by Robin Mellom
each other. “Weird. Confusing. Whatever. There it is,” I say, and breathe in deeply.
Gilda smiles. “I understand now.”
“You do? Then please, tel me,” I say.
“In charge of the details? Talks about every thought and feeling? Loves kissing?” She twirls her braid around her finger, clearly enjoying this. “Sounds like someone in this very room.”
Oh crap. I thought I’d be, like, thirty before I turned into my mother. I’m too young for this.
“Here’s the thing.” Donna gives me a focused stare.
“Men want to be mothered. Nobody wil tel you that truth, but Donna Kramer wil . Men want Sexy Kitten in the wee hours of the night, and then again in the early hours of the morning—as inconvenient as that may be—but pretty much during the rest of the day, they want to be told what to do because they don’t know what to do! They don’t even know how to sort the lights from the darks!” I consider tel ing her about Ian’s intricate system for separating clothes—whites, extreme whites, warms, warm
& cozies, darks, and sweaty uniforms. I consider tel ing her that Ian is the one who always seems to take care of me. I consider tel ing her she’s wrong about him.
Even though, in a way, I wish she were right.
Why don’t you fit the mold, Ian? If only you real y were Captain Scumbag, like the rest of them. This would be black or white—it would be so simple.
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“For example,” Donna continues, “Rudy Jenkins, biggest slob this side of the Ledbetter Community Center. He’d drop his pants before even closing the front door and expect me to pick them up, and I’d be al ‘O.M.God, hire a maid, Rudy!’”
“That’s O.M.G.” I try to correct her.
“Exactly! He wanted a mother! You get what I’m saying, right?”
I do. But I don’t want to. “Yes.”
Gilda tries to change the subject. “So you went to In-N-Out with your new friends?”
I nod. “In the Cadil ac.”
“A Caddy, eh?” Donna says with a wink. “Classy.”
“I’m getting a good feeling about this.” Gilda steps back and folds her arms contentedly, like she’s solving a mystery.
“My guess is these were nice people and they helped you find Ian at the restaurant.”
“Have you been fol owing along, Gilda?” Donna throws her arms in the air. “Our dol here drove off with a bunch of drug pushers and she clearly didn’t find Ian because why else would she be here tel ing this fascinating story to us while eating a Nutty Bar.” She snatches a yel ow box from below the counter. “Want a Nutty Bar? My treat.” Gilda rings up the Nutty Bar and puts her own money into the cash register, then passes the box on to me.
“Thanks.” I grab the box and rip it open. “But you’re both wrong . . . and you’re both right.”
Donna widens her stance and folds her arms.
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“My friends are drug users—of the tame kind, believe me. But they are nice. And I did hear from Ian at In-N-Out.”
“You did?” Gilda looks surprised.
“He cal ed. But he didn’t cal me.” I readjust myself on the stool. “And that’s when I got this—” I lift up my skirt to show the bruise.
Donna squints as she bends over to get a better look.
“Someone bruised you with a french fry?”
“That’s what I thought at first, too.” I shake my head, not wanting to recal this memory. “But no, this bruise was definitely not caused by a french fry.” 157
10
Size Seven Silver,
Strappy Jimmy Choo Heels
THE CADILLAC.
After a closer look, I realized this was no regular Huntington High luxury automobile. And actual y, I decided I would have preferred a van. Even a creepy, windowless, serial-kil er van would’ve been more approachable than this dilapidated deathmobile.
Mike had borrowed it from his brother. And by “it” I mean a hooptie baby blue caddy with a rusted-out hood and two windows missing. On the driver’s side door was a hand-painted number in white: Sixty-nine.
Ick.
Except I had to admit . . . it was interesting.
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“My bro is gonna demolish this thing in derby next week.” Mike patted the roof like it was family. “We get one last night on the town with this gorgeous babe.” Serenity and Bliss squealed. They were very excitable. I yearned for their energy.
Other than the front seats, the Cadil ac was practical y a hol owed-out shel , ful of metal and wires and empty bottles.
“There’s no backseat,” I pointed out.
“Can’t have seats in there for derby. But check it out—
coolers.” Mike busted open the back door (it required busting since mere opening would have gotten him nowhere), and he demonstrated how two large coolers could be pushed together to be used for beer storage and comfortable seating.
Serenity, Bliss and Other Mike climbed in and immediately took advantage of the available beers, then settled on top of the coolers, which didn’t look al that comfortable.
Getting situated in the driver’s seat took a little bit of gymnastics since there was a deep crack in the leather, from the seat al the way up to the headrest. I had to lean on the right side of my butt to avoid being manhandled by the seat leather.
“And also,” Mike continued as he stuck the keys in the ignition, “don’t let go of the steering wheel while you’re driving. Otherwise Beast wil make a U-turn on his own.”
“‘Beast’?”
He wrinkled his face. “You’l see.”
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I turned the key in the ignition. “This should be fun.” But it wouldn’t start.
Mike was now busy winking at Serenity, who was downing a Mil er Lite. I tapped his knee. “It’s not starting.” He snapped out of flirting mode and looked at me, spacing out for a bit like he was trying to remember something of critical importance. And then it came to him: “And also, you have to put a foot on the brake and the accelerator at the same time to get it to start.” His face fil ed with relief, as if he’d just saved the world, and he went back to his favorite chore of winking at Serenity.
It was an awkward position, but putting a foot on both actual y worked. We rambled down the road, and I gripped the steering wheel tightly, which real y did want to go the other direction—Beast felt like he was coming alive.
And then I smel ed the smoke, which started to pour out of the dashboard where the tape player should’ve been.
“Mike, something’s smoking.”
“No, we don’t light up in the car.”
“I mean the car . . . it’s on fire!” For a moment he stared at the dashboard in a daze, then must have realized this was actual smoke and snapped out of it. “Crap!”
Was this how it was al going to go down? Girl, sixteen, dies in fiery Beast inferno after being ditched at prom. Sources say she had been lip-deprived for over eight months. Al the pathetic details at six.
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Luckily, that was not what happened, because in a total y sweet maneuver, Mike whipped out a smal fire extinguisher from under the seat and doused the dashboard with foam.
Some of it sprayed on my dress, but what the hel . I didn’t care. I was alive. And my kissless-prom death story would not headline the six o’clock news.
“Hmm.” Mike scratched his ear. “My bro told me I might need this thing. Now I know why.” Then he shot me a big smile and went back to finish his championship round of Serenity-winking. That girl seemed to be the proud owner of al of Mike’s attention. Must be nice.
As I drove down the road, I snuck glances in the rearview mirror of the three in the backseat—Serenity and Bliss were singing a song into the end of a lipstick tube and Other Mike was holding his arms out for balance as he teetered on the cooler.
But then my inner rule-fol ower kicked in, and I poked at Mike. “Wait, isn’t it il egal for them to be sitting in the back like that? Without seat belts?”
> He smiled a big toothy smile. “And also, if you see a cop, yel duck.”
I had to yel duck twice. Mike was not the best front-seat-cop-heads-upper. He was highly distractible. But at least my backseat passengers were good listeners and they ducked when they were told.
We were not the only ones with the bril iant idea to get food at the In-N-Out. Apparently, no one had eaten the 162
chicken marsala, and the line backed up to the door. Mike shook his head. “Bummer, dudes.”
The place was packed with Huntington High prom runaways, their clothes looking a little rumpled now: ties undone, shirts untucked, shoes missing. But stil , no one seemed to look as filthy as I did. And certainly no one was sporting a dress sewn together with wire bong cleaner. Oh embarrassment, how you taunt me.
Other Mike leaned up and gripped Mike’s shoulder.
“We’re waiting, dude.”
“It’l take too long. There are plenty of options, bro. I hear the Big Boy is open til midnight.”
“Dude. It’s In-N-Out. Toasted buns. Natural cut fries.
I’m not going anywhere.”
“Bro . . .”
“Dude.”
Mike sighed. “Fine.”
It was amazing what those two could quickly resolve with their bro/dude conversations. How much time this world wastes with excessive syl ables.
We joined the throngs of wilty prom people, and as we waited, I stepped out of line to get a glimpse of the menu sign. My mouth was watering at the picture of the Double-Double cheeseburger—the cheese part, not the burger part.
But then I lost my appetite when I noticed Al yson and Brian up ahead of us, not wilty at al , looking as kingy and queeny as they possibly could.
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“Dude, your dress is tripping me out.” Mike pointed at me.
I glanced down, suddenly even more aware of my ridiculously stained dress. In the unflattering fluorescent lights of the restaurant, my dress was now very, very iridescent. Not lightly shimmery. Not subtly sparkly. I was freaking glowing.
And when I shifted, the color rippled like water. The stains on my dress almost looked 3-D. I was a walking lava lamp.
This was a nightmare. And the thought of Al yson, Grecian goddess flag twirler, glaring at my disaster of a dress was too much to handle. I felt sick.
“I gotta go to the bathroom,” I said to Mike. “Get me a Combo Number Two. No meat!” I shoved my way through the crowd, linebacker style, hoping no one would stop me to talk. Fortunately, no one did, and I escaped to the large handicapped stal , where there was plenty of room to pace and think. Is she after Ian? And where the hel is he?
The bathroom door opened. I heard the familiar sound of heels clicking against tile that reminded me of beautiful percussion instruments. I bent down and glanced under the stal door.
The hem of a white dress. Silver, strappy Jimmy Choo heels.
Al yson.
Oh, no. Oh, lord. What was she doing?
Her phone rang and it made me cringe . . . her ring tone . . . a Journey song. She was lucky it wasn’t “Open 164
Arms,” or I’d have ripped hers off. Hers was “Don’t Stop Believin’.” Even her optimism was annoying.
Al I could hear was her side of the conversation, but it was al I needed.
“Hey, you.
“I saw her a minute ago. She disappeared. But she’s here.
Mike and Other Mike brought her.”
She’s spying on me??
“Just two? Let’s do more than that. Make this a real party, you know?
“No problem—I’l meet you there.
“Wait, everyone’s wondering where you are. You’re taking a long time.”
She’s talking to Ian? They’re meeting?!
“Total y, I understand. You know that. Brian’s such an ass. I’m sorry.”
What the—?
“If people keep cal ing and bugging you, then turn your phone off.”
Turn it off? Who else would be cal ing him?
“Just be careful, and look out for cops. That shit’s il egal, you know.
“You’re welcome. You’re always welcome. But I wouldn’t do this for just anyone. You know that, right?” Do WHAT for him?
[giggle]
Oh my god, she’s giggling!
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“See you in a few.”
I peeked through the slender gap in the stal door and watched as she layered on gobs of pink, glittery lip gloss.
She had been talking to Ian. He was doing something il egal!
They were going to meet! Is that lip gloss Bonne Bel Cherry Lip Smackers?!
My heart spun and buzzed around like a hummingbird. I pressed on my chest to slow it down.
She puckered her lips and gave herself an air kiss. “This wil work,” she said to herself while she admired her own pouty fat lips in the mirror.
Ugh.
I knew what the right tint of lip gloss could do to a guy.
And so did she.
I suddenly felt like cramming that Bonne Bel lip gloss right down her throat. And Ian’s, too.
As soon as she was gone, I burst out of the bathroom and pushed through the crowd. Mike, Other Mike, and the girls were only a few people away from the cashier.
“What’d you say you wanted?” Bliss cal ed out to me.
I couldn’t answer. The tears were wel ing up and I couldn’t be there anymore—definitely not under fast food fluorescent lights.
I rushed out to the parking lot and checked my phone.
No cal from him. He cal ed her, not me. HER!
I paced around in the handicapped parking spot, talking to myself. “I wil cal him. Confront him. Right? It’s the only 166
way. I’l tel him I know he’s trying to hook up with Al yson on our prom night. I’l tel him I know he’s engaged in some type of il egal activity. I’l tel him to take this blue rose and shove it up his unreliable ass. Yes.”
I came to a halt.
Suddenly the thought of listening to his voice—so soothing and reasonable—made me even angrier. I didn’t want to be reasoned with. I wanted to yel ! I wanted to grow twice my size, bust out of my dress with green skin, and terrorize neighborhoods. But yel ing and Hulkifying myself was the last thing he’d ever let me do.
So I cal ed Hailey.
No hel os, she just went right in. “Buffy is about to kill her boyfriend because he’s a sadistic kil er! Is this important?!”
“Didn’t you get my message?”
“Message? No, I was busy with Buffy prep!”
“Ian ditched me.”
“What?”
“I’m stuck at In-n-Out with Mike and Other Mike and Serenity and Bliss and my dress is ripped and stained and sewn together with wire bong cleaner and now it’s glowing like a lava lamp, and Ian is out doing favors probably for Al yson and I overhead her say he’s doing il egal shit. I hate Ian Clark! Tel me how I can hurt him. Tel me!”
“Wait. You’re with stoner Mikes?”
“And their dates. The Ledbetter girls. Who don’t even go by names. Just their essences.”
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Hailey sighed. “And here I thought it was just the Buffy plot line that was messed up. Have you been sucking the crazy smoke? You stoned?”
“This is a disaster. I knew it.”
“Tanked?”
“I gotta get out of here.”
“Bent? You’re bent!”
“Hailey, I don’t even know what that means!”
“I’l come get you.”
“No, you’re in your jammies having a Buffy marathon.
Licorice, too?”
“Out of it. Had to settle for mint chocolate chip ice cream.”
“I’l get the Mikes to take me home. I’m sure they’l be sober enough to drive me when they’re done eating.” Hailey giggled at this. “Um, I don’t think that’s how it works. Potheads smoke, eat, and then usual y the whole process starts al over again, sweetie. Just be careful, okay? I’ll come get y
ou if you want.”
“I’m al right. You know what? Forget Ian. I’m gonna go back to crushing on—”
“Stop with the Anderson Cooper thing.”
“He’s reliable!”
My phone beeped. I glanced at the screen . . . Ian.
“I have to go. My phone . . . it’s him!”
“Wow. That is reliable.”
“Not Anderson. Ian!”
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“I’m sure he has a reasonable explanation,” she said in a rushed tone, knowing I needed to hang up. “Lots of people do normal il egal shit that makes perfect sense. Go get him, sweetheart.”
“Okay, okay, I’l cal you later.”
I quickly hung up and pressed the “accept new cal ” button, but it was too late; I had missed it. Just as I was about to cal him back— Bling! —I received a new text.
It’d better be the truth—something reasonable. Not some lie about how he had to save some poor kitten with cancer stuck on a tightrope. Or whatever.
Meet me at Hampton Inn. I’m sorry. I’l explain. Your mother—
The text cut off. Another downside to owning a free phone from your cel phone carrier. You can only get texts less than sixty characters. How could anyone explain why he ditched his potential girlfriend at prom in sixty characters or less? He couldn’t. And he had the nerve to bring my mother into this? Of al the heartstring tugging-tactics . . . the jerk!
Even if I cal ed him back and asked for the truth, he’d never come right out and admit he’d turned into Johnny Lawbreaker, lost track of time, and decided to cal Al yson before he cal ed me. There was no excuse that could make up for that. The truth was, Ian had his mind on someone else’s lip-glossed lips. Not mine.
How come it took me this long to realize al Ian Clark wanted from me was friendship? And nothing more.
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I pushed the off button and watched the glowing screen fade away. Ian seemed to be doing the same thing—fading.
I charged back into the restaurant and flopped into a seat next to the Mikes and the girls, who were sitting at a long table in uncomfortable hard, plastic chairs that didn’t even swivel.