“Oh, it’s no problem.”
“And please excuse the way the house looks,” Mom adds with a laugh.
Jamey smiles at her. “Your house looks like you have a live-in maid compared to mine.” This isn’t true, but it’s kind of Jamey to say it anyway.
“So, did you get a dress?” Mom asks me.
I nod.
“It’s really pretty on her,” Jamey says. “We brought it back here so you could see it if you wanted to. And happy Mother’s Day, by the way.”
“Happy Mother’s Day to you, too,” Mom says.
It’s good to see the two of them talking and smiling like they actually don’t mind hanging out, but it’s also awkward. When Jamey says she’d better be getting home, I thank her for everything and give her a hug.
“Huh,” Mom says when she’s gone. There’s an absent sort of look on her face.
“You okay?” I ask her.
She snaps to attention and runs her hand across my wigless scalp. Other than my dad, she’s the only person who ever touches my head, weird looking as it is. “Yeah, honey,” she says. “Yeah, I am. I just hate having the wrong idea about a person for so long, that’s all.”
54
MOIRA
DAY 47: MAY 9
“Oh my God. You’re going to look like a child bride.”
I don’t even try to hide my despair as Agnes pulls the dress from its zippered garment bag Monday afternoon. The thing could not possibly be any whiter or frillier or poufier. Only someone like Jamey would force her stepdaughter to wear such a monstrosity. And, of course, Agnes’s dad won’t do anything to stop it, because he’s totally Jamey’s bitch. Ugh, Jamey.
I will never forget the first time I met the stepmonster. We were in eighth grade, and I had purposely applied my eyeliner that day to look like it had been drawn on by a toddler with a Sharpie. Also, I was wearing a T-shirt with the words MODERATION IS OVERRATED stretched in big block letters across my already-colossal boobs. Jamey tried to impress Agnes by acting all accepting and Christian lovey-dovey with me, but she still managed to come off as self-righteous and condescending. “The Lord loves all of us,” she told me in a sad whisper, shaking my hand and then holding on to it for too long afterward. She looked like she might be about to cry.
“Yeah,” I answered, removing my hand from hers. “Uh … thanks.”
“Jamey wanted to have it dyed lavender,” Agnes says now as she stares down at the dress. “But there’s not enough time.”
I drop my head into my hands and moan. I’d rather see Agnes dressed in the gingham prairie-girl getup Jamey made for her when she first got together with Agnes’s dad. And that’s saying something, because the prairie-girl outfit? It was an abomination, pure and simple.
Agnes holds the thing up to herself. The fabric actually makes a sound, like itty-bitty claws scratching against a cellar door. “It was the smallest one they had in this style,” she says. “It’s made for an eight-year-old, but it’s too big on me. I swear, I tried on, like, twenty of these. I’m positive whoever makes them gets paid extra for using the itchiest taffeta they can find.” She looks less than thrilled with the dress, which surprises me a little. Agnes usually adores over-the-top girly stuff like this. “But wait,” Agnes says with a flat voice. “There’s more.” She reaches toward the bottom of the garment bag, unwraps the item she finds there, and holds it out.
“A flipping tiara?”
Agnes nods. “I liked the veils they had there. They covered up my head and my face, which is never a bad thing, but Jamey wouldn’t go for it. She was nice about it and everything, but she said I looked too Catholic. She said it would offend people at a Protestant function.”
All I can do at this point is just sit there and rub my temples. “You’re hurting me now, Agnes,” I tell her.
55
AGNES
DAY 46: MAY 10
Dad picks me up after school on Tuesday and drives me to Mom’s house so I can pick up the dress. As soon as we get to his and Jamey’s house, I head upstairs to change. With Jamey and the kids in Oklahoma, the place is eerily quiet. I can’t remember the last time Dad and I spent time alone. Seventh grade, I think? Or maybe it was even earlier than that, around the time Dad and Jamey started dating (“courting,” Jamey preferred to call it). I remember sitting across from him at a fifties-themed diner downtown. I was sipping a strawberry milkshake, and he seemed nervous.
“This may come as a bit of a shock,” he said, “but I’ve met someone special. She’s a good Christian woman.”
I sat back against the soft booth cushion. A good Christian woman? What did that even mean? What did such a person look like, and when had my dad become interested in finding one? He and Mom had only been separated for a few months at that point. The divorce wasn’t even final yet. “Are you going to get married?” I asked him.
Dad chuckled. “Let’s not go putting the cart before the horse.”
But I wasn’t putting the cart before the horse. Not too long after that conversation, I met Jamey for the first time and found out they were engaged. “You are a unique child of God” was the first thing my future stepmother said to me. Honestly, the look in her eyes creeped me out a little, but I tried not to let it show. Before the ink from the judge’s signature dried on the divorce papers, Jamey and my dad were married.
When I get upstairs, I find a note taped to my bedroom mirror: I know you and your father will have a blessed time at the ball. ~J. Jamey has also set out the wig I’m supposed to wear, which is golden blond with long curls that fall halfway down my back. It’s not the kind I’d normally choose, but it does somehow go with the rest of the outfit. I wrangle the dress over my head and zip it up before securing the wig into place. Then I attach the tiara.
Dad is sitting downstairs at the kitchen table in his rented tux. He looks up when I enter the kitchen, and his mouth falls open a little.
“Pretty fancy, huh?” I say, feeling suddenly shy and a little depressed. I do my best to keep my voice peppy.
“I … uh … Honey, you look so pretty.”
“Thanks. Jamey worked really hard on this.”
There’s a long silence, and then my dad says something I’m not prepared for. “You don’t really want to go to the ball, do you?”
I bite my bottom lip. The last thing I want to do is hurt his or Jamey’s feelings. “I mean, you guys seem to really want me to go, so…”
“But it’s not about me and Jamey,” he says. “It’s about you.”
I walk over to his chair and place one of my hands on top of his. “Dad,” I tell him, “I want to go. Really.”
“Well then,” he says, smiling at me. “In that case, let’s go party.”
* * *
A man’s deep voice booms out a welcome the second we set foot inside the conference room the churches have rented for the evening. It’s the new preacher, the one I offended by laughing during his sermon. He and my dad shake hands, and then he turns his attention to me. “Well,” he says. “Now, that’s a dress, young lady. Why don’t you give me a twirl?”
At first, I don’t understand what he means. Then the preacher makes a little twirling motion with his index finger. “Um,” I say. “Okay.” Dad frowns a little as I do the best twirl I can. My hips and knees have been aching all day, so it’s more of a slow circle.
“I have some rings for the two of you,” the preacher says, bending down toward me. There’s a big smile on his face, but he looks a little uncertain about this part. “They’re promise rings. They represent a promise you’re making to, uh, stay faithful to your father here as well as to your Father in Heaven.” He opens a little box. “With this ring you promise to, uh … remain abstinent until you are, you know…”
“Married?” I ask him, trying to hide my own smile.
The preacher clears his throat. “Well, yes,” he says. “That’s the idea.”
I look past him and into the conference room. Teen and preteen girls are milling about wit
h their fathers near a bunch of tables set up for the fancy dinner. A banner hanging above a podium at the front of the room reads CHASTITY. PURITY. GODLINESS. Without warning, I’ve had enough. I can’t do this anymore. Dad was right. I really, really don’t want to be here. “So, basically,” I say, meeting the preacher’s eyes, “you guys are really freaked out by the idea of females having sex before a certain time that you consider appropriate.”
He stands up, wide-eyed. “What did you…?”
“Is there a chastity ball for males?”
“Of course not. That would be—”
“Then this is just totally hypocritical and ridiculous,” I say, interrupting him. “Even if there was one for guys, the whole thing is pretty creepy in my—”
Dad takes my hand. “Agnes,” he says. I feel a lecture coming on, and the thought makes me sigh. I’m not trying to be mean. I’m not even trying to be disrespectful. I’m just so tired. Just so, so tired.
“What, Dad?” I say, my voice a little hostile now. The preacher straightens up and snaps the ring box shut, clearly getting ready to set me straight, to instruct me in all of my moral failings.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Dad answers, cutting the preacher off before he can say another word.
* * *
An hour later, we’re driving home from the burger joint where we stopped for dinner and where other customers openly stared at the two of us as we walked through the door. I had taken off the itchy wig and left it in the car, which meant I entered the restaurant looking like Cinderella’s bald, shrunken doppelgänger. I momentarily wondered if I should have left it on.
“I guess we’re quite a sight,” Dad said, grinning.
Dad caved in to my begging and let me sit up front for this part of the drive. Now I’m messing with the radio, trying to find a decent station. I land on one that’s playing old-timey music, and he says, “Oo, wait! Leave it here!” He pulls the car into the parking lot of a strip mall we were just about to pass. “I love this song. Do you know it?”
I shake my head. It sounds familiar, but I couldn’t name it. It’s catchy, though. I move a little in my seat to the rhythm.
“The Temptations,” Dad says. “‘Ain’t Too Proud to Beg.’ One of the all-time greats.” Then he holds out a hand. “Care to dance, my lady?”
I look at him like he’s crazy. “Here?”
“Why not?” He has parked in the big, empty lot, and he cranks the radio up so loud that I have to plug my ears. It’s like being in Moira’s car. Leaving the engine running and the headlights on, he opens his door, gets out, and comes around to my side. I’m starting to get the picture. Smiling, I take his hand and jump down onto the concrete in all my finery. “Why, thank you, kind sir. I believe the dance floor is this way.” I lead him toward the front of the car, and the two of us start dancing right there in the glare of the headlights.
“Here’s how we used to do it,” Dad says, breaking out some of his best moves from the Stone Age.
“Oh my God! Dad, no!” I can’t stop my mortified laughter from bubbling up. “It looks like you’re being attacked by killer bees!”
“Okay then, whippersnapper. You show me how it’s done.”
I respond by showing him some of the moves I’ve seen in videos recently, moves I sometimes practice in my room when I’m bored. The chastity ball dress throws sparkles everywhere, all over Dad’s tux, out across the parking lot, and onto the windows of the closed stores. I’m like my own disco ball, my own laser light show.
Dad watches me, openmouthed. “You never could have gotten away with that at the chastity ball,” he says.
Ten minutes later, we’re breathless and boogied out. I can’t remember the last time I felt so physically exhausted and so happy at the same time. Who cares if dancing in the glow of headlights is the stuff of cheesy inspirational movies? This time, it’s my movie, and I can’t imagine anything better at this moment than dancing with a guy I love.
56
MOIRA
DAY 45: MAY 11
It’s one of those balmy spring days that make a person want to do something. I’m as amped up as a Chihuahua on crack after school on Wednesday, and I need to get out of the house.
Unfortunately, Agnes has a cold again. She’s already told me she’s not up to going anywhere.
“Let me come over and bake for you, then,” I said when we talked earlier. “You could just sit there and watch.”
“I feel too crappy, Em. I just want to stay home, eat some chicken noodle soup, and nurse my stuffy head.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I know,” Agnes said. “I’m sorry.”
And then there’s this: ever since I decided to take my brother up on his offer, I welcome any distraction that will help put the Berkeley trip out of my mind. It’s just four days away now. My stomach gets queasy and my hands get shaky anytime I think about it. Driving always helps. Baking, too. Not to mention eating the things I bake. God, I’ve probably gained ten pounds in as many days. My dad’s been pretty good about helping me power through trays of brownies and batches of cookies, but I can tell even he’s getting sick of the stuff at this point. And my mom won’t touch all the processed sugar and bleached flour. Now it looks like Agnes and Deb are out, too.
Which is probably why I find myself navigating El-C around turns in the endless dirt road leading to Boone’s place. And why not? I reason to myself. My homework’s done, and I’ve been ready for finals since winter break. Maybe I can help Boone study. I stay under the speed limit to avoid toppling the stack of baking supplies I piled into a cardboard box and set on the passenger seat before leaving the house. I’d run out of most of my ingredients, but miraculously, my mom had a bag of real chocolate chips in the pantry, buried under all the carob. There was a bottle of her good homemade vanilla extract in there, too, the kind she makes by slicing a bunch of rubbery vanilla beans and stuffing them into brown glass bottles filled with cheap vodka. I also grabbed a few sticks of unsalted butter from the freezer and eggs from the fridge before leaving, but sugar was a problem. All Mom had was raw turbinado or agave nectar. I’ll have to count on Boone being one of those teen guys who oversweetens his breakfast cereal and his coffee with nutrition-free white sugar.
The dirt road keeps me focused by shifting beneath El-C’s tires like it did the first time I came out here. It’s like driving across marbles. The washboard ruts don’t help, either. Boone is out chopping wood in front of the dilapidated little house when I drive up. He straightens when he spots El-C, rests the ax blade on a stump, and squints at me. I give a little wave, but doubt descends quickly. It was probably stupid to show up uninvited like this. What was I thinking? Then again, I did try calling him before I left, just to make sure he was home. His cell phone was maybe out of minutes, because all I got was a generic recording.
What the hell. I’m here. May as well see it through. “I keep feeling like I need to thank you for … stuff,” I proclaim as I open my door and extricate myself from El-C. “You know, all the … stuff you do for Agnes … and me.” What a doltish thing to say. Haven’t I already thanked him enough? Isn’t all that “stuff” already behind us? Plus, I need to stop talking so fast.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Boone says, coming closer. He looks a little wary, confused. It’s not what I was expecting. Well, what was I expecting, exactly? A parade and confetti?
On top of the doubt, I’m flustered. I hate being flustered. To cover it up, I dive toward the box sitting on the passenger seat. “Look,” I say, holding up the chocolate chips and the vanilla. “Stuff for cookies!” As soon as the words leave my mouth I think, Enough with the “stuff” already. Kill me now. Jesus, why am I so awkward around him all of a sudden? Movement in a window of the house behind him catches my eye and provides a welcome distraction. “Is that your mom?”
Boone turns to look at the window and nods. He holds up a hand and waves, but she’s already disappeared behind one of the curtains. His fac
e is grim.
“It’s her horse I rode, isn’t it? If you can call what I did riding, I mean.” I’m still babbling, but I’m grateful for the change of topic at least.
“Yeah,” he says. “Used to be hers, anyway. She’s not too interested in him now.”
“Well, I’d like to thank her, but if I’m not welcome…”
“It’s not that,” Boone says. “It’s…” His voice drops off.
“You know what? Never mind. This was a bad idea. I’m sorry.” It was a bad idea coming out here, but at least I know what to do now that it’s clear neither of us is going to get over the awkwardness. To hide my disappointment, I turn my face away from him. I’m reaching toward the cardboard box to put the chocolate chips and vanilla back when a soft yet firm voice says, “I taught you better manners than that, Boone.”
I startle a little at the unexpected sound. Straightening up, I turn to see Mrs. Craddock standing in the open doorway of the house.
57
BOONE
DAY 44: MAY 12
It’s not possible to overstate my humiliation at that moment, when my mother decided to make an appearance out of nowhere. All a person had to do was behold the state of her, the state of the house, and the state of my entire life to know that this was not going to end well. Mom just stood there in the doorway, like she’s safer in doorways or something, like an earthquake’s going to level the place at any moment. She said what she said about manners, and then she motioned for me and Moira to follow her inside. It was surreal.
As we entered the house, I felt dizzy, like all the blood was leaving my head and draining toward my feet. I tried to see the place as Moira must have seen it: the worn carpet and old television circa 1988; the cobwebs and soot graying the walls; the living room coffee table covered with a partially completed jigsaw puzzle of dogs playing poker. There were loose pieces everywhere. The shrapnel of my mother’s life, I almost said out loud, but didn’t, thank God. Looking at my house through Moira’s eyes was like being disemboweled without anesthesia. If Moira felt uncomfortable or disgusted, though, she hid it really well.
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