It’s four nights before the dance, and my room looks like it got hit by a tornado. By the time Dad walks in to say good night, my rug is completely covered with rejected bottoms and tops.
“Joci invited me over to her house to have dinner before the eighth-grade dance on Friday night, but I have a major problem.”
“What’s that?”
“I have nothing to wear.”
Dad points to the pink and brown dress still hanging in the closet.
“How about that?”
“Dad, are you kidding me? You actually think I’m going to wear that dress? No one wears dresses to these dances. It’s not the graduation dance!”
“Calm down, Corinna.”
“How can I calm down? Look at me! Just look.”
“Corinna, it’s going to be okay. Let’s talk about this.” He’s moving his hands like a crossing guard telling a driver to slow down.
“I don’t want to talk about it. You haven’t even noticed that nothing fits me anymore. You don’t even care what I look like.”
“Of course I do,” Dad says, trying to reassure me.
“Are you blind, Dad? I look like a fat sausage. I’m bursting out of everything!”
My eyes start burning.
“You do not look like a sausage. You look cute, like you always have.”
“Dad, that is so lame. I do not look cute. Mom would never have been so stupid about all this. She would have taken me shopping a long time ago.”
“Corinna, your insults aren’t helping.” He sits on my bed. “Can’t we talk about this? Of course I’ll take you shopping if you need something.”
“But you haven’t. Even when I asked you. I told you everything was getting small.” My voice gets louder and more desperate. “Why didn’t you notice? Why don’t you notice anything? My hair, my clothes. You act like everything is frozen in time.”
I’m breathing loudly, but neither of us says anything for what feels like a long time. Dad finally opens his mouth, then hesitates before quietly saying, “Yeah, I’ve been having a really hard time.”
The skin on Dad’s face looks all tight, with his mouth making new wrinkles, but that doesn’t stop me from saying, “You think I haven’t? I still have to go to school even on days when my body and my brain feel terrible and I can barely think and the kids whisper about me. You think it’s easy for me?”
“Of course not. I know it’s not easy. This is so hard for both of us, Corinna.”
I’m looking at my desk as I tell him, “You never take me anywhere, except school and soccer, and swimming at the Y once in a while, and those don’t even count.”
“Corinna, I’m sorry. I know it’s hard on you.”
“I’m going for a walk with Maki,” I announce and start walking to my door.
“Okay, do you —”
I’m out of here.”
“What about dinner?” he asks as I’m halfway down the stairs.
I grab the leash and rush out with Maki, slamming the door behind me.
“Maki, Maki, Maki. I’m so tired of Dad being so out of it. He has no clue. Why can’t Mom be here to pay attention to me? It was so much easier when she was here to take care of these things. She actually knew what to do. Maki, what are we going to do?”
I can barely see where I’m going as the warm tears hit the cold skin on my face. After a few blocks, I calm down a little, but I’m not ready to go home. I’ve spent too much time at home lately. Maki loves the extra long walk, although he has no idea why I’m walking so fast and so far. Unlike me, he makes all kinds of interesting discoveries along the way. He actually runs out of pee because we walk so long. My nose won’t stop running, so I decide it’s time to head home. I’m beginning to feel a teensy-weensy bit bad about yelling at Dad. It’s not like either one of us is a yeller; It just came out. But I don’t really feel like apologizing. He should be the one to apologize.
Dad isn’t downstairs when I walk in, so it takes me a minute to find him in the basement. Actually, Maki finds him. Dad is folding laundry. I hate the way he folds laundry. It always ends up wrinkled. Mom did it so much better.
“Hi, honey,” Dad says, sounding awfully chipper. “Have a nice walk?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I stay at the top of the basement steps. I don’t like how he’s trying to act like nothing happened.
“Feel better?”
“I don’t know,” I answer flatly and turn back into the kitchen. I’m not in the mood to talk.
Dad calls up the stairs, “It would be great if you could make your special salad dressing.”
My special salad dressing is the balsamic vinaigrette dressing Mom taught me to make.
Everything coming out of his mouth tonight is annoying. Just looking at him and his same old khakis is annoying. He keeps calling me “honey.” For some reason, it’s really bugging me. It’s going to be a long night.
“Dad, you just don’t get it. You may be happy wearing the same clothes year after year, but I’m still growing, and things don’t fit, and it’s embarrassing to be bursting out of them. I can’t wear pants that are too short to school. I have enough things to worry about without worrying about looking like a superdork. You should hear how mean they are to this girl named Nicole. They call her Shamu!”
“That’s terrible,” he stammers.
A little while later, we’re sitting quietly at the kitchen table. Yesterday, I had put a vase of daffodils from our garden in the middle, the one made out of green glass, just like Mom used to. It sits between his side of the table and mine. I finally take a bite of my cheese ravioli, which tastes like paste. At least it’s warm. Dad says he had no idea I was suffering so much about my clothes and he’s really sorry he hasn’t paid more attention to them having gotten too small and that he hasn’t listened when I told him I needed things. I hope he’s not just saying what he thinks I want to hear. I want him to understand it.
“So when can we go to the mall?”
“Well, it’s too late to go tonight, but how about this weekend?”
“This weekend?! The dance is Friday night! This weekend is too late,” I shriek.
“Well, I wish I’d known sooner that we had to fit this in. I have a faculty meeting after school tomorrow and you have indoor soccer at seven. I guess we could squeeze it in as long as you don’t take too long.”
“Can’t you skip your stupid meeting? Or I could skip soccer. I really, really need to do this. I need pants, tops, a dress, shoes, I even need underwear stuff. It could take hours!”
“Well, let’s start with the most urgent thing for the dance and hope we find it. We don’t have to get it all at once. We can go back to the mall on the weekend for the other things. I hate to say it, but I really can’t miss my meeting. I get the sense that my boss actually notices who’s missing, and I need to show that I’m doing okay at work. She’s going to be choosing the new department chair soon.”
“Then can I miss soccer?”
“I don’t know. Your coach won’t be happy.”
“Just tell him I’m sick.”
“I’m not comfortable lying about that. I’ll have to think of something, but I won’t lie.”
“Tell him I have an urgent situation that needs immediate attention.”
“Something like that, yeah.”
By the time I go to bed, I’m feeling a little more hopeful, a little less weighed down by feeling invisible in my own house. I hope my eighth-grade “fashion-don’t” days are almost over.
Dance
The day before the dance, Joci asks me if I want her to invite Clare for dinner, too.
“That would be great. We can paint each other’s nails.”
“Does Clare use nail polish?”
“No, but maybe we can convince her to go wild.”
I bring three different outfits to try and get their advice on, including the things Dad and I bought on our shopping trip. It had been the shortest mall trip ever. One store and no more. Dad spent the whole ti
me pacing and looking uncomfortable and bored. I think he really hates malls and shopping.
Joci and Clare both agree that my new Gap shirt and jeans that I bought with Dad look the best. I had put on some of Mom’s perfume before I left home. Just a little, on my wrists. It’s kind of a grown-up lady smell compared to the berry and cocoa lip glosses and glitters my friends and I usually wear. I keep sniffing my wrists, worrying that people will actually think I smell like an old lady.
“What’s with the wrist sniffing?” Clare asks.
I go to the bathroom, wash it off, and borrow Joci’s body spray. The three of us now have matching smelly wrists. My nose is so full of perfume that my taco salad tastes like soap. Thankfully, my taste buds are back to normal by the time we eat our ice-cream sandwiches.
Getting dressed together is fun, even though my hair is totally not cooperating, but being around Joci’s mom is kind of painful. I love her and she has been incredibly sweet to me, but I can’t help thinking about my mom and how I’ll never get to hear her funny dating stories like the ones Joci’s mom has been telling us, or never, ever, hear her laugh again. I drift from their stories and laughter and get really quiet. I’m not going to try to explain to them what’s wrong because I don’t want to ruin the dance for them, but really, I want to skip the dance and go home. They’re in a great mood, ready to have fun, but I’m feeling trapped and lonely, even though I’m with my two best friends.
The dance is basically a blur. There are some Hawaiian decorations and cardboard palm trees and one of those mirror balls, but it’s still your basic stinky gym, with old sweat stuck in the air. The Black Eyed Peas are blaring, telling us to “get the party started.” Everyone’s singing along.
I see a boy I’ve never noticed before standing against the far wall. He’s wearing a white T-shirt with math equations written on it in black Sharpie marker, and he is playing with his cell phone. I guess that’s what people do when they need something to do with their hands. Maybe he’s feeling as out of it as I do, only I keep my phone in my jeans, and I am certainly not advertising my relationship to math. I’m not so out of it that I don’t notice Alex’s late arrival, though. He’s wearing a different orange shirt and his brown hair’s still wet. He looks totally cute, but the last thing I feel like doing is dancing, so I sit on the hard blue bleachers, looking pathetic, watching Clare and Joci have fun dancing with a bunch of our friends.
Five minutes later, Alex actually comes over and stands near me for a few seconds.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Aren’t you going to dance?”
“I don’t feel well.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” I say with a shrug.
“Well, feel better.”
“Thanks.” I try to smile, to find a spark of energy, but I fail miserably.
“Yeah. Sure.”
I feel totally stupid and can’t think of anything else to say. He goes off to the corner where a lot of boys are playing Ping-Pong and foosball. I’m thrilled he talked to me, but I’m mad at myself for being such a drip. Then Hank starts walking over for some kind of showdown. Ick. I quickly turn around to talk to someone in back of me, but no one’s there. I stand up and practically run to the other end of the bleachers, hopping down to get a drink. Finally, Joci and Clare come over.
“Corinna, come dance with us,” Joci pleads.
“Did you see Hank trying to get your attention? Yuck,” chimes in Clare.
Then Joci moves on to the next major news flash. “What were you and Alex talking about?”
“He asked what was wrong.”
“What did you tell him?”
Just then, our principal, Mr. Maroni, walks over to us and starts talking to Joci about the school newspaper article about her being a rising tennis star in Montgomery County.
I think about escaping to the girls’ bathroom, but I’m sure it will be full of girls and major dramas and gossip, so I go over to the concession stand to buy a bottle of water instead.
It’s one sad evening and I can’t wait for it to end. You really have to be in the right mood for a dance. Thank goodness I didn’t make plans to spend the night at anyone’s house, because this is one of those nights when you want to sleep in your own bed, in your own room, with your own pillow, under your own soft comforter.
When I get home, I call Mom on my cell phone, but Mom’s voice doesn’t answer. Instead, I get: “The number you have reached is no longer in service. Please check the number and try again.”
I call out, “No! No, no, no!”
I pound down the stairs to find Dad sitting at his desk, paying bills.
“Dad, how could you?”
“What?”
I’m sobbing but manage to say, “You turned off Mom’s cell phone. How could you do that?”
“Corinna, I had to.”
“What do you mean, you had to?”
Dad’s eyes get teary as he tells me, “I waited a long time because it felt so hard, but I couldn’t keep paying fifty dollars a month forever.”
“Dad, her voice. Now her voice is gone.”
“I’m really sorry, Corinna.”
He reaches out to hug me, but I push him away. I’m furious. I stomp up the stairs into my room, slam the door, and bury myself under my covers for a long, long sleep.
When I wake up, I can’t bring myself to delete Mom on my cell phone. I’m in desperate need of distraction, so I decide to e-mail Aunt Jennifer to ask for more details about Mom’s teenage love life.
A few hours later, Aunt Jennifer sends a great e-mail back.
Dear Corinna,
I’m so glad you asked for more stories about your mom. I have plenty of them. She was a character! I remember she had a crush on Aaron in sixth grade, but when he called to invite her to a movie, she was so nervous that she ended up calling him back a few hours later to cancel. That was the end of Aaron. Then in seventh grade, she had a few crushes. There were probably some she didn’t tell me, but I heard a lot about Ethan, Will, and Sam. They might have been at some parties together, and I think there were a few school dances. I remember she had a different colored hair ribbon for each one. I think it was Sam who wore navy pants all the time, so his color was navy. She wore her hair in a ponytail with the navy ribbon a lot in those days! In eighth grade, I think she and Ethan were going together for part of the year, so they went together to the graduation dance. He was really cute, but she thought his legs were too hairy. Isn’t that ridiculous? Let me know when you’re ready for the next installment of stories about Sophie!
Love,
Aunt Jennifer
I’m lucky I can ask Aunt Jennifer, but what I really wish is that Mom could tell me herself about those boys and how nervous she was, how she figured out what to do, and things like that.
The Lunch
The day arrives for my lunch with Deborah, a Saturday when soccer doesn’t interfere. She calls to say she’s going to be ten minutes late to pick me up, so I have six hundred more seconds to get nervous. It could be awful. Is she going to ask me a million questions? I hope not. I want to be the one to ask the questions.
The doorbell rings and my heart starts thumping faster. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I’ve known her forever.
The first thing she says to me on the porch is, “Can I have a hug?”
“Sure.”
She’s a good hugger.
We get into her cute yellow VW Beetle car.
“How do you fit your cello in here?”
“I don’t! My ex-husband usually drives this car. He needed the big one today to get his lawn mower repaired.”
We arrive at Così café and both order the Signature Salad. The tables are really close together, so when she asks me, “How have you been, Corinna?” I look around to see if I recognize anyone before answering.
“Well, better than before, I guess. I mean, I still miss her a ton,” I say, fiddling with my hair.
“Of course, and so d
o I, but she was even more important in your life.”
She’s looking right at me. I don’t know what to say to that, so I take a few sips from my water glass.
“When do you miss her the most?”
I hesitate before answering, looking at the framed coffee-cup paintings on the wall.
“When I see other kids with their moms.”
“I’ll bet.” She’s quiet for a minute, and then asks, “How do you think your dad is doing?”
I move my water glass around in a slippery wet circle while I think about what to say.
“He’s okay. He’s getting better at grocery shopping and stuff. The fridge is a mess, though.”
“Well, speaking of shopping, I’d love to take you clothes shopping sometime. Remember, I’m surrounded by boys in my family, so it would be a treat for me.”
“Yeah, maybe sometime.”
Her cappuccino arrives, along with my Tableside S’mores. I get busy toasting my first marshmallow, waiting for her to bring up her story-collecting idea that Dad told me about. Or should I go ahead and ask her directly? While I’m trying to decide, she leans in and says, “So, I don’t know if your dad told you, but I’ve been in touch with one of your mom’s college friends, Sue. I asked her if she and some of your mom’s other college friends would write down some memories or stories about your mom for you. I thought you might like to have them.”
“Yeah, he told me. Has anyone sent one in yet?”
I shove another graham cracker and marshmallow into my mouth, crumbs flying everywhere.
“Not yet, but Sue seemed enthusiastic.”
“Okay, good,” I say, still chewing on the last mouthful. “Thank you . . . I’m getting full. Do you want one?”
I’m exhausted from sitting with her, worrying about what she’s going to say, worrying about what I should or shouldn’t ask her. It’s a relief when she signs the credit card receipt and stands up to go. Luckily, she encourages me to choose the radio station for our drive home and all I have to do is thank her and say good-bye.
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