“It’s not about the song, Lu,” Kimmy typed, thumbs flying on her pink BlackBerry Curve. “It’s about the brand .”
“We were the only ones who had fun,” Kimmy agreed, wiping a smear of cheese salt off her blazer.
Then Lulu burst out laughing. “You look like a junior stockbroker.” 2010 kimmy kimm & lulu chu
They came in fourth place. The winner was a boy who played “Wonderwall” on an acoustic guitar and cried afterward.
They didn’t do the matching vests. They didn’t do the chaos fairies. Instead, they walked up to the karaoke stage, grabbed the two microphones, and launched into a chaotic, joyful, slightly-off-key mashup of “Baby” by Justin Bieber and “Tik Tok” by Ke$ha. Kimmy rapped the verses. Lulu sang the chorus while balancing the top hat on Kimmy’s head. “It’s not about the song, Lu,” Kimmy typed,
All they knew, in the summer of 2010, was this: they had each other’s backs, they had a terrible sense of style, and they had a song that belonged to no one but them.
But after the contest, sitting on the curb outside the mall with a shared soft pretzel, Lulu leaned her head on Kimmy’s shoulder. “We were the best, though.” “You look like a junior stockbroker
They didn’t know that in two years, Kimmy would move to a city with better prep schools, and Lulu would find a crew of art kids who painted murals on abandoned walls. They didn’t know that Facebook would become ancient history, or that their BBM chats would vanish into the digital ether.