray cardigan with cropped denim capris.

Unlike Jasmine, Kiera's appearance has changed from when I last saw her in June. Her strawberry-blond hair, which used to be down to her waist, is cut to her shoulders, with loose curls framing her face. Nevertheless, I notice her girly style is still in place as she adjusts her lavender sundress.