by Tina Ferraro
The last time they’d called it off, my dad had casually worked it into breakfast conversation. Jennifer only operated on overdrive, so if it was her job to break the news, this was surely how it would go down. Not that there was any good way to tell me that my life’s harmony and college dreams were about to be flushed down the toilet.
“Courtney, I’ve done something I’m not proud of.”
I couldn’t speak. If I could have blocked my ears from hearing, I probably would have done that, too. Logic told me this had to do with something illicit. Like cheating. Or sex. And sorry, but in that case, there were a world of other conversations I’d rather be having—like with Jacy, Randy’s mother, even my own mother.
In a quick, jerking movement, she pulled out a box from behind her back. A shoe box. “Open it.”
The blood in my veins thrumming, I pulled off the lid and pushed back the tissue paper to see a pair of sexy, satiny light blue pumps. Roughly my size. And while they were stunning, the connection between them and her raging guilt made no sense. I looked up at her.
“They’re to match the Homecoming dress. And I know, I know I had no right to shop for them. You didn’t ask me to find you shoes. I’m not your best friend and I’m not trying to be your mother. I don’t really know what we are right now, sweetie, but I just get so excited about you and your life that sometimes, I think, I overstep boundaries. I’m sorry.”
Wow. I pulled a shoe closer because it was so much easier than looking at Jennifer as I forced out the words I suddenly wanted to say. “This is wonderful of you. And—and I know some of this step-mom/step-daughter thing is awkward, but it’s good awkward.”
“So,” she said hopefully, “you like them?”
“I love them.”
“Definitely drop knee, huh?”
I cringed inwardly.
“You forgive me for being presumptuous, Courtney?”
“Forgive you? I love you for it,” I managed and did a note-to-file that in Jennifer’s case, looks were deceiving. For behind her loud movements and big, ballsy ways, seemed to be hiding a pretty sensitive person. “Thank you.”
I kicked off my sandals and slipped the shoes on. They felt soft and elegant and so special that I suspected if I clicked my heels together, a wish would come true.
However, the fact the wedding was still on was that wish, right? Which was something I had to keep my mind wrapped around, especially since life seemed to be coming at me lately with the speed of a fastball.
Chapter 11
The Pacific Coast Highway traffic was blessedly light that Friday afternoon. Heading toward the shop, I went through my mental check list:
1—Randy’s boutonnière pre-paid and on order? (Check.)
2—My outfit accessories present and accounted for. (Check.)
3—Dress picked up from dry cleaner? (Um, not yet.)
4—Getting excited about the whole Homecoming thing? (Um, no.)
Number four had nothing to do with number three. I was going, come hell or high water, and needed the dress. It was just that work today was going to be nuts with the Homecoming boys on top of the usual wedding groomsmen, and I wanted to get there ASAP. I’d decided to put off that pick-up until morning, and to give myself a pick-up of another kind: a can of Red Bull.
But all the energy drink did was make me jittery (and have to pee), and luckily, by the time things got frantic at the shop, I’d already started a crash back down to earth.
Randy and his mother arrived as a bustling groom party was filing out the door, and got pretty much shoved against the window. Mrs. Schiff appeared slightly traumatized when she recovered, patting down her frosted hair, while Randy—best known for his crashing and tackling maneuvers on the forty yard-line—mixed his hello to me with a yawn.
“I’ll be in the back,” Phillip told me, arching a meaningful brow.
I nodded, hoping I didn’t have to send out an S.O.S.
Soon, Randy was standing tree trunk stiff on the alteration pedestal in an all-black, two button, satin lapel 02117. Between his bored expression and the fact The Big Game was just hours away, I was surprised he was here at all.
“You didn’t actually have to come in for this fitting,” I said, giving his wrist cuffs a tug. “Your mother could have just picked it up.”
He flicked his head toward his mom. “Tell her that.”
Mrs. Schiff looked up from the cuff links she was carefully examining. “He needs to look perfect when he’s crowned king.”
King. Naturally. What had I been thinking?
She went on to inspect every inch of the materials, and twice making me check the invoice to confirm he’d gotten exactly what they’d ordered. Both times my adrenaline spiked with dread, but both times she’d stood corrected and backed down.
Until she spied the dangling vest thread.
“Here, let me take care of that,” I assured her, reaching for a pair of scissors from the alteration basket. I’d seen Phillip do this a dozen times. “This is nothing.”
“It certainly is something. It could catch and unravel. What if Randolph is on stage at the time?”
It made zero sense that his vest, which would be buttoned inside his jacket, would catch on anything at any point, let alone while he was in the spotlight. With blessedly steady hands, I made a quick snip at the thread, and pulled the piece away.
“All good now,” I told her, placing the scissors back in my basket.
She responded with a combination sniff and exhale that was Queen Bee perfect, making me wonder if she’d learned it from her son’s ex or had perhaps invented it back in her day. “We are not good. This tux is damaged, and it’s too late to get a new one. I insist on it being comped.”
My head practically spun. I’d heard finances were tight for the Schiffs, but Phillip had a business to run. And a free rental because of one formerly dangling thread? In her dreams!
Still, it was best not to duke it out with her, especially the day before the dance. Citing the old adage of if-you-can’t-beat-them-to-join-them, I took a step closer and said her name, real low. Like we were partners-in-crime.
“Mrs. Schiff? I hear what you’re saying. The thing is, my boss knows that I’m Randy’s date, and he’s already been kind enough to loan me a beautiful dress. I’m pretty sure he’s giving me all day tomorrow off to get ready,” I added, only a little bit lying because “pretty sure” was subjective, right? It ranged from slim-to-none chances to a definite, I figured. “I’d like to stay on his good side, and not call him out for this right now. Could we discuss this when you’re returning the tux instead?”
With the hope, I continued silently, that you’re testing me or setting limits, and will forget all this ridiculousness by Monday?
Her mouth went so flat that her lips practically vanished. I braced myself for the mother of all tantrums. Only to suddenly see the anger fall from her face.
“Why, you brilliant thing, you!” She shook a playful finger at me. “Still in high school, and already figuring out how to get ahead in business!”
I bit back a smile. She was the one I was playing, not Phillip.
“She’s a keeper, huh, Randolph?”
When he didn’t respond right away, she smacked him on the arm, which seemed to startle him back to consciousness. “Uh, yeah, Courtney,” he said. “Good one.”
His mother preened. “You could take lessons from her, Randolph. She’s got a good head on her shoulders.” Then she lifted her hands and her eyes heavenward. “I am thrilled my son has finally listened to me and fallen for the right kind of girl!”
Fallen? Now it was my turn to shout to the almighty, as in O.M.G.!
Randy and I mumbled see-you-later’s at each other as he made his way toward the front door, the tux bag laying across his shoulder. His smother stopped before me and widened her arms for a hug. I moved in reluctantly.
“I can’t wait for tomorrow night!” she exclaimed, squeezing me so tight I thought my gall bladder might come out my nose. “See you the
n!”
She disengaged, then followed her son out the door.
Feeling the blood restoring to my limbs, Phillip’s voice filled the room. “Mommy Dearest adores you.”
I glanced to see his eyes crinkling with humor. “Yeah, how’d I get so lucky?”
“She’s probably practicing your married name in her head right now. Courtney...what’s their last name again?”
“Schiff. But it might as well be Don’tGoThere because I’m not.”
He uttered a husky laugh.
Zipping up the tuxedo bag, I brought Phillip up to speed on the woman’s plans to get the tux comped, just in case I wasn’t in the store when she returned.
“Well done.” He flicked his head toward the wall clock. “Now look, I know it’s a big weekend for you. If you want to take off early...”
I felt my brow furrow. Sure, I wanted to leave. I was exhausted and hungry, and I still had to go to the stupid football game. But first, what I really wanted? To steal a few minutes with my polyester gabardine cutie. To let down my guard, get a hug and a laugh. Like filling up the gas tank before a long drive. “Sure, um, you want to grab some dinner first?”
“No, I’ve got some pizza in the fridge, thanks.”
“Then maybe you just want to take a break? Get some fresh air?”
His gaze sharpened as it bore into mine. And although I was sure it was a mere coincidence (more likely, my own paranoia), it seemed as if he glanced at the window display before glancing back at me.
My lungs went all heavy, and I was surprised when I took a breath, that it made no sound. “Or,” I managed, “I could just go home.”
He said nothing.
Which was my cue, of course, to take off. I grabbed my backpack, told him I’d see him on Monday and headed out the door, carefully not looking back or at the window. Just in case Phillip was watching.
* * *
“Yum,” I murmured to Jennifer back home, wolfing down a couple fish tacos at the kitchen table. She’d topped them with some kind of orange dressing that looked a lot like Animal Style sauce, but with a south-of-the-border kick.
My dad was clearly in heaven, too, for by the time I jumped up from the table, he was chowing down his third.
“Muchas gracias, senorita!” I said to our sombrero-wearing cook, and headed for the stairs.
Upstairs in my room, I leafed through my hangers for the right tank to layer under my tee and favorite fleece hoodie. It would definitely get cool later on the beach. Only to get stopped short by the sight of something completely out of whack.
The homecoming dress. Hanging there, all nice and clean and blue and pressed inside its dry cleaning bag. Way to go, Jennifer!
After a zip-up of my jeans and a touch-up on my face (was there such a thing as too much lip gloss?), I skipped back down the stairs, passing my dad in his favorite recliner in front of the TV. My step-mom-to-be was in the kitchen, her hands immersed in soapy water. Doing the dishes.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I moved in for a quick back squeeze. “Jennifer, thank you so much for picking up my dress! What a wonderful surprise.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re happy, sweetie, but it wasn’t me.”
Stepping back, I shook my head, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, almost hoping I’d get dizzy and dislodge some secret trove of logic. For this did not compute. Jennifer was my Plan B. My back-up. My safety net. If not her, then...
“Who, then? The Easter Bunny? The Sandman? Old Saint Nick?”
Turning while wiping her hands on a dish towel, Jennifer laughed. “I think you could say it was the Tooth Fairy.”
My jaw dropped. Hard.
She nodded.
“My dad?” I managed. “My dad picked up my dry cleaning? How in the world...”
“Simple. I asked him.”
Chapter 12
Jennifer’s words boomeranged in my brain as I circled the high school stadium later in search of street parking.
She asked him. She asked him.
As if, all these years, if I’d just said pretty-please, my father would have put down his newspaper or golf club and gone to the grocery store or made a bed or a meal? Really?
I couldn’t remember a time when I had, in so many words, asked for his help. Still, you’d think the sight of his daughter burning grilled cheese sandwiches, on her hands and knees to find the outlet for the vacuum cleaner cord or having the ironing board collapse to the carpet would have been enough of a red flag waving. I mean, I knew my dad was raised by doting aunts, but it wasn’t like he’d been raised by wolves. Did I have to ask for everything I needed?
I made a right on red, mindlessly approaching the student parking lot again with its “Sorry, Closed” sign hanging on a chain, then brushed sudden moisture from the corners of my eyes.
While I supposed I should feel grateful that Jennifer—that someone—had been able to get my dad with the household program, deep down, her success rammed like a knee into my gut. She had pulled off what clearly I could not. Was I a loser or what?
“Yo, Courtney!” shouted a deep voice from the parking lot entryway. I looked to see a guy in an neon orange reflector vest doing a come-here wave at me.
I turned in and pulled up beside him. He looked familiar—probably the one who had called Randy away at Saffron’s party—but no way could I have come up with his name. I was impressed he knew mine.
“I saved a VIP couple spots,” he said, adjusting the brim of his visor. “You’re with Randy now, right?”
I nodded, pushing away a stab of guilt. For at least the next couple of days, it was true.
He pointed out a place in at the back, by the chain-linked fence, and waved me through. Without even charging me. Making me shake my head in astonishment. It was like I couldn’t have made a bigger, faster name for myself at S.B. High if I’d been abducted by aliens and returned with three eyes and horns. Of course, then, odds were slim I would have gotten a Homecoming date at all, let alone with the famous Randy Schiff.
I parked and flipped down the visor-mirror to get my “game face” on. Which meant some swipes under my eyes to combat tears and smears and some serious finger-combing since all I had with me was my wallet, keys and cell phone.
Satisfied, I flipped open my phone in case I’d somehow missed a text. No, nothing new. Still, that didn’t stop me from staring at my background picture for a heart-stopping moment, seeing Tux stare off past the camera while my head lolled upon his shoulder. And while neither of us was smiling, simply looking at it made the edges of my mouth jerk up.
Yes, I was crazy. But didn’t a desperate life call for some desperate measures?
Closing my phone, I checked the clock display, and saw it was nearly half-time. Randy had said he was fine with me sitting anywhere I wanted during the game—but I was guessing he didn’t mean the front seat of my car.
I locked up and headed out. Approaching Randy’s friend, I raised a hand in thanks.
“Courtney,” he called back, taking some steps toward me. “Question.”
I veered his way, my shoes kicking up some pebbles.
“Have you decided if you’re going to give your body to science someday?”
I stopped and squinted, wondering if he was a budding medical researcher or maybe some religious nut with strong opinions on the subject. “I—I have no idea.”
“Well, if you do, and you’re done with Randy? You can call me Science.” Then he grinned—all cheesy.
O.M.G., I ran right into that one, huh? I slackened my face to keep from giving him any reaction satisfaction, poked my hands into the pockets of my hoodie and walked off.
* * *
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” drawled Saffron from her perch on a top bleacher. “Finally.” Her tone and eye roll had just teasing written all over it, but with Saffron, you could never be sure.
Flea scooted down to make room for me on the end.
“That’s yo
ur boyfriend,” Madison added, “down there, under the hot lights.”
Boyfriend—wait. I could take ribbing about a lot of stuff, but this was crossing lines. By Monday, Randy and I would surely return to our regular lives, and I didn’t want rumors circulating about what had happened between us or who had dumped who. I just hoped to make the best of these two nights, and ride the wave of associated popularity with my teammates as long as I could.
“Amazing how many people think Randy and I are together,” I said, leaning forward to make they all heard me. “I even got free parking because the guy thought I’m the new Jacy.” Saving them from the details of that nitwit, I tucked hair behind my ear. “The important thing is, we all know the truth, that I’m just hanging out with him this weekend only.”
After a long beat, Saffron nodded, Madison snapped her gum in agreement and Flea did a silly little dance with her shoulders. Okay, message received. Three down, the rest of the world to go.
On the field, someone was running with the ball. The crowd on our school’s side was going wild. Even Flea was on her feet, clapping.
I stood, but from my nose-bleed seat, the players just looked like bunch of blurry colors to me. Instead of trying to follow the action, my mind drifted to how nice it was going to be to have the bonfire and dance behind me, not unlike the relief I expected to feel following my dad’s and Jennifer’s wedding.
“That’s Randy with the ball,” Madison announced, leaning around in back of Flea to poke me. “Maybe if he makes this touchdown, he’ll dedicate it to you, babycakes.”
I tried real hard not to frown. And could they even do that?
Two S.B. High touchdowns later, the clock expired. A roar rang out from our bleachers, guys pumped fists, and girls hugged and jumped up and down. Flea, who clearly cared the most of any of us about football, gave me a one-armed squeeze. Then she said something to the others about hitting the frozen yogurt store.
I blinked hard. “Wait, none of you are going to the bonfire?”
Madison looked at me like I had those alien horns and eyes after all. “Have we ever?”