by Karole Cozzo
The next morning, I act quickly, without further thought. I slip the DVD into her purse on my way out the door. I don’t leave any explanation. She’ll figure it out.
Hours later, when I walk in the door after practice, it’s obvious that she has.
She rises from the couch, eyes red. “Come here,” she demands, as she walks toward me and engulfs me in a crushing hug. “I’ve never been more proud of you in my whole life,” she whispers into my ear.
My body turns rigid in her grasp, uncomfortable. This sort of praise . . . it’s the last thing I wanted.
She pulls back but keeps her grasp on my arms, jiggling them. “Why on earth didn’t you tell us, though? I would’ve given anything to be there. To hear you. And support you! My God, what it must’ve taken, to get up on that stage . . .”
“I didn’t want to say anything ahead of time,” I lie. “I was scared I might not go through with it and then there’d be more people to embarrass myself in front of.” I smile wanly, hoping she buys it.
The lie is the best I can offer, because I don’t want to offend her with the truth. I wasn’t doing it to gain credit or to make amends, either. I wasn’t doing it for her or my father. It was something I needed to do for myself, and for Phillip. That moment that I stood up there and said those words aloud . . . I wanted it to be pure.
“Well, I am just really, really glad you decided to share it with me, that I got to see it in some capacity. Maybe Dad can watch it, too?” Her voice is hopeful. “He should be home any minute.”
I nod and turn toward the stairs. I know sharing was the right thing to do, but I can’t stand here in the glow of her praise any longer. I never meant for this to be about me.
But before my foot hits the bottom step, my mom’s words stop me dead in my tracks.
“You were so very right, Jordyn,” she says quietly, behind me. “It’s really hard to love him sometimes, isn’t it?”
I whirl around, surprised at her blunt admission.
She stares at the floor, as if ashamed. “There’s not a single day that passes when I don’t know that I love your brother,” she corrects herself. “But knowing it and feeling it are two different things. And some days . . . for all those reasons you said, it’s not always easy to feel it. It hurts too much.”
Now she looks up at me and frowns. “I don’t think I ever could have said that out loud before today, before watching this.” She lifts the DVD in her hand. “It was very brave of you, speaking the truth like that, saying the things no one wants to think or feel.”
Then my mother stares at me for a very long time, appraising the person she sees before her, her lips pressed into a thin line, head tilted to the side.
“You were forced to become independent at a very young age,” she muses. She tilts her head to the other side, and considers me some more. “I always thought that was a good thing. But in this video, I think for the first time, I saw you being brave.”
Something catches in my chest. No one’s ever called me brave before.
She straightens up and a contented smile lingers on her face. “I like brave. It’s a good look on you.”
I can’t keep the smile off my face, because this praise, I like. This praise, I earned. This praise is about me. “Thanks, Mom.”
Then the smile slowly slides off her face and her hands twitch nervously at her sides. “Speaking of being brave . . .” She tugs at her earring and clears her throat. “I never told you that I went ahead and accepted the invitation to the Sparkle Ball. It’s on Saturday night.”
“Okay.”
I’m not going to criticize her decision again, it’s hers to make.
Then I realize she’s staring at me hopefully. “The committee sent us six tickets. . . .”
I get where she’s going and I groan audibly.
“Phillip’s not the only person who overcomes his autism,” she continues in a rush. “We overcome it every day, all of us. I think we should all be recognized, to be perfectly honest.”
I push my hair off my forehead and exhale mightily. “Mom . . . it’s going to be such a disaster.”
“Can it be worse than anything else we’ve ever experienced with Phillip?”
Before I can reply that yes, it can, because there will be video cameras capturing it on film, she has grabbed her purse and is riffling through her wallet. She digs out her American Express card and thrusts it at me. “You can get a new dress. You don’t even have to take me shopping with you. Take Erin. Pick out whatever you want.”
I raise my eyebrows at the card in my hand. She is breaking all her rules. I’ve never been allowed to go formal dress shopping without her, and every Spring Fling and Fall Homecoming Frolic outfit has been Mom-approved first.
“You’re really desperate, huh?”
“I meant what I said earlier. I’ve never been more proud of you. I want to celebrate both my children. You’re a part of his success. You’ve given a lot, even before you said it out loud.” She rolls her eyes and sighs. “All those nights when your only dinner was cheddar popcorn . . .”
I laugh, because I never would have thought she remembered. But she does.
Then I palm the card, sigh, and roll my eyes. “I guess I’ll think about it.”
But I’m already thinking that my answer is yes.
I feel like I’ve changed a lot since my mom initially told me about the ball. I’ve endured a lot, too. I flip the credit card over in my hands, frowning at it, thinking of what’s been lost. I have nothing to lose anymore by attending the ball and I know very well that other experiences are much more painful.
I end up inviting both Erin and Tanu to go last-minute dress shopping with me on Friday night.
Tanu has plans, but Erin accepts quickly. I’m very happy to have her along. King of Prussia Mall is the largest on the East Coast, and the first week of November, its more than four hundred stores are already crowded with overeager Christmas shoppers. Erin helps me stay focused.
We scan the dress selections at Bloomingdale’s, Macy’s, and Lord & Taylor before deciding on one from Nordstrom. Erin picks it out—a dark pink strapless dress with a short, flouncy skirt. I’m glad my mother is not along, because she definitely would have raised an eyebrow. Erin assures me that short dresses are considered “ball” appropriate these days, and that its shiny gem tone is the shade this fall.
I take her word for it, buy the dress, and treat her to a giant monster cookie in the café on the third floor of the department store.
“So do you know where Tanu is tonight?” I ask, after taking a bite of my oatmeal raisin cookie and a sip of ice-cold milk. “I swear she blushed when she said she was busy. Then she dashed off. So not like her.”
Erin giggles. “Yep. I do know. She’s going to the movies. With Kevin Novak.”
I know the kind, if slightly bookish, sophomore from the Gifted and Talented classroom. “Well, good for her. Why is she embarrassed?”
“Who the hell knows?” Erin shrugs, then frowns. “At least she has someone to go out with.”
“Speaking of . . .” She continues a minute later, as she picks at an M&M on her cookie and glances at me from the corner of her eye, “. . . Do you get to take a date to the ball?”
The thought has never crossed my mind. We have an extra ticket, because we were given six. That’s a ticket for everyone in my family, and Terry Roth, who nominated Phillip, plans to meet us there. But her husband can’t go, so as it stands . . . there’s an extra ticket. One that I have absolutely no use for.
“Who would I ask? Especially with less than twenty-four hours’ notice?”
Erin tilts her head and gives me a Look.
I drop my head and stare at my cookie crumbs. “Nothing’s changed since last week, Erin,” I mumble. “He’s not really even speaking to me.”
“Well, have you spoken to him?”
“No.”
“From what you told me, he said plenty, Jordyn.” She shakes her head. “I mean, a boy delivers a
speech like that . . . you talk to him, you idiot!”
My head snaps up in surprise. “Erin!”
“I’m just saying, he already put it on the line for you. Isn’t it time you did the same, if you care at all?”
I swish the milk around in my glass. “He doesn’t seem to be in a very forgiving mood.” I roll my eyes. “And Lord knows Leighton sure as hell isn’t, either.” I meet her eyes, pleading, thinking she of all people will understand the powerful girl code at play here. And she, more than anyone else, would hate to have Leighton pissed off at her. “She’s out to ruin my life now.” I close my eyes and wince, thinking about what she’s already accomplished. “My car was covered in shaving cream this morning, that’s why I was late.” I’d hurried to clean it off before my parents saw because I couldn’t even think about how I’d explain it to them. “And some girl I’ve never even spoken to called me a slut in the bathroom.” I shake my head. “Last week, she probably didn’t even know my name. This week I’m a slut.”
But Erin surprises me. “Season’s over next week, so you won’t be seeing her that much anymore,” she reminds me. “And she may have all her friends riled up right now, but ultimately? They’ll move on to something or someone else.” She lifts and lowers her shoulders once. “She has to know she’s going to end up looking pathetic if she can’t let Alex go and continues to make a fool of herself over the guy who dumped her. A younger guy who dumped her. Leighton hates to lose, but even more than that, she hates acknowledging defeat,” she finishes sagely. “I think she’ll move on faster than you think.”
When I don’t answer, she asks me a final, quiet question. “Which one of them do you care about more?”
It’s such an obvious answer, and one I wish I’d been ready to answer when Alex had unloaded his feelings on me in the parking lot. I wish I’d been prepared to take everything he’d offered me.
I sigh. “It might be too late, though. I’m pretty sure Alex has written me off.”
“Then what do you have to lose?” Erin sits up straight and crumples her napkin. “Ask him. Why not? At least you tried then.” Her eyes get all distant and misty. “Ask him. If he says yes . . . it’ll be so romantic!”
“It’s not a movie, Erin. He’s not going to say yes. Anyway,” I change the subject, “you’ll definitely come help me with my hair, right?”
The next night, at six thirty, I watch through the window as the rented limo pulls up in front of our house. My family is already outside waiting. I let the curtain fall, glance at the clock a final time, heart heavy, and go join them.
I can’t shake the sadness hanging over me, but it’s impossible not to smile when I see Phillip outside in his tux. My mom couldn’t cajole him into letting her comb his hair, and it’s standing straight up on one side, but he still looks really nice. We had to buy the shirt so my mother could cut all the tags out and patch over them, since they drive Phillip crazy, but I guess it’s worth it. Phillip may never go to a prom and who knows if he’ll ever marry. He may never wear a tux again, but it’s something worth seeing.
When Phillip sees me walking toward the sidewalk, he starts up again right away.
“We must save the princess!” he says urgently. “We must save the princess!”
His voice is robotic as he quotes a line from one Super Mario game or another, but I decide to take his words as a compliment, anyway. I sort of feel like a princess. The dress totally works, once I paired it with strappy silver sandals, long dangly jeweled earrings, and a gunmetal-gray clutch I borrowed from Erin. When she was over earlier, she arranged my hair into a messy chignon with lots of loose pieces around my face. I barely recognized myself in the mirror when she was finished.
“Smile!” she prompted me. “You look totally hot!”
I managed a halfhearted smile in the mirror, but there was nothing to turn it real. I glanced at my phone a final time, but the little envelope on the faceplate alerting me to new mail never blinked. Alex didn’t respond. Alex isn’t coming.
Friday night after my shopping trip with Erin, I e-mailed him. Bolstered by Erin’s speech and remembering what my mother had said—“I like brave. It’s a good look on you”—I sent a short message, not wanting to put him on the spot with a phone call or late-night personal visit. I explained to him that I’d really like a chance to talk and that I would really like to introduce my family to him if he was willing to give me another shot at friendship. In a last-minute burst of courage, I invited him to join us for the ball.
Now the e-mail just seems silly and I wish I’d never sent it.
I looked at my phone all morning, while pretending to do my homework and clean my room. I ran my finger over the screen a million times while Erin was over helping me get ready. She seemed surprised he hadn’t responded, but I couldn’t be.
“Alex gave me a lot of chances,” I mumbled, staring down at the dark phone on my lap. “I told you, he’s done.”
Yet I guess I didn’t totally believe it, not really, until this very moment. It’s six thirty, Alex has not shown up, and it’s time to go. I’m the last person to climb into the limo, my pathetically hopeful eyes sweeping the empty street a final time. His car is not driving down it.
There is a feeling of vastness in my stomach, an ocean of unshed tears. It is only in this moment that I accept the truth of how badly I wanted things to turn out differently. And this truth brings an awful sadness I must battle back.
I lower my head, plaster on a smile for my mother, and climb into the car.
Once we’re on our way and I know there’s no chance of the night turning out differently, I try to forget about the e-mail and my silly fantasies about what could’ve been. It’s kind of fun riding in a limo, and Phillip seems to get a kick out of it. My father produces a bottle of sparkling grape juice and we use the champagne glasses from the limo’s bar to toast the evening.
At first, when we pull up in front of the Four Seasons, my heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. I lower the window and take it all in—there’s an actual red carpet, the news reporters with microphones and cameras, the cheering, glittering crowd . . . the overall sense of noise, color, and chaos.
Phillip’s going to go batshit crazy. I know it.
But then a representative from the Happiness Circuit approaches our car and calmly and quietly explains there is a separate, private red carpet entrance around the block for kids who are shy or have sensory issues. He directs our driver, and a moment later, I feel a huge sense of relief as I assess the private entrance. It still boasts a red carpet, but there is only a single photographer to capture the arrivals and a much smaller, quieter crowd.
Phillip is given his headphones and emerges from the car with little prodding. The crowd on the second red carpet has clearly been instructed not to clap, and instead, the various community members and Happiness Circuit representatives hold up signs—WE’RE PROUD OF YOUR ACCOMPLISHMENTS!, CHEERS TO YOU!, and ENJOY YOUR SPECIAL NIGHT!
Still, Phillip is on a mission to get past the crowd, and despite my mom’s instructions for him to slow down and pose for the camera, he continues on his course.
At the last minute, I call his name, and when he turns to me, I pull out my secret weapon. From my clutch, I retrieve a small cardboard cutout of SpongeBob, which I’d stapled to a Popsicle stick. I wave it back and forth in front of my face, knowing it will produce a smile.
There it is! I hear the click of the camera in the nick of time, and I smile along with him in satisfaction. My mom deserves one good picture for her memory box, and I’d suspected it would take some preplanning to guarantee that for her.
She looks over her shoulder, blinking back tears as she throws me a grateful smile before chasing after Phillip into the ballroom.
Heavy heart aside, I’m feeling pretty good about things as I walk down the red carpet. Phillip has successfully entered the Sparkle Ball. My family is in good spirits. I’m wearing a beautiful dress and it’s time for a party.
But I’ve ta
ken only three steps when I catch sight of something—someone—just before the entrance that makes me stop dead in my tracks. It would be easy for him to blend in to the background, dressed as he is, like all the other men in the crowd, in a tuxedo.
But to me, it would be impossible for him not to stand out.
He looks more handsome than I’ve ever seen him—mature, clean-cut, and stunning.
The look on his face is inscrutable and his eyes are dark.
Yet he is here.
Alex is here.
Chapter Fourteen
There’s a feeling when you wake from a particularly exceptional dream, a mixture of sadness, loss, and disbelief. Then there are those seconds just prior, when you’re awake but still able to hold on to the images from the night, a few seconds of fleeting, too-good-to-be-true happiness.
I have that second feeling as I stand at the end of a red carpet, staring at Alex.
He is too good to be true, a mirage that will surely vanish into thin air if I stand here and continue to stare.
Except Alex doesn’t vanish. Alex starts walking toward me.
I am frozen, dumbfounded. “What are you doing here?”
He grimaces at my less-than-polite greeting, but I think I see a trace of the dimple in his cheek. “My mistake.” Alex cocks an eyebrow. “I was under the impression that I was invited.”
“Oh. Um. Right.”
I fiddle with my clutch, snapping and unsnapping the clasp.
I am really botching this.
But it’s hard to look at him, as handsome and regal as he looks.
“Anyway, I thought you still might be looking for a date.”
At the word date, Alex coughs once and brings his fist to his mouth to cover it up. I realize he is nervous, which is endearing and sort of unbelievable at the same time. What on earth does he have to be nervous about?