The Law of Tall Girls

by Joanne Macgregor

  “Right.”

  I wanted this conversation to be over. I wanted to yank off my dress, kick it into a corner and curl up somewhere dark with a bucket of my one true, unfailing love — chocolate.

  “I’m so excited. I’ve been living a lie, and I’m sick and tired of it. I’m finally ready to be me!”

  “Good for you. Okay, so bye.”

  “Hey, Peyton? You’re okay? I mean, you’re not going to go all Carrie on me now, are you?”

  “Huh?”

  “Like throw pig’s blood on me and then set the place on fire?”

  Tempting, tempting.

  “I’m fine, really. See you around.”

  I ended the call and burst into tears. I wouldn’t be wearing this dress on Saturday. I wouldn’t be going to the prom, or winning a bunch of money. I’d be working double shifts until kingdom come to earn the money to pay a triumphant Tori and Steve. The thought of their reaction made me cry even harder. I could just imagine what Steve would say when I declared defeat: “Let me get this straight — the guy you’ve been dating would rather take another guy to the prom rather than go with you? Way to go, Big P!”

  I snatched a tissue from the box beside my bed and wiped my eyes furiously.

  Screw Steve and Tori. And screw Rob and the love of his life, too. And screw Tim — especially him — and Mark, and his father, and God’s particle over in Switzerland. Screw them all! They weren’t worth my tears. I was not going to spend tonight crying over my disappointments. I was going to eat several bars of chocolate while binge-watching the last season of the Great British Sewing Bee.

  “Found them!” my mother said when she returned. “These were your grandmother’s. They’re antique and made of marcasite.” She clipped a pair of drop earrings onto my lobes, slid a large ring onto my pinkie finger, and stood back to admire the effect. “Perfect! Here, see for yourself.”

  I studied myself in the mirror, turning my head from side to side so that the earrings swung and glinted in the light. “You’re right, Mom.” Had I ever said those words to her? “They would have been perfect. Only problem is, I’m not going to the prom anymore.” I pulled off the earrings and ring and handed them back to her. “My date just dumped me.”

  “He did not!”

  “He did.”

  I told her about Rob’s decision. She considered this for a few moments then said, “You know, dear, I think you could still take the most stunningly attractive and wonderful date to the dance.”

  “No, I can’t — he’s taken.”

  Wren and Faye had each made a point of coming to tell me that Jay was taking Jessica Summers to the prom. I estimated her height at five-eight, so at least they weren’t breaking the Law of Tall Girls.

  “I wasn’t talking about a boy, Peyton,” my mother said, her voice very gentle.

  “What the heck are you talking about then? A girl?”

  “No, I’m talking about you. Yourself. Why would you miss out on your high school prom just because you don’t have a date on your arm? You don’t need a boy to complete you. Take yourself, and you’ll be the person with the most magnificent date there.”

  “You mean, go alone? I could never.” How embarrassing would that be? Might as well carve a giant L in my forehead as go alone to the prom.

  “Yes, you could. You’re enough, Peyton — on your own, you’re enough.”

  This was amazing — my mother was actually giving me motherly advice. I examined at her, taking in every detail, and noticed that she was looking different. Better. She wore jeans and a clean sweater rather than her usual uniform of stained sweatshirt and track pants. Her hair was clean and tied back in a neat ponytail, and her face seemed less pinched and more alive.

  “Mom, are you okay?”

  “Do you know, I think I’m more okay than I’ve been in the longest time.”

  “And you collected the mail from our mailbox? You left the house?”

  “I’ve been checking the mailbox every day this week,” she said, clearly proud of her achievement.

  “Why?”

  “I’ve been expecting an important letter, and today” — she pulled the envelope from her pocket and held it out to me — “it finally arrived.”

  I ignored the letter. “Mom, that’s fantastic. Well done — I know it must have been difficult.”

  “It wasn’t too bad, not compared to going out to the post office back in January. Now that was difficult.”

  “You went out to the post office? You did? Why?”

  “I had an important package to post. Now if you read this, we’ll both know what’s going on.”

  She held out the letter again, and this time I took it. For a horrible moment, I thought the logo on the front was the Maryland state seal, but it wasn’t. It was the logo of the New York Fashion School.

  “Mom?”

  “Open it! I can’t take the suspense a moment longer.”

  I ripped open the envelope and pulled out the letter. My gaze danced over the impossible phrases.

  “We are pleased to offer you a place in our first-year fashion design program … unorthodox and irregular submission but very impressed with the design and underlying concept and market potential of your collection … shows exceptional aptitude … delighted to inform you that you are one of two recipients of a full scholarship covering tuition and housing … continued subject to satisfactory academic and practical achievement … look forward to meeting you and mentoring you in the journey of exploring and developing your remarkable talent …”

  I screamed.

  “What? What does it say?”

  I screamed again and gave my mother the letter, and then we were both yelling and crying and hugging each other and leaping about my room.

  “How did this happen?” I asked her when we both finally stopped squealing and blubbering.

  “I filled out the application form on your behalf, and then I sent it off with your drawings and those designs you made up in wallpaper, together with a covering letter explaining our dreadful financial situation and my mental health condition. I begged them to consider your application even though your designs hadn’t been made in fabric. And they did!”

  “You did that, for me?” When I thought of the cruel things I’d said to her in that fight, how I’d flung the designs at her, I felt ashamed.

  “Of course. You’re my daughter — I’d do anything for you, don’t you know that?”

  At that, reality kicked in. I slumped onto my bed and said, “This is awesome and I’m really grateful for what you did, Mom. And I’m so proud of you! Honestly, I don’t know what makes me happier — this letter or the fact that you’ve left the house.” And the fact that you’ve finally acknowledged that you have a mental condition.

  “I sense a ‘but’ coming,” she said, parking herself on the end of my bed.

  “But how can I go off to New York and leave you here alone?”

  “Peyton, that blow-up we had, the things you said —”

  “I’m sorry, they were horrible.”

  “They were honest. Harsh, yes, but maybe that was what I needed for the truth to penetrate.” She fiddled with the earrings, clasping them together and then separating them again. “It was humiliating to realize that I’d failed at the only thing that ever really mattered to me.”

  I watched her, puzzled.

  “Being a mother,” she said simply. “I thought being a good mother meant never letting go of your kids. But it means the opposite, doesn’t it? Loving them enough to let them move on and be where they need to be. I’m going to be a good mother now, if it kills me!” She smiled as she heard her words. “And it won’t, you know, it might just be the saving of me.”

  “But how will you cope?”

  “I’ve made an appointment to see a psychologist who specializes in anxiety and hoarding disorders, and she’ll help me through this. She even does house visits. And if she says I need medication, then I’ll take it. I’ll do whatever I need to so you don’t
have to forfeit your dreams. Over my dead body will you be stuck in limbo in this house, as I’ve been. And when you finish your degree, I plan on being there in New York for your graduation ceremony.”

  Then we were hugging and crying again. And for the first time in forever, I had a mother, and Mom had a daughter. It felt like something — perhaps the grief over Ethan, and the fear of being unloved or abandoned — was ending. And it felt like something else, something stronger and more vital, was beginning. Why should we, my mother and I, fear loss and loneliness? We’d had so much of it that if it was going to flatten us, it would’ve done so by now. But we were still here, still standing, still fighting. Perhaps even hoping.

  Maybe that’s what coming to terms with grief was. It wasn’t that one day you suddenly got over it and felt better, back to the way you’d felt before. It was that you learned to live around it, that you struggled on living through it, that you grew yourself beyond it, until one day your life and your love were bigger than your pain and emptiness. You never got back to normal, but you could, if you were brave, get to somewhere good.

  It was time for both of us to let go of the fear that kept us small. It was time to start living.

  We held onto each other in silence for a while. When Mom finally got up to go, she left Gran’s jewellery on my bedside table — “Just in case you change your mind about going to the prom” — and closed the door behind her.

  And this time, I didn’t lock it.

  ~ 52 ~

  I hitched a ride to the prom with Chloe and Greg.

  Chloe looked both sweet and sexy in a ruby-red sheath dress which flattered her milk-white skin and her curves. She’d been delighted to hear I was coming, and we exchanged extravagant compliments about each other’s dresses and up-styles on the way to the dance, but I noticed that Greg was less than thrilled at my presence.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t be third-wheeling you guys all night,” I reassured him. “I’ll be out of your way just as soon as we get there.”

  After that, Greg was all smiles, and even came around to the car door to open it for me when we arrived at the hotel where the prom was being held. I could have used a hand under my elbow for support as we walked from the parking lot to the entrance — I was still none too steady in my heels, especially on the uneven paving.

  Loud music, heavy on the bass, was pumping out the doors, and couples were milling about at the entrance. Standing on top of a line of raised platforms along the path were colorfully dressed performers — fire-eaters, jugglers, clowns and acrobats.

  “It’s a circus theme!” Chloe said.

  “You two go ahead. I’ll catch up with you later,” I told her.

  “Don’t be silly. Come in with us. He may be a hottie,” she murmured, with a tilt of her head to Greg, “and it’s probably going to be an awesome summer, but you’re my bestie. You’re forever.”

  I don’t know what I did to deserve Chloe, but I’m keeping her.

  “He’s so proud to have you on his arm — let him have his happy moment. I’ll catch up with you later, promise. Besides, I’m determined to march in there alone. I need to do this thing, for me.”

  “I’m so proud of you,” she said, then disappeared inside with Greg.

  I spent a few minutes in the cool evening air, watching a rail-thin man with a pronounced Adam’s apple swallow a sword. A young woman dressed as a jester danced between the couples, entertaining them with magic tricks.

  “Choose one,” she said, holding a fan of cards out to me, facedown.

  My fingers hovered over two which protruded just the slightest bit beyond the edge of the others, then I chose one and turned it over.

  The queen of diamonds. I grinned — it seemed like a good omen.

  “That’s a great trick!” I said.

  “I haven’t done it yet.”

  “You have more magic than you know. Can I keep this?”

  “I guess.”

  She bent over backward, literally, grabbed her ankles and rolled down the path like a human pretzel to a couple who were just climbing out of a stretch limo — Tim and Wren, flagrantly flouting the Law of Tall Girls.

  I sighed. Queen or no queen, I reckoned I’d have to give up the idea of ever enforcing that rule. Probably a good thing, too, else we’d wind up with one race of giants and another of littlies.

  I grinned at the two of them, but maybe Tim thought I was baring my teeth because he leapt back when he saw me, bumping into a clown who was juggling lit sparklers. They walked off, Wren batting away the fizzing firework that had landed on his lapel, Tim patting his pockets, no doubt in search of a nerve-settling slug of something alcoholic.

  “Have fun, you two,” I called after them.

  It was time. I took a deep breath, stepped up to the entrance — which was draped with striped canvas like an old-time circus tent — and handed my ticket to the man wearing a black T-shirt that read, “I’m the muscle.” His neck was thick and his muscles undoubtedly steroidally enhanced, but he was short, and I towered over him.

  “You’re really tall for a girl,” he said.

  “I never knew that. Thank you for bringing it to my attention,” I said, sweet as strychnine.

  “Do you play basketball?”

  “No. Do you play miniature golf?”

  “Why do you wear heels if you’re so tall already?”

  I snatched my ticket back and snapped, “To make people like you feel uncomfortable. Now I think you should look me straight in the belly button and apologize.”

  “Locked, chained and effing owned, man!” a familiar voice behind me said.

  Laughing, I spun around to fist-bump Zack. He looked smarter than I’d ever seen him — clean-shaven, with his hair styled back and a single stud in one ear. He wore a neon-yellow bowtie and cumberbund, and hanging onto his arm — wearing matching accessories — was …

  “Rob!” I could feel my mouth hanging open as I stared from one to the other of them.

  “It was you!” I accused Zack. “All this time you were … you and he!” I pointed to Rob. They both laughed at my reaction. “Why in the name of all that’s holy, if this is who you are, did you pester me nonstop? Why did you act like a sex-starved perv with all the girls?”

  “I didn’t want anyone to know until I was ready, man,” said Zack. He had the grace to look a little shamefaced.

  “I think the official term for it is ‘overcompensation’,” said Rob.

  “But, but …” My brain was still struggling to catch up. “You said you got excited every time you watched Jay’s and my make-out scene!”

  “Well, I did, but not at you, Peyton. I mean, no offense, man, but Jay …”

  “Yeah, but Jay.”

  Zack and I both sighed.

  “Standing right here and listening! Can you guys quit drooling?” Rob said.

  “Can you step aside, people,” Muscles said. “You’re blocking the entrance.”

  We shuffled to the side just as a round ball of frothy pink layers ran up to me.

  “Hey, Peyton, Zack.”

  It took me a moment to recognize Liz. She was wearing the widest dress of layered satin and lace I’d ever seen outside of a Gone With The Wind screening and had balanced a tiara at a jaunty angle on her short red hair. She was unapologetically dazzling and was clearly already having the time of her life.

  “You look magnificent!” I told her.

  “You look pretty awesome, too, Stretch. So, Zack, this is you, huh? Gotta say you had me fooled. Rob, I hope you know what you’re letting yourself in for. And here’s Jay — this is like a cast reunion. Hey Romero, you clean up nicely!”

  He did. I was so used to seeing Jay looking heart-stoppingly handsome in old jeans, T’s, and his leather jacket, that I’d have bet good money against him being able to look even better in formal wear. Another bet I’d have lost.

  He wore a simple black tux with a black bowtie. No piercings, no flower at his buttonhole, no color except for the deep green of
his eyes. I may have staggered a little at the impact of his beauty.

  “Hey, Liz, hi, Zack. Ah, so that’s how it is?” He nodded at Zack. “I should’ve guessed — methinks he doth protest too much and all that. Hi, Peyton.”

  “Hi,” I said, my voice too high.

  “So, if Rob’s with Zack, then who’re you here with?”

  “Me. I came alone.”

  “Wow.”

  The look Jay gave me was bright with … could it possibly be admiration? And he was giving me his slow and sexy smile. I grinned back at him for a long moment before I realized his date was saying something. It sounded like, “So that’s how it is, then.”

  I forced myself to look away from Jay’s green gaze. “Hey, Jessica.”

  “Yeah.”

  Jessica was rocking a goth look — black hair spiked high, heavy eye makeup and maroon lips. She wore pants. They were beautifully tailored trousers in shimmering satin, and she wore them with an almost transparent white lace shirt that spilled over in a froth of lace at the collar and cuffs. But still, she was most definitely not wearing a dress. She looked dramatic and distinctive, and her flat, two-toned brogues looked infinitely more comfortable than my dagger heels.

  “That’s a fantastic outfit!” I said, and I meant it.

  “You like?” she asked, turning on the spot.

  “I do.”

  I glanced around at the group of us, each of us wearing what we wanted, each of us different. We all looked freaking amazing.

  “Time to go in, yeah?” Jay said.

  ~ 53 ~

  We all marched through the door, passing under an arched sign of twisted neon letters that read Circ du Longford — seemed like I was going to be the tall lady at the circus after all. Or maybe I always had been. It seemed to me that in one way or another, we were all freaks and oddballs. Maybe high school was the circus, and the students were all just performers.

  A photographer dressed in the striped pants and top hat of a ringmaster had set up his equipment inside the foyer and was busy taking pictures of Wren and Tim as our group streamed inside.

  “Either you’re going to have to sit down,” he said to Tim, indicating a nearby chair, “or she’s going to have to stand on a box, because I can’t fit you both in the frame.”