by Cat Patrick
“It’s for sure the weirdest one I’ve ever had,” I say, thinking that so far, most of my dates have been pretty strange.
“Well, it’s about to get weirder,” he says before grabbing and unzipping his bag. He pulls out a small box and hands it to me. “Can’t have an exclusive Bathroom Halloween Dance without a corsage,” he says when he sees my confused look. I open the box and think at first I’m seeing black roses. Then I realize that it’s dark chocolate.
“You can eat it.” He laughs a little, like he can’t believe he’s giving me a chocolate corsage.
“It’s the best of both worlds,” I say, pulling it out of the box and putting it on my wrist. My cheeks pinch as I try to fight off the biggest smile ever, as I attempt to remain calm. I lean over and take a bite. “It’s both beautiful and delicious!” I chew a chocolate petal. “Want some?”
I hold up my left wrist; Sean takes my hand and my forearm gently in his hands and lifts the corsage to his lips. He takes a bite, eyes on mine, and I’m zapped. We stare at each other for so long that I feel it in every inch of me. I’m sure he’s going to kiss me, but instead, he retrieves from his Date-in-a-Bag several other items, including a long black Elvira wig for me, a seventies Beatles wig for him, several black plastic spider rings, two sets of vampire teeth, Waldo and Wenda hats, and an iPod and a mini speaker station.
He plugs in the mobile sound system and pulls me to my feet. We both put on our disguises and then he gently takes me in his arms. There in my candlelit bathroom, in the space between the toilet and the vanity, me looking like Goth Undead Wenda in Pajamas and him dressed as Ironic Vampire Teen Ringo Starr, I share my first dance with a guy.
And as weird as it is, it’s perfect.
twenty
“How was the dance?” Mom asks at breakfast the next day.
“So fun,” Ella says, stars in her eyes. She looks how I feel.
“That’s nice,” Mom says. “What time did you get home?”
“Eleven,” Ella replies. Mom eyes her skeptically. “Fine, twelve.”
Really, I’m probably the only one who knows that Ella sauntered in closer to one. It was long after Bet went to bed. I only know because it was then that I was walking Sean up to the gate, laughing at his dramatic story of how he scaled it like a pro before he called me from the front porch.
Betsey was right: He really did take some ballsy pills last night.
I drop my chin so Mom won’t notice my giddiness.
Mom asks about the decorations and the other kids’ costumes, and while Ella describes everything in detail, I am horrified to hear a noise from upstairs. Our communal cell is on the counter behind Mom; the spy phone in my bedroom is ringing.
I look at Ella; she notices it, too. I see a flash of panic in her eyes before she blinks it away. Slowly, she stands with her still half-full plate and walks through the kitchen, still talking. Mom interrupts.
“Ella, you need to finish your eggs, at least,” she says, eyes following her. Then, “I think your phone’s ringing.” Just when Mom starts to look at the spot where we usually plug in our cell—where it is, in fact, plugged in right now—Betsey squeals.
“Oh my god!” she says. Mom jumps and looks at Betsey, surprised.
“What?” Mom asks.
“There’s a mouse!” Betsey shouts, pointing in the direction of the living room, away from the phone. While Mom looks for the rodent Ella takes the opportunity to grab the phone and shove it in her pants pocket. I sigh quietly, relieved.
“Where?” Mom says, staring wide-eyed in the direction Bet pointed.
“It was right over… oh.” Betsey fakes embarrassment. “Whoops.”
“What?” Mom says. “What now?”
“I think it was just Lizzie’s fuzzy slipper.”
“For goodness’ sake, Betsey, you scared me!” Mom says.
“I really thought it was a mouse,” Bet says, shrugging.
Mom joins Ella at the sink. “Now that that’s settled, I’m going out to get groceries before work. Anyone want to come?” She looks at us individually, expectantly. I feel guilty for not wanting to go, and impatient for her to leave. Ella agrees to ride along; Betsey tells Ella to bring her back a latte; and I manage to stay downstairs until the door shuts behind Mom. Then I race up to my bedroom.
“My mom almost found out about the spy phone!” I say the second Sean answers. I’m a ball of nervous energy.
“No way,” Sean says. “Sorry about that.”
“It rang up here when our real phone was plugged in downstairs,” I say. “Close one. We have to be careful.”
“Totally. Sorry.”
“No worries,” I say. “So, what’re you doing today?”
“That’s actually why I was calling,” he says. “I was wondering if you wanted to come over and hang out this afternoon. You know, after your mom leaves for work.” He pauses a second. “I’m sure my mom would love to meet you.”
“You told your mom about me?”
“Of course,” Sean says easily. Sometimes it shocks me how grown-up he seems: He’s not intimidated by or embarrassed about anything like a lot of the other guys at school. Compared to David, Sean’s a man.
“That’s really sweet,” I say softly.
“Thanks,” he says, and we both get quiet. Then: “I mean, I didn’t tell her everything. I didn’t tell her about Ella and Betsey, even though I really still think that we should do some—”
“Sean?” I interrupt.
“Yeah?”
“I’ll come over if you promise not to bring that up again,” I say, flirty with seriousness mixed in.
“Okay,” he says. “I promise I won’t mention your mom or your living arrangements… today.”
“Okay,” I say. “See you in a few hours.”
As I breeze through a yellow light, I rethink the long-sleeved tunic, skinny jeans, and flats that I’m wearing. Ella said it worked, but now I wonder if Sean’s mom will think I’m trying too hard. I mean, I look like I’m in a catalog. And not only that, but I straightened my hair and added a single braid across the top and down the right side. I grab the tiny rubber band at the end of the braid and start to tug until I realize that taking it out now will leave me with a weird crimpy section of hair. I can’t meet Sean’s mom as a one-sided frizz-head, so I leave it in.
The sedan’s GPS directs me to Sean’s neighborhood and his house. I hold my breath as I park in front of an older home with a pitched roof and massive, funky numbers over the front door. It’s muted green with white trim and has a small, manicured front lawn.
I get out and lock the car, then make my way up the front steps to the porch. I ring the bell and wait, turning a little to look out toward the neighborhood. Sean lives in University City, so there are a lot of younger people out; it must be fun to live here.
The door opens and I turn around, expecting Sean. Instead, it’s a woman I assume is his mom.
“Hello!” she says with a wide, welcoming smile. “You must be Lizzie.”
I nod and extend a hand; she looks surprised, but she shakes it anyway. Her hands are small, but her handshake is firm. She smiles with light brown eyes that match Sean’s, but her hair is long and blond and she looks like she’s in her thirties even though she’s probably at least a decade older. She’s beautiful, and I can see parts of Sean in her face.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Kelly,” I say, before realizing that because she’s divorced, she might have a different last name.
“Call me Harper,” she says, which confuses me even more. Is that her last name or her first? And where the heck is…
“Hey, you,” Sean says, walking up behind me onto the porch. “Sorry, I was moving my car so you could park in front.”
“Thanks,” I say, smiling at him.
“Come on in, you two,” Harper (or Ms. Harper) says. Sean leads and I follow. The front door opens right into the living room: There’s no entry or grand staircase, just an open space with a TV and couch on one side
and a dining table on the other. Through a door, I can see a kitchen; I assume the bedrooms are through the other visible opening. It’s a small, older home, but it is beautiful and perfectly… calming.
“Welcome,” Harper says, waving her hands around the space. “Make yourself at home. I’m making cookies…. I’ll be right back.”
She turns and disappears. I look around, wishing I could live somewhere like this. The floor is wide wood strips stained light gray, and the walls in the main room are painted a pale butter yellow. All the trim and built-in bookshelves are white, and the oversized sectional couch is dark charcoal gray. There are sheer white coverings on the wide windows, and someone with a scratchy voice is singing from the first actual record player I’ve seen in real life. A tiny hot dog scampers across the floor.
“I didn’t know you have a dog,” I say.
“I never told you about Dumptruck?” he asks.
“That miniature dog’s name is Dumptruck?” I ask in disbelief. Sean nods. “It’s kind of perfect,” I admit with a laugh as I watch Dumptruck try to hop up on a chair in the sun. Sean walks over and gives him a boost, then returns and kicks his sneakers into a pile by the door. He’s wearing one orange and one navy-blue sock today, which makes my stomach flip.
I step out of my shoes and wiggle my toes, wishing I’d worn socks. Going barefoot on a first visit feels funny. And besides, it’s a little chilly today. As if he’s reading my mind, Sean asks, “Want me to grab you a pair of socks?”
“Is that weird?” I ask.
“Not at all. Follow me.”
He leads me by the hand through the doorway off the dining area. There’s a long hallway with several open doors on either side; we walk all the way to the end, passing what Sean points out as Harper’s room, an office, a spare bedroom, a single bathroom, and finally, his “lair.”
It’s sparse and incredibly neat. The walls are stark white with white wood detail on them. There’s a mattress and box spring on the floor in the corner covered with a solid navy-blue quilt. Next to the bed is a low industrial metal nightstand; there are a desk and a shelf made out of the same material on the far wall. The desk is tidy, with an older laptop hooked to a flat-screen monitor and several binders stacked to the side. The bookshelf looks like it was once organized, but now books are lying horizontally on top of the vertical stacks.
“You need a bigger shelf,” I observe.
“Yeah, but I like that one,” Sean says, walking to the far wall and opening a door. His closet is neat, too. He pulls striped socks out of one of those hanging organizer things.
“Is your room always this clean?” I ask, looking around.
“Would it freak you out if I said yes?” he asks, grinning while offering me the socks.
“Not at all,” I say, taking the socks and sitting down to put them on. They’re black and yellow like a honeybee and way too big for me, but something about wearing them feels nice. “School spirit,” I say about the colors.
“Go, team,” Sean says sarcastically.
“Oh, hey,” I say in a whisper, glancing at the door. “What’s your mom’s first name?”
“Harper,” he says in a matching whisper. “Why? Did you think that was her last name?”
“Yes!” I say, laughing loudly, which makes Sean laugh, too.
“Don’t worry, everyone does,” he says. “Her last name is Kelly, just like mine.”
“Your parents didn’t give you your dad’s name?”
“No, thank god,” Sean says, rolling his eyes.
“What is it?” I ask, standing and moving so I’m right in front of him.
“Not telling,” he says in a low, sexy voice.
“Come on,” I say, “I told you I’m a clone. The least you can do is tell me your dad’s last name.”
“Hooker,” he says flatly.
“Did you just call me a hooker?” I joke.
He shakes his head at me but doesn’t answer.
“Your name would have been Sean Hooker?” I ask, biting my cheek so I don’t burst out laughing.
Sean nods. “I don’t know why he never changed it,” he says. “But that’s not my problem anymore.” His tone is serious; my smile fades. Wanting to take his mind off bad memories, I lean up on tiptoe and kiss him gently on the lips. He smells like outside.
“Thanks for having me over,” I say before I kiss him again. “And thanks for the socks.”
“Anytime,” he says, leaning in. Just then, his mom calls “Cookies are done!” from down the hall, and we jump apart like startled cats. Sean smiles sheepishly and nods in the direction of the door; I float down the hall behind him, loving the feel of my toes inside his striped socks.
After snacks and some pleasant parental conversation, Sean and I go back to the living room and sink into the couch. I scratch Dumptruck while Sean texts back one of his friends. When he’s done, he takes a picture of me with his camera phone.
“Let me see it,” I say, grabbing the phone. “I have to approve it.”
“You always look good in pictures,” he says.
“Not true.”
“No, really,” he says. “You do. Hey, want to go see the studio?”
“Yes!” I say enthusiastically.
At the shoe pile by the front door, Sean digs through a few strays until he finds what he’s looking for: hideous green foam shoes. I make a face.
“What? Dislike?” he asks with a little laugh.
“Why do you own those?” I ask, frowning. “You look… I mean… they’re the worst.”
“I know,” he says, laughing again. “They’re hot. I’m going to wear them to school on Monday.”
“No!” I say. “You’ll be banned!”
I shove my own feet into my flats even though I’m still wearing the oversized socks. The extra material bunches up at the sides and makes my feet look like I’m retaining massive amounts of water.
“I guess we both look like fashion don’ts,” I say.
“Great, let’s go.” He takes my hand and leads me out of the house, carefully closing the door behind us so Dumptruck doesn’t get out.
“They’re for cooking,” Sean says as we walk down the steps.
“What’s for cooking?”
“My shoes. Cooking requires long periods of standing up. These are comfortable when I cook.” He leads me around the side of the house and to the back toward a detached garage.
“They’re still hideous,” I say, shaking my head, wondering whether I like him more for liking to cook or for having special shoes to do it.
“All the famous chefs wear them.” Sean opens the people door next to the double garage door and waves me through.
“Hideous,” I say with one last look at his feet. “I mean, seriously, why—”
Sean pulls me close and kisses me sweetly right there in the doorway. “Shh,” he says, lips still pressed against mine. His face pulls back an inch but his arms hold me tight. I feel him doing something with his feet, then he gets a little shorter like he just kicked off his shoes. Our bodies still stuck like Velcro, Sean pats my right leg. “Lift up your leg.” I do, and he worms his toes into the heel of my shoe so it pops off. Then somehow without looking, he kicks his shoe under me in the right direction. “Step in,” he says. He goes through the same process with the other foot, all while maintaining the hug hold. Finally, when I’m in shoes and he’s not, he pulls his face back another inch and raises his eyebrows at me.
“So?” he asks.
I roll my eyes dramatically, Ella-style.
“Fine,” I say. “They’re comfortable.”
Inside the garage, I immediately forget that I’m in a garage. Walls have been constructed to divide the space, and everything is finished and painted; it’s heated, warm, and inviting. We walk into the front reception area, where the floor has bright carpet tiles in every color and the walls are covered floor to ceiling with massive framed photos: students, babies, people getting married, landscapes, animals.
�
�Is that you?” I ask, pointing to a gigantic shot of a smiling, chubby baby in a basket.
“No,” Sean says, looking embarrassed.
“Liar,” I say, turning to inspect the photos on the wall by the door.
“Your mom’s insanely good,” I say, admiring a close-up of the wrinkles on an old man’s face. “Wow,” I murmur. “I love this.” I reach out but don’t touch a portrait of Dumptruck.
My eyes travel up the wall; I jump when I recognize my own face staring back at me. It’s a close-up and my dark eyes are huge; my hair is blown back like I’m a model. It’s beautiful and cringe-worthy at the same time.
“That’s my favorite one,” Sean says, walking up behind me.
“It’s really…” I say, my voice trailing off, not sure how to express how I feel. Instead, I say something else. “It’s nice of your mom to let you hang it in her studio.”
“Yeah,” Sean says. “That’s my wall.”
I turn around, wide-eyed. “You took all of these photos?” I ask. He nods. I turn to look at them again; they’re even better now that I know they’re his.
“They’re beyond amazing,” I say, feeling like it’s too small a compliment. I hear Sean’s stocking feet shuffle once; I wiggle my toes in his too-large shoes.
“Come see the rest,” he says, grabbing my hand and literally pulling me away from his art.
We walk through another door into a massive open studio with umbrella lights and a tripod and several stations that look like mini rooms that forgot some of their walls. There’s a five-by-five section of dark hardwood floor with patterned frilly wallpaper on the wall; one with a white floor and a blue painted wall; and one with a brown wood floor and three solid canvas backdrops to choose from. There’s a changing room in one corner blocked off from the rest by thick fabric; in another corner there are baskets of props ranging from silly glasses to masks to toys to tutus.
Sean and I spend an hour messing around in the studio: him taking photos of me and using a little remote to take photos of us together, and me shooting mostly unfocused pictures of him. It’s so ridiculously fun that I lose track of time. When Harper appears in the doorway asking if I’d like to stay for dinner, I panic for a second before remembering Mom’s at work. Still, I don’t want to overstay my welcome.