The Law of Tall Girls

by Joanne Macgregor

  “Found them!” I called cheerfully. “Goodnight, see you soon.” Then I quickly unlocked the door and slipped inside.

  I pulled aside an inch of curtain at the window beside the front door and peered out. Jay was still standing there, frowning at the spot where I’d disappeared.

  “Go!” I whispered in the dark of the front room. “Go back to your perfect home and family, just go.”

  And after a few more moments, he did.

  ~ 28 ~

  On Sunday, I sat on the floor in my room with my phone in my hand, thumb hovering over the keypad. After another moment’s hesitation, my thumb moved away from the send button and hit delete instead.

  It’s no good, I can’t do it :/ I texted Chloe.

  Do what?

  Send the details of the date with Jay to Tori for her pathetic little log.

  Why not?

  Yeah, why not?

  Scruples?

  Scruples? LOL!! :D

  How to explain this when I didn’t fully understand it myself? Sending Tori the details would feel like a betrayal, as if I’d just gone out with him for the bet, when I totally would have done it anyway. In a heartbeat.

  Another message came in from Chloe.

  You’ll have to get over your ‘scruples’ if you want to win the bet and get that money. Unless you plan to date another tall boy at the same time as Jay? And I’m guessing you’ve got some scruples about THAT? These dates with Jay need to count toward your total.

  It would feel like I’m using him.

  Hate to break it to you, kiddo, but you used them all.

  Ouch, that stung. But Chloe was right.

  And he was on your target list from the beginning.

  But that was before I knew him. Now it just seems wrong.

  Your call. Gotta go, mom’s calling for lunch.

  The growling of my stomach told me it was time for my lunch, too. I opened my small refrigerator, grabbed a ready meal — “French coq au vin with buttered spring vegetables” — and shoved it in the microwave to heat up. The cardboard sleeve showed a mouth-watering photograph of chicken stew and baby veggies, but the plastic tray I pulled out three minutes later contained chewy chunks of beige meat in a bland sauce, with mushy gray lumps on the side. I ate less than half and dumped the rest in my trashcan. Once I’d washed and put away my plate and fork, I turned my attention to my fashion range.

  I’d completed a series of large pencil sketches — a foot and a half high by a foot wide each —and wanted to get an idea of what they would look like once made up, to figure out what sorts of colors and patterns would work best for which designs.

  Surely, somewhere in this godforsaken house, there must be some fabric I could experiment with? Hadn’t I once seen Mom’s old sewing basket in the attic? Searching up there would be a dusty job, with no guarantee that it would even contain any suitable fabric. It might be easier just to find some old clothes and cut them up. There would be lots of those because my mother never let me throw away my outgrown or worn out clothes.

  “Waste not, want not. I’ll sort through them and donate what we can’t use to Goodwill,” she always said.

  I groaned as I got up off the floor. Last night’s skating had left me sore and stiff in places where I never even knew I had muscles, and all the tumbles onto the hard ice had left my knees and elbows spectacularly bruised. Still, thanks to the extra pair of Jay’s socks, now hand-laundered and hanging over the back of my chair to dry, my feet were wonderfully free of blisters. I smiled — not my usual reaction to thinking about my feet.

  I searched every likely place in the house but didn’t find any handy stashes of stylish fabric. I did find a bundle of old dishcloths, but terry cloth or super-absorbent waffle-weave wouldn’t give me an idea of how the garments would look with proper fabric. The only old clothes I could find were a bunch of Dad’s, stuffed into a huge Rubbermaid storage container. Why had Mom never given them back to him? Nothing about the brown corduroy jacket, moth-eaten underpants, and old T-shirts inspired me.

  After an hour or more of hunting, I was ready to give up. I considered asking my mother — she always swore she knew where everything was stored — but I was afraid she’d get all enthusiastic about the project, and I wouldn’t be able to shake her off for the rest of the day. Guilt pricked at me. I knew she was lonely, and I felt sorry for her. But she also felt so sorry for herself, and that irritated me so much when she did nothing to make her life better, that it invariably drove me to being nasty. Nope, better if we kept to our separate zones as much as possible.

  On my way back to my bedroom, I spotted four massive wallpaper sample books tucked behind the big bookcase in the hall. Wallpaper — that might just work as a temporary fabric substitute. I dragged the heavy books out and lugged them up to my room, blowing off dust as I walked.

  The sample books were filled with an amazing range of colors and styles. Some of the patterns were smooth and matte, others had a sheen, or were embellished with metallic stripes or raised patterns of velvet flocking. I wouldn’t want any of these on my walls, but they’d be perfect for the sample pictures I had in mind. Best of all, the designs were grouped in coordinated ranges — each with four or five matching prints. I could use the basic pattern for the main parts of the garments and the coordinating patterns to accentuate details like linings, sashes, and contrasting collars, cuffs and turn-ups. They were perfect. Well, as perfect as a material could be without actually being a fabric.

  I cut out shirts, trousers and coats and stuck them onto my sketches then added the contrasting trim. It worked well — the wallpaper was stiff and substantial, so it didn’t tear like the candy wrappers had, and I could press it into folds and pleats to give a three-dimensional effect. I was busy sticking a cream paper patterned with black fleur-de-lis onto my drawing of a dress with an A-line skirt when my mother knocked at the door.

  Go away. “Yeah?”

  She came in, nibbling on a bag of jelly beans. “Would you like some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Did this dress need a pop of color — perhaps a scarlet sash, or silver edging on the hemline — or was the design bold enough to stand up to the starkness of color?

  “What is that? What are you doing?”

  I stared up in surprise. Mom sounded, and appeared, genuinely upset.

  “I’m using these sample pieces of wallpaper in my designs.”

  “But why?”

  “Because there is no fabric in this house — or if there is, I can’t find it.”

  I’d told my mother about my plans to apply to fashion school. She’d seemed about as interested in them as in anything else in the outside world that didn’t involve shopping.

  “But you’re cutting them up! Destroying them!” Mom picked up the wallpaper book closest to her and hugged it protectively against her chest, spilling jelly beans across my floor.

  “Chill, okay? This is important to me. I want to be accepted into that school, and I want to win a scholarship. I can’t practice on expensive fabrics, so I’m using these.”

  “But I kept these specially!”

  Did my mother have tears in her eyes?

  She snatched at the book I was using. I grabbed it and pulled it back. We were having a tug-of-war over scrap paper. This was insane — one of the craziest things ever to happen in a house full to the brim with crazy.

  “I don’t want you tearing those up, Peyton, stop it.”

  Yup, she was crying again.

  “Why not, Mom, were you planning on doing some redecorating? You want to start papering the walls, now?” I said, my voice heavy with sarcasm.

  “Well, yes — one day.”

  Ah yes, one day. I knew one day well.

  Mom gestured to the sample books. “That’s why I got those in the first place.”

  I tapped the sticker on the top right-hand corner of the book I was holding. It showed the year the range was released. “You got these in 2006 — I think we can safely say one day
never arrived.”

  I tore out another piece of wallpaper, and when my mother looked like she might make a grab for the book, I slammed it closed, put it on top of the others, and sat on the pile.

  She patted her pockets, found her asthma pump and took a puff. “You have no right! Those are mine. You should have asked permission before tearing them up.”

  “No point — you would have said no.”

  “That’s because I don’t like you interfering with my stuff!”

  “Golly gee, I would never have guessed. You should have said.”

  The loud clatter of a stone against my window made us both jump.

  “That’s Chloe,” I said, getting up to open the window and toss down the ladder. When my mother made no move to go, I gave her an expectant look. “Are you staying for tea?”

  “I can see you don’t want me here,” my mother said.

  No, I didn’t want me here. I wanted me far away — preferably in New York, with Jay somewhere nearby.

  Still clasping the one wallpaper book she’d been able to rescue, my mother turned and walked out while Chloe clambered in the window and I scrabbled about on the floor, picking up the jelly beans. It was like a staged production of a farce, with the players knowing all their exits and entrances.

  “Here, an experiment and a peace-offering,” said Chloe, handing me a small paper bag and a Krispy Kreme box.

  I groaned in pleasure at the donuts (chocolate-glazed — my favorite), but sniffed suspiciously at the contents of the bag.

  “Lemon verbena on a green-tea base, with just a hint of ginger. It’s my own mix.”

  “What’s that supposed to do — spark my creativity, ramp up my sexiness, or ease my anxieties?”

  “It’s supposed to be a mild sedative. And should you be suffering from flatulence, it’ll help with that too.” She grinned at the look I gave her, took the packet and began her usual tea-brewing ritual in the corner of my room.

  “What’s the peace offering for?” I asked, taking a giant bite of glazed donut deliciousness.

  “Mom says we’re doing Thanksgiving over at the grandparents’ this year. Something about ‘maximizing the time we have left together’. I think she’s worried they’ll shuffle off to the great rocking chair in the sky one of these days.”

  Thanksgiving was that coming Thursday. Some years I spent the day at home with my mother, but the best holidays were the ones I spent with Chloe’s — great food, a happy family gathered around the table, and time to play football with Ben in their back yard.

  “Not a problem,” I told Chloe. “My mother will be glad I’m home for the holiday. But do me a favor, mix me up a special Thanksgiving herb tea. Use whatever will make me more patient —”

  “Lavender.”

  “— and grateful.”

  “Hmm. Red clover — which, incidentally, will also boost your fertility.”

  “Nice to know.”

  “But I feel bad, leaving you here for Thanksgiving. Are you sure you’ll be okay?” she said, handing me a cup of her special brew.

  “You know, you really should create your own range of teas. Teas to wake you up, or put you to sleep, or rev your engine. I’m sure there’ll be some project in business school you could use it for.”

  “Will you call me if you’re not?” she said, frowning. “I’ll make my parents bring me straight home.”

  “Sure I will. Now come see my fabulous new designs.”

  I spent the rest of the afternoon drinking tea with Chloe while reading her college application essay, working on my designs, getting an update on Ben’s latest mischief-making (he’d painted their cat orange), and, of course, dissecting every last detail of the date with Jay, and what exactly his text message this morning meant.

  Morning, Tiger Eyes. I enjoyed our icy night. See you tomorrow. J.

  “Let’s just say that, if these words were herbs,” Chloe concluded, “they would be patchouli, with a sprig of fennel.”

  ~ 29 ~

  On Monday morning, I was returning my French books to my locker when I felt the disturbance in the Force that always signaled Jay entering my planetary field. Sure enough, when I looked up, there he was, walking down the hallway and looking straight at me. Smiling.

  It was hard to believe this was happening to me, but if this was just a hallucination, I was glad to be on the wrong side of sane.

  My happiness was replaced by anxiety when I saw Tim Anderson walking beside him. Just how much could I rely on Tim maintaining professional confidentiality if he became best buddies with Jay? He was a spy — one who could easily turn double agent.

  “Hey, these belong to you,” I said, handing Jay his socks.

  His fingers brushed against mine when he took them. I chose to believe the contact was deliberate.

  Tim watched the exchange with great interest. “So, Jay left his socks at your place? Things are moving fast.” He nodded and gave me a knowing look.

  “It’s not what you’re thinking,” I said quickly. I didn’t want him spreading rumors about Jay and me.

  “For your information,” Jay told Tim, “I’ve never set foot in her house.”

  “Hey, man. House, car, motel — I don’t judge.”

  I shot Tim a filthy look, while Jay ignored the comment and turned his gaze on me.

  “Would you like to come around to our place for Thanksgiving dinner?” he asked. “Jack is still on shore leave, so the whole family will be together, and my mom says she’d love to have you over.”

  “Huh. Meeting the family — sounds serious.” Tim gave me a broad wink and another I-knew-you-wanted-to-know-about-him-so-you-could-hook-up-with-him smirk.

  “I’d love to. But I should probably do Thanksgiving with my mother.”

  “Oh, your mom’s invited, too.”

  “She won’t be able to come. She’s sick.”

  “Still? What’s the matter?”

  Was I imagining it, or did Tim’s ears prick at this exchange?

  “It’s …” What — complicated? Unfathomable? Incomprehensible? “It’s a chronic condition.”

  “Sorry. That must be tough for you,” Jay said. “How about if you come have the big turkey lunch at our place, and I’ll get you home in time for dinner with your mom? We’ll send a plate so she doesn’t have to cook.”

  “Cool. Tell your mom I say thanks.”

  With another quick grin, Jay left for his next class. But there was no shaking Tim, who walked beside me all the way to our History class.

  “So,” Tim said, “Mom’s got a chronic illness, has she?”

  My stomach churned at the strange emphasis I thought I detected in his tone. I wondered just how much he knew about me. Tim Anderson would make a very successful blackmailer, because he seemed to have, or be collecting, the lowdown on everyone’s private life.

  I now felt horribly guilty about commissioning the report on Jay. I shouldn’t have done it. If I’d wanted to know more about him — and let’s face it, I had — then I should have come by the information honestly, by getting to know him. I shouldn’t have paid someone to ferret out the details of his life. How would I feel if someone commissioned a snoop on me and Tim found out all my private stuff?

  If things developed between Jay and me, I’d have to come clean about the report. I was hiding too many secrets — about the spying, the bet, things at home — and it was getting to me. I was starting to realize that growing close to someone meant trusting them enough to open up. And it terrified me.

  On Thursday, I presented myself at the Young house at eleven-thirty precisely. Mrs. Young opened the door and ushered me inside, calling upstairs for Jay. When I’d visited for the read-through, I’d thought this house was perfect, but now — redolent with the mouthwatering aromas of cinnamon, fresh bread and roasting turkey — it was perfection on steroids.

  Jay came bounding down the stairs in skinny black jeans, a plaid shirt over a white T, and his Phantom socks.

  “Hey,” he said, giving
me a hug.

  “Hey.”

  We were at an awkward stage of our relationship — if I could even call it that. We had, after all, only had one date. We’d “kissed” and embraced and confessed our love a hundred times on stage, but not done more than hold hands in real life. I wanted more contact. Right then I wanted to kiss his cheek, touch his full lips, feel the growing beard on his jaw — but I kept myself in check.

  Mr. Young joined us, held out his hand to shake mine, and said, “I’m Jay’s father, Jeffrey. You must be Peyton?”

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” I said.

  “Hey, you,” plus a solid punch on my upper arm, was Jack’s welcome.

  “Jacqueline, ladies don’t punch,” said Mr. Young.

  “Good thing I’m not a lady, then, Joffrey,” Jack said.

  “Lady or not, your mom needs some help in the kitchen.”

  Jack drew an outraged breath and began, “And why is it just me that —”

  “You can both help,” Mrs. Young said, looking from Jack to Jay.

  “I’d like to help, too,” I said.

  “Thank you, honey. The kitchen’s this way. Would you prefer to make the pastry, or mix the pie filling?”

  Pastry? Pie filling? She may as well have asked me to prove E=mc2.

  “Um, is there something easier I could do? I’m not too handy in the kitchen.”

  “And why should you be?” Jack defended me. “Just because you’re female doesn’t mean you should know how to cook.”

  “Give it a rest, Jack,” said Jay.

  “Fine. Dibs on making the potatoes.” Jack grabbed a potato-masher from a kitchen drawer and began bashing down on the contents of a large pot on the stovetop.

  “How about topping and tailing these?” Mrs. Young suggested, passing me a mound of green beans on a chopping board.

  “Sure,” I said, staring down at the beans, and feeling like a fool.

  Topping and tailing sounded like something Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers would do. Or possibly wear.