by Liz Talley
“Hello, girls,” an older version of Graysen cooed when they came through the back sliding glass door by the pool. Pauline Hadley stood in the kitchen, cordless phone pinched between her shoulder and ear, highlighted hair artfully arranged around a face that had seen light-handed plastic surgery, if the rumors were to be believed. She wore a tailored pantsuit and looked like the successful realtor she was. “Y’all want a snack? I have some yogurt or granola bars around here somewhere. If your brother hasn’t eaten them all.”
“Prom is, like, five days away, Mama. I’m not eating anything but salads. Let Grant have all that crap,” Graysen said, tugging Summer out the door toward the sweeping staircase. The living room had mint-green carpet, soft butter walls, and Oriental runners. The glittering chandelier tied the formality together. The décor was a far cry from Summer’s living room with its two La-Z-Boys and mounted ten-point buck surveying the microfiber couch with the jelly stain on the left arm.
Graysen’s room extended the quiet affluence with cream carpet, a soft-pink, minky dot comforter, and pooling curtains of toile. It didn’t look exactly like a princess threw up in Graysen’s room, but a tasteful Victorian lady may have belched.
“I love your room,” Summer said for want of something to say as Graysen closed the door, dumped her L.L. Bean backpack on the window seat, and collapsed on the fluffy bed with at least twelve needlepoint pillows piled on it.
“I hate it. My mom had a decorator do it for the parade of homes right before Christmas. Like, who cares if it’s something they might put in Southern Living? That’s, like, my mom’s entire goal in life. Get in that dumb magazine.” Graysen opened her bedside table drawer and withdrew a bag of peanut M&M’S. “Want some?”
“No, thanks,” Summer said, wondering what had happened to the salad plan. Actually, Summer wanted to wolf down at least half the bag of candy, but she wouldn’t ruin what little success she’d had on her diet. She’d tried over the past week to avoid her mother’s fattening casseroles and stick to fruits and veggies, but those peanut jewels of wonder were a particular weakness. She’d nearly cried when she tossed out the remainder of her Easter basket candy last week.
Graysen popped a few candies in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “I told Katie B to bring over some dresses, but she’s so much smaller than you. I have this red dress that’s sorta stretchy, and my mom has a lot of dresses ’cause she goes to conferences and awards crap all the time. But some of her dresses are so . . . eww. But first we do your hair.” Graysen removed a folder from the feminine desk between the two transom windows.
A folder?
The tab read “Summer Valentine 2003” with a heart bubbled in before her name.
“I’m scrapping the updo because your hair is pretty down. Have you thought about highlights? Nothing brassy, maybe some soft brown and warm red,” Graysen said, studying Summer as she sat awkwardly on the end of the bed. “I can do them today.”
“You’re really into this, huh?” Summer asked, fingering the end of her braid, marveling that the girl had spent so much time thinking about how Summer should wear her hair.
“One day I’m going to own a salon, so I’m already developing a portfolio. I did highlights on Katie B before Craig Mooney’s Halloween party, and everyone thought she looked great. You’re victim number two, and I’m determined you’re going to rock it.”
“But I can manage my own dress. My mother wants to do that whole shopping thing. You know moms. We’re going to Charleston tomorrow. I’m checking out of school.” She hated missing class. Her focus, to date, had been on holding on to being number one in her class. She wanted that scholarship, that honor, but she couldn’t tell her mother no. Buying a stupid dress was obviously more important than taking notes in AP European history.
Her mother had been beyond ecstatic when Summer had mentioned possibly going to prom. After a near-deathly hug that may or may not have cracked a rib, Carolyn Valentine had danced a little jig. Summer had rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the smile. Seeing her mom happy . . . and dancing . . . was always a treat.
“Come with me,” her mother had said, pulling her into her parents’ bedroom. Flipping on the light, her mother shifted the full laundry basket onto the floor and pulled the afghan off the chest that her grandmother had given her before she’d died. Summer’s mother unlocked the button lock and raised the lid of the cedar chest.
Inside the chest were memories—tiny baby clothes, stained pinafores, tarnished cups, and a set of Peter Rabbit cups and bowls. Photo books stacked three deep and other assorted “treasures.” Her mother pulled out a plastic container. “Here’s my corsage.”
Inside the clear container was a shriveled brown grouping of roses with yellowed ribbon. “You kept your corsage?”
“Yeah, I kept it, and here is the prom program. Look, I was a class favorite. Most likely to marry my high school sweetheart.” Her mother laughed before tossing the program atop the vacation album.
Summer smiled. “Well, you made that happen.”
“Never say I don’t have goals,” her mother said with a sheepish smile. “Here are some pictures—this is Lucy Orgeron. She was my best friend. Her date, Charlie, wore cowboy boots, which looked hideous with that powder-blue tux. We had such a good time. Stayed out until the sun came up.”
“Why are you showing me all this? I mean, why keep this?” Summer lifted the dried-up corsage.
“Because that’s the night your daddy told me he wanted to marry me. We danced under those stringed-up lights and . . .” Her mother’s words faded. “I know it’s silly to hang on to my old corsage, but those were the first flowers I had ever received.”
“They look like they were pretty,” Summer said, feeling like an ass for not understanding. If Hunter McCroy asked her to prom, he might bring Summer a corsage, too. Like her mother, she’d never received flowers from anyone before, outside of her grandmother bringing her some after her first and only dance recital. Maybe she’d keep her corsage, too.
“They were,” her mother said, taking the container and smiling at the remainder of a night she obviously treasured. “I thought you might like to see some of my things from high school. Hard to believe but I used to be young once.”
“You’re not old, Mama,” Summer said, looping an arm around her mother’s plump shoulders.
“Oh, sugar, but I sure feel that way most days.” Her mother stacked her treasures back inside the chest and closed it. “We’ll go look for a dress next week. And shoes. Pretty shoes. It will be such fun.”
After seeing her mother’s excitement, she couldn’t blurt out the fact one of the more popular senior girls was going all Clueless on her, and the only reason she had agreed to go was out of guilt or whatever had made her agree to the madness. “That will be cool, Mama. I have a friend who’s helping me with my hair and makeup.”
“Who?” her mother asked.
“Graysen Hadley.” Felt weird to even say her name.
“Pauline’s girl? The Shrimp Queen?” Carolyn looked confused. “But you’re not friends with her.”
“I know,” Summer said, but couldn’t explain how she’d tripped and fallen into prom hell . . . or the fact that she’d likely be the star pitcher’s frumpy backup date. Throwing Hunter McCroy into the mix seemed a bad idea. Her mother might get notions, and the whole thing was too humiliating. Especially if he refused to ask her. “It’s just . . . it’s a fun senior-girl thing.”
“That’s cool,” Graysen said, drawing Summer back into the pink room and her new reality. “But no gray or yellow. You need a dress with brighter colors. Now let’s practice your makeup. Rhett’s bringing Hunter by so he can do the official ask.”
“Wait. Today?”
“Sum, prom is in four days.” Graysen started pulling various bottles out of a drawer in her en suite bathroom.
Panic swept through Summer at the thought of having to endure Hunter asking her to prom in front of Rhett and Graysen. Part of her was ecstatic s
he’d have an actual date. The other part wanted to crawl under a rock and make a home there. “Uh, he’s coming here?”
Graysen leaned back. “Chill. It’s not that big a deal. It’s just Hunt.”
Just Hunt.
“I don’t know him all that well.”
“Well, study up on baseball. That’s all he freaking talks about. That and some booze will get you through the night. The after-party is at Hunt’s beach house—his parents said we could use it as long as it doesn’t get trashed.”
An after-party? Dear Lord, she not only had to go to prom with Hunt, but now she had to go to a beach house and party with all the popular kids?
Graysen motioned her toward the open bathroom door. “Okay, let’s make you pretty, Mama.”
Summer spent the next half hour with Graysen all up in her face. She worried about the zit on her chin, but Graysen had “awesome” concealer. When Graysen wiped spit from the corner of her mouth with a tissue, Summer turned the color of the lipstick. Still, something about the dedication with which Graysen attacked her role as transformer of nerds was heartwarming. Finally, after she bit her lip and brushed gloss on Summer’s bottom lip—just the bottom lip—Graysen said, “There.”
Summer had been sitting on the stool borrowed from the desk, so she couldn’t catch her reflection until Graysen drew her to her feet. The reflection in the mirror that met her was her . . . but not her. “Wow.”
Graysen faced Summer’s reflection, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “I know. Still think some highlights would be good.”
Summer twisted a finger around a brown curl, noting her hair color was sort of flat. “Nothing too blonde, though.”
Just as Graysen was about to say something, the doorbell rang. “Oh, good, they’re here.”
Summer swallowed. “Damn it.”
Graysen laughed. “You’re so nervous. It’s cute.”
Then she disappeared, opening her door and yelling down the stairs to her mother. “Mama, tell Rhett and Hunt we’ll be down in a few minutes. We’re not dressed.”
“Not dressed?” Summer repeated to the girl in the mirror who looked kind of like her.
“Come on,” Graysen ordered, tugging Summer from where she stood. “We need to get you something decent to wear.”
“What’s wrong with what I have on?”
“You’re joking, right?” Graysen said, casting her baby blues down the jeans and Pearl Jam T-shirt Summer wore. Summer thought she looked like she wasn’t trying too hard. Which was the point. But Summer let Graysen steer her across the hall to a much larger room with a huge walk-in closet.
“This is my mom’s but she still tries, you know? You have nice boobs. You should be accentuating them.”
“That’s what Nessa always says.”
“The preacher’s kid?” Graysen asked, raking through the hangers. She pulled out a light-pink blouse and held it up to Summer before shaking her head and returning it. “Well, she’s right.”
“Shouldn’t we go down? They’re waiting,” Summer said, praying Graysen didn’t try to put her in something super tight. She still had baby fat that poofed out over her waistband, though she had noted that morning things were feeling looser. Eating blueberries and nibbling celery had paid off.
“Always make them wait, Summer,” Graysen said, selecting a light-blue, short-sleeved sweater. The material wasn’t fuzzy or tight, but rather a nice polyester blend that wouldn’t cling to Summer’s tummy. “Try this.”
“It still has tags. Your mother—”
“—won’t know it’s gone. Trust me. Look at all this shit.” Graysen lifted a hand à la Vanna style. “Hurry, I need to adjust your hair before we go down.”
Summer didn’t want to take her T-shirt off in front of Graysen, but the girl wasn’t moving. Turning her back, she quickly pulled the tee off and tossed it toward her feet. She always wore a soft cotton jog bra and suddenly that felt wrong. Graysen probably wore pretty underwear, not plain Hanes cotton ones from Walmart. She shimmied into the blue sweater, noting it was a little tight on her arms, but overall it seemed to fit.
“Turn around,” Graysen commanded, her eyes narrowed in critical-assessment mode. “Not bad.”
Summer sucked in her tummy and looked down in dismay at how wrong the Converse sneakers looked with the sophisticated top. “What do I do about my shoes?”
“Take them off,” Graysen said.
“Off?”
“Guys love a barefoot girl. It’s sexy.”
“Barefoot? You’re kidding. You just did all this to my hair and face.”
“Trust me. It projects confidence, a sort of caught unaware but that’s cool because I’m comfortable in my skin.”
Summer had no idea what Graysen talked about, but toed off the sneakers anyway.
“Please tell me you have toenails that are painted and feet that don’t stink,” Graysen said, eyeing the plain white socks.
“I painted them last weekend,” Summer said, peeling off her socks, inhaling deeply to ascertain if she did indeed have stinky feet. She couldn’t smell anything, but the lines pressed into her pale feet weren’t super attractive. Her toes were painted an orangey pink her mother called Cajun Shrimp. It looked good when she had a tan, but the spring had been cool, so she’d not spent much time in sandals.
“That’s fine. Now let me look at you,” Graysen said, tipping Summer’s chin up. “You look great. Just let me take my shoes off so we match, like we were doing homework or something, and put on some lip gloss.”
Summer figured the guys had been waiting for at least ten minutes, which seemed kind of rude, but Graysen’s knowledge of guys was probably 200 percent better than her own, so she scooped up her discarded T-shirt and shoes and padded behind Graysen as she headed back to her room. Butterflies—or maybe it was bats—thrashed in her stomach, making it gassy and crampy. Oh God, what if she had to fart or something? She sucked in deep breaths and told herself she was being ridiculous. What Hunter McCroy thought about her, which had to be very little, shouldn’t matter to her.
Five long minutes later, Graysen emerged from the bathroom, smelling like perfume and looking slightly trussed up in a skintight shirt and jeans with holes in the knee. She was barefoot, and her toes were painted a sparkling blue. She looked thin, hip, and gorgeous.
Damn it.
“Okay, little butterfly, time to spread your wings,” Graysen said, looking excited at the prospect of debuting her work of art, which frankly paled in comparison to the artist herself.
Graysen skipped down the carpeted stairs without a backward glance. Summer followed, concentrating on not falling as she went down and on the tiny chip of polish on her left big toe. She tried not to think about how seriously weird this all was. She didn’t belong here, wearing a borrowed shirt from a fortysomething-year-old woman and eye shadow that made her eyes look smoky. Why did people want smoky eyes anyway?
“Hey, babe,” Graysen said, entering a room behind the living area Summer hadn’t seen yet. It was a big family room with a fireplace and fluffy-looking sectional. Graysen went immediately to Rhett and looped her arms around his neck. “How was practice?”
“I hit a double off Hunt,” Rhett said, dropping a light kiss on Graysen’s lips.
Rhett wore almost exactly the same thing he’d worn the last time Summer had tutored him—athletic shorts and a compression T-shirt that molded to his chest and nicely toned arms. He wore a backward ball cap, which made him look both boyish and absurdly hot.
“Got lucky,” Hunter McCroy said from where he sprawled on an overstuffed chair. His dark gaze flickered over Summer before returning to the golden couple in the center of the room.
“Hey, Hunter, this is Summer Valentine. You’ve known her forever, right?” Rhett said.
Summer felt as if she hung in between two alternate realities and couldn’t move. She placed a steadying hand on the door frame and reminded herself she would not throw up. She needed to project a cool vibe.
If not cool, indifferent. Something other than about to barf on the cheerful patterned rug in the Hadley family room. On the TV, a reporter from Inside Edition stood on a red carpet yapping about something only a few people cared about. Or maybe it was merely that Summer didn’t care about it. She only cared about breathing and not spazzing out . . . and that chip of polish missing from her left toenail.
“Yeah, I think we had Spanish together.”
They hadn’t had Spanish together but Summer nodded anyway. “How’s it going?”
She’d asked a question! Boom! She was almost normal and hadn’t thrown up.
“Cool. Done with practice,” Hunt said, suddenly looking a little unsure. That was likely because Graysen was making a face at him. It was the face that said, “Do what I told you to do.”
Summer clasped her hands behind her back. “Well, are we going to do this or not?”
She had no idea why she said that because as soon as she did, Graysen got a constipated look, her eyes opening wider. Hunt looked annoyed. But Rhett laughed.
“That’s my Funny Valentine. Right to the point. And you look really nice, too,” Rhett said.
Something in his voice made her feel calmer. “All due to your girlfriend’s skill.”
Graysen stopped looking constipated and glittered appropriately.
Hunt rose. “Uh, so, Summer, you want to go outside and see the, um, pool?”
“The pool?” She glanced at Graysen, who gave a barely perceptible nod. “Uh, sure. I haven’t seen the pool yet.”
“Cool,” Hunt said, opening one side of the French doors. Beyond his shoulder she could see the aqua water and the lush green palmettos. He walked out, not even waiting on her, but she forgave him because it was a very uncomfortable situation. In fact, she would rather face a proctologist . . . or not. Maybe facing the popular, talented, rich boy studying the leaves in the bottom of Graysen’s pool was better.
“So, like, I guess you know why I asked you out here,” he said, turning to her. Hunt had an inch or two on Rhett, which meant he was almost a foot taller than Summer. His skin was beautifully golden, his movements almost lazy as he glided toward the pool. His dark hair curled above his ears, and a pointed chin gave him a decidedly predatory look. He reminded her of Scar from The Lion King—talked slow, walked slow, and was a consummate smart-ass. If girls weren’t falling all over Golden Boy inside, they were chasing after Hunter McCroy. So the fact he was about to ask her to prom felt like a big joke.