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The air in Toronto is a biting, crystalline teeth-chatterer this January morning. High above the slush-covered pavement of Curzon Street, the world looks a little different. Samuel, the camel, plods with rhythmic, heavy thuds, his thick sandy fur dusted with light snowflakes that refuse to melt. He wears his custom multi-passenger saddle, a sturdy leather contraption that creaks with every steady step. Willa sits snugly between the humps, her short, dark brownish-black hair waving softly down her neck, held back by her signature bright green headband. To her left and right, perched in the secondary seats of the saddle, the social landscape of Thorncliffe Park Public School is shifting in real-time.
Kara and Lara aren't the girls they were forty-eight hours ago. Gone are the restrictive, high-collared white ballet shirts that felt like starched cages. Gone are the heavy blazers that smelled of mothballs and pretension. Today, Kara wears a long-sleeved lavender jumper under a deep purple plaid overall dress, her legs encased in thick white crew socks that bunch perfectly at the ankles above her scuffed Mary Janes. Beside her, Lara mirrors the silhouette in shades of forest green and sunflower yellow. The most striking change, however, is the hair. The waist-length manes are still there, but the signature, gaudy flower clips—the badges of Sara’s exclusive club—have been discarded. Instead, they wear simple, functional plastic headbands, just like the green one Willa wears.
Willa leans forward, the six distinct freckles on each side of her face crinkling as she smiles, her dark blue eyes shining with genuine warmth. She adjusts her green long-sleeved shirt, smoothing the pocket in the front of her red overall skirt.
"You guys look totally fly," Willa says, her voice bright and clear in the crisp morning air as she pats Samuel’s long, sturdy neck. "The overalls make it way easier to climb down from Samuel at the drop-off zone without your skirt getting all twisted."
"It feels... light," Lara admits, smoothing the plaid fabric over her knees as she grips the saddle horn. "I don't feel like I'm going to a corporate meeting anymore."
"I just like that I can actually breathe," Kara adds, adjusting her lavender sleeves. "Sara always said the lace collars made us look 'sophisticated,' but it mostly just made my neck itchy. Plus, riding a camel in a blazer is just asking for a rip in the seams."
Samuel lets out a low, vibrating grumble of agreement, his breath forming massive plumes of steam in the freezing air. He comes to a dignified halt right in front of the school’s stone gates. With a practiced command from Willa, he kneels, his joints clicking softly. The girls slide down, Willa’s green-sock-clad ankles disappearing momentarily into the soft snow before her brown shoes find purchase on the cleared walkway. They walk toward the main entrance, their breath blossoming in little white clouds. Near the heavy oak doors, perched on a cold stone bench that looks particularly unforgiving in the sub-zero temperatures, sits Sara.
She is a solitary splash of aggressive crimson. Her blonde hair is perfectly coiffed, her flower clip gleaming like a plastic warning sign. She looks small against the vastness of the schoolyard, her eyes darting around as she realizes the usual 'posse' isn't forming behind her. She watches the trio approach—fresh off the back of a dromedary—her gaze snagging on the plaid overalls and the missing clips. Her face sours, the expression sharp enough to cut glass.
"Hi, Kara. Hi, Lara," Sara says, her voice dripping with a practiced, icy condescension that belies the fact that she’s been sitting alone for twenty minutes. She stands up, smoothing her red blazer with trembling fingers. "I see the mall was closed this weekend? Why are you dressed like... Wanda?"
The silence that follows is heavy with the weight of years spent in Sara's shadow. In the past, Kara would have looked at her shoes, and Lara would have apologized for the "fashion faux pas." But the memory of jumping rope with elephants—of realizing that fun doesn't have to be a competition—is too fresh.
Kara doesn't flinch. She meets Sara’s gaze with a steady, even stare. "Her name is Willa, Sara. You should try saying it sometime. It’s not that hard."
Lara steps forward, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. She adjusts her green headband, looking Sara right in the eye. "That's right, Sandra."
The use of the wrong name hits Sara like a physical blow. She gapes, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, while Willa, Kara, and Lara turn as one, their crew-sock-clad feet marching toward the warmth of the school, leaving the old regime shivering on the bench while Samuel watches them go with a knowing, heavy-lidded blink.