***This story was made in partnership with Lexi S, whose version uses the POV of Eloise. Please read both for full effect (order not important)***

“I low-key want to thrift it this year,” Eloise piped up during our mandatory planning session for our summer shopping spree. Sasha shot that down real quick before I could with a text that read: “Secondhand Splendor? Ick! I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing something I might see on a homeless lady at the shelter.”

I chimed in by suggesting the usual shops: Louis Vuitton, Gucci, and Lululemon, then places such as Starbucks and Chipotle, then added that we should convince my dad to take us in his Bentley with its 22 inch dashboard display, dual sunroof, color changing interior lights, blacked-out windows, and real 24k gold rims instead of Vicky’s dad’s Mercedes-Benz with only 18 inches of dashboard display, one sunroof, and no color changing interior lights. Sasha and Vicky both agreed to these proposals, but Eloise had to suggest that we “try out some cheaper options”. No way would I be caught dead in a place as cheap as Kohls—even JC Penney—or a food joint as artificial as Burger King—even Dunkin’ Donuts.

“I would sooner DIE than go to Secondhand Splendor and not find anything and have to wear an outfit that I wore last year because I wore my Lululemon skirt all of May and June and everybody will remember it because it will be the last thing they saw me in and they’ll ask why I’m wearing a skirt I wore so much last year even though I can afford to get a new one,” I protested in a message that almost fit the length of the chat on my phone screen.

Why would Eloise suggest such a thing in the first place? We’ve always gone shopping at expensive name-brand stores—the ones worth our business—for brand new wardrobes at the beginning of each school year. Why would she request a place as ridiculous as Secondhand Splendor unless she maxed out her credit card without me? But of course she didn’t, because she knows better than that with her 2.3 GPA. A girl with that kind of brain should be able to remember to save her money for our annual shopping spree. Even I know to only stop at Starbucks and Chipotle a total of six times a week the month before our haul just so that I have plenty of money for spending, and I only have a GPA of 1.5. Rich girls like Sasha, Vicky, Eloise, and I only exist to be rich and look good at it—not to excel in our academia—but Eloise manages both somehow (with our guidance on the fashion side of things, of course).

By the end of our excessively long conversation, we decide on visiting our usual stores—why would we go anywhere else?—and Eloise has resolved to join us even though she’s already maxed out her credit card (I assume. Also, the HORROR. How could she???). First stop is Starbucks, then we are going to Lululemon and Gucci, then Chipotle for lunch, and Louis Vuitton, Chanel—maybe even Nordstrom if we’re feeling up to it this year. I’d like some new Converse, maybe another pair of Burkenstocks, a pair of Uggs for fall and winter—the usual. My Converse get so worn out after a year, and there’s always a new color or style of Burk that I need, and the stupid dog chewed on my Uggs—I told my little brother that it had eaten its toy that had been advertised as “indestructible” and needed a new one before it started turning to other objects in the house. But, yeah, anyways, I need some shoes, too, but maybe another day, because I’m booked.

* * * * * *

Vicky is the first to roll up at Starbucks in her dad’s Mercedes-Benz with the 18 inch dashboard display, single sunroof, and non-color changing interior lights. Then Sasha is dropped off by her mother in her bright red Audi. The color is so red it hurts your eyes. Honestly, if the car were dirty, it would do my retinas some favors—no way am I wearing glasses because those are for nerds, so I try not to look at the vehicle. Eloise arrives in her dad’s Porsche which is looking spotless—as usual—with the exception of the windshield with its surplus of splattered flies (he likes to drive extra fast on the freeway but it comes with consequences).

We seat ourselves after ordering our usuals—with the exception of Eloise who passes up. The woman who took our orders must have been a new hire because she had me repeat my grande caramel macchiato in a venti cup with ⅓ whole mile, ⅓ soy, and ⅓ almond milk, extra vanilla, caramel wall, no drizzle, upside down, light ice, and decaf espresso a total of three times. Like it’s that hard to press a few buttons at the same speed I speak.

Anyways, our drinks take a while to be made and once I get my grande caramel macchiato in a venti cup with ⅓ whole mile, ⅓ soy, and ⅓ almond milk, extra vanilla, caramel wall, no drizzle, upside down, light ice, and decaf espresso, it has too much ice so I have to ask the woman behind the counter to fix it and she has the nerve to spoon out a handful of ice cubes—to which I protest. You see, by the time I had received the drink (a grande caramel macchiato in a venti cup with ⅓ whole mile, ⅓ soy, and ⅓ almond milk, extra vanilla, caramel wall, no drizzle, upside down, light ice, and decaf espresso) some of the ice had already melted, meaning my drink (a grande caramel macchiato in a venti cup with ⅓ whole mile, ⅓ soy, and ⅓ almond milk, extra vanilla, caramel wall, no drizzle, upside down, light ice, and decaf espresso) would be way too watered down later in the day to taste and a grande caramel macchiato in a venti cup with ⅓ whole mile, ⅓ soy, and ⅓ almond milk, extra vanilla, caramel wall, no drizzle, upside down, light ice, and decaf espresso tastes very different after an hour if it has too much ice. Barely any at all and it’s still cold without the ice taking away from the flavor of the grande caramel macchiato in a venti cup with ⅓ whole mile, ⅓ soy, and ⅓ almond milk, extra vanilla, caramel wall, no drizzle, upside down, light ice, and decaf espresso.

Eloise just sits there as we drink our drinks and chat about what kind of clothes we want to look for at which stores—I won’t go as far to describe Sasha and Vicky’s concoctions, but one is a venti caramel crunch frappuccino with 3 bananas, extra caramel drizzle, extra whipped cream, extra ice, extra cinnamon dolce topping, extra caramel crunch, 1 pump of honey, 7 frappuccino chips added, heavy cream, and double blended while the other is a bit less complex: a grande iced quad espresso with 3 pumps caramel, 5 pumps vanilla, extra whole milk, and extra caramel drizzle in a venti cup—which the baristas manage to make without fail (they just had to mess up mine). As we converse, Eloise seems to be lost in space, her head in the clouds—whichever expression you like, but needless to say she is spacing out. A girl with a 2.3 GPA should have her head on straight.

“Eloise, lock in,” I say, and she blinks rapidly, bringing my attention to her glazed over eyes and allowing for me to notice that her mascara is smudged.

“Eloise, your mascara is all messed up,” I tell her.

She bustles across the cafe to the restroom to fix it while Sasha, Vicky, and I wonder how we didn’t notice it any sooner than we did; it was that obvious.

Upon her return, she’s looking flawless and we decide to leave for the Lululemon outlet where Sasha and Vicky bicker over who gets to buy a shirt they both love (twinning is an abomination and a no-no in our shopping spree rule book) and Eloise once again buys nothing and follows us around like a lost puppy. I end up making her carry the clothes I plan on buying (because what other use does she have?) and put away some of the clothes that I pull out just to realize that they are not expensive enough, thus, not of the highest quality and more likely to be worn by someone else with a more restricted budget—or any budget at all.

After our success in Lululemon, we head to Gucci. I need a new Jackie handbag and Sasha needs 4 Double G Buckle Belts (you know, one for each season) and Vicky needs those, too, but she can’t get them because she got the shirt at Lululemon so she needs to find something different—maybe at Louis Vuitton. Eloise doesn’t chime in while we discuss the items on our shopping lists. Probably because she can’t spend any money because she already maxed out her credit card (without me).

“Eloise, why aren’t you getting anything?” Sasha is the first to ask.

“I just think that everything is super expensive,” is her reply.

The nerve of that girl. Deciding to be poor by choice instead of taking advantage of an infinite supply of money is definitely going in the rule book. I didn’t think I’d ever have to add that in.

“Eloise, stop glitching and buy yourself a new wardrobe. You’re rich, remember?” Sasha reminds her.

“Yeah, Eloise. Don’t be cheap. I can’t hang with someone who doesn’t wear the same expensive clothes as I do. What kind of relationship would that make if I had a friend that I could criticize the outfits of?” Vicky adds.

“I don’t think I’m rich anymore,” Eloise admits feebly, fidgeting with the ends of her sleeves.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because my dad recently gambled away our money and we have to sell the house and maybe the Porsche and stay in a hotel until things get better,” she explains. “I might not even be able to go to the boarding school this year.”

“Your dad gambles?!” Vicky shrieks. “That’s gonna cause a big scandal. Everyone is going to be talking about this once it gets out and I can’t be associated. To think about how that will hurt me rep…”

“Why didn’t you tell us when it happened? My parents hate gambling and they can’t be in on the gossip; everyone will recall the huge scandal over my uncle and I’ll have to go to boarding school with an entirely new identity!” Sasha cries.

I watch Eloise’s eyes fill with tears, but I feel no pity. All I feel is disgust—the same disgust I know my parents would reflect towards gambling. It’s as addictive as any drug, and my parents don’t approve of those, either. Eloise is staring at me, waiting for the blow she knows is coming, but I don’t deliver it. I grant her an ounce of mercy.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you guys sooner. I just… I-I didn’t want you guys to leave me.”

“The way I see it, you’re leaving us,” I say with a shrug. She won’t be going to boarding school with us anymore (unless by some miracle her mom can afford it), so we won’t be seeing each other. Her plummet to the lower class is like any other departure.

Tears now streaming down her face, Eloise shuffles away, her face reddening with shame.

She bumps into us at the checkout line almost half an hour later, and I’m confused when she begins following us out the door like we’re still attached at the hip.

“What are you doing?” Vicky asks her.

“Well, I–uh–I need a ride home,” she says, her voice almost as low as a whisper.

“There is no way I’m letting you in my dad’s car,” I protest. “No peasants allowed!”

And we walk off and leave her there in front of Gucci. She’ll find another way home. I’m sure of it.