“What for?” he wants to know.
I can’t help it. When I answer I know I sound like a disdainful kid. “For the party Friday night?”
“What’s wrong with what you own already?” he says, stating the obvious.
“This is a party,” I point out to my dad, “my first real party since we moved here.”
“Of course,” he says, as though a ton of bricks has just fallen on his head. Then he looks really sad and I know what he’s thinking: If Mom were alive, she’d have realized the importance of this occasion right away and she’d have been excited to take me shopping for it.
“So where shall we go,” he says, forcing a bright smile, “to find the best outfit in the world?”
I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but . . .
“Dad,” I say gently to soften the blow, “do you think you could just drop me at the mall? Celia and Deanie are going around noon and they asked if I could meet them at the food court.”
“Sure thing, princess,” my dad says. “No problem.”
At the mall, Celia and Deanie and I make quick work of shopping.
Who knew that three girls could shop so quickly? We sit at a table in the food court, slurping giant Cokes from Sbarro as we review our purchases.
“Those jeans look great on you,” I tell Deanie. “I bet Gary will think you look really cool in them.”
Deanie has confessed to liking Gary Addams, and she blushes when I say this.
To deflect attention from herself, she turns to Celia.
“I love your new shoes,” Deanie says to her. “They make you look so much taller. They make your legs look a mile long. I’ll bet Jessup will think you look hot hot hot.”
Celia has not confessed to liking Jessup, but we all pretty much know it just the same. And yet I have good reason to think that Jessup doesn’t look at her that way, because I’ve seen him look at me that way. The world, I sometimes think, is filled with someone liking someone who likes someone else who likes someone else.
Who do I like?
“Who did you buy that white blouse for?” Deanie asks me. “Who are you hoping thinks you’re hot hot hot?”
Celia looks at me closely, as though she would very much like to know the answer to this too.
But I’m saved, if not by the Devil himself, then by Jessup.
“Ladies.” He saunters up to our table. He’s alone. “What are you shopping for today?”
“Your party, of course,” Deanie says.
Deanie may not always be the sharpest knife in the drawer, and she may sometimes say mean things about other people, but you kind of have to admire her openness. You always know with Deanie exactly what she’s thinking, as though there’s just a big colander between her brain and her mouth.
“Cool,” Jessup says. He’s looking at the others, but somehow I feel as though he’s talking directly to me when he adds, “I hope you bought something good.”
He saunters off, and with a lot of time left before my dad’s scheduled to pick me up, I suggest we shop some more.
Lucius
We pull up in front of the mall.
Misty hops out, then pokes her hand back through the front passenger’s side window and snaps her fingers at Mom, then holds her palm out.
“Card, please,” she commands, and we’re off.
How did I get this far in life, I wonder, without Misty’s help?
Once inside the mall, the skylights running the length of the interior make me feel like we’re in a too-bright place.
“So,” I say, tempted to shield my eyes and feeling like a mole that has just come out of his hole, blinking against the glare of day. Where did all these people come from? And why are they all here in one place?
“Misty!”
“Misty!”
“Misty!”
Oh, God. There are three blondes, and they are running straight toward us.
I do my best to fade into the background, allow Misty a moment with what are obviously her friends.
“You didn’t tell us you were coming shopping today!” says Blonde #1.
“Didn’t you say you had to study?” says Blonde #2.
“You could have driven here with us!” says Blonde #3.
I wonder what it must be like to be Misty: to have people actually get excited when they see you.
“I did have to study,” Misty says, “but then I decided to come shopping with my brother.”
Blondes #1, 2, and 3 look around as if hoping to see me.
“Where is he?” Blonde #3 asks. I knew 3 would be trouble.
“Lucius?” Misty calls.
Oh, God. Why did she have to do that?
Still, I can’t just run away—I mean, that would look pathetically silly, would it not?—so I slink out from behind my kid sister, give an awkward little hook wave before I even realize what I’m doing.
Oh, God. I gave the hook wave.
Misty identifies Blondes #1, 2, and 3 in order, ignoring my awkwardness and acting as though I am just any old ordinary brother. “This is Kiki, Tiki, and Biki.”
Oh, God. Then it’s true. There really is a human being named Biki!
And, may I add, she looks like a bitch.
Kiki and Tiki look at me in ways that are friendly enough if a little cautious, while Biki looks at me as though suspecting me of wanting to boil her bunny.
Misty catches Biki’s look, and I’m surprised to see she doesn’t like it.
“We really have to get going,” she says to her three friends, or maybe two friends and an annoyance. “Maybe we’ll catch up with you guys later.”
“Where do we start looking?” I ask as soon as Kiki, Tiki, and Biki are gone.
“Someplace cool,” Misty says as though I am the dimmest brother who ever lived.
“You mean we can’t just go to the Nerd Store?” I ask.
“The Nerd Store?” Misty says. Her nose wrinkles in puzzlement. “Where’s that?”
“There is no Nerd Store,” I say.
She just stares at me vacantly.
I sigh. “It was a joke.” Then I smile. “Don’t look now, but I think I’m in the process of developing a sense of humor.”
“Yeah,” Misty deadpans. “Like, any minute now someone’s going to offer you your own show on Comedy Central. Come on.”
I follow and she leads me to American Eagle Outfitters.
“But I’m not going camping,” I say.
“Don’t be such a dork all your life,” Misty advises.
Just as she’s saying this, who should walk out of the store but Jessup Tristan.
Does the whole rest of the world live at the mall?
“Yeah, Hooks,” Jessup says to me with a smile, “don’t be such a dork all your life.” Then he eyes Misty. “Who’s this?” he asks me. “Your girlfriend?”
“She’s my little sister,” I practically bite the words out through gritted teeth.
“Can’t say I’m surprised that’s all you could get,” Jessup says. “But, you know, maybe when she’s a little older . . .” He gives her an ugly leering look, tempting me to lunge at him, which I would do except that my parents would lock me away, regardless how good my motivation. Jessup walks away from us. Then he calls over his shoulder, “Happy shopping!”
“Did that guy just call you ‘Hooks’?” Misty asks me.
“He did,” I say.
“God, what a creep!”
“Tell me about it,” I say.
We enter the store and there are so many clothing choices, immediately I feel overwhelmed.
I say as much to Misty and she advises, “Just don’t even look at the girls’ side of the store and you’ll reduce what you’re looking at by half. Isn’t that better?”
“Not much,” I say.
“You’re hopeless,” Misty says, making straight for racks of guys’ shirts.
She picks out a rumpled-looking rugby shirt. It’s short-sleeved, bright blue with an alternating darker stripe.
“I don’t think so,”
I say. Then, to make my point, I indicate the sleeves of the shirt I’m wearing. They come down so low on my arms, they even cover the twin flesh-colored lengths of plastic that now pass as my wrists. “I favor the long look.”
“Oops, sor-ry,” she says, sounding disgruntled as she throws her hands up in the air. “I forgot for a minute: mustn’t let the world see what you’ve got hidden up your sleeves!”
“Right,” I say.
“Fine,” she says. “Then we’ll get something that looks like the style of what you normally wear, but cooler.”
She locates a button-down shirt with long sleeves. The shirt is bigger than what I normally wear. The sleeves are wider. And it’s black.
“Um, Misty?” I say.
“Hmm?”
“Won’t I look like that old dead guy singer Mom and Dad are always listening to if I wear this? You know, what’s his name, the only singer who’s not blind—Johnny Crash?”
“Johnny Cash,” she corrects me with an eye roll, which I think is harsh: Am I now to get treated like an idiot for not knowing nerd facts? “And no,” she adds with certainty, shoving the shirt at me. “You won’t.”
Something else catches her eye.
“Ooh!” she says, holding up a pair of jeans. The denim is an almost black blue but very faded in spots. The pants look like they could be twenty years old. “Dark-tinted, crackle-wash, low-rise boot jeans!”
“I can’t believe you know all the technical terms for all this stuff,” I say. “Are the ankles supposed to be that wide? Are they supposed to look that dirty? Do people really pay eighty-nine fifty for pants that look like this?”
Misty thrusts the jeans at me. “Don’t be a dork for the rest of your life, Lucius,” she says.
I am sensing a refrain here.
“Go try them on,” my kid sister commands me, “the shirt too.”
I take a few steps, hear the click of tiny footsteps behind me.
“What are you doing?” I say, turning to see Misty standing so close behind me, we practically crash into each other. “You can’t follow me into the dressing room.”
“No,” she says, “but I can wait right outside so you can come out and show me what you look like once you’ve tried everything on.”
I feel like an idiot, trying on clothes with my kid sister waiting right outside the door. Oh, well, I tell myself, at least it’s not my mom. In a way, I have graduated to a higher plane of dorkdom.
But then something happens to me as I try the clothes on. In fact, you could say that this is my Cinderella moment. Even though there is no Fairy Godmother fairy dust, no horses—or was that mice?—turned into footmen, or pumpkins turned into carriages, it still feels exactly like that. Except for the hooks, I look like anybody else. Indeed, as I study myself in the mirror, I think: Now even I would want to hang out with me.
Still . . .
“Are you sure the pants are supposed to hang this low?” I emerge to show Misty my new look. “I know the tails of my shirt cover it, but I feel as though everyone can see my underwear.”
“They’re supposed to be that low.” Misty rolls her eyes at me. “That’s the fashion. And speaking of underwear, you should really do something about yours.”
“What?” I feel my cheeks redden. “I am so not going there with you, Misty.”
“Well, someone has to tell you. I mean, I’ve seen your underwear in the laundry basket. You really need to do something about that. Boxers, not briefs—that’s where it’s at.”
“Stop!” I cover my ears with my hooks. “I can’t hear you!”
It’s while I’m still covering my ears with my hooks that Misty finally takes a good look at me.
She gestures for me to move my hooks away from my ears and I do so with great reluctance, worried that she’s about to attack my underwear again.
“Hey!” Her eyes widen as she looks me over. “Not bad, Lucius. Not bad at all.”
“Great. Can we go home now?”
But Misty is not done with me yet.
“Okay,” Misty says, “now it’s time to go get you some boots. And new socks. I’ve seen those cloth things you put over your feet, the ones with holes in them. Socks aren’t supposed to have air conditioning. They’re supposed to look like socks, not sock puppets.”
“Boots?” I look down at my feet. “What’s wrong with my sneakers?”
“I refuse to dignify that with a response,” Misty sniffs. “And, anyway, what do you think we got you boot-cut jeans for? So you can wear boots, duh. And I know just where to go to get them. You’ll see. They’ll be the coolest boots you’ve ever seen. When you walk, you’ll make a distinctive clunking sound and everyone will know it’s you.”
I have my doubts about whether sounds are the best judge of a boot’s worth—and do I really always want other people to hear me coming?—but Misty is so excited about this, it’s contagious.
Suddenly I’m feeling downright—dare I say it?—giddy. I know giddy is a girl word, but it’s how I feel. I, Lucius Wolfe, am going to a party. I, Lucius Wolfe, am the possessor of cool clothes! And I will soon have boots that make a distinctive clunking sound, for better or worse.
I’m still feeling giddy—no wonder girls like shopping so much!—as we exit the store. I’m still feeling giddy as we round the corner and run smack into . . .
Aurora Belle.
I barely note that in her company are Celia and Deanie, standing a pace behind her.
“Lucius!” she says.
“Um, Aurora,” I say.
“Hey,” she says.
“Um, hey,” I say.
Okay, I admit it: I’m starting to feel pretty lame right around now.
Aurora looks pointedly at something beside me and I look down at my side and see Misty standing there. Funny how quickly I forgot about her. I look at my sister just long enough to see that she’s studying Aurora with the same curious expression with which Aurora is studying her, before shifting my focus back to Aurora, which is exactly where my focus wants to be.
“This is my sister, Misty,” I say. Stupidly, I raise the bags in my hooks. “We were just, um, shopping.”
“Oh!” Aurora says, looking as relieved as she sounds. “Okay, then! We’d better not keep you.” She looks at me a second more, then says, “See ya, Lucius,” before walking away.
“See ya, Aurora,” I say so quietly, I doubt she or her friends hear me.
I’m watching Aurora walk away, so it’s at least a minute before I feel the eyes of Misty boring a hole in the side of my face.
Aurora disappears around a corner and I finally turn to my sister.
“What?” I demand, seeing the look on her face.
“That girl,” she says, a light dawning in her eyes, “that Aurora. You like her.”
“Ohhh,” I say, feeling disgusted, with myself more than with my sister, “don’t be such a dork all your life.”
I say this to make her laugh.
I say this to shut her up.
But inside, some of the light has gone out of this day for me. Because I know that no matter how many cool clothes I buy, how many boots that make a distinctive clunking sound when I walk, a girl like Aurora will never like a boy like me.
At least not in that way.
Aurora
It’s amazing how different jeans look at a party than they do at school.
Everyone here in Jessup’s basement has jeans on, like a uniform, as they stand and sit around, listening to loud music while drinking soda and eating chips.
My father, a.k.a. the King of Promptness, dropped me off at seven on the dot. For the first fifteen minutes I was the only one here, but then the place began to fill up.
Not only do people look different somehow, but they act different too. It’s like they’re more formal, as though we weren’t just together a few hours ago. It’s like when you go to some function at school at night. Everything is the same—the cast, the setting—but everything is different. And this—not only is it more fo
rmal and different, but it’s also oddly intimate, being down here in this basement.
“What’s new?” Jessup asks me, after offering me another soda.
“Not much,” I say. “I’m pretty sure nothing has changed since this afternoon.”
“Well, you changed your clothes,” he points out. “That top looks nice on you.”
“Thanks,” I say.
The room is large and fairly dark, with a few old sofas and some beanbag chairs scattered around. There’s a wide clearing in the center of it all, as though someone has made room for people to dance—I suspect Jessup’s mother’s handiwork here—but no one is doing so right now. I think she is probably behind the balloons too, which Steve and Gary are taking great delight in popping. Jessup’s yard slopes steeply down from front to back and at the far end of the basement is a set of sliding-glass doors leading out to the back.
I look at the old round clock on the wall—it has roman numerals and a loud ticker—and wonder if everyone who is coming is already here.
Lucius
I have my mom drop me off at eight o’clock even though Aurora told me it starts at seven.
I do this because my mom is one of those people who are so punctual, they often arrive places early, like, say, while the hostess is still getting dressed. So I tell my mom the wrong time, since I have no desire to see Mrs. Tristan in her bathrobe and curlers, and I really don’t want to be the first one there, with me being the first thing everyone sees upon arrival.
Or maybe I do it because I’m a prima donna and I just want to make my grand entrance . . .
Yeah, right.
Not only is this the first party I’ve ever gone to without hands, it’s the first party I’ve ever gone to, period.
If I still had palms, they’d be sweating as I wave goodbye to my mom, knock on the Tristans’ front door.
A woman I think must be Mrs. Tristan answers. She has hair just like her son’s—that freaky brown shading to white gold—and I wonder, forcing down the bubble of hysterical laughter that rises in my throat, if she and Jessup visit the hair stylist together.
“Yes?” She eyes me suspiciously, as though I might be there to rob the place. Another bubble of hysteria threatens as I control the desire to say, Hey, look, Tristan’s ma: no hands!
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