by Elise Bryant
Mom stares at me for a second, looking stunned, but then she smiles, bigger than I’ve seen her do in a long time. She takes my phone and studies the picture, nodding her head.
“Yes, of course, sweetie.”
We get out a pointy comb and a Denman brush, and I sit between her legs as she puts tight braids on my scalp, just like my granny and aunties taught her to do, like she did when I was small.
I tell her about the party tonight and give vague answers to her questions about school this week—leaving out all details of the love story plan because I don’t want a repeat of whatever happened with Sam earlier. We don’t talk about Miles’s tantrum on the corner, but I feel like I hear her anyway, through the way she rubs mint almond oil on my scalp and how she gingerly finger-combs through tangles.
When she’s done, we go to the bathroom and admire her work in the mirror. It’s exactly what I wanted, and my head starts spinning, dreaming about what could happen tonight with my hair looking perfect like this.
“You look beautiful,” she says, and her eyes get all crinkly on the sides. They’re a different color, but the same as mine.
“Thank you.”
She turns me around and gives me a hug, tight and warm.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know. Me too.”
And just like that, there’s peace between us again.
I could feel Lenore’s side-eye through her text messages when I explained that Nico had invited me to a party at his house, and I wanted her to come with me. But she agreed to borrow her parents’ minivan anyway, and she shows up at my house at seven, wearing a skirt made of iridescent feathers, a black military-style jacket, and her locs pulled up into a huge bun. There’s a garment bag trailing behind her and a blush-pink plastic Caboodle under her arm.
“Oh, wow! I had one of those when I was in college,” Mom says.
“Are you getting Tessie ready for a date?” Miles asks.
“Better not be,” Dad says, giving Lenore his perfected stern face.
“Oh, don’t you worry, Mr. Johnson,” Lenore says. “I am only escorting Tessa on a night of good, clean fun, to a party in which there promises to be an acceptable ratio of girls to boys. And I will get her home at whatever time you deem an appropriate curfew.”
They all smile and give us our privacy at that. She’s a pro.
Lenore adds delicate gold cuffs to the braids my mom did for me and applies black eyeliner in a perfect wing—like how you see it done in magazines but can never actually do in real life. I was going to wear this simple chambray shift dress, but Lenore opens up her garment bag to reveal another dress that she found at a thrift store. It’s navy blue, with sheer long sleeves cuffed at the wrists and glittery silver constellations embroidered on it.
I hesitate before putting it on. “Is it too much?”
“Oh, girl,” Lenore says, wrapping her arms around my shoulders. “You’ve got to learn the subtle art of not giving a fuck. I can teach you. That’s basically my conservatory.”
And she’s right. I put it on, and I feel good. I still feel like myself, but . . . elevated. I feel like myself if I didn’t have all the worries—the constant barrage of voices in my head telling me that I don’t belong, that I need to shrink and be quieter. And that’s how I want to feel tonight.
“You’re like my fairy godmother,” I say, smiling at her in the mirror.
Her nose wrinkles. “I’m not your fairy godmother, Tessa. I’m your friend.” She looks me straight in the eye, sending me about a thousand words with an arched eyebrow. But before I even have a chance to apologize or word-vomit up just how much she means to me, she waves her hand and smiles. “And that’s why you’re going to do this for me one day when I find myself someone worthy. But not anytime soon, because the boys at this school are crusty, and I have taste. No offense.”
I laugh, relieved. “None taken. And I am ready and waiting to be your wing woman.” I give her a salute. “So, Theodore is going to meet us there?”
“Yeah, he was already planning on going with his secret boyfriend.”
“Is he—he’s not out to . . . everyone yet?”
That makes Lenore giggle so much that she falls forward, her giant bun flopping around. “No! Of course he is! Did you see the faux fur capelet he wore Wednesday?” She gives me an exaggerated side-eye. “No, he just never really brings him around to lunch or anything, so I started calling him that. Says lunchtime is his work time, or whatever, so he doesn’t have time for his boo then. That boy. Seriously . . .”
I hug my parents goodbye, watch one video that Miles wants to show me (he’s found most of the Dream Zone footage on YouTube, thank god), and then Lenore and I are off. When I open the door, though, I’m shocked to see Sam in the dim evening light, walking across our lawn. And he looks just as shocked to see me.
“Sammy boy!” Lenore shouts, her arms out. “You coming with?”
He shakes his head, looking down at the paper box in his hands and then looking back up at me. “Wow, Tessa—you . . . you look really pretty. You guys, uh, both do.”
Lenore’s head whips between the two of us, but luckily she just smirks and says nothing.
“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. For yesterday. I’m not . . . it wasn’t . . .” He’s rubbing the side of his face, which I’m starting to notice he does a lot when he’s processing things. “I don’t know—it just wasn’t what I expected, but I shouldn’t have reacted that way. It wasn’t my place to judge, and I should have respected your ideas and your choices more. And Nico . . . Nico would be lucky to have you.”
“Thank you, Sam,” I say with a small smile, embarrassed that he’s talking about my secret plan so openly. I hope my parents aren’t listening in.
“And I—uh, I made you cookies,” he says, presenting the box in his hands. “They’re a re-creation of the Milk Bar’s cornflake marshmallow cookies—have you heard of them? Except they’re a little different. I added peanut butter chips.” I take the cookies from him, my hand brushing his.
“Anyway . . . yeah. I hope you two have a good night.” He holds my gaze, something there that I can’t read, but then he turns away and gives us a small wave. My cheeks flush as I watch him walk away.
Chapter Twenty-One
I spend the whole drive explaining to Lenore my writer’s block and Caroline’s plan and Sam’s reaction. I’m a little hesitant to share it all with her, but there’s really no sweeping it under the rug after that interaction with Sam. And I figure, if anyone is going to get behind this plan, it’s Lenore.
Luckily, I’m right.
“Girl, get it! I’m so in,” she says, holding a cookie with one hand and snapping her fingers with the other. Her knees balance the wheel, and I have to fight every instinct not to lunge over and steady it. “Plus, him and Poppy break up allllll the time! They’re, like, super messy. It’s been like that for years. ’Bout time he moved on!”
I resist my urge to do a happy dance at that new information.
“Damn, these cookies are good!” she shouts, taking a bite so big we swerve into the other lane.
“Sam’s very good at what he does.”
“Shit, you’ve got it good with Sammy boy across the street, just bringing you gourmet treats every day.” She shakes her head and the minivan shakes with her. I try to discreetly hold on to the passenger door. “I thought for sure you and him had something going on, and then all this . . . plot twist!”
“Me and Sam? God, why does everyone think that?”
Lenore raises her eyebrows.
“I mean, he’s a good friend, and I like him a lot . . . but not like that. He’s not really my type, you know, looks and all.” I bite my bottom lip. “Does that make me a jerk to say?”
She shrugs. “Everyone is someone’s cup of tea.”
And Nico is mine, definitely not Hawaiian Shirt Sam.
Nico’s house is in Naples, an upscale neighborhood not far from Chrysalis, but even closer to the beach. We dr
ive past it multiple times as we circle around looking for parking, and I stare out the window at the dark ocean, hoping it will calm my nerves.
The houses in this area cost millions—I remember from when Mom and I drove down to Long Beach one weekend to explore the city and check out the neighborhoods before the big move. We could never afford a house in Naples, but Mom pulled me into an open house anyway, saying it would be fun. That place was tiny and so close to the neighbor that you could probably borrow a cup of sugar through the window, and it was going for over two million. So when we pull up to Nico’s house, my internal calculator starts spinning, because his place is four times the size of that one—with two freaking fountains in the front courtyard.
“Whoa.”
“Yeah, the Luccheses got bank,” Lenore says, tucking Sam’s cookies under her arm. “Didn’t you see that the fifth floor of the school is named after them?”
The first thing I notice when we walk inside is that the place is super white. Not, like, white people. Though there are a considerable number of those—just like Nico and the other founders’ kids, I guess.
Everything in the house is white, I mean. White walls, white shag rugs over light hardwood floors, white leather couches, white fur pillows. The only color in the room is two fiddle-leaf fig trees in white tasseled baskets. It looks like a music-video set or a catalog or something. I wonder how they keep everything so white. Because in my house, everything would have a faint film of pizza grease, crumbs, and random dirt in less than twenty-four hours. Seeing people just walking around, touching things, and wearing their shoes makes me a little nervous for Nico. He’s going to have a hard time cleaning all this up before his parents get home.
The second thing I notice, after the overwhelming whiteness, is Nico. First, in the pictures hanging on the walls. They look like photos that come already in the frames, a perfect family unit. Mother, father, daughter, and son—all attractive, all impeccably dressed. And then I see Nico in person. He’s surrounded by a group of people, holding court with Poppy by his side. So, on-again, I guess. He must be saying something funny, because everyone around him starts laughing. A guy across from him laughs so much that something sloshes out of his red plastic cup, but Nico doesn’t admonish him or make him clean it up—he just says something else that inspires another round of laughter.
Nico looks up just then and locks eyes with me from across the room, like he can feel my presence. He waves at me, a big smile on his face, and I struggle to catch my breath. Next to him, Poppy follows his gaze and then narrows her eyes at me—I can’t tell if it’s suspicion, though, or just disgust. I quickly look away, in case she can read on my face what I’m thinking.
“Ah, there’s your boy,” Lenore says, putting her arm around me. “But there’s his girl . . . what’s Caroline’s plan for that?”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“You got it.” Thankfully, she doesn’t push the issue like Sam did . . . because I know it’s murky. I’m just hoping it’ll get less murky over time, before I actually have to deal with it. “You should let Theo take care of her. You know he wants to make that girl disappear, so she can’t keep beating him out for the winter gala.”
Lenore points to a couch, where Theodore, in a blue-striped button-up and tight shorts, is entwined with a dancer I’ve seen around campus before. The guy is tall with smooth copper skin and impressive muscles—and Theodore seems to be exploring every one of them as if they were completely alone.
“Um . . . they don’t look very secret.”
Lenore shakes her head. “He probably had a drink—he always gets all boo’d up when you get some vodka in him. Speaking of which . . . I’m thirsty. Let’s go see what kind of bougie drinks they got in there.”
She nods to the kitchen, pulling me after her, and I feel a little panic flutter in my chest. I’ve never had even a sip of alcohol before. The feeling of not being in control sounds awful, because I love being in control. I wish I could be even more in control than I am normally—why isn’t there a drink for that? I didn’t really think of a plan for what I would do if there was drinking at this party, but that was kind of stupid, because of course there’s drinking at this party. Will Lenore think I’m some kind of little kid if I don’t drink? Nico definitely will. And how is Lenore planning on driving? We didn’t discuss that.
But then I see Nico walk away from Poppy, going into a back room, and my mind clears of everything but a chance to get some time with just him. I can figure this out later.
“Actually, I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” I say to Lenore. “I’ll catch up with you in a little bit.”
“Okay!” She flits away, munching on another one of Sam’s cookies.
Nico goes down a short hallway and I follow him, squeezing through a crowd of three musical theater girls falling over themselves and a guy I think is in my physics class. Nico turns into a back room that’s a little less white—there’s a buttery tan leather couch and a matching Eames chair, with a large abstract watercolor on the wall. And he slips out the door in that room into what I assume is the backyard. I’m about to follow him right out there too, after turning to make sure no one sees how stalker-y I’m being, but I stop myself. What did number four on Caroline’s list say? Have a moment at a party? This could be the perfect time for that, but how will I explain why I suddenly appeared in his backyard? Needed some fresh air . . . but what if he’s smoking? Would I still like him if he’s a smoker? Probably.
Ready or not, moment, here I come. But then, through the large glass panel on the door, I see him hug a woman in a fitted black lace dress. What the hell? I dive behind the Eames chair. I can hear their voices through the open window.
“You heading out?” Nico asks.
“In a minute,” she says. “But we need to chat about a few things first.”
Does Nico have a secret older girlfriend? Does Poppy know about this? This is definitely going to screw up the happily ever after plan. . . .
“What’s the rush?” a deep voice says. “You don’t want your friends to see us? We’re hip. We can hang.”
Now, who’s that?
I peek from behind the chair and see that there are two people outside with him. The lady—I notice her high heels with red bottoms and her giant geometric earrings—and an older man, wearing a black suit and wingtips. He looks just like Nico, has the same loose waves, but his have a distinguished amount of gray sprinkled at his temples. I recognize them from the pictures in the front of the house.
He’s talking to his parents? That’s strange. Right? I mean, I’m not a party expert or anything. My knowledge mostly comes from movies, but aren’t these things supposed to happen when, like, the parents are out of town or something? I haven’t actually been to a lot of high school parties, though . . . or actually any at all. So, what do I know? Maybe it’s a white-kid thing. Or a rich-kid thing.
His mom looks upset. “We should have made you cancel this thing after what Ms. McKinney said at coffee this morning.”
“Now, Nella, it wasn’t negative,” his dad chides her.
“Why do you get coffee with her, anyway?” Nico asks. “You don’t even like her.” His usual smile is replaced with a scowl.
“You never know when these connections will come in handy for you . . . for your future. Her most recent book just got optioned by Starz, though who even has Starz anymore?”
Nico definitely rolls his eyes that time. I duck back down, so I can just hear their voices.
“She said you shared in class yesterday, and it was underwhelming.”
“She said that? Seriously?” Nico asks, his voice raised.
His dad cuts in. “She didn’t say that, Nella.”
“Well, I could tell by her tone. I just want to make sure you’re living up to your full potential, Nico. You don’t want to get passed over for the gala again, and college applications are just a year away. Your sister was much further in the process at this point. Did you see the article I
sent you about NYU? Jeffrey Eugenides is on their faculty, you know. . . .”
“I’m not talking about this right now!” Nico huffs, and then it’s quiet, except for the shuffling of feet and the bass from the music at the front of the house.
“Well, we’ll be home from the fundraiser by one,” his mom finally says, her voice tight. “Make sure everyone is gone by then, and that includes Poppy.”
“Drink responsibly!” his dad adds. “And absolutely no driving!”
“And don’t forget to text Grace about coming in the morning to clean. I already saw that red Cheeto dust on the counters.”
They seem to be wrapping up, so I take that as my opportunity to sprint across the room and back into the front of the house. I don’t want him to catch me snooping like a creeper. And even if I could make it look perfectly normal, me just sitting there in that room, I don’t think Nico would want anyone to have overheard that conversation. His parents were harsh on him—like, way harsh. I feel a lot of pressure to write now, but that’s pressure I put on myself. I can’t imagine how I would feel if my mom was meeting with my teacher and calling me underwhelming. How does he write anything like that?
There are a few dancers mingling in the hallway as I walk through, and when I get back to the front of the house, I realize there’s way more people here now. The kitchen is packed with Chrysalis students filling up their red cups with concoctions from various glass bottles and leaning against the marble countertops. And in the dim living room, a Kanye West song is blasting through the speakers (of course, since white guys love Kanye). I spot Grayson in a corner, scrolling through an iPhone hooked up to an aux cable. But I can’t see Lenore . . . or anyone else I know. And I feel a familiar panic creep in as I think about facing this party without her. Maybe I should just go, get a Lyft. . . .
“Tessa!”
I hear my name from somewhere in the room, and with relief, I spot Theodore on the couch, all cuddled up with his secret boyfriend.
“Tessa! Oh, Tessa, you sweet thing!” His face is flushed red and he leans forward to kiss me on both cheeks. “And that dress! You look absolutely magnificent! An angel sent down from the cosmos to grace us with her beauty.” He kisses my cheeks again. He is . . . unusually nice. Or drunk, I guess. But I officially like drunk Theodore.