1
Priyatopia
T
he day I started second grade, my teacher told me that Juliette Barrera--Wright was much too difficult a name for such a little girl.
“What about Julie? That’s pretty,” he said, probably smug and condescending, though I can’t picture him anymore.
Most of the memory has slipped through my fingers, but a part still lives in me, vivid enough to feel even now: the smallness.
I shrank, like Alice after eating the mushroom. Everyone was watching, waiting for me to agree with this adult just because he was an adult. Even though it wasmy name. And the longer they stared, the smaller I got. I was drowning in my desk, surrounded by all these giants with easy names. Despite ten years of distance from that classroom, my hands still sweat.
When I think of it, my chest still tightens.
Right as I began to taste the acceptance of “Julie” on the tip of my tongue, a girl I’d never met before said, “There’s no such thing as too--complicated names. My mama says only lazy people say that.”
Arthur pulling the sword from the stone. Gandalf and the Rohirrim arriving at Helm’s Deep. The little crowd in my brain goes wild.
There was no more discussion after that. Everyone’s called me Juliette since.
That is the one and only reason I don’t hate Priya Pendley.
Even after she told Milo DeMontes she thought I was obnoxious. Even after I begged for a different science fair partner because she was annoying and bossy. Even after I beat her in the spelling bee and she said it didn’t count because “of course Juliette can spell argumentative.”
Out of respect for our seven--year--old selves, I come to her ridiculous birthday party every year.
The first Priyatopia was very normal—-store--bought decorations and everything. After that, it escalated quickly. Carnival rides for her tenth. Mirror mazes and art installations at thirteen. Last year, Hozier performed a song he’d written specifically for Priya. Seventeen did a feature on this year’s party titled “Birthday Queen Turns Seventeen (We Ask Social Media Darling Priya Pendley How She Invented the Next Coachella).” Priya’s glossy glamour shot took up two pages.
Oh, wait. Sorry. Before we move on, can we talk about how she calls itPriyatopia? It’s plastered everywhere. I have a theory that if a guest stands still for more than two minutes, Priya herself comes over and spray--paints her name across their body. In white or gold, obviously.
And she had the nerve to call me obnoxious.
I feel distinctly impoverished as I pull through the Pendleys’ gates into their winding driveway, already lined with luxury cars on both sides. I maneuver my crappy old Honda Civic between a Mercedes and a BMW and begin the hike up to the house.
The Pendley Mansion sits on an ungodly large parcel of land. Impeccably manicured, but you already knew that. The house itself is a gleaming stone and glass monstrosity that I’ve spent entirely too much time in over the course of my sixteen short years, which is how I know to follow the path around back, past clusters of networking C--list celebrities.
Usually, I love this time of year—-the liminal space between final exams and the start of camp. Warm breezes linger after nightfall, and they always smell like a trip to the state fair. Well, minus the post--Gravitron corn dog vomit. I fear that one day I’ll begin associating this weather not with campfires and kayaking but with thumping dubstep and this gaudy arch of white -and -gold balloons spelling out priyatopia.
I step under the arch in question, led by the scent of barbecue to a row of trendy food trucks. While trying to decide between Burrito Boys and Holy Crepe, I’m swept into a warm hug that smells like vanilla and spice.
Before I turn, I know I’ll find Priya’s mom, Deepika, looking up at me with her big brown eyes. She’s an adorably short Indian woman with wavy hair, radiant dark skin, and the kind of carefree beauty only money can buy.
Unfortunately, I love Deepika. She isn’t just Priya’s mom; she’s everyone’s mom. When we were growing up, she chaperoned every class field trip and helped serve lunch when cafeteria workers called out sick. If anyone in town needs a place to stay, a meal to eat, or a shoulder to cry on, they can always turn to Deepika.
It’s almost unbelievable that Priya is her daughter and not her evil twin.
Deepika yells to be heard over the music, “Juliette, you’re more beautiful than ever! I bet you have to beat the boys off with a stick, hmm?”
I bite back a snicker. In this nosy town? After I spent years making it clear a romantic relationship is at the rock bottom of my priority list? Nobody is pursuing me, let alone “the boys,” and I like it that way.
“I wouldn’t say that.”
Deepika frowns prettily, glowing in an embroidered yellow kurta. “No need to be modest, my love.” She flexes, but her twinkling eyes betray any chance she has of looking fierce. “A girl as gorgeous and smart as you should own it. Priya tells me you’re going to Yale, too!”
I cock my head. “I’m applying to Yale? But I won’t hear back for a while.” Neither of us will, but, unsurprisingly, the Pendleys are already counting their privileged chickens.
She swats at the air, as if the Yale admissions committee is a fly that simply needs to be redirected out of the house. “My darling, if they don’t take you, they’re out of their minds.” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper then, and she says, “And I’ll have Jack put in a good word with his golf buddies. They have connections everywhere.”
“Thank you,” I grit out, trying desperately to be grateful instead of bitter.
Deepika beams. “Of course! We’ll help however we can. Now, tell me about your summer plans. I didn’t realize so many of you kids were doing these special programs. I have to find something for this one”—-she jerks her chin at an ice sculpture of Priya—-“to do also.”
“No programs for me,” I say. “It’s my last summer at camp.” The words catch in my throat, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. Wow. Last summer.
She nods, chewing absently at her lower lip. “Frogbridge.”
Trying not to snort, I enunciate, “Fog. Ridge.”
“Ah, yes. That’s right. Fogridge.” Her brow furrows. “Why camp? Wouldn’t something academic look better to colleges?” she asks, like she didn’t just tell me I’m a shoo--in at Yale.
I’ve had this conversation with countless adults, and it’s infuriating every time. Why do teenagers always need to be reaching for someone else’s goal? At what age am I allowed to do things solely because they’re fun and I enjoy them?
Whatever age that is, it’s not sixteen, apparently.
“I love it” isn’t enough, so I give Deepika the kind of answer she wants. “Like you said, everyone’s in academic programs. Wilderness camp sets me apart. It makes me well rounded.” I form a circle with my hands.
“Hmm. I suppose so.” She looks ready to ask me something else, but then her thoughtful gaze snags on someone and she shouts, “Neha! You came!” Patting my shoulder, she whispers, “Excuse me, my love. It’s so much responsibility being the life of the party. Priya’s by the pool.”
She disappears in a whirlwind of Gujarati, leaving me alone on the lawn.
The waits for both Burrito Boys and Holy Crepe have be-comeabsurdly long, so I amble over to Lotsa Tots--a. The line moves quickly and soon I’m at the front, reaching for my wallet.
The cashier stops me with a raised hand. “Everything is free on Priyatopia,” he recites.
I fail to suppress a surprised “Jesus.”
“I know, right?” He hands me a paper boat of tots. “Happy Priyatopia!”
“Happy Priyatopia,” I repeat under my breath, heading for the nearby pool gate.
Strangers, like a school of fish, whorl around me the second I step onto the concrete deck. I become Marlin protecting Nemo, tightening my grip on the container of tots and crouching my upper body over them. My precious boys.
As I circle the pool, seeking a refuge in which to eat my sons, I scan the crowd for a familiar face. I spot Alison, my favorite of the friends that Priya and I share, at the same time she spots me.
“Juliette!” She stands from her chaise and rushes in, leaving wet footprints on the ground.
I hold my tots out to the side, steeling myself for the hug that soaks my clothes. Alison makes every hello feel like a return home from a decades--long war. We just saw each other in school last week, but I find myself choking back tears at her welcome.
“You look like a model,” I say, gesturing at her curvy body, perfect in the retro one--piece except the areas where her white skin has started to pinken and burn ever so slightly.
Alison holds out a palm like she’s about to impart some vital wisdom, but then says, “I’ve been rewatching all ofANTM. I just got to the pinup episode in cycle five. You know, the season with thelesbian, Kim?” She cups her hands around her mouth when she whisperslesbian, as if she’s an offended Midwestern aunt and not a woman who loves women herself.
“I haven’t seen that one,” I admit, chuckling lightly.
“Oh, you should watch it. It’s unhinged.” Her eyes go to the blue envelope I pull from my back pocket. “Trying to find Priya?”
At my nod, she looks pointedly behind me.
I turn, sighting Priya’s unmistakable hair moving smoothly through the heart of a crowd. Her angled lob is black, but about halfway down her back, it transitions to a pure snow white. The rest of her outfit—-a sequined crop top and fringed bell--bottoms—-is also in her signature all--white. I’m so focused on this bizarre pool party attire, it isn’t until my double take that I register she’s casually gliding about in a pair of white roller skates.
Huh.
It really makes you think: If Priya isn’t the center of attention at every moment, will she cease to exist?
I roll my eyes before I can help it. Apparently this summons her, because she heads in our direction, sailing over so gracefully that she appears nearly motionless, like the world decided it would move so she didn’t have to.
She coasts to a stop, the fringe on her pants billowing in a self--made breeze, and smiles. Like me, she’s biracial, but where my mom’s white side dominates my features, Priya’s face is a carbon copy of Deepika’s. Right down to that unethically charming smile.
“Juliette Barrera--Wright.” My name tumbles from Priya’s mouth with a slow ease that curls my upper lip. “Welcome.”
“Yeah, happy Priyatopia.” I extend the envelope robotically.
A few years ago, I forgot her present and had to stop at a Starbucks to pick up a gift card. The only one they had left was a rainbow Pride Month design that said you’re my hero!
On my birthday, I found the same gift card in my locker, with the exclamation point turned into a question mark. Since then, we’ve traded the you’re my hero? card back and forth for every gift--giving holiday. Like much of our relationship, it feels like a weird inside joke, a secret understanding between two people who understand nothing else about each other.
That’s an exaggeration. I do understand some things about Priya. Too much, in fact. She’s a kiss--ass, for one. Pleasant to a fault. She treats her haters like they’re stans she just hasn’t had a chance to win over yet. She’s so good at bending over backward, you’d think she’s the one who does high jump, not me.
And she’s on constantly. It’s exhausting, to be honest. But don’t go thinking this disdain is one--sided. God knows Priya would pay money to keep me from standing up for myself. She cringes every time I rock the boat even a little.
Despite our polar--opposite personalities, she and I have an uneasy truce because, in some cosmic joke, we can’t seem to escape each other. We end up in the same friend groups, the same clubs, the same classes. I go out to eat, there’s Priya. I show up for yearbook committee, so does Priya. She’s everywhere. It’s creepy.
No matter how Priya--free I try to make my life, our paths stay inextricably linked. Two planets, forever intertwined, wildly orbiting the same sun. Narrowly avoiding collision.
She’s fine.
I’m fine.
Our lives aren’t a nineties teen drama. There are no catfights. No love triangles. No betrayal. Instead, we find ourselves in the Tenth Circle of Hell: Cooperation.
In photos, we stand on opposite sides so we can crop each other out. We don’t vent to shared friends. On group projects, we turn in A+ work with nary a physical fight. And twice a year, we hand the same gift card back and forth like a ritual.
Priya takes the envelope by the edge, fingertips as far from mine as possible. “Thanks.”
Even with two arm lengths separating us, I still get a whiff of her fancy lemongrass shampoo.
I’m feeling just awkward enough to start shoveling my swiftly cooling tots into my mouth when Priya says, “Barry brought adrink, if you want some.”
Barry, Priya’s dopey boyfriend, materializes beside her, surprising me. He sports (pun absolutely intended) his varsity jacket over shark--themed swim trunks. One of his hands squeezes Priya’s shoulder and the other holds a large water bottle.
I’ve always liked Barry. He’s my track captain, runs cross--country, and is always the first to cheer on a team member. I’m pretty sure he started the chant when I broke my record at state championships sophomore year. A nice enough guy, even if he is a few clowns short of a circus.
I consider the bottle. I’m not opposed to drinking; in fact, it’d probably make Priyatopia bearable. But do I want to drink half the school’s warm, apple Bacardi backwash? Pass, actually.
I shake my head. “I’m good. Thanks, though.”
Ever supportive, Barry gives me an enthusiastic thumbs--up. “Let me know if you change your mind, dude,” he says. Then, he trots off to spectate a game of nonalcoholic beer pong, leaving Priya staring after him.
They’re weird together. Don’t get me wrong, Barry is white--jock handsome: strong jaw, lean muscles, dimples that are visible from the Hubble. Something about them just doesn’t fit, but mentally dissecting my hatred for the Prarry power couple always gives me a migraine.
As an act of self--kindness, I sigh and say, “Well, that’s enough of this conversation.”
Priya nods at a group of our classmates forming in front of a live plant wall with ‘Priyatopia’ spelled out in roses. “Wait,” she says. “Pictures first?”
I sigh, looking down at my food. “My tots are getting soggy.”
“Come on. It’s my birthday,” Priya complains.
“You’ll have another one.” At her pout, I continue, “Do I have to?”Just so you can crop me out?
The group by the wall beckons for their queen as she looks between me and them anxiously. I would be flattered by her hesitation if it were actually about me. But it’s not.
It’s about them: the fans and friends watching. It’s about Priya’s image, and her need to be liked by all those people whomight judge her if she lets me walk away instead of forcing me to be included. And I know firsthand that fighting Priya Pendley’speople--pleasing is a losing battle, so I set my tots down—-we weren’t meant to be—-and gesture for her to lead the way.
There’s nothing more telling than the strata of a group photo.
Because it’s her birthday, the unwritten Pendley/Barrera--Wright Accords allow Priya a rare spot in the middle of thephoto, with her inner circle. The second tier is a mix of close friends and social butterflies, thrown across the foreground in deep squats and swimsuit model sprawls. Casual friends make up the third group. The fourth consists of blood relatives, mostly.
And finally, there’s the loneliest, most distant layer of stratum, where I “cheese” with Gabe Rosario. In the Land of the Crop--Outable. I knew what I was getting into, but it still sucks.
I smile the same practiced portrait smile for each photo: the serious ones, the happy ones, and “now one silly one!” I don’t hand my phone over to the partygoer they’ve recruited to take pictures. If I were on the season ofAmerica’s Next Top Model that Alison is watching, Tyra would eliminate me for being dead behind the eyes.
When the photo shoot is over, I find myself a shady lounge chair. In minutes, my phone pings with a notification from the Camp Clowns��⛺☀ group chat.
itsgiapham
The ✂ queen strikes again
juliettethehumanperson
probably don’t call her that????
I click the link to p.r.i.y.a’s post. The photo is slightly oversaturated and already liked by over a thousand people. My eyes go straight to the edge. I don’t know what I was expecting.
juliettethehumanperson
no, im in this
if you zoom you can see my hand on that guy’s shoulder
lucygooseyy
�� wow you get more visible each year
things I hate: priya pendley, “scissor queen”
Gia sends a picture of us three, arms around each other. Lucy blocks the sun by resting a hand against her copper hair. Gia’s as handsome as ever with his crooked grin and dangling silver cross earrings. Between them, laughing, not dead behind the eyes, is me. I hadn’t learned how to manage my curls, so they’re half--wavy, half--straight, and all--frizzy. I love this picture.
I double--tap it. A heart appears in the lower corner right before I’m startled by a loud scraping sound, a splash, and a bloodcurdling shriek. The phone slips from my hold and hits the ground hard, bouncing several times on the concrete and settling face down.
The source of the sound is immediately apparent. Priya, thrown off balance by a cannonballing guest, teeters precariously on the edge of the pool. Her face is frozen—-eyes wide, mouth gaping. If not for Barry’s arm around her waist, she’d be upside down in the deep end.
Her shock dissolves into relieved laughter. She presses a hand over her heart as Barry easily hauls her back from the water. Twirling, she wraps him in a hug. Ugh.
I reach for my phone, closing my fingers around the rough ridges of the freshly shattered screen. Ignoring the spiderweb of cracks, I open the group chat again.
juliettethehumanperson
i miss yall
itsgiapham
Miss you too! One week!
lucygooseyy
literally dying every day that I don’t get to spend with Papa Pat.
itsgiapham 
Not papa pat ��
It should make me feel better. But there’s a heaviness that tethers my laughter deep inside me. Lately, it feels like it’s been tethering all of me down.
Running my thumb over the screen, I think about how much I wish I could fast--forward my life. How much I want to be atcamp. How much I don’t want to be at Priyatopia, watching Priyasomehow manage to lead the Cupid Shuffle, even the “now kick” part, in roller skates.
The palm trees sway gently overhead. I study them, breathing in the smell of chlorine and sun--warmed skin. And time, that bastard, continues to pass at an agonizing 1x speed.