“Because why?”
“Because they thought that Brooklyn was flying into Florida, and that we were going to rent a car and drive to North Carolina, checking out colleges on the way, and then fly home to Connecticut together next week.”
“But you were really running away.”
“Right.” She sniffs. “We were going to spend the summer in North Carolina. Brooklyn knows a boy there, and I . . . ” She trails off, then shakes her head, obviously not wanting to tell me the reason she’s going.
I shrug. “So why not just call your parents and tell them Brooklyn couldn’t come and get you, and that you don’t want to go by yourself? Tell them you need a plane ticket home. They might be annoyed, but they’re not going to be pissed. It’s not your fault she bailed.”
She puts her back against the wall and slides down until she’s sitting in a heap on the floor. “But then I’ll actually have to go home,” she says.
“So?”
“So!” She throws her hands up in the air, and I’m reminded of another reason why I don’t like her. She’s overly dramatic, even for a girl. “I was running away!”
“Yeah, I get it. But that plan’s changed now. So call your parents. You can run away some other time.”
She snorts. “Whatever,” she says. “I should have known better than to expect you to understand.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Never mind,” she says. “Just get out of here.” Whatever it was that made her want to confide in me before is gone, and now she’s back to being her old, bratty self. Reason number five things won’t work out with us: She runs hot and cold. (Obviously I need to stop listing the reasons things won’t work out. It’s kind of depressing. And at some point, I’m going to lose count.)
“No, I want to know what you meant by that.”
“Just that you’ve never dealt with anything hard in your life.”
“I’ve dealt with hard things before,” I say. But even as I’m saying the words, I know they’re kind of a lie. My parents are together—happily in love. They’re not rich like Peyton’s parents, but they make enough money so that I can shop at Abercrombie once in a while and drive around in a (used) Nissan Sentra. I’m the starting forward on the school basketball team. I’ve never really had a problem getting girls, and I’m going to be valedictorian at my graduation tomorrow. (I have to give a stupid speech and everything, and my mom’s all excited about it. I’m actually kind of dreading the speech. The whole graduation thing just seems so pointless, a big charade that’s supposed to make you feel good about yourself, when everyone knows that in reality, high school is just one big sham.)
“Oh yeah?” Peyton asks. “Like what?” She smirks. “I’d love to know all these torturous things you’ve been dealing with.”
“Like I’m really going to tell you.” I stand up, because I’m starting to realize that this is pointless. Peyton hates me. And I’m not going to put myself out there for a girl who hates me, and who I don’t even like. “Well, good luck.”
“Thanks.” She’s still sitting there, her dress in a pool around her on the floor. She looks small and vulnerable, and I remember what it was like to kiss her last night, how her hair felt in my hands, how soft her skin was. What the fuck is wrong with me? I just said I was done with her, and now I’m thinking about kissing her again? I sigh.
“Listen,” I say, kneeling down next to her. “Let me take you home.”
She looks up at me, her eyes shining. “What?”
“I’ll drive you home.”
“You’ll drive me home? I live in Connecticut.”
“I know where you live,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“You have your car?” she asks.
I nod. “Yes.”
“And you’d drive all that way for me?”
“Not for you.” I shake my head. “I wanted to check out a college up there anyway. This gives me an excuse.” It’s a lie, of course. But I can’t let her know that I’m desperate to keep her with me, that once I leave this room, once we’re apart, I don’t know when I’m going to see her again, and that the thought is too much for me to take.
“But I thought you were going to Georgetown in the fall.”
“How did you know that?”
“Facebook.” She blushes, but points her nose in the air, all haughty. “What?” she asks. “I’m not allowed to look at your Facebook page? It’s not like it’s private or anything.”
“I don’t care if you look at my Facebook.” I shrug. “And Georgetown’s not definite.” Another lie.
“So you’ll drop me off somewhere along the way?” she asks. She pulls at the bottom of her skirt nervously. “Because like I said, I wasn’t really planning on going home.”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’ll drive you home, but that’s it. I’m not getting involved in any kind of weird running-away plan. Your parents would kill me. Not to mention, I’d be kidnapping a minor.”
She rolls her eyes, already wiping her tears away, already standing back up and smoothing down her dress. “Fine,” she says, biting her lip. “But first I have to change.” She crosses to the middle of the room and starts going through her suitcase, pulling out clothes and setting them on the bed until she finds what she wants, and then packing everything back up.
“Do you have to call your parents or anything?” she asks as she walks into the bathroom and shuts the door.
I try not to think about what she’s doing in there, mainly taking off her clothes. “Call my parents?”
“Yeah,” she yells through the door, “so that you can tell them you’re not going to be home for a while.”
“Oh, right.”
“Are they going to be okay with it?”
“My parents don’t run my life,” I scoff. “They’ll be fine with it.”
And the lies just keep on coming.
Saturday, May 22, 12:23 p.m.
Greenwich, Connecticut
Here are the reasons I hate going shopping with my mom:
1. She always wants me to buy things I don’t like.
2. She’s always insisting I show her how the clothes look on me, even when I tell her they’re hideous and don’t need to be seen outside of the privacy of my dressing room.
3. It makes me feel fat.
“Peyton, please tell me you don’t need the size eight,” my mom calls from the dressing room across from me. We’re in Nordstrom, which is one of the worst stores in which to try on clothes, because they have this whole area where you can come out and twirl around in front of a four-way mirror. That is just wrong.
“I don’t need the size eight,” I call back. “The six fits just fine.” I open the door and hold the dress out to the salesgirl, who gives me a wink as she takes it out of my hand.
“I’ll be right back with the eight,” she mouths.
“Thank you,” I whisper back gratefully. She’s just out of sight when my mom emerges from her dressing room.
“What do you think?” she asks. She’s clad in a tight black dress that hits just above the knee. It’s sleeveless, but classy, with a cowl neck and a sexy zigzag pattern worked into the fabric.
“You look great, Mom,” I tell her. And she does. My mom’s body is amazing, especially for someone who’s had two children. Of course, she works hard at it, with tons of pilates and spinning and Zumba and those crossfit groups that are oh-so-trendy right now. Every morning at five she’s out the door, clad in spandex, a towel thrown over her shoulder, a water bottle in her hand, ready to spend the next two hours sweating at the gym. She’s always trying to get me to go with her, but I refuse. What kind of crazy person is up at five in the morning? There are worse things in the world than being a size eight.
“But do you think black is too somber for a wedding?” She turns this way and that, inspecting herself in the mirror, admiring the way she looks.
For about the tenth time since we started shopping, I wish my older sister Kira was here. Kira’s into
fashion, and she always knows what to say to my mom in these situations. Plus Kira makes shopping fun, joining me as we roll our eyes behind my mom’s back and sneak the clothes we really want up to the cash register. But Kira’s away at college, and so I’m stuck fielding my mom’s questions by myself.
I don’t really know a ton about the rules of fashion, but I do know that my mom expects me to answer, even if I don’t really know what I’m talking about. And I also know enough that, since we’re shopping for an outdoor summer wedding, in Florida, black might not be the best choice. “Well,” I say slowly, “it is a summer wedding, and the ceremony’s outside, so maybe you should look for something a little brighter.”
Her face falls for a moment, but then she’s back to smiling. “You’re right!” she says. “Maybe something in tangerine. Although it would be shame not to get this one, too. I can always find somewhere to wear a little black dress!” She laughs like this is some kind of joke, and I giggle along with her, even though it’s not really that funny.
The salesgirl reappears holding a size eight of the fluttery grey dress I just tried on. She looks back and forth between my mom and me nervously, like she’s worried my mom is going to catch her with the bigger dress. But my mom’s already forgotten about what happened a few moments ago.
“Nora,” she says, even though the salesgirl’s name is Nicole. “Nora, please fetch us some dresses in bright colors. I want tangerine, green, pink, yellow . . . but nothing peach. It washes my daughter out.” She flutters her hand at all the dresses that are littering the floor and bench of the dressing room. “And take these things away. They’re all wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong!” She giggles again.
“Of course,” Nicole says, scurrying into the dressing room to gather the clothes.
“I think I’m going to go out and choose some things myself,” I yell to my mom. I’m back in my own dressing room now, changing into my jeans and T-shirt. There’s silence from the other side of the door, and I can tell I’ve said the wrong thing.
“Honey, they have people to do that sort of thing for you,” she says. “This is Nordstrom, not JCPenney.”
“I know,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Sometimes I just like to do it myself.”
“Okay,” she says. But I can hear the disappointment in her voice. The disappointment that means I’m not doing what she wants. The disappointment that seems to be directed at me more and more lately.
I walk out of the stuffy air of the dressing room and back into the store, where Nicole is busy flicking through a rack of pale-green sundresses.
“Sorry about my mom,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I wish I could say that’s not like her, but it totally is.”
Nicole smiles. “Oh, no,” she says. “It’s no problem at all. I always want to make my customers happy.”
I smile back, even though I’m sure it’s a completely canned response and that she secretly wants to throttle us and then start wandering the aisles, looking for something that’s both bright and fun and won’t make me look like a sausage.
My phone starts vibrating in my purse, and I fish it out. Courtney. My cousin. It’s her dad, my mom’s brother, who’s getting married in a few weeks.
“Hey,” I say. “What’s up?” Courtney’s a year older than me, just finishing up her freshman year at Boston University. Her family lives in Florida, and so we’ve never gotten the chance to be super close, but we’re still pretty good friends. It’s never uncomfortable to talk to her, and whenever I see her we always have an amazing time.
“Hey, Peyton,” she says. “What’s going on?”
“Just out shopping for your dad’s wedding,” I reply, watching as Nicole disappears into the dressing room holding an armful of outfits that my mom is sure to veto. “What’s up with you?”
“Not much,” she says. “Are you finding anything good?”
“Not yet,” I say. I move a couple of more steps away from the dressing room, just in case my mom can hear. “We’re in Nordstrom and my mom’s acting like she’s in Prada or something. She keeps making the salesgirl go out and fetch things for her.”
Courtney laughs. “That sounds like Aunt Michelle.”
“Yeah, well, I’m picking out my own stuff, thank you very much.”
“Good for you,” Courtney says. She clears her throat. “Um, so the reason I’m calling is that I need to talk to you about something.”
“Okay,” I say. Sure enough, Nicole’s coming out of the dressing room, her arms loaded up with the dresses she just brought in there. My mom, I’m sure, sent her right back out, saying that none of them were right without even trying them on. I swear, sometimes I think she does things like that just to be a diva.
“Well,” Courtney says, “remember when the invitations came out for my dad’s wedding? And you sent me that Facebook message asking me if Jace was coming?”
As soon as she says his name, my heart skips from my stomach up into my throat. “Yes,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “I remember.”
“Well, at the time I said no, because my dad told me that the Renaults were going to be out of town. I guess they’d had some big trip to Europe planned for, like, years. And since my dad’s wedding was slightly spur-of-moment, it was really too late for them to cancel.”
“Right,” I say. “I remember you told me that.” I remember everything Courtney told me about Jace’s Europe trip, because I remember everything about Jace. The way his hair flopped over his forehead. The way his smile curled up more on one side than on the other. The way he loved to debate me on everything from politics to the difference between McDonald’s and Burger King. The way he smelled like peppermint and shaving cream, even though when I was kissing him it always seemed like his face was slightly scruffy.
“Well, it turns out the Renaults are coming after all. Something about the dollar not being strong enough, and figuring out a way to waive the cancellation fees. Or something.” Courtney pauses, and my world stops. “Peyton?” she asks. “Are you there?”
“Yes.” I lick my suddenly dry lips, and then sit down right there in the middle of the floor.
“Listen,” Courtney says. “I’m sorry to spring this on you. I know how it feels to have to see a guy you have a weird thing with. If this same thing had happened to me and Jordan a year ago then I’d—”
“No,” I lie, cutting her off. “It’s not weird. It’s totally fine. And me and Jace are nothing like you and Jordan.” This part, at least, is true. Courtney and her boyfriend Jordan were together for like, months before he broke up with her and totally broke her heart. They got back together after that, but to compare what Courtney and Jordan have with what Jace and I have (had? never had? should have had?) is ridiculous. Jace and I have only met once, when I was in Florida over Christmas. And yeah, it was the most intense experience I’ve ever had with a guy, but still. That isn’t saying much, since he lives hundreds of miles away. (And since my experience with guys is pretty limited.)
“Okay,” Courtney says, not sounding so sure. “But if you decided you didn’t want to come to the wedding, I would totally understand. And my dad would too. I could just tell him that—”
“Oh, no,” I say. “It’s fine, I promise. I’m still going.”
“Okay.” She pauses. “Well, I just thought I’d let you know.”
“Thanks.”
“So what else is new?”
“Not much. I’m just waiting for—”
“Ta-da!” my mom yells, waltzing out into the middle of the store. She’s wearing a long yellow dress that’s so tight it looks like it might be cutting off her circulation. The bottom flares out, mermaid style. The dress looks amazing on her, but I don’t know if it’s really appropriate for a wedding.
“Peyton?” Courtney asks.
“Yeah, I’m here,” I say. “Can I call you back?”
“Sure.”
I hang up the phone and walk slowly over to my mom. “Wow,” I say. “It’s very . . . different.”
; “Isn’t it?” She’s raising her voice now, and I can tell it’s because she wants everyone in the store to start looking at her. Which people are. Sort of. And not necessarily in a good way. “Nora, darling, do you think I should wear a hat with this?”
That’s when I notice that Nicole is standing behind her, looking a little dazed. “Ummm . . . ” She looks at me for guidance, knowing she better give my mom the answer she wants. I nod my head slightly.
“Yes, definitely,” Nicole says, smiling. “A hat would set this dress off just beautifully. And it would be perfect for an outdoor wedding.”
My mom beams. “Thank you, Noreen,” she says. “Can you please go and pick out an assortment of hats for me to try on?”
Nicole scuttles away.
My mom looks at me, finally realizing that I’m not holding any dresses. “Peyton!” she says. “You haven’t even picked out one dress!”
I sigh, suddenly feeling defeated. This wedding is turning into kind of a debacle. I mean, let’s assess the situation, shall we?
First, if I’m being completely honest, I kind of hate weddings. All those people celebrating a couple that most of them don’t even really know that well, and who will probably be divorced in less than ten years. It’s more depressing than happy when you really think about it.
Second, I’m going to have to buy some stupid dress that I don’t really want, mostly because my mom wants me to have it.
And third, Jace Renault is going to be there. Jace Renault, the only boy I’ve ever dared to let myself care about. Jace Renault, who I’ve only seen once in my life, and who still somehow managed to break my heart.
“Mom,” I try, “I was thinking, maybe I should stay home while you guys go to Florida. I could watch the house and you wouldn’t have to worry about buying me a plane ticket. That way—”
“You most certainly will not stay home!” she says. “This is a big day for your uncle, and I know he would be hurt if you weren’t there.”
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