Like Jazz

by Heather Blackmore

  I stared at the net, trying to even my breathing, not wanting to have this conversation. I couldn’t tell her what her touch did to me and couldn’t admit to the reasons why—except for her—she was right.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Cazz.”

  “I know.” I still couldn’t face her.

  She continued staring at me for what seemed like forever but was probably a few seconds. “You don’t like being touched, and you don’t like compliments.” She spoke her next words softly, with a tenderness that made me ache. “Somebody really hurt you.”

  I looked at the soccer field in the distance and silently cursed myself for my weakness as my eyes pooled with tears. Don’t you dare cry right now. Do not fucking cry.

  “Sweetie, I’m so sorry,” she said with the same tenderness and compassion. That endearment did me in, and a tear slid down my cheek. I took a staggered breath, my mouth quivering.

  “I know you don’t want this, but I can’t not hug you right now.” She closed the gap between us and I shook my head, trying to dissuade her from embracing me, even though part of me wanted her and only her to hold me. She paused, seeming to contemplate whether to abide by my wishes or leave me alone, then threw her arms around my neck. “I can’t stand seeing you like this,” she said softly. A few moments passed. “I promise I won’t hurt you.” She was so gentle, so loving, that I couldn’t stop the flood of emotion and yielded to my need to cry. She held me tightly, rocked me gently, and whispered words of comfort.

  I felt safe in her arms and warmed by her compassion. I felt cared for. It was a feeling so different than any I’d known. But I couldn’t trust myself to know the difference between being cared for and being manipulated toward some endgame unknown to me and not in my best interest. Nothing in Sarah’s behavior made me think she was anything but genuine, and I couldn’t imagine any hidden agenda she should harbor against me. Yet however unfair it was of me not to trust her, I couldn’t. Because of my startling realization that I desperately wanted to, I was disappointed in myself for not giving her the chance she deserved.

  As my private storm finally passed, my sadness dovetailed into mammoth embarrassment at being so needy. I pulled away and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “Can we go?” I asked with averted eyes. She agreed and jogged away to field the balls on the court, allowing me time to pull myself together.

  Later, as she finished stowing the ball cage in the trunk, I felt compelled to say something, still feeling exposed and abashed. “Sorry about that, back there. You caught me a little off guard.”

  She closed the trunk and her eyes registered dismay. She shook her head, looked past my shoulder into the distance, then back to me. Her frown slowly turned into a mischievous grin, as if she were preparing for a duel that only she knew the rules of. “We’ll have to work on that then.”

  I wasn’t following. “What?”

  “Your guard. Get in.”

  Aside from the radio blasting alternative rock, we rode in silence as Sarah drove us to the mall. We entered it, slammed with the usual overkill of air-conditioning, and made a beeline for the public restroom where we changed clothes in separate stalls. We threw our tennis clothes and shoes in a tote bag I carried, and after exiting the restroom I followed in step behind Sarah, who seemed intent on a particular destination. The three-foot-tall lettering above the wide store entrance said NORDSTROM. We passed the makeup and perfume counters as we made our way to the escalator and walk-rode up four floors. Formal dresses.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked.

  “You’re going to help me shop for my Homecoming dress.”

  “I’m not much of a shopper.”

  “Trust me, I’m enough for both of us.” She smiled and winked at me. My stomach did a little cartwheel, but I blew out an exasperated breath as if in for a long bout of torture.

  Sarah methodically picked through rack after rack of dresses, seeming to opt more for the long, traditional gown than the short sexy type. In her wake, I’d occasionally pick out a horrid dress merely to get a rise out of her. One particularly awful number was a short black thing with a white leaf print. I wasn’t sure whether the designer was irreverent or clueless, but the leaves were shaped like those of a marijuana plant. I pulled it off the rack and pushed it toward her.

  “Perfect,” I said.

  She glimpsed it and snickered before raising her eyebrows in question.

  “Very high society.”

  Sarah barked a laugh that caused a couple patrons to glance up from their shopping.

  Four gowns were resting over her arm by the time she stopped at a rack that held cocktail dresses. Rifling through the options, she shoved hanger against hanger until she saw one she liked. After she pulled out her selection, she looked at me then back at the dress. She waved me closer. “Here, try this one on. Don’t peek at the price tag. We’re trying, not buying.”

  I eyed the one-shoulder black dress with the sweetheart neckline on the fitted bodice. Crisscross ruching would wrap around the wearer until bottoming out at the hem of the dress, mid-thigh. “Why? I’m not going to Homecoming, and even if I was, this certainly isn’t a Homecoming dress.”

  “I’m testing out a theory,” she said vaguely.

  “I would never wear something like this.”

  “Humor me.” She continued holding out the dress to me, and I reluctantly relented, taking it from her. She pointed with her chin. “The fitting room’s over there. I’m not quite through here, so come find me when you’re done.”

  In the fitting room, stripped down to my bra and panties, I held out the dress, trying to divine Sarah’s purpose in my wearing it. “Ugh.” I slid the tight-fitting garment over my body and looked in the mirror.

  It was a perfect fit.

  I turned around several times, examining myself from the front, sides, and over my shoulder to my back. Though I’d never wear such a thing in public, I had to admit it wasn’t a bad look. I had enough leg and height to get away with the modest length, enough cleavage to fill out the bust material, enough definition in my arms to get away with the sleeveless aspect of the left shoulder, and just enough hip to accentuate my flat stomach. The dress lent me an almost seductive air.

  I became hugely self-conscious that I’d cause a stir if I left the fitting room—the kind that often made me the object of my father’s recruits—and decided I didn’t want the attention. It had been my experience that the less notice I received, the better. I grabbed the lowest part of the dress and was starting to remove it, when I heard Sarah.

  “Cazz? I’m waiting. Where are you? Are you coming out?”

  I froze, the skirt of the dress at my hips. I called out. “It’s not my style. I’m taking it off.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. Get a grip and come out here.”

  Fuck. I shimmied the dress back in place. “Fine,” I growled, “but I’m not leaving the fitting-room area.” There was a hexagon-shaped section at the center of the fitting rooms with benches and 270-degree mirrors to allow for the kind of show-and-tell I was thinking of, where I wouldn’t have to leave the women-only sanctuary.

  She coaxed me. “No one’s here but me.”

  I undid the lock, opened the door, and stopped within the confines of the common area where Sarah stood to the side. At the sight of me, her eyes widened, her breath caught, and her lips parted slightly as she took me in from head to toe and back. After taking a moment to shake herself free from whatever thought was plaguing her at that moment, she held out her right palm and dipped her head, indicating that I should move into the center of the mirrored space. I did.

  “Stop slouching and stand up straight.”

  I took a deep breath and assumed a fake smile as I copped a whole lot of attitude, squared my shoulders, stuck out my chest, and twirled around the way I imagined a fashion model would. I gestured with my hands that she should behold the outfit from top to bottom. “Better?” I asked sarcastically.

  A slow smile played acro
ss her face and I assumed she was approving of my ability to follow direction. “Well? What do you think?” she asked.

  “What do I think?” I mocked her. “I think I look ridiculous. Am I done?”

  “You think you look ridiculous? You can’t be serious.”

  “Maybe not ridiculous. Just…” I shrugged, closed my eyes, and shook my head.

  At that moment, two attractive thirty-something blondes entered the fitting-room area, each with armfuls of clothes to try on. I opened my eyes at the sound of their footsteps, and as they passed the show-and-tell section, they both stopped and surveyed me. “Wow,” one of them said. “Hot damn,” said the other. “That dress is incredible on you,” said the first. “Whatever it costs,” said the second, “buy it. You look hot.” “Truly,” said the first, nodding in agreement. “Truly,” she repeated. They both turned and headed down one of the short halls to their fitting rooms.

  I studied the ceiling.

  “You’re excused.”

  I turned my eyes to Sarah, wondering if I’d correctly recognized the smug tone in her voice. She had a wicked, self-righteous grin on her face, as if she’d won round one of whatever duel we were squaring off to fight. I darted into my fitting room and, locking the door behind me, heard her voice through the wooden slats. “Wait for me right here. I’m going to want your opinion.” Greatly relieved to have my own jeans and polo shirt back on, I sat on one of the two benches in the common area.

  A few minutes later, Sarah entered the mirrored hexagon room where I waited. God. Could she be any more beautiful? She wore a strapless, white stretch-taffeta dress with a high waist and a slim skirt with a flared hem at the ankle. Even with bare feet, she walked tall, keeping her back and neck straight, her bearing regal but unpretentious. I felt slightly light-headed and my mouth went dry. A sharp pang, like hunger, arose in my abdomen, though I’d eaten only a few hours earlier.

  “Not bad,” she said, twirling around to assess herself from various angles. She flicked her eyes in my direction and gave me a tantalizing smile. “Cazz, stop staring and close your mouth.”

  Helplessly, I obeyed.

  “Well?”

  “Not bad,” I agreed, barely managing to choke out the words and thinking it was the biggest understatement of my life to that point.

  “This one’s a maybe,” she said, heading back to the fitting room. The next three dresses were equally stunning on Sarah. The first was a black strapless stretch satin with a layered ruffle bodice and long, slim skirt. Succeeding this was a white, charmeuse strapless with a looped bodice and a flared skirt. Last up was an agave-colored satin, floor-length V-neck with an asymmetrical skirt. The draped bodice hugged her curves so well she looked poured into it. Something about the greenish hue perfectly offset her auburn hair, and the thirty-degree angle at which the sleeves tilted away from her collarbone spawned visions of gently pushing those sleeves off her shoulders in search of underlying treasure. She was mesmerizing. I turned away and studied the exit.

  A moment later, she was standing with her back in front of me.

  “Unzip me.”

  The quiet demand made my pulse race. I stood. My mouth was mere inches from her neck, and as she lifted her hair to give me better access to the zipper, I caught her delicate, jasmine fragrance, which enticed me to lean closer. My eyes wandered over her neck and shoulders, and I had the sudden urge to replace my eyes with my mouth. Sarah’s skin was flawless and exquisite, and, inexplicably, I wanted to taste it. Yet as soon as the carnal thought surfaced, I resolved to eradicate it. No matter how enticing she was, I was her friend, nothing more. Not wishing to make an unwanted advance or take advantage of the situation, I reined in my atypical licentiousness and silently complied.

  I reached up with my left hand to hold the top of the fabric. Though I tried not to touch her, as I grabbed the zipper with my right hand, the fingertips of my left accidentally brushed the skin below her neck. As my fingers grazed her, she shivered. I did grant myself a margin of leeway, pretending to give careful consideration to the delicate fabric by taking my time to lower the zipper down her back, allowing myself a few moments to soak in her closeness. I held the left side of the dress so it wouldn’t fall off her shoulder. After I finished, her right hand reached up to hold the dress on and she placed her left hand gently over mine to take over. She turned her chin in my direction, whispered “Thanks,” and headed back toward her fitting room.

  Being so close to Sarah and—for God’s sake—undressing her, had been equal parts delightful, overwhelming, and unnerving. I was glad to have some time to pull myself together.

  Done with her fashion show, Sarah reentered the hexagon wearing her street clothes and hung the dresses on the return racks.

  “I don’t suppose you have a favorite?” she asked.

  I swallowed hard and shook my head.

  “Could you be any less helpful?” she teased me.

  “I told you I’m not much of a shopper.”

  “You have eyes, don’t you?”

  Eyes and hands and lusts and fantasies and other feelings I shouldn’t, yes.

  “Let’s go. I want frozen yogurt,” she said as she seamlessly zigzagged through the displays toward the escalator.

  Seated across from each other at a plastic circular table in the food court, spooning frozen yogurt into our mouths, Sarah eyed me inquisitively.

  “What did you think of those two women who saw you in that black dress?”

  “What about them?”

  “What did you think about what they said? About how you looked?”

  “They were being polite.”

  “You think they were disingenuous?”

  “I wouldn’t say disingenuous, exactly. Just…like I said, polite.”

  “How do you think you looked, now that we’ve removed ‘ridiculous’ from the available adjectives?”

  I shrugged. “Serviceable, I guess.”

  “Not horrible?”

  “No.”

  “Pretty?” Sarah asked, as if fishing for something.

  I shifted on the plastic bench and my foot involuntarily began tapping the ground in a nervous tic. “I wouldn’t get carried away.”

  “But you agree you looked good,” she said, more of a statement than a question.

  “I agree that people wouldn’t necessarily run screaming from the building if they happened to see me. Okay?”

  She stared at me and bit her bottom lip, seeming to want to say more. She scooped a spoonful of yogurt into her mouth before continuing. “Okay. I’ll drop it, but only if you tell me which dress I should buy.”

  “Why don’t you ask Dirk?” It came out with more bite than I’d intended.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’m asking you,” she said flatly. After several seconds of silence, she added, “Please.”

  I dodged. “I’m sure you’re a much better judge of this sort of thing.”

  “I’d like your opinion.”

  I gazed into my yogurt cup and stirred the contents with my spoon. “You can’t go wrong with any of them.” She didn’t respond. I continued stirring. Finally, I took a deep breath and looked at her. “The agave one.”

  She arched her ever-expressive left eyebrow. “Why?”

  My yogurt became interesting again, and I shifted my weight, crossing my legs under the table. “Because…” I shrugged and met her eyes. “It’s magnetic. Dangerous.” Her right eyebrow joined its counterpart. “If…I mean…that is, if you like that sort of thing,” I stammered. She tilted her head, waiting for me to continue. “If you want Dirk to be physically unable to keep his hands off you, that’s your dress. Hell, anyone. Geez, I could barely keep my hands to myself, and I’m not even a guy.” Please, God, tell me I didn’t just say that.

  “Oh, really?” she asked, as the corner of her mouth curled up slightly.

  “Crap, I didn’t mean I couldn’t. I meant, you know, generally speaking. It’s…you looked…” I swallowed with difficulty. “Um, alluring, I guess.�
��

  Sarah sat up even straighter than usual, her eyes searching mine as if she were trying to read my mind. Suddenly wondering once again if she could, and not wanting her to be able to, I jumped up abruptly, wishing to escape.

  “You finished? I should get home.”

  Sarah stood slowly and held out her hand to me. Bewildered, I stared at it, unable to comprehend what she wanted me to do. She reached forward, pulled my wrist toward her, gently withdrew the yogurt cup from my hand, gave me a teasing smile, and walked our cups over to the trash can. I grabbed the tote bag and followed her out.

  Once Sarah parked in front of my house, I pulled her tennis clothes and shoes out of the tote bag and placed them on the backseat. I reached for the door handle, holding my things in my other hand, and turned toward her.

  “Thanks for today,” I said as I opened the door. After I placed one foot in the street, I felt her hand on my upper left arm.

  “Why wouldn’t you tell me Kip asked you to Homecoming?”

  I spun my head around. “How could you possibly know that already?”

  She killed the engine. “Dirk and Kip are best friends. Of course I’d know. So why not tell me?”

  I closed the door and sat back before answering. “Because I’m not going. And I’m not a gossip. It wouldn’t be fair to Kip if I said anything.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Why wouldn’t you go? Kip’s one of the most sought-after boys in school. He’s sweet, thoughtful, and he happens to be a friend. I want to know why you’re not going.”

  “Are you always this nosy?”

  She gave me an artificial smile. “Yes. So get over it and tell me.”

  I focused on the glove compartment. “I don’t like being teased about how I look.”

  “He teased you? Kip? That can’t be right. Kip’s like, the nicest guy I know. What did he say?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “You’ll think it’s stupid.”

  “Are you going to tell me?”

  “Are you going to tell him what I say? Or Dirk?”

  “You think I’d do that?” Sarah sounded genuinely taken aback.