Beca Mitchell, who had reacted poorly to me crashing her solo concert in the co-ed showers. Beca Mitchell, who had enjoyed pushing Aubrey's buttons from the moment she'd first tapped her fingers on that plastic yellow cup. Beca Mitchell, who had lost us a riff-off and then won us nationals.
Beca Mitchell, who had followed her dreams to Los Angeles in the spring of 2013.
Beca Mitchell, who has stayed in touch with most of her former teammates. Beca Mitchell, who I haven't hugged in nearly three years, but with whom I have maintained a solid friendship through countless texts, phone calls, and instant messages. Beca Mitchell, who has one of the most interesting yet boring Facebook profiles I've ever stalked.
Beca Mitchell, who is on my television screen, accepting an award. A prestigious award. A goddamn Grammy.
"Beca Mitchell! Holy shit!"
The volume and suddenness of my shout is probably what alerts Aubrey to the fact that something unbelievable is happening in our living room. The sound of my glass bouncing off the coffee table before clunking across the floor in a rush of orange juice is definitely what has her charging out of her bedroom with a baseball bat in hand.
"What? What happened?" Her eyes are sweeping the room, corner to corner, in search of a nonexistent assailant.
"Beca freaking Mitchell!" I'm still shouting, pointing at the TV, crouching on the couch like a monkey alerting its troop to incoming danger. "She just won a Grammy!"
Aubrey alternates between looking at me and looking at the TV. They've cut away to show the crowd applauding, but I shriek and point more forcefully when Beca's familiar face returns to the screen as she makes her way across the stage to accept impersonal cheek kisses and a shiny gold statue.
"Oh. My. God," Aubrey finally utters. Her eyes are wider than I've ever seen them. Is it because Beca Mitchell, irritating freshman that she was, has apparently won a Grammy, or is it because Beca Mitchell, champion of plaid shirts and faded jeans, looks effing beautiful and chic and confident and, holy shit, she looks exactly the same, but totally different.
Or is it because Beca Mitchell has somehow turned out to be responsible for the past two years of summer jams and party anthems? Beca freaking Mitchell is the world's go-to provider of earworms and relentless beats.
I grab for my phone, not daring to take my eyes off the TV until I need to scroll through my contacts. I text her.
BECA! OH MY GOD!
My message flies out into the ether with a whoosh!, and a second later I hear a slightly muffled, somewhat ghostly rendition of a very familiar song float back to me through the television speakers.
My jaw drops. Aubrey squeaks.
Beca apologizes to her international audience of millions for not making sure her phone is completely silenced. "And that's my good friend Chloe freaking out about not knowing I am who I am. Hi, Chloe." She's staring at me through the TV screen. "Sorry?" She gives a little shrug and a cheesy forgive me grin before punctuating one final "Thank you!" with the raising of her freaking Grammy into the air.
And then she's gone.
I turn to stare at Aubrey. And that's all either of us is capable of doing for the next fifteen seconds. We're staring, slack-jawed, wide-eyed, frozen in place by the ridiculousness of what has just happened.
Our staring contest ends only because my phone rings in my hand. I drop it in surprise, then scramble to pick it up before it can fully settle into the puddle on the floor.
It's Beca. And the ringtone is the song Beca has just won an award for creating. I answer after two seconds of trying to make sense of that.
"So, Chapel Jones, you don't know how to silence your phone?"
Her chuckle is nearly drowned in a sea of celebratory background chatter. "I have a list. Your messages always come through."
I click my teeth together, thinking. She reads my hesitation for what it is. "We can talk. You probably have questions. But I'm.. Well, I'm busy right now, obviously."
"Obviously." I hope my grin piggybacks its way through my phone so that she knows I'm not at all upset about her keeping this secret.
"Can I call you tomorrow? Or we can get lunch?"
Lunch is a weird option. She's in Los Angeles while I'm in New York. "Lunch?"
Aubrey echoes my question. I shrug.
"I fly into LaGuardia at 11:05. A call and a lunch? I'd like both, but I'll settle for just lunch."
My brain jumble gets the best of me, and I blurt out, "How did I not know this?"
"What, that I'll be in New York tomorrow? I don't know, it was booked-"
"No, not that!" I'm laughing. She chuckles.
"We can talk about it tomorrow. You're not the only one. No one knows who I am. Or knew. That's… Wow, that's gonna change, huh?"
Beca is silent, and I am treated to a sudden burst of laughter from a group of unknown people in another timezone. She's clearly trying to adjust to what is going to be a major shift in her life.
"Beca?"
"Yeah. I'm here."
"Just breathe. Celebrate tonight, call me tomorrow."
She takes a deep breath.
"Beca?"
"Yeah?"
I turn away from Aubrey and speak softly. "Congratulations, Beca. I'm shocked, but not at all surprised."
"Thank you." Her words come down the line just as softly as mine had travelled to her. "It means a lot, Chloe." She sniffles quietly.
"Okay! No crying! You are ecstatic and happy and a freaking Grammy winner! Go, get drunk, kiss somebody!"
There's a pause, then, "I'll see you tomorrow, Chloe."
"Tomorrow."
We end the call, and I turn to look at Aubrey again. She looks slightly less shell shocked.
"Oh. My. God," she mumbles. "Oh my God!"
I drop back onto the couch and nod my agreement. "Oh my God."