The clique—Quinn, Whitney, Stacey, Karen, and I—had known each other for different amounts of time, but we've been through so much of our childhood together. It's hard to imagine life after university when we'll pass from "best friends" to the adult "friends" label that's merely a polite, overly kind way of saying "acquaintances".

My mother went to school with Calum's father, Samuel, who was apparently an egotistical rich boy back in the day.

"He'd ask girls to dances and drop them like tissues afterward, pretending that it was their idea and not his," she'd told me with distaste. "Thank god he matured by university or he would have been insufferable."

Despite the fact that they were best friends during uni—I try not to dwell on the fact that their friendship may have been more than just the average "friendship"—the two now barely talk to each other, much too engrossed with their daily lives. Other than obligatory exchanges over phone on holidays and perhaps the invite to a gala now or then, the two may as well be co-workers. That's not to say that they're no longer friends—they're just not as close anymore.

Future aside, there are a few moments in our lives that have really tied the clique together. Among those include comforting Stacey after her breakup with Darrien, Stacey and Karen's big fiasco, and standing up for Quinn.

Seventh grade was an experimental year for both genders and the girls were familiarizing themselves with the wonders of cosmetics. Most girls were only brave enough to brush on some mascara and maybe eyeliner, but Quinn—after raving about helping out at her mother's studio during weekends—tried her hand at the awe-inspiring 'smoky-eye' look.

It didn't look that bad, although it wasn't good either since Quinn was only beginning her journey into the world of metallic lipstick and gel eyeliner. Still, it drew unwanted attention since there were only a handful of people with eyeshadow on.

"Does it look weird?" I remember her asking, a worried frown on her face. We had all reassured her that it looked fine—that she was beautiful and was worth more than judgements from others—but our thoughts were not reciprocated by all.

"The goth girl thing you have going on really suits you, Maynard," a boy—Mark—had teased during lunch one day. "You gotta hide all of that, unlike Stella and Whitney here."

"Shut up, Mark," Karen had snapped, shooting up onto her feet in Quinn's defense. "Take your idiodicy somewhere else."

"I'm being honest here," he had defended himself with a grin, looking around to the gathering crowd for support. "Stella and Whitney don't need makeup to be pretty, but unfortunately I can't say the same for you and Quinn."

"Excuse me?" I had asked sharply, rising as well.

"You should leave," Whitney had advised,standing and looking Mark—now fidgety and slightly pink—in the eyes.

"Girls! I didn't say anything wrong," Mark had said, looking around for support. "I'm just saying that Quinn's not very pretty when it comes down to it."

"If you haven't noticed, we have makeup on as well," I had ground out, purposely smudging the eyeliner on one eye to the side so that he could see. "I'm sorry you can't appreciate the time a girl puts into making herself look prettier—maybe you should leave."

"Fine! I'll leave!" Mark had retorted, retreating quickly. Cheers broke out—mainly from Calum and Chad—but we were all focused on Quinn's downcast head, eyes glistening with tears.

"Oh Stella! Now you've gone and ruined your make-up," she cried with a small sob.

"And thank god you're my friend," I responded with a grin. "Do I look like a raccoon or a zombie bride? The former's cute, but the latter has always been my dream Halloween costume."

That was one of the moments that the table never forgot about—a moment full of honest feeling and unwavering friendship. Although Stacey wasn't there, we all know that she would have been the first to rise in defense of any of us, shooting to her feet before the speaker could finish their jab. Her word choice for that time is obvious: "Fuck off, Marcus."

---

During the year, the girls and I do a lot of things together—shopping, partying, eating out, complaining—but one of our favorites is planning the annual New Year's party at my family's vacation house by the beach.

"This year, it needs to be perfect," Stacey said, face stonily serious.

"Stace, you said that last year," Karen said, rolling her eyes.

"And the year before that," Quinn supplied as we all laughed.

"You know what I mean," Stacey said, pulling out her laptop. "So, what's our theme going to be?"

"Since it's winter, why don't we do something that has to do with snow?" Karen suggested.

"No—too cliche. Something with more substance," Stacey said in her fussy-aunt tone, shutting Karen down and reopening conversation all in one move.

"We haven't done much with the beach aspect yet, have we?" I asked, thinking back to the previous themes. Open bar, Medieval formal, Masquerade, even the "cliche" ice palace. "Why don't we do something like a getaway? It is a vacation house."

"We could do a tropical island thing!" Whitney said excitedly as we all nodded in agreement. "Tropical cocktail?"

"Sounds good—except that it's winter, not summer," Stacey said flatly.

"How about a royal court theme then?" Quinn suggested. "We could choose people to be the Queen and her court, and the rest of the guests will have to dress and act accordingly."

"Sounds good. I'll take the liberty to volunteer Stella to be Queen," Stacey said, typing rapidly on her laptop.

"No thanks—Stace, you'd make a much better queen than me. Have you forgotten that you're the dramatic one in the group?" I asked.

"Oh all right—but only because you insisted," she replied, but we all knew that she set me up. There was no way Stacey Tussaud didn't set her eyes on the most dramatic role first. "But I expect all of you to be members of my court. Also, um, does that make Chad king?"

"Must you even ask?" Quinn said, rolling her eyes.

"It has to happen now—no way are we letting that idiot off the hook," Karen said. "Stace, your man almost killed us a week ago when he took us to get coffee after finals."

"You were the one egging him on, you know," Whitney pointed out as Karen shrugged coyly.

"I didn't think the boy would actually bite," Karen said as we laughed. Stacey shook her head sadly.

"I'm afraid it will have to be so—I'm in dire need of blackmail for Valentine's so someone bring a camera," she said, adding fuel to the laughter.

"Stella, you'll have to be the princess," Quinn said decidedly.

"Why don't we all be princesses?" I suggested. "Quinn can have a field day."

"I'll pass," Karen said. "I'll be a duchess."

"Are you sure? Everyone else we invite will be a noble," Stacey said, poking her head up from the laptop.

"I can be oldest, most noble one," Karen said, striking a pose. "The most beautiful one."

"You want to be the batty old aunt?" Stacey asked, poking her head up again as we all burst out laughing.

"Hey! I like my aunt!" Karen said playfully as we laughed.

We spent the rest of the day ordering materials and scheduling dates with the 'workforce'—the boys. They always helped us put together the place, but adamantly refused to do more than that. Calum was agreed to be the driving force for that—he was the voice of reason in the band of nerds and jocks. Quinn, Whitney, and I were the princesses to be "married off" or paired off for the waltz, and Karen was our staunch maid—she complained but not enough.

The countdown until December thirty-first was nine days.

---

"You done in there?" A voice—Chad—called from outside the door as the girls and I giggled from inside the master bedroom upstairs. The vacation house was three stories and a basement theater, so there was enough room for everyone to go about their business.

"No!" Stacey called back, readjusting her robe again. "Do I look like a Queen yet?"

"I think you need a touch up on your wrinkles," Karen joked as we laughed.

"Queens can be young and beautiful too!" Stacey defended.

"You've had... how many children now?" I asked, feigning innocence.

"Whitney, help me out here! I want to be pretty too!" Stacey whined, latching onto Whitney who was currently having her hair put up in an elaborate bun.

"One wrinkle," she compromised, and Stacey moaned before agreeing. Quinn, bobby pins in mouth, smiled gleefully and promptly dropped some pins.

"Here, I'll get them," I said, bending down to reach the pins. Karen swatted my hands away, tsking.

"I'm the maid, not you, princess," she said, bending down in a dramatic, sweeping gesture.

"Who died and made you Queen, 'cuz I'm not dead yet," Stacey remarked as she examined her new wrinkle. "It looks weird."

"That's because there's only one," Karen said, dropping the pins into Quinn's waiting hand.

"Do you want more?" Quinn asked gleefully, ready with her brush.

"Thanks, but I'll pass," Stacey said quickly as we laughed.

"We look beautiful," Whitney whispered and a content silence fell on the room as we looked at ourselves in the full-length wall mirror.

It was true—Whitney in a halter dress, a shimmering gold that flowed into an onyx pool at her feet, complimenting her gentle features; Quinn dressed to the nines in a navy gown encrusted with jewels that were arranged in an elaborate design at the bodice to express her style; Stacey, wrinkle and all, embodied royalty in deep maroon with silver streaks of raindrops down the skirt; Karen wore a modest orange gown with a large, enviable bow, since even maids dress up on occasion; and me, hair in a thick side braid and dark emerald organza ruffled dress.

"Done yet?" Chad asked again, pounding on the door this time.

"Just 'cus tuxedos are easy to put on doesn't mean that dresses are!" Stacey snapped back, peering over Quinn's shoulder at the collection of jewelry.

"It's 5:58!" Tim yelled in as we heard another car pull up on the driveway. The doors would open at 6:00 pm sharp and dinner was to be served at 6:30, so time was of the essence.

"Put this on," Quinn said, handing each of us our respective pieces. I received a extravagant diamond collar which I clipped on just as Stacey thrust the doors open.

"Open the castle gates!" she declared dramatically, arms wide. "The Queen has arrived!"

And so the party started.

---

Author's note:

Hi everyone! It's still a ghost town but I think I'm pulling through :)

Thanks for reading and please comment/vote (so that I know that you exist)

—Littlewhims