She was rejected?

I once tried to be stylish and ended up with mismatched socks and a pair of pants on backward. My fashion statement? 'Confused but fabulous.'

Tori and I played fashion keepers all through middle school, and not that it matters, but I played model for Tori's makeup and dress-up routine. Even without the heels, I still managed to trip over everything. I seriously haven't met a piece that hasn't gone through 'the great Daisy trip.' Any living room could and IS a potential hazard disaster zone once I step in—forget the arrangement and proximity. I will DEFINITELY trip. And for a while in my geeky, disorganized life, the worst thing that could have probably happened to me was forgetting a math equation right in the middle of a test. Or having the largest zit on school picture day.

But this—this is pure horror. How do I even break it to Tori?

Let's see.

"Oh, hi, best friend. Remember me? Well, I've been offered an opportunity to STEAL your lifelong dream. Hope you won't be mad. So, we're good, right? Yeah, we're good."

God, if that isn't the weirdest conversation I've EVER heard. Or said. Or will say.

If I say yes. And God freaking knows I won't.

I ran down the first five steps leading out of the building, scanning the area for Tori. I saw her leaning against the ginormous pillar of a… duck?

"Tori!" I yelled, running up to her like she was life itself because she actually was. "Hey, Tors! You're done, right? So what's next? A day of pre-makeup torture, dress-ups, and please don't force me to be your crazed fan begging for your autograph on her knees…" I paused when Tori leaned against the pillar, eyes wet and red, and clothes dusty from sitting too long in the sand. I gasped, grabbing her shoulders.

"Oh my God, Tori, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she sniffled, wiping the tears from her eyes. "I'm fine, really."

"No, you're not," I squatted into place beside her. "What's wrong? How was the interview?"

"It went well."

"So why are you crying?"

"Because I love modeling?" She said, sulking. I frowned.

"Tori. Tell me."

"Let's just go home, okay? Let me process this."

"Process what?"

"Daisy, can we just go…"

"Tell me what you're processing! Because it's definitely not raw beans or canned tomatoes…"

"I was rejected!" she yelled, getting all in my face. "Terribly and massively rejected. And I feel terrible about it, so that's why I'm crying. Now do you need a 2-page documented report on the essay of Tori's OBVIOUS tears?"

"I'm really sorry, Tors," I said. Her eyes softened, and I pulled her into a hug, stroking her beautiful long hair. "I know how important this was to you."

"I know," She said shakily. "I know."

"We could still do dress-ups at your place, and I'll willingly follow you around for an autograph." I held up my pinky. "Promise?"

Tori beamed. "You pinky promise?"

"Course, yeah. If not, I have to fry my pinky and eat it up with sauce."

She laughed, holding her nose. "Eww, Daisy, who does that?"

"The Ancient Greeks. Did you know that when a pinky promise was broken back then, the promise breaker had to eat his pinky raw?" I shrugged. "At least I get to keep mine cooked and fried in deep oil."

Tori laughed even harder, squeezing my palm and smiling up at me.

"You're the best, Daisy."

I did a little bow. "I do my best to be your best." We laughed, swinging our way home with faces laced with smiles.

"You're such a dork," She muttered, grinning.