by Kristin Rae
“So, basically you’re saying you’ve never kissed anyone except in shows?” Tiffany raises her bottle of pop and says, “To the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” then takes a swig.
Angela ignores her. “What’s the holdup, exactly? You like boys, right? Why don’t you want to kiss them?”
Can I tell them? Would they understand? Do I even understand why I’m still holding on to the dream of perfection? Does it exist anywhere?
I swallow hard. “I just haven’t found the right guy yet.”
“Well, buy yourself some new lip gloss because you can have your pick of the crop now,” Tiffany says. “I overheard a few guys in the lunch line talking about whether you had a date to homecoming yet.”
“What guys?” I ask, ears perked.
“I have no idea. I think they’re juniors.”
I take a bite of my ham sandwich. “Brian asked me.”
“What?” they ask at the same time.
“He must have been the one Mrs. M. was talking about,” Tiffany finishes. “Did he ask before or after he tried to plant one on you?”
“After. Right before he left.” I exhale and toss the remains of my sandwich in my lunch box. “But it was so lame. He just . . . asked me. Red’s self-obsessed offer was somehow more appealing. I said I’d think about it, but obviously I’m going to say no.”
Silence. Blank stares.
“What should he have done?” Angela asks.
Tiffany snorts. “Don’t even get her started.”
“Ladies,” I say, snapping a slice of pear in two, “I think it’s time I introduced you to the love of my life.”
CHAPTER TEN
After ten minutes at the homecoming game Friday night, one thing is clear: I don’t belong in Texas. I’ve never seen so many cowboy boots and hats outside of the movies in my life. Grown men spit, actually spit, anywhere and everywhere. En masse they’re a Southern bunch, some with the drawl I expected to hear when I moved down here, all boasting about how their kid is the best. And the moms . . . I can’t even.
Every high school girl seems to be here to cheer on the football guys. And their bodies are practically covered in these gigantic, fake white flowers with ribbons and bells and who knows what else hanging from them. They call them mums. I guess it was a Texas tradition back in the day for the boys to give their homecoming date a chrysanthemum flower, and over time it’s evolved into a social-status competition. The bigger, the better. Some of the senior girls’ mums are so big, they have to wear this special thing over their shoulders to pin them to so their shirts don’t rip off. I can’t believe the administration allows those noisy things to be worn at school. Between every class today, it was like walking among a herd of dairy cows.
Angela and Tiffany agreed to marathon my choice of movies tonight, with the condition that I attend the homecoming game with them. Well, I’m here, but it doesn’t mean I have to sit on these uncomfortable metal benches and watch the whole game.
I talk the girls into a snack just before halftime—I’m in the mood for something cheesy and wonderfully disgusting. We head for the concession stand, but I lose my appetite when I see who’s working the register. Brian is not touching anything that goes in my mouth.
“Y’all go ahead,” I tell them. “I’ll just wait out here.”
As I turn around, Brian calls out, “Nachos are only five bucks, Maddie. You know you want some.”
Greasy, gooey cheese. I really do. “Only? Five bucks seems a little steep for a bowl of corn chips and neon cheese.”
“Worth it,” Angela says, digging cash out of her purse.
“Money goes to the drama department tonight. Did you forget?” Brian removes his school-colored hat and scratches his head with the same hand. He’s definitely not touching my food. “And we get extra credit working the stand.”
I motion to his customers. “Well, carry on, Chef Boyardee.”
He fills Angela’s nacho order, then disappears behind the wall. We start the walk back toward the bleachers, when suddenly Brian’s standing in front of me with a constipated look on his face. Then he drops to one knee. A few nearby kids and a teacher slow to see what’s going on.
“Whaaa . . . ?” Angela draws out as Tiffany leans toward me and whispers, “Holy whoa, girl. What’s happening?”
“Go to homecoming with me, Maddie,” he says, taking my hands in his.
Because I’m in shock, and not because a boy is holding my hands and my brain doesn’t know what to do with that information, I don’t pull away. But I do have enough wits about me to understand this is still Brian.
“After what you did? You can’t be serious.”
“I’m sorry about that.” His smile fades into regret. “I swear I only told one person that you might not have been kissed. You were just so cryptic about it.”
My lips curl into a snarl. “You caught me off guard. How was I supposed to know you wanted to jump right into the kissing? Seriously, Brian, you’re such a—” I swallow back all the words I’m too classy to say and make a noise of revulsion instead.
“I didn’t mean for it to turn into a thing. I really didn’t. I will make it up to you, I pro—”
A chirp from his pocket prompts him to pull out his phone and glance at it. The smile returns. “Just”—he stands and brushes off his knee—“stay right there. Don’t move.”
He takes off but I don’t turn to look. I’m too busy processing that he was down on one knee, proposing to be my homecoming date. It was almost a full-fledged romantic gesture.
“That was weird,” Angela says. “Does he think you’re going to change your mind by the time he comes back or something?”
“He may not be the smartest in the bunch,” Tiffany says, stealing Angela’s food, “but his nachos have an excellent cheese-to-chip ratio.”
A country song blasts from somewhere to my right, and I quickly locate the source, as it’s heading straight for me. It’s Ryan, carrying an iPod in one hand wired to a portable speaker in the other, both of which he sets on the ground at my feet before stepping back and joining hands with Sarah, who has appeared out of nowhere. About ten other girls I don’t recognize run to fill the empty space around them, everyone facing me.
What. Is. Going. On?
When the chorus of the song starts, everyone in the group moves their feet simultaneously. They grapevine one way, kick out their heels and clap, then go the other way, kick, clap, more kicking, hopping and twisting, some of them twirling an arm like they’ve got a lasso or something. When they turn to change direction, a few of the people standing around to watch join in, and soon everyone around me is clapping the beat. It’s like a flash-mob line dance.
If I knew the complicated-looking dance, I’d probably join them, but Brian told me not to move, so I have a sinking feeling this all has something to do with me. Thankfully, Angela and Tiffany are still at my side.
When the people turn again and have their backs to me, Brian weaves between them, holding out a gigantor mum in front of him, a sly grin on his face. Suddenly I wish I hadn’t so audibly made fun of them with Sarah today in class. But really, I can hear the teeny cowbells ringing over the Grand Ole Opry blasting at my feet.
Moo.
Brian grabs at the blue-and-silver ribbons hanging from the fake white flowers, and there in sparkly silver letters are our names.
“Please, Maddie?” is all he says, his brown eyes watching me expectantly.
“It’s like he read your mind,” Tiffany says in awe.
I look to Angela for help, and she shrugs. “You won’t get much more epic than a choreographed musical number.”
I glance back up at the dancers and see Jesse walking slowly alongside them, trailed by a gorgeously tan girl I assume is Gabby, his homecoming date. She stops to take in the scene, but after a quick nod to me, Jesse grabs her hand and keeps moving.
Even Jesse has someone to hold hands with. And dance with.
I want this for me.
Brian w
ants to dance with me. He organized a miniature flash mob, even spent who knows how much personalizing an extremely tacky homecoming memento to tell me so. A remarkably nice gesture considering I haven’t spoken to him outside of rehearsing our lines together after school this week. He probably really didn’t mean to spread news of my kissing status to the entire Fernwood High populace. And it would be nice to have an excuse to get all dolled up.
A smile fights my lips until it wins, and I take the awful mum thing from him. I wonder which moving box my dresses are in.
“Popcorn!” Tiffany cries as she bounds into the Moraleses’ TV room carrying three bags of popcorn—one for each of us.
“Shut up!” Angela hisses, taking a bag from her. “You’ll wake the little monster.”
I shut the door behind Tiffany, dim the lights, and clear my throat. “I hereby call this meeting to order, the first of what I hope will be many.”
“Meeting?” Angela asks. “I thought we were watching movies.”
“Boo!” Tiffany tosses a handful of popcorn at my face. “You promised us hotness!”
“And hotness you shall have.” I snatch a piece that landed in my hair and eat it. “Ladies of the newly-formed-just-this-second Teens for Classic Movies Club, I’d like to—”
“Wait.” Tiffany throws more popcorn at me. “We’re a club now?”
“Classic movies?” Angela groans. “How did I forget you haven’t seen any movies made in this century? You with the star on your cheek from whatever that movie was. I suppose we’re watching that one tonight? Something about it raining?”
“Yes, we’ll get to it,” I say, trying to keep my tone even. “I’m telling you, the classics are—”
“Like black-and-white grainy movies where people sing and dance every few minutes?” Tiffany asks, preparing to take aim with another handful.
“Some of them are, but not all.” My confidence dips, but I hold my head higher. “Look, you wanted to know why my standards are so high, and this is it. Ladies, I’d like you to meet”—I fix them with an expectant stare, and Tiffany gives me a drumroll on her legs—“Mr. Gene Kelly.”
Holding my breath, I present them with a crisp printout of Gene, then carefully watch their eyes for any hint of a reaction. Sharing this part of me is not an emotionally simple task, which is why I generally keep the whole truth to myself until absolutely necessary. And I guess it’s not to that point just yet, but I feel I’ve found a pair of girls who won’t judge me. Who may even join me in my madness.
I hope.
“Oooooh,” Angela purrs, taking the picture from me. “He’s handsome.”
“Lemme see that,” Tiffany says, leaning over Angela’s shoulder to take a look before sinking back into the couch. “Meh. He’s okay, I guess.” She shrugs. “Who else you got?”
I don’t answer, and instead sift through the stack of DVDs I brought from home, selecting Anchors Aweigh as our starting point.
“Tiffany, I know you’re a fan of tight, clingy uniforms, so there will be plenty of eye candy in this one since Gene and Frank Sinatra are in the navy.”
“Oh, that sounds nice.” Her expression brightens. “Is this your favorite Gene movie?”
“I’m not telling you which one is my favorite. It’ll be more fun if you guess after you’ve seen them all.”
“Well, uniforms are good.” Angela tucks her legs underneath her and grabs the throw hanging over the back of the sofa. “What else does this movie have to offer for me?”
“Um . . .” I let out a sigh as I slide the disc into the player. “A flash of muscular man-thigh when Gene runs around in his boxers?”
She straightens, fully alert. “I approve. Let’s meet your boyfriend.”
“And his thighs,” Tiffany adds.
The movie is a hit. They laugh and sigh in all the right places, and I’m pretty sure I hear Tiffany “Mmmmmm” every time Frank sings. Next, I introduce them to the ultimate fan favorite, Singin’ in the Rain. I find myself watching the girls more than the screen, because there’s nothing like witnessing someone, for the first time, enjoy films that are close to your heart. That are so much a part of you and who you are.
I nestle deeper under the quilt, using the armrest of the leather couch as a pillow. Despite my efforts to stay awake, my eyelids betray me somewhere between Summer Stock and An American in Paris, and I drift to my favorite place.
I stand in front of the vanity mirror to stare at my reflection, framed by huge round lights. My long sapphire dress flutters around me as I twist and double-check that everything is in order.
I turn and there he is, my perfect man in a dark blue suit. Gene pulls me close, cheek to cheek, one hand at the small of my back, the other clutching mine. I close my eyes and melt against him as he sing-hums in my ear, nonsensical words and phrases, and we sway to the rhythm of his made-up song.
“Look who I’ve found,” he sings. “Madison . . . what you’ve done . . .”
The most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard. The most beautiful voice . . .
“Madison? Are you okay?”
I bolt upright, sections of my hair falling around my face from my bun piled high on top of my head. Blinking a few times at the daylight streaming in through the open door, I become aware of my surroundings. Blankets strewn everywhere, popcorn and DVD cases all over the floor.
And Jesse. Sitting on the couch. At my feet.
My hand flies to my face to clear my eyes and the corners of my mouth of anything that shouldn’t be there.
“You were, like, whimpering,” Jesse says, his momentary look of concern morphing into pure amusement.
“Oh.” I fight back a yawn. “Dream, I guess.”
“Must have been a nightmare.”
“Hardly,” I mutter before stretching my legs out. He would have to wake me up right before the kissing part. “Where’d everyone go?”
“I assume they’re in bed. I didn’t expect you to still be in here.”
“They left me. I must have been completely zonked.” Another yawn.
“Looks like it was a pretty wild night watching super-old movies,” Jesse says, eyeing my DVD collection. “Are all of these yours?”
“Yes. They’re only the most swoon-worthy movies ever made.” I sigh. “I consider it a tragedy I’ll never get to see any of these on the big screen. Your massive TV here is about as close as I’m going to get.”
He laughs, tapping the uneven stack of movie cases with his foot. Anchors Aweigh and On the Town slide toward him. “Someone has a sailor fetish. Wait, do all of these movies have the same people in them?”
“A couple of them do.” I change the subject in a hurry. “So, what were you looking for in here?”
That crooked smirk of his creeps out. “I was just gonna watch some sports highlights before mowing the yard.” He picks up the remote from the floor, but doesn’t press any buttons.
“You don’t have a TV in your room?” I thought all rich kids had their own televisions.
“No. Do you?”
“Not anymore,” I say quickly, desperate not to dwell on my former lifestyle. “What time is it?”
“Seven.”
“Why, why, why are you awake so early on a Saturday?”
“Habit.”
Leaning back into the couch, I groan and pull the blanket over my head. If I fall asleep, maybe I can get back to that dream.
Jesse pokes my foot. “So, are you awake now?”
I huff and fling the blanket off, shooting him with my best angry glare.
“Good,” he says as he stands. “I want to show you something.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“You are so slow,” Jesse says from outside the bathroom door.
“Beauty takes time,” I say in singsong, trying to do damage control. There’s not one speck of makeup on my face, my hair is a frizzed-out disaster, and pillow lines streak down the side of my cheek.
“Let’s go,” he says, annoyed.
With as much as he
’s rushing me, it’s a wonder I even had time to change out of my pajamas.
I crack open the door and frown. “You’re at least going to let me brush my teeth.”
He takes a step back and laughs. “Oh, yeah. Definitely do that.”
“Why can’t you tell me what we’re doing?” I ask as I open the medicine cabinet, locating the pink toothbrush I leave here for sleepovers.
“Because this is the sort of thing you just need to see.” He crosses his arms. “And if you don’t make it quick, it’s going to be too late.”
I slow the movement of my brushing and raise an eyebrow at him. His jaw clenches and his eyes narrow. They’re so green I can’t help but stare back into them, and for a second I forget what I’m supposed to be doing.
“Never mind,” he says with a shake of his head, turning down the hall for the stairs.
“Chill out, Jesse. I’m coming.” I rinse quickly and rush after him. “I didn’t know you were so easily flustered.”
Without a word, he leads me out the back, past the pool and across the yard to the shed where the equipment is kept. And grown-up toys. Several four-wheelers are lined up alongside a tractor. Jesse climbs on the dark green one and starts it with the push of a button. The roar echoes loudly against the metal walls and ceiling as he drives it out the main door to where I’m standing, and I refrain from covering my ears. He’s been vexed with me enough already this morning.
“What’s with the face?” He brings the vehicle to a stop in front of me.
Don’t whine, don’t whine. I swallow back a wave of fear. “Am I . . . driving one of these? Because I don’t even have a ca—”
He pats the small space on the seat just behind him. Emphasis on small. There would be touching if I sat there. Lots of touching.
“Oh.” I take a step back toward the shed. “Where are the helmets?”
Laughter is not the answer I expect, but it’s the one I get.
“Why is that funny?” I scold. “Are you afraid to mess up your perfect hair for the sake of safety? I’m not afraid to wear one.” I raise my head higher to prove that I’m above such vanity.