Pretty Girl County

1
Sommer
Girls like Reya Samuels always come from Prince George’s County. If she were from Montgomery County, where generational wealth flows like water, the other rich Black girls would be calling her over-the-top for driving around in that flashy pink Audi. And if she came from Fairfax County, she’d be one of the only Black girls with money—period.
But here in Prince George’s County? Girls like ReyaSamuels are expected to flaunt their money—encouraged even—because most folks around here didn’t start out that way. It’s a whole thing to show everyone you’ve finally made it.
Imagine, huge homes sitting on honest-to-goodness golfcourses, multiple luxury cars tucked inside three-car garages, catered backyard barbecues. Here in PG? Almost everyone you know is chasing a check or running up the bag.
“Sommer,” my dad likes to say, “never make assumptions about someone’s pockets. Some of those people living in those big houses don’t have enough left over for furniture.”
I’m not convinced that’s exactly true. Back when everyone’s parents made them invite the entire class to birthday parties, I’ve personally witnessed the following: furniture that doesn’t slide across the floor when you bump into it, original artwork on walls, live-in housekeepers.
Some say Prince George’s County, Maryland, is a place of infinite possibility. And I guess that’s sort of true. Every day, there’s another Black doctor, politician, or entrepreneur moving into a neighborhood tucked away behind ornate cast-iron gates. Practically every time I scroll socials there’s a new “started from the bottom” post featuring a kid from my high schoolhanging out in the bowling alley in their basement, or lounging on an inflatable flamingo in their Olympic-size swimming pool.
Me, personally? I know nothing about this kind of life.
I live in PG County, too—except I started from the bottom and I’m still there.
Shall I introduce you to Seat Pleasant, Maryland, where our cast-iron gates are significantly smaller—and attached to our windows? Where bus stop benches provide seating for the overworked and beds for the unhoused? Where dead-end streets become football fields and someone’s grandma runs a corner store out the side window of her house?
In Seat Pleasant, swing sets are dangling metal chains without rubber seats. Basketball hoops are missing backboards, and kids are more likely to climb the hills of an evicted neighbor’s furniture than a jungle gym because no one’s coming to rebuild the playgrounds.
I may be attending the same high school for talented and gifted students that Reya Samuels does, but trust and believe, we arenot the same.
Not anymore, at least.
Which is why I don’t pay Reya any mind when she walks to the podium in the middle of lunch to remind everyone to come out for the Annual School Fashion Show auditions next period.
“Just so you know, I’ve convinced teachers to issue thirty- minute passes for any student who wants to audition. How’s that for school spirit?!” she says in that fake pep rally voice of hers.
Thunderous applause immediately rips through the cafeteria, showering the stylish queen bee with gratitude and reverence.
Listen, Reya Samuels and that two-hundred-dollar cashmere sweater she’s rocking well into the month of April just aren’t relatable enough for my applause. She’s busy lording over the cafeteria, offering the student body an opportunity to participate in a carefree after-school activity.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting at the cafeteria table closest to the trash cans with my friends Amara and Reed, working like a dog on an extracurricular side gig so I’ll be able to afford college come fall. I got into my dream school, Spelman, but even with financial aid, paying for everything is going to be a stretch. Food, books, transportation to and from the ATL . . . This side hustle and my shifts at my dad’s bookstore will put a tiny dent in it all, but let’s keep it real, until I’m rocking the white dress at New Student Orientation, there’s no guarantee I’ll have enough money to go.
“The Sims developers put out a new game patch last night, so we need to update any glitchy inventory before our subscribers start complaining,” Reed announces.
Back in middle school, I was a diehard Sims gamer—willing to lose sleep and sanity to keep mySims characters well cared for. But when I linked up with Amara and Reed sophomore year, they showed me how to turn my obsession into dollars. After they taught me basic graphic design skills, we begandesigning cute custom clothes for characters and charging superfansa subscription fee to access our inventory.
We don’t bother recreating any of that preppy mess that comes with the base game, either. We specialize in replicating high-end designer drip. Oversize Balmain sweaters. Hellessy bell-bottom jeans. Jordan sneaker dupes. Platinum Cuban link chains. Diamond-encrusted Patek watches. Moncler errything.
We reel customers in with the designer dupes, then I sprinkle in the real gems—my original concepts. Leather over-the-knee boots. Faux fur bucket hats. Belts with seat belt buckles. Glittery accessories. All by Sommer Watkins.
Kids and adults alike flock to what we’re offering, since finding custom content by and for Black gamers is rare in the gaming community. So far, we have over three hundred subscribers—easy money, since the three of us love creating new content.
Except on patch day, when the Sims developers update the game and drama breaks loose, forcing us to scramble to ensure our CC doesn’t glitch. Our subscribers don’t want to hear that we have frivolous stuff on our plate, either—like passing calculus or finishing high school. If they paid their hard-earned $2.99 a month, then they expect playable merch—no excuses.
Amara, who is sitting across from me, pulls up Sims 4 Studio on her laptop. “Reed, you search for any broken code strings, and I’ll go behind you and fix them.”
I pop a french fry dripping in melted cheese in my mouth and turn on my iPad, ready to pitch in wherever I’m needed. “Should I send out an announcement that an update is coming?”
Reed shakes his head. “Amara and I can handle updating the old stuff. Sommer, you should keep working on the new collection. We promised we would have the School’s Almost Out drop by the end of the week.”
Enough said.
We all get busy with our individual tasks. Amara, who refuses to wear her glasses, squints while she runs her finger across her laptop screen. Reed’s typing fast. I’m sketching a designer top that caught my eye in these very halls last week.
I am so absorbed trying to get a sleeve just right that I pay very little attention to someone behind me yelling “Go long, bro!” until a brown leather football sails over my head.
Then someone’s muscular, two-hundred-pound body crashes into my back, shoving me into the table and knocking the wind out of me.
My chili cheese fries fly all over the table, and my open milk carton spills, sending a chocolate stream straight for Amara’s motherboard. She screams and starts swatting the milk back in my direction. Reed swoops up both laptops but trips over the fallen football on his escape from the table. He falls on his butt hard with both laptops still intact. He holds them up over his head like prize trophies.
That’s when I realize my iPad is sailing toward the table’s edge—and after that, to the cold, hard cafeteria tile.
“Somebody get my tablet!” I scream. I can’t afford my own laptop like Amara and Reed. And I haven’t quite figured out how to jailbreak my school-issued Chromebook. My iPad is literally all I have to work on content for our business.
The kid who crashed into me in the first place dives for the iPad, catching it just as it falls from the table’s edge, and walks it back over to me.
“My bad, Sommer.”
I grab my tablet from him and mumble a quick thanks before realizing whom I’m sending gratitude to.
Sean “Sauce” Levi. The male version of Reya Samuels, right down to the good looks, popularity, and very deep pockets.
“Is this yours?” he asks, handing me my sketching stylus from under the table.
I stop myself from biting my bottom lip. “Oh, um, yeah.” Our fingers graze as I take my time getting it back from him.
Listen, I know I just talked all that mess about Reya. If we want to get technical here, Ishould detest Sauce for the exact same reasons.
But . . . he’s just so fine.
And unlike me and Reya, we don’t have personal beef.
His friend Bryce shouts, “Yo, Sauce! What’s taking you so long? Run that ball back, bro!”
Just like that, I’m reminded why my secret crush on Sean is weird.
Sean and Reya are part of an obnoxious little group I like to call the Brat Pack. There’s Sauce, of course. Then there’s Marlon, a judge’s son. Azadeh, whose mom is a popular journalist forThe Washington Post. Bryce, who’s the weather lady’s kid. And the “it girl” herself, Reya Samuels, whose mom is a successful lawyer turned reality TV star. Every single kid in that friendship circle comes from a family with money. And they’re all champ.
Before you go “Aww, they’re all champs, way to go” . . .
No. In PG County, champ is being or doing something that would irk the average person.
Case in point? Reya—who’s still over there working the room, inviting kids to audition for the fashion show in that hot cashmere sweater—didn’t turn around once while my friends and I were falling over iPads, laptops, and spilled milk.
Like she didn’t live in Seat Pleasant herself five years ago. Like we weren’t next-door neighbors practically our entire lives or mixing and matching our outfits to stretch the limits of our wardrobes. Like we didn’t spend every day out on my front porch after school until her mom’s career took off and they ran away to Bowie and never looked back.
You know what? Forget Reya Samuels. If all it takes are a few designer bags and a luxury car to make her forget a day-one friendship, she can stay over there in her fancy new zip code.
Revisiting all that old drama, I almost forget Sauce is still standing here staring at me.
“Thanks for helping, but I’ll finish the rest.” I try to wave away him and this flirty energy.
But he continues to linger. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’ve got it.” I walk over to grab a mop leaning near the trash cans. “This whole fiasco was so uncalled for.” I slap the mop down over my spilled milk. “If you had broken my tablet, then what?”
Sauce gets this look on his face like he’s shocked I’m not swooning over his kindness. “I would’ve bought you a new one, of course . . . just like I’m about to buy you another school lunch.” He pauses a moment. “So, um, does the lunch lady take Apple Pay?”
So champ.
See what I mean about these rich kids? Even my secret crush has his flaws. So out of touch with us average folks, he needs help purchasing a regular school lunch.
Before I can encourage Sauce to go on over there and try paying cranky Ms. Crowder with digital cash, someone yells out, “Hey yo, Sauce! Lunch is here, bro!”
That gets Sauce’s attention. He looks over at the side cafeteria door, where his friends usually accept their DoorDash orders. Then, forgetting all about my fallen lunch tray, I watch as Sauce dips out to go dine with Academy of Health Sciences elite.
“Saucccceeeeee, I hope you catch these Carolina Kitchen bags better than you caught that ball,” Bryce goes, clapping him on the back.
I shake my head and try to convince myself I don’t even reallylike hot dogs and that I can probably make it until dinner on the few fries I already ate. I pick up my tablet and stylus and start sketching again, annoyed that for a tiny moment, I gave Sauce a few cool points for helping me clean up a mess he basically created. While I’m over here applauding him for doing the bare minimum, he’s just as self-centered as the rest of his friends.
To be fair, it’s probably all he knows. Sean “Sauce” Levi is not only the king of the Brat Pack, but also heir to a dynasty.His great-grandfather brought his family’s now-famous Mumbo Sauce recipe from Chicago to DC in the 1960s and used it to start a takeout restaurant in the heart of Washington, DC, where they dripped the special sauce on everything fromchicken wings to french fries. Once the popularity of the sauce spread across the nation’s capital, and every eatery from Chinese carryouts to Polish hot dog stands began copyingthe hot sauce/ketchup mix, Sauce’s parents decided to bottle thefamily recipe and begin distributing it in stores.
Now, most stores in the DMV—DC, Maryland, Virginia—carry Sauce’s family sauce. Seriously, it is shelved everywhere from Walmart to Whole Foods, and now Sauce’s family lives in Potomac Overlook, a superexpensive gated community at the National Harbor. Please don’t ask me to describe how fabulous his house looks. I only go to the Harbor during the “FreeMovies on the Potomac” in the summer.
I thought my literal run-in with Sean would be the end of it, but suddenly he’s back. “Ayo, Sommer. You want my lobster roll instead?”
On impulse, I get ready to say, with major attitude, “No, I don’twant your charity lobster.” But the smell of hot butter hits my nostrils, and I get real with myself. How often does this school offer seafood on the menu?
I hold out my hand. “Fine. Hand it over.”
Sauce takes his time unrolling the red-and-white-checkered paper and laying it out in front of me. He places the lobster roll in the center, then sets down a plastic fork-and-knife pack and a little lobster bib.
“You don’t need all this since the lobster meat is technically already out of its shell, but it’s here, in case you want it.”
I smile a little at the gesture. “Thanks.”
I’m seconds away from sinking my teeth into a buttered roll when . . .
“Yo, is that my sweater?” Sauce asks. His eyes have landed squarely on my tablet.
Cringe. Cringe. Cringe.
Welp. Now my special lunch is ruined by emerging embarrassment.
“Uh . . . what?” I mumble, trying to cover up the screen with my hand—even though anyone could tell this is a replica of the long-sleeved Balmain shirt Sauce had on last Wednesday.
“It looks really good. I didn’t know you could draw.” Before I can stop him, Sauce reaches over me and my newly acquired lobster to pick up my tablet. “Yo . . . and what’s this?” He just starts scrolling like it’s perfectly normal to snoop around on somebody’s personal electronic advice.
Evidently Amara and Reed think Sauce’s invasion of privacy is perfectly normal, too. Because Amara says, “We create custom content forThe Sims.”
Sauce looks at me. “I only have 2K. Can I purchase this Balmain skin for that?”
I wipe a little lobster butter off my lips. “My stuff only works onThe Sims.”
“But you can always subscribe to our Patreon.” Reed pulls up a QR code. “Just $2.99 to support . . .”
I shoot Reed a dirty look. Why the heck is he trying to strong-arm three dollars a month from the richest kid in school? But when Sauce pulls out his phone and signs up for our five-dollar VIP subscription, I am grateful for my friend’s initiative.
“Thanks, Sauce.”
Sauce shrugs. “It’s cool . . .” He starts walking back to his table but stops to look back at me. “Let me know if you want to draw another one of my outfits. I just bought these Amiri jeans that might blow your brand up.”
All right now, simmer down . . . This isn’t The Sauce Show.
Out loud, I say, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
When Sauce finally walks away, Amara is all over me. “Something’s definitely sizzling between you and Sauce!”
“Yeah, right!” I polish off the last of my lunch. An innocent crush is one thing. But I’m not about to lose my mind over free lobster. Amara and Reed recently transitioned their friendship into a relationship. But that’s not me—not right now.
“Reed, please tell our friend Sommer here that friend zoning someone as cute as Sauce should be a crime,” Amara says.
“Definitely a misdemeanor,” Reed says. “If you do ever decide to give love a chance, we could call you two the Sommer of Sauce.”
“Okay, I’m going to have to stop you right there.” I grab a cheesy fry off Amara’s plate, the only one that survived the mess. “Just because you two decided to take a chance on falling in love two months before graduation, doesn’t mean I want to.” I shake my head. “Unless I win the lottery, I literally can’t afford to date until college.”
Not to mention, dating my ex–best friend’s new best friend? As cute as Sauce may be, no way am I invitingthat drama to my doorstep.