It's Kind of a Cheesy Love Story

by Lauren Morrill

  “Are you telling me you don’t have a CD player?”

  “No, because it’s not 2002.”

  “Well, I guarantee your dad’s car has one.”

  “Oh, you guarantee? And how can you know that?”

  “Because your dad’s car predates the Obama Administration, so I’m pretty sure there’s a CD player in there.”

  “Who knew driving an old clunker would come with such perks.”

  “Me. I did. Have you met Cecilia?” He bends down to pick up the warming bag. His shirt rises slightly, and I have to drag my gaze away from the strip of tan skin over the waistband of his jeans and oh my god am I staring at his ass?

  “Order up,” Joey calls, slinging two pizza boxes onto the table toward Tristan. He deposits a clamshell full of salad and a bag of garlic knots on top.

  “Duty calls,” Tristan says, sliding everything but the salad into the warming bag. We’ve come a long way from slinking in and out the back door, avoiding eye contact and all verbal interaction. He nods at the CD, still in my hand. “Listen to that. Don’t neglect your musical education, Beck.”

  “I’ll fire up my time machine,” I reply, waving the disc at him. He’s just disappeared out the back door when it flings back open so hard it slams into the wall with a loud clang (that door truly is a menace). Julianne comes bolting in, her eyes wide and watery. Her hair is pushed back from her face like she’s been worrying her hands through it for a while. I’ve seen her withdrawn, and carefully detached. I’ve seen her snarky, and even happy. But I’ve never seen her like this, and it takes me aback before she’s even said a word.

  “Beck, I’m in trouble,” she says, her chest heaving. Her hands are knotted in front of her, the nails of her right hand working steadily at the cuticles on the left. She’s seconds away from drawing blood. My first thought is that she’s going to ask me to help her hide a body.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  She pulls in a deep breath, like she’s trying to suck air through a flannel blanket. Her eyes dart around the kitchen, then she leans in, her voice dropping low. “Mrs. Russo pulled me aside before lunch and told me that I have to crown the homecoming queen.”

  “Oh,” I say, my true-crime-podcast images dissipating, but Julianne still looks revved up. “Yeah, okay. That sounds … not great.”

  “Did you not hear me?” Her voice rises higher. Even Joey, who usually tries hard to ignore whatever conversations are happening around him, glances over his shoulder from the pizza he’s working on, banana peppers paused in his hand. “I have to crown the homecoming queen. At the game. In front of hundreds of people on the fifty-yard line.”

  “Why?”

  “Because apparently the previous year’s queen, who is usually a senior, but not when your school is full of bullying asshats, comes back to do it. So since I ‘won,’” she says, hooking her fingers into the most hostile air quotes I’ve ever seen, the word sitting in her mouth like a bad piece of fish, “I have to do it.”

  “Can’t you say no?”

  “I tried. But Mrs. Russo can’t fathom why anyone wouldn’t be out-of-their-mind fucking honored to be homecoming queen. Trying to explain to her why that sounds like my worst goddamn nightmare was about as effective as saying it in Cantonese. I swear, I watched her brain turn into smoldering glitter as I was telling her.”

  I’ve never heard Julianne swear like this before. Even that one time she dropped an entire extra large, extra cheese pizza on a customer, she managed to keep it to a very emphatic “shoot!” This is a five-alarm Julianne freak-out.

  “I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you think,” I say, trying to channel one of my mother’s famous pep talks. “It’ll be really quick, and, honestly, I doubt anyone will be paying attention to you. It’s all about the new queen, right?”

  “Are you kidding? Everyone will be paying attention to me. I’m the girl that got elected homecoming queen as a joke. They’re all going to be getting second helpings of their act of petty high school sadism, half of them hoping I’ll pull a Carrie while the other half will be waiting for me to burst into tears in front of the whole school. Anything for another tragic yearbook photo. In the meantime, I have to find a damn dress and relive the most humiliating moment of my entire life.” And then she chokes out a sob, her anger and terror turning to pure misery as tears start to roll down her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, pulling her into a hug. She cries quietly on my shoulder as I rub her back in big circles, another classic Mom move. “What can I do to help?”

  Julianne pulls back and swipes at her cheeks. She sucks in a big breath to try to calm down, but it kind of just makes her look like she’s hyperventilating. She shudders as she lets it out, then takes a second, this one slightly smoother.

  “In through your nose, out through your mouth,” I prompt her, miming the act. “Shoulders out of your ears. Tongue out of the roof of your mouth. Just … unclench.”

  And she does it. On her next deep breath, she outs with her request. “If I’m going to do this, I’m going to really do it. So I need someone to do my hair and makeup,” she says. “Last year I did it myself and ended up just looking like a toddler let loose in a Sephora. This year, I at least want the pictures to look decent.”

  I nod, but already I know I’m not the droid she’s looking for. “I want to help you, really, I do. But I don’t think I’m the right person.”

  “Why not?”

  “Do I look like someone who knows a lot about hair and makeup?” I ask, pointing at my bare face. The last time I bothered to apply any makeup was when I did an AP History presentation on women’s suffrage. And even that was just some lip gloss and mascara.

  “You look like someone who knows more than me,” she says, and then we stare at each other, both realizing what absolutely basement level bars we’ve just set for each other.

  “Julianne, I haven’t worn makeup since I started working here, and that wasn’t a new trend for me. If your goal is to look nice in pictures, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “But you’re pretty…,” she whispers, picking at her cuticles once again.

  “Julianne, you’re pretty.”

  “No, I’m not,” she shoots back, like a reflex.

  But she is. And not in a “just let me remove your glasses and have you descend a staircase while a pop ballad plays” kind of way. She’s got striking green eyes, though she’s always hiding them—and the rest of her face—behind a curtain of dark hair. And her hair would be pretty, too, if she ever decided to stop copping Cousin It’s style. Plus, she’s curvy as hell, sort of like an Old Hollywood pinup. With the right hair, makeup, and dress, she’d blow all those other bitchy mean girls right off the field. She’s already halfway to being a knockout.

  But she needs more help than I can give, since my beauty routine involves brushing my teeth and a healthy application of cherry ChapStick.

  And I know just who to call.

  * * *

  As instructed, Julianne meets me at her car four minutes after the final bell rings. She has to be at the stadium in her full regalia an hour before kickoff for all the pictures, which only gives us a few hours to work with. She brought a garment bag in the back of her car, which I assume has her dress inside.

  When we arrive home, Mom is in the kitchen working on her petits fours. She’s been getting more and more requests for them for things like bridal and baby showers, and while her decorating is always on point, she claims the recipe she’s been using makes them taste too much like sugar bombs.

  “Don’t people expect sugar in a tiny, frosted cake?” I’d asked.

  “Yes, but they don’t want their teeth to hurt when they eat dessert,” she had replied, and she wasn’t wrong. “Plus, they eat more when they’re not too sweet, which means they’ll order more.”

  “Wow, my mom, the capitalist.”

  “Hush, you.”

  As a result, we’ve had batches of petits fours hanging around the house
for the last two weeks as she tries to perfect her recipe.

  “I think I’m getting close,” she says as Julianne and I hustle into the kitchen. She’s putting the finishing touches on a dozen little pink cakes, topping them with delicate white flowers of frosting. “I’m only a couple batches away from perfection. Taste?”

  Julianne and I both help ourselves. Beneath the sheath of pink frosting are delicate layers of white cake alternating with buttercream and what I think is some kind of strawberry jam.

  “Oh my god, this is heaven in a bite,” Julianne says, and my mom beams.

  “Are there any petits fours? I’ve had a day,” Dad calls as he breezes into the kitchen, the front door slamming hard behind him. “Every year I pray the eighth graders will have moved past boob and fart jokes, and every year I am sorely disappointed.”

  “Hi, Mr. Brix,” Julianne says. “You probably don’t remember me, but I was in your seventh grade social studies class. Your Civil War lessons totally got me hooked on history. I’m thinking of minoring in college.”

  My dad beams, and I swear, if I’d brought Julianne home as a date, my parents would be trying to marry me off to her right about now. She’s sweet and charming, without a whiff of suck-up about her. Soon I think they just might like her more than they like me. I’m reminded yet again of the ways in which Julianne hides herself when she’s at school. I always just assumed she was shy. That that was why she never talked to anyone and avoided eye contact and sat alone at lunch. But that’s not it at all. Although it took her a minute to warm up to me, to everyone else at Hot ’N Crusty, she was outgoing. She’s been cool since my first day there, when she pulled that stuffed crust pizza out from under the counter. I don’t blame her for hiding her real personality, of course. It’s only natural to retreat once you become synonymous with weirdness at your high school. And after the homecoming queen fiasco last year, I’m surprised she didn’t try to transfer, or even drop out. If I were in her shoes, I think I would have lobbied my parents hard to be homeschooled. Julianne is just surviving, doing what she has to do to get through the day.

  It sounds kind of familiar, honestly. After all, even though I’m still sitting at Tamsin’s table every day at lunch, I have the most fun when I’m hanging out with the HnC crew. Yet I’ve never made any attempt to sit with Julianne at lunch. Or talk to Tristan in the halls. I don’t partner with Greg for biology lab or go out of my way to say hi to Frank or Jason. What does that say about me? Nothing good, I think.

  The petit four suddenly feels like a brick in my stomach, and when I try to swallow the remaining crumbs, they stick in my throat.

  “Mmmmmm, this is excellent, honey,” Dad says.

  “I think there’s a better way to meld the strawberry compote with the buttercream,” she says, making a note in a spiral-bound notebook resting on the kitchen island.

  “I’m so jealous. My mom leaves the baking to Betty Crocker,” Julianne says.

  “Hey, Betty knows her stuff,” Mom says. “I love a good boxed yellow cake with chocolate frosting from a can. Those flavors are legit.”

  “Mom, don’t say legit,” I tell her.

  She rolls her eyes, a mischievous smile on her face. “Oh, I’m sorry, let me try again.” She clears her throat and squares her shoulders, a twinkle in her eye. “Those flavors are the bomb.”

  “Ugh,” I groan as Julianne giggles beside me.

  The doorbell rings, and Dad shuffles off to answer it.

  “You expecting someone?” Mom asks.

  “Reinforcements,” I say, turning to follow Dad. I find him standing at the front door greeting Natalie. And behind her, she’s got Tamsin and Cora in tow. I freeze. I’d called Natalie for backup, but I didn’t mention Tamsin or Cora. I would never subject Julianne to that. She’s already a bundle of nerves and terror. The last thing she needs is a metric ton of Tamsin snark dumped on her shoulders. But I guess I should have known that Natalie, Tamsin, and Cora are a package deal now. A trio. They’re the best friends. I’m just the great pretender.

  Cora holds up what looks like a bright pink tackle box that I hope is filled with makeup, and Tamsin is carrying an overstuffed garment bag over one shoulder.

  “Why are they here?” I ask Natalie, trying to keep my voice low, but not succeeding.

  “Gee, thanks for the warm welcome, Beck,” Tamsin snaps as she breezes past me into the house. Cora smiles and shrugs, following close behind.

  Natalie gives me a sharp look. “Tamsin has a good eye, so I figured she could help. And I’ve got hair, but Cora is much better at makeup than I am.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is and you know it. What’s the problem? We’re all friends.” She arches an eyebrow at me, a classic Natalie challenge, but I don’t take the bait. Instead I just sigh away the conversation for later.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say, directing it to everyone. “Please be gentle, okay?”

  “God, it’s like you’re talking to caged tigers,” Tamsin says, rolling her eyes, which is a pretty apt description for the damage Tamsin could do.

  We all convene in the kitchen, where my mom is still doling out petits fours and taking notes, even though there’s a universal chorus of happy moans as people eat. Dad comes padding back into the kitchen in his after-school clothes, a pair of ratty jeans and bare feet, plus the Apex Galaxy T-shirt I got him for Christmas.

  “Oh, my brother watches that show,” Cora says. “He’s always telling me I need to get into it, like I have time to binge another show.”

  “How’s Jamar doing? He liking Howard?” Dad asks. In his personal hall of fame of favorite students, Cora’s brother Jamar Jenkins ranks in the top ten for his nerdy love of history and photographic memory. Jamar’s a freshman at Howard this year, majoring in political science, and Dad still talks about the time he named all the US presidents in alphabetical order in under a minute.

  “Loves it,” Cora replies. “Pretty sure he’s already planning on law school after.”

  “Good to hear,” Dad says. “Tell him I said he better be studying as much as he’s watching sci-fi.”

  “Don’t worry, he hears it from my parents every time he calls,” she replies.

  “Hey, so we should get started,” I say, eyeing Julianne, who is standing in the corner of the kitchen suddenly looking terrified again.

  “Yeah, we need all the time we can get,” Tamsin says.

  “Tamsin!” I hiss.

  “What? I just meant that glam squad takes at least an hour. Honestly, they should really give us a half day on homecoming,” she says.

  “That’s the scholarly dedication I remember,” Dad says with a chuckle. Needless to say, Tamsin was not naming alphabetical presidents in any length of time in eighth grade.

  “Someone’s got to bring the fun to the classroom, Mr. Brix,” Tamsin says with a grin.

  “Oh, what fun it was, Tamsin,” Dad replies.

  “Okay, let’s get this party started,” I say before Dad can embarrass us with any more middle school memories. We all head back to my room. Once inside, I shut the door while Tamsin lays the garment bag she brought out on my bed. Cora deposits her tackle box on my desk and cracks it open, revealing three tiers of bins full of tubes, pots, and brushes. Natalie clears off my end table, plugs in two curling wands, and sets up an array of sprays and gels.

  “It looks like you could make a whole new girl with all that stuff,” Julianne says, her voice a little shaky, about two-thirds of a smile on her face.

  “We’re not making someone new. We’re just making you turned up to eleven,” Cora says with a smile, and I see Julianne warm a little from inside. “I’ll start with makeup, then Natalie will do hair. Tamsin, you’re on wardrobe.”

  “Got it,” Tamsin says, moving to unzip the garment bag.

  “I brought my dress from last year,” Julianne says, pointing to the black dress still in its dry-cleaner’s plastic.

  Tamsin looks horrified. “No. No no no no. You canno
t wear the same dress as last year. There are going to be pictures!”

  Julianne shrugs. “Well, I don’t have anything else, and I didn’t have time to look.”

  “No worries, I brought options,” Tamsin says. She starts to pull the sides of the garment bag open, revealing a pile of brightly colored satin and sequins.

  “There’s no way I’m going to fit into anything you brought,” Julianne says. She doesn’t sound embarrassed, just sure. And it’s true, Tamsin and Julianne have figures from different decades. Tamsin is more of a Kate Moss type, tall and thin, with sharp angles. Julianne looks more like she stepped out of a Hollywood pinup calendar, all hips and boobs and curves.

  “I know that,” Tamsin says, pulling on the zipper. “That’s why I raided Marin’s closet.”

  Marin, Tamsin and Colin’s older sister, is a junior at Wesleyan, though she’s currently studying abroad in Italy. She wants to be a food critic, and she’s literally spending the semester learning about wine and cheese. And though I’ve only ever seen her in pictures, she is shaped much more like Julianne.

  Tamsin pulls out a selection of dresses, and Julianne at first gravitates toward something black. But Tamsin wordlessly pulls it out of her hand. “No,” she says, all no-nonsense and borderline imperious. “Try again.”

  Julianne blinks at her, looking like she might protest, but instead she goes back to the pile of dresses. Her fingers linger on red chiffon, and Tamsin’s eyes light up. “Yes,” she says. She grabs the hanger and pulls it out, a floor-length red chiffon with a V-neck, the bodice crossed like a wrap dress.

  “I don’t know,” Julianne says, her voice trailing off.

  “Yes, you do. Your first instinct is always right. This is definitely the one.”

  “Isn’t it kind of … loud?”

  “And you don’t deserve to be heard?” Tamsin asks. And in that moment I want to hug her so hard her head pops off, because Julianne’s eyes light up, her lips quirking up in a wicked grin. She reaches for the hanger and goes to my bathroom, shutting the door. She emerges in a matter of minutes, the dress hanging open in the back. She turns for Tamsin to zip her up, and when she faces the room again, we all gasp. The red pops against Julianne’s pale skin and dark hair. The cut accentuates her waist and shows the perfect amount of cleavage, or as my mom likes to say, décolletage.