by Donna Cooner
My mom is forty-two and really pretty, even without fake eyelashes like Paula. But dating online will expose her to a whole new world of judgment.
Still, it would be nice if my mom could meet someone. I know it’s been hard for her to raise me and my sister alone. It isn’t her fault I feel a dad-sized hole in my heart every once in a blue moon.
“Who knows?” Mom says with a small laugh. “I might chicken out and take it down anyway.” She gets up and walks over to the sink, running the water and splashing a little on her face. The red tinge fades from her cheeks with the cool water and she looks relieved.
“You should go on upstairs and get ready for tomorrow,” she tells me. “You’ll do great, I know it.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, getting up from the table. She comes over to wrap an arm around me, hugging me tight. It feels good.
Then Mom sits back down at the computer, her eyes on the screen again, and I leave the kitchen.
As I climb the stairs to my room, I wonder if Paula is excited about her matchmaking plan for my mom. My curiosity gets the better of me. I take out my phone and pull up Paula’s social media account. After all, she’s staged the window. All I’m doing is looking.
Paula’s house is a mansion, something straight out of Martha Stewart Living. She has a hot tub. Her husband is an architect. Her daughter is going to medical school. Her son is a star tennis player at the private school he attends. They vacation in Portugal. And Jamaica. She’s in a book club and has two cats—one black and one orange striped. There is a check-in at a winery in Napa and another at a Michelin-starred restaurant in New York.
Is my mom comparing her life to this? No wonder she thinks she needs a change.
I sigh and reach the second landing. My sister, Megan, is playing a video game in her bedroom. I can hear her and her friend Lulu, yelling at the screen over the sound of explosions and crashes.
Cassidy is waiting for me in the hallway, tail swishing. She follows me into my bedroom and slips inside the door just before I close it, jumping onto the corner of the bed.
Still holding my phone, I tumble onto my bed and bury my head in my pillows. Now that I’m alone again, the reality of the winter prom dress demand comes back to haunt me. Just when I thought the stupid screenshot game was over, there’s this new hurdle.
That interview tomorrow is critical to my future plans, and someone out there in the big blue Galactic Network is trying to ruin it for me.
When I finally am able to open my eyes again, I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. Cassidy moves up the bed to lie across my stomach, head on my chest. My brain works furiously.
Who is doing this to me and how do I make them stop?
I try to think rationally, but every idea I come up with seems like a dead end as soon as I think it through. I close my eyes, tears leaking out of the corners of my lids and down my cheeks.
I know what I have to do. I roll off the bed and go to my closet. I pull the hanger out from the back and hold up the big poufy dress to the light. I study the short pink tulle skirt and scoop-necked, sequined bodice. This dress definitely isn’t my style. It wasn’t my style this past winter either, when I bought it for the dance.
Just seeing the dress brings it all back. The night of the winter prom was going to be the most romantic and triumphant night of my life. Student council had just held elections for the spring semester, and after a hard-fought runoff with Griffey Caro, I was named junior class vice president. I would be a gracious winner, twirling across the floor with my handsome boyfriend. Finally, everyone was starting to recognize my leadership potential.
The weekend before the dance, Asha, Emma, and I had gone to the mall together to shop for dresses. I tried on dress after dress, and couldn’t find anything right. Emma was convinced we’d find my perfect look or die trying. Within the first hour, she’d purchased a white minidress that looked perfect on her model-like figure. I didn’t have the same shopping karma, but then I never did. Asha, too, had found an off-the-shoulder purple dress that hugged her body perfectly. When she was done, she lost patience with my quest and went off to buy new running shoes.
Sipping on a McDonald’s strawberry shake, Emma sat on the dressing room bench with one long leg crossed over the other, critiquing the last few options in my size. I was waffling between Emma’s top choice—the pink, fluffy thing—and mine: a dark blue vintage-looking maxi dress with a beaded halter top.
“The pink one looks way better on you,” Emma said.
As usual, I didn’t want to disagree, but I wasn’t convinced.
“I don’t know. It’s awfully short and very …” I turned back to the mirror, frowning. “… very … pink. It just doesn’t look like me.”
Emma tilted her head to one side and narrowed her eyes. “That’s exactly the point. Do something different. Surprise people! Have a little fun.”
So I bought the pink dress. Against my better judgment.
The day of the dance, I spent most of the afternoon at the salon getting my hair put up into a messy bun with carefully sprayed tendrils dangling down to brush my shoulders. At home, I paired the pink dress with silver strappy heels and sparkling earrings. When I looked in the mirror, all dressed up and ready to go, I hardly recognized myself. Maybe Emma was right. Different was good. If anything was going to solidify my new status at school, this was it.
I wanted Luke to be speechless when I opened the door—bowled over by my transformation. For once, we were going to be equals in the popularity game—hot jock and student council vice president in a great dress.
When Luke rang the bell, I ran to answer the door. There he was in a sleek gray suit with notched lapels and a red patterned tie. His shoulders were squared and his eyes were completely focused. On me.
“Wow,” he said, staring.
I couldn’t say anything at all. He was that gorgeous. I just tilted my head to look up at him and smiled. We were magic.
Strolling into the dance that night, holding Luke’s hand, was like walking out onstage for a huge performance. Everyone turned to look at us and smile. We were high school royalty and I loved it. Finally, I was a winner.
But I soon found out it was all an illusion.
I can still hear the snarkiness in Griffey Caro’s voice. She was standing with her back to me, talking to Luke, when I came back from the bathroom. Even the blaring music from the DJ didn’t drown out her words.
“You know she only won that election because of you, right?” she was saying to Luke. “You’re the popular one.”
I froze, feeling my heart drop. I hadn’t won because of my brilliant ideas for student council. A book drive for flooded libraries in Georgia. The home construction project for Habitat for Humanity. The welcome binder for new students.
It was about popularity. Just like always.
I didn’t want just like always. I wanted better.
Luke never knew I overheard the conversation. He just knew I was different. When we danced together, it didn’t feel romantic or triumphant. The evening suddenly felt like a disappointment, full of artificial costumes and unfulfilled expectations. And, no matter how hard I tried, things felt changed between me and Luke as he drove me home from the dance. It wasn’t his fault, but now I knew he was my ticket to the political world at Rocky Mountain High School.
We said good-bye in the car, sitting in my driveway. When I kissed him good-night, our lips touched briefly and awkwardly, forced and unnatural.
Back in my room, I took the dress off and crammed it in the back corner of my closet, hoping I would never have to see it again.
I look at the dress now. It drips with disappointment and rejection. It’s a reminder that I can’t make it on my own without Luke or anyone else helping me. I can’t wear it to the internship interview. It will taint everything.
Of course that’s not the main reason I can’t wear it. This dress wouldn’t be considered professional in any situation, for any interview. But in this case it would be ab
solutely disastrous. Senator Watson is a strong, powerful role model who inspires women and girls to transcend stereotypes. She isn’t about sparkles and pink. It would be an insult to her platform.
Then again, if the screenshot gets out, I won’t even have a chance at another interview.
I yank the dress off the hanger and throw it over my desk chair.
* * *
That night I dream I am Abraham Lincoln.
I sit at the end of the reflecting pool in Washington, DC, watching the people climbing up the steps to stare up at me. I want to tell them to stop, but no matter how hard I try, the words won’t come out. I need to tell them something important—something that will change their lives. But I can’t. I don’t have it in me.
Then they laugh. Hard. Asha is there beside them, pointing up at me and whispering words I cannot hear. The people laugh harder.
I can’t move. Frozen in rock, I can only watch them looking and laughing at me.
The people are wearing brightly colored masquerade masks—blue, green, yellow—that just cover their eyes. Asha is the only one who doesn’t have on a mask.
The better to see me.
I am Abraham Lincoln. I am huge. And I am wearing a pink, sparkly prom dress.
Emma is holed up in a corner of the Old Town Library, working on her pitch for the screenwriting competition. There are only twenty-four hours left to write her entry and it is not going well. She’s already written and deleted three different beginnings. She knows her idea is good. She just has to explain it the right way.
For some reason, it is especially difficult to focus tonight. And she doesn’t even have the usual distractions of being at home. After dinner, she made up some excuse about going to meet Asha and Skye, and then drove to the library instead. Her parents barely pressed her on it.
Emma thinks about her parents, and it’s like a huge black hole opens up in her brain. She hates the look that seems permanently etched into her mom’s face—one of shame and betrayal. It’s similar to the look Skye got when she realized Asha was filming her the other night at the birthday party.
Emma feels a pang of sympathy. Asha can really be difficult sometimes. She wishes she could vent about it to Skye. But Skye has been so busy lately. They all have their different obligations. It’s not like when they were kids.
Emma focuses back on her laptop. She Googles the script for Rear Window and reads it through again. Then she puts in her earbuds and watches the opening scene frame by frame. Every few minutes, she stops and rewatches. Finally, she pulls up the blank page and starts to write.
The next day, I spend an hour before school, my whole lunch period, and then another hour after school getting everything set up perfectly for the job fair. The rest of the student council helps, but I call the shots. Tables and chairs are all placed and labeled around the gym according to my design. I even put bouquets of fresh gladiolas and sunflowers on the tables for luck. Now I just hope everyone shows up and the event goes off without a hitch. After all, this is my biggest project to date as vice president. I can’t afford any hiccups.
For the event, or for my own interview.
There is one more thing I have to do—get my interview outfit from home. After one more glance around the gym, I drive to my house with a pit in my stomach.
When I pull into my driveway, Luke is sitting on my porch in his green fleece jacket. He’s wearing black sweatpants and a bright red stocking cap pulled low over his blond curls.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, walking up the porch steps. “I thought you had a soccer team meeting.”
He holds out a plastic container and smiles. “I brought you some good-luck cookies. Not that you need luck.”
You bet I do.
“Thanks,” I say, opening the door for him to follow me inside. “I have a few minutes before I have to go back for the interview.”
Once inside, we greet Cassidy, who barks happily. Luke and I peel off our jackets.
“You want something to drink?” I ask, my mind on the stupid pink dress waiting upstairs.
Luke shakes his head and settles in on the couch. He looks at me with his familiar lopsided smile and my heart hurts. He has no idea what I’m about to go back to school and do.
I have never rocked the boat, never done the unexpected. Now I have to do this one thing for myself and no one is going to make this choice for me—not Luke, Emma, or Asha. The blackmailer drew a huge mark in the sand of my life. I have to decide. Do nothing, or take a giant step over the line.
“You okay?” Luke asks. He reaches down to rub Cassidy’s ears just where she likes it most.
“Yeah, why?” I ask, sitting down at the other end of the couch.
“I don’t know.” Luke props his long legs up on the ottoman. “You seem like something’s bothering you lately.”
“I have a lot on my mind,” I say.
Trust him. Tell him about the blackmailer.
“So spill it.”
Maybe I won’t tell him everything, but some of it. I screw up my face, trying to figure out where to start. I’ve never talked to Luke about how I feel about myself. It’s totally out of my comfort zone.
“I don’t want to let people down.” Even as I’m saying the words, they sound pathetic. “So I work really hard not to disappoint anyone. Not at school. Not at work.”
Luke laughs. Not what I expected.
“Don’t be silly,” he says. “You can never disappoint anyone.”
He is trying to reassure me, but instead it’s like the bar just went up significantly. And I’ll never measure up to it.
I give him a halfhearted smile. “Thanks,” I say weakly.
I wonder if Luke doesn’t really know me. If he can never truly understand me. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been able to tell him the truth about what’s happening.
Luke checks the time on his phone. He has to go meet his soccer team, and I have to go upstairs and confront the pink dress. He gives me a quick kiss, and then he’s gone.
* * *
I’m on my way back downstairs, wearing the stupid pink dress under my wool coat, when I run into Megan and Lulu. Megan immediately corners me and insists they have to go to Lulu’s house now. Something about our Wi-Fi not working, and the two of them needing to watch tons of other YouTubers right this second to figure out their new channel. Even though I tell my sister I’m in a huge rush to get back to the job fair, Megan won’t let up. So after lots of begging and drama, I give in.
Now Megan and Lulu are happily chattering away in the back seat, leaving me looking like an Uber driver up front.
An Uber driver in a pink ruffly dress that’s hidden underneath her winter coat.
“Did I tell you we’re going to launch our own girl gamer commentary on YouTube?” Megan asks me excitedly as I drive.
“Uh-huh,” I mumble, glancing at the clock. “Only about a hundred times.”
Of course the light up ahead turns red just when I reach the intersection. My fingers drum anxiously on the steering wheel. It’s bad enough I’m showing up to this interview in my prom dress; I can’t be late on top of that.
After waiting restlessly through two more lights, one four-way stop with three other cars that don’t know how to take turns, and avoiding a mother pushing a stroller in a crosswalk, I finally clear the traffic for the final few miles to Lulu’s house.
Lulu speaks up from the back seat. “Our YouTube channel is going to be smart, witty, and vastly entertaining.”
“Where exactly do I turn?” I glance in the rearview mirror to catch Lulu’s eye, but she’s taking selfies, running her hands through her thick blonde hair and turning her head back and forth for each shot.
“Lulu?” I say.
“Just a sec.” Lulu snaps a picture of Megan and then takes two more when Megan leans back against the car door.
“Hello? Can we focus?” I ask.
Lulu finally looks up from her phone and out the window. “Two streets up.” She points. “
Go right.”
I turn into the neighborhood. Speed bumps are installed every few feet and are diligently monitored by an overactive homeowner’s association, so I have to creep along at twenty miles an hour.
“Oh my God. Megan, you’ve got to see this,” Lulu is saying. “It’s this new app called FaceFix. It makes your selfies look better.”
I peek in the rearview mirror. Lulu is holding out her phone to Megan.
“Here’s the photo I just took of you,” Lulu is saying. “Now I can use this eraser tool and make all your freckles disappear. Doesn’t that look better?”
Freckles are bad? I’ve always loved Megan’s freckles. Especially on her nose.
“Now let’s use this brush tool and make your hair blonder.” Lulu slides her finger back and forth across the screen of her phone.
“Now you hate my hair?” Megan asks.
“Hate is the wrong word,” Lulu says hurriedly. “I’m thinking we just glam it up a bit. Not so … brown.”
I pull into the driveway and put the car in park, waiting for the girls to get out. But they’re still sitting with their heads bowed over Lulu’s phone. Megan’s brows are pulled together in concentration, her shoulders hunched up almost to her ears.
“See, doesn’t that look better?” Lulu asks.
“I guess so,” Megan says, a little quiver in her voice.
“And if you want, just choose this tiny check mark button at the bottom of the screen and it instantly replaces the old photo on ChitChat with this better one. Easy peasy.”
“I don’t want to,” Megan says firmly. “That doesn’t even look like me anymore.”
“Okay. Don’t stress. We’ll take some more and play around with it. You’ll get used to it.”
“All right,” Megan says reluctantly.
I want to say something, but I don’t. The girls climb out of the car, and Megan thanks me for the ride.
“Let’s take another picture,” Lulu is saying to Megan. “You can stand over there and I’ll take a full-body shot.” She points toward a tree in front of her house. “If you push your hips back, it’ll make you look slimmer.”