by Kai Strand
“Thanks for breakfast,” I say as we come to a halt on my porch.
“Thanks for going so early.”
He appears to be memorizing a favorite piece of artwork as he scans my face. It feels so, so good to be looked at like that. And by the boy I’ve been crushing on forever? Cue the accelerated heart rate.
He holds out his phone. “Can I get your number?”
“Oh, um, sure.” I take the phone with trembling hands and have to stare at it a bit before I finally remember my number. Smiling I hand it back.
His thumbs quickly trace over the surface and I feel my phone buzz in my purse.
“There, now you have mine too.”
My responding laugh is a bit too close to a maniacal giggle, and I mentally scold myself to get a grip.
He shifts, looking intently at his feet. I wonder why he’s suddenly nervous again.
“Are you, um, going to the Homecoming game?” His eyes dart from his feet to me and to his feet again.
A falling sensation fills my stomach, like when the roller coaster cart crests the rise, and I breathe out in surprise. That gets both his attention and a frown, which disappears when I smile. “Of course.”
“Would you want to go with me? I mean, you know, your friends too, but could we maybe go together?”
“That sounds great.”
“And are you going to the dance on Saturday?” Now he’s really blushing.
“I was just going with a group of girls, actually.”
“Can I even ask you to a dance at a school I don’t attend?” His dark brows pull together and make his eyes look brighter than usual.
“I don’t know.” I laugh. “I’ll get the tickets, to be safe.”
“But I’m still taking you. Just so we’re clear.” He inches forward. “Dinner first?”
“Sure,” I breathe.
He takes my hands in his and a shiver runs through me.
“Three weeks can’t go fast enough.”
I’m breathing heavier than I should and I see him watch the rise and fall of my chest. I can tell it’s the motion that has captured his attention, not my boobs, because his lips part and he starts to breathe in unison. Then his eyes lift to my mouth and they’re filled with desire. When I slide closer, it’s like he accepts my invitation. He lowers his lips to mine and slips his hands around my waist.
His kiss is unexpectedly confident. The sureness of it draws me in, and I press tighter against him thrilled when his hands slide to my back to pull me even closer. His lips command my full attention as their warmth and silkiness explore my mouth.
He cools the kiss slowly and pulls away. My eyes flutter open to find him staring at my mouth. His own is curved into a pleased smile with a hint of awe.
“Wow. Now I really can’t wait.” His voice is husky. I feel it deep in my belly.
He lets me go, but keeps hold of one of my hands, raising my knuckles to his mouth and brushing them with a kiss. “I’ll call you.”
“Drive safe.” His school is a three and a half hour drive.
“I will.”
I watch him go, my lips still tingling, my heart the front-runner in a butterfly race. After he backs out of my driveway, I wave and watch his car disappear down my street.
“Well, I’ll be snickerdoodled. I just kissed Jerome Bennett.” With a squeal I turn and bounce into the house eager to call Cyn.
Instead I find Mom in the foyer, tapping a high heel clad foot and looking at her watch.
Oops.
Chapter 7
“This blush color will look amazing with your complexion,” Cyn holds up a beautiful chiffon dress that reminds me of something a Greek goddess would wear. Except the color, which actually would look great on me. “And the gathers of the material remind me of your hair.”
When Cyn heard I was going to homecoming with Rome, she pulled some strings to add me to her dress appointment. There was no way she would double date with me wearing an off the rack dress from a common department store. For shame!
“But it’s floor length”
“The color and the style are great for you.” Cyn hands it to the already overloaded arms of my designated salesgirl. “You’re trying it on, Lola.”
I suppress a growl. First, Mom called ahead to discuss my attire with the sales staff. How can she expect me to be all grown up in six months, but still treat me like I’m in eighth grade? Second, having the queen of fashion as a best friend can become annoying in the dressing room.
“You can always alter it.” The salesgirl suggests.
When Cyn turns her attention to the rack of dresses her salesgirl pre-picked for her, I’m finally free to enter a dressing room. I put the blush colored goddess dress on first, mostly to get it over with. I don’t want to wear a long dress to homecoming. Long is for prom. I’m quite surprised when the layers of material float downward and I don’t feel the stifling experience of many full-length gowns. As a matter of fact, it’s only slightly dressier than any of the maxi-length sundresses I wore over the summer.
I admire my reflection while I wait for Cyn to finish donning her first dress. For as long as I can remember, we’ve tried on clothes the same way—waiting for both of us to have our selection on and walking out of the dressing room at the same time. It’s actually rather comical when we end up with rooms set far apart from each other, because we holler, “Tell me when you’re done.” And sometimes even call out a countdown so that we exit at the exact same time.
“Ready?” Cyn asks.
“Yep.”
We step out.
“Holy hourglass, Cyn. That’s one sexy number.”
“I know, right? And I knew that dress would be stunning on you. It was made for you.”
“If that’s your last choice dress, what are the others like?” Cyn always tries on her clothes in the order she least expects to like, up through what she most expects to like.
“This is a bit of a surprise actually. I loved the emerald color and the crisscross tiered pattern, but I thought the line of the dress would be too straight. I didn’t realize how figure hugging the material would be.”
“You look like a sexy green mummy. And dang it, that’s the length I want. Just below the knee.”
Cyn laughs. “Let’s try our next dress, but I think you are going to end up with that one.”
I groan as I re-enter my dressing room. She’s probably right.
“How are you doing, Miss Renaldi?” my salesgirl asks from outside my door.
“Fine so far, thanks.”
“There is a cranberry spritzer out here for you on the table. Let me know if you want anything else.”
“Thank you.” I wrinkle my nose at the dress I just put on. It makes my chest look non-existent and my calves look bulky. I like the material though, a deep navy with a black opalescent sheen.
“Ready?” I ask Cyn.
She laughs. “Uh oh, that didn’t sound promising.”
“It isn’t.” I hitch the skirt up two inches wondering if there would be less emphasis on my calves, but it manages to make my hips looked wider.
“Ready.”
We exit. Once again, Cyn looks amazing in a sultry red number.
“Ooo,” she says. “Oh, never mind. That color is great, but the cut…what is going on there?”
“I have no idea.” I sip my drink as I examine her. “If you’re going for sexy Russian spy, then that’s the dress for you. But personally, I like the other better.”
“I do too.”
I set my drink down and return to the dressing room. I hear—and smell—a salesgirl drop off the chocolate filled croissant and espresso Cyn requested while we’re changing. After I zip myself into my dress I have to bite my lip not to react out loud. I don’t like to telegraph when I like a dress because it somehow always skews Cyn’s reaction to it. I already suspect the color will be a tough sell, but I really like this dress.
“Ready?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I school my expression
and step out.
A frown ghosts across her face as she takes her first look, but it quickly disappears and is replaced by a curious smile. “Wow, Lola. That’s totally gorge.”
“Surprising, isn’t it?”
“I want to hate it.”
I laugh. “Because of the color?”
“Yeah. You know I hate white dresses. Reminds me of my failed first communion and all, but that pearlized sheen is really awesome. You know…” She taps a finger to her lip. “It has that same mix of naughty and innocence that your speech outfit had. I think you’ve found your signature style.”
I smile and finally look at her dress. “Ugh. What’s going on there?”
“I don’t know. On the hanger it looked like ruching.” She picks at the horizontal lines of ruffles that circle the skirt making it look like a poor attempt at Bo Peep’s flounce. “I feel like a macabre school girl.”
“Get out of that, fast. Before it permanently attaches itself to you.” Back inside my room I say, “I’m just going to stop with this one. I really like it.”
“Okay, sit and enjoy the show then.”
I stare at my reflection one last time before I take the dress off. Cyn is right, the white color gives the impression of innocence, but the pearlized shimmer makes it flirty. The cut is modest, yet sexy. Sleeveless, v-cut front and back, but not too deep I’d worry about exposing too much of myself. Figure hugging, but the thick cotton blend isn’t clingy. A reverse v cut in the front hem gives an extra peek at my thighs, without being slutty. Best of all, the dress comes to just above my knees.
Mom’s going to hate it. If she even sees it. I think she and Dad have some important dinner the night of Homecoming.
Back in my street clothes again, I flop onto the slipper chair just as Cyn walks out to show off the next dress. I sip my drink and eat half of her croissant while she shows off another five dresses. In the end, she decides to go with the first one she tried on. Of course.
After picking out shoes and jewelry, we deposit our purchases in her car and walk to Othellos for lunch. Like at the dress shop, our parents have accounts set up for us, so we can add the cost of our meals to their tabs. There aren’t many restaurants around town that do that, so we always run into other LP kids when we take advantage of it.
We’re being led to our table when I hear my name. From across the room I see Jay and his friend, Eric. Jay waves us over. I nod toward the boys and the waiter changes course and leads us to their table instead.
After we settle and place our drink order I eye the table and notice only drinks in front of the boys as well. “You haven’t eaten yet?”
“No,” Jay said. “Just placed our order.”
“What are you boys doing downtown today?” Cyn asks.
It’s more common to run into girls during the day. The boys mostly come downtown for the nightlife.
“Probably the same thing you two are,” Eric says. “Shopping for Homecoming.”
“I love a man in a tux,” Cyn says. “Who are you going with?”
“Natalie Turner,” Eric said.
I look at Jay.
He blushes and looks down at the fork he’s playing with. “Jillian.”
I squint, wondering why he’s embarrassed to admit that. “You and Jillian have been on again off again for a while, haven’t you?”
Eric scoffs. “If they aren’t screaming at each other, they’re making out.”
“That’s not true,” Jay grumbles.
“Hmmm.” Eric shakes his head at me as if to say Jay’s lying. “What about you? I assume you two are going. Cyn, you’d be going with Rick.”
She nods. “Of course.”
“Lola?” Eric asks.
He draws my name out while wriggling his eyebrows, which makes me laugh.
“I’m going with Rome Bennett.”
Jay looks up, his lips parted in disbelief.
“What?” I ask.
He closes his mouth and swallows. “I didn’t realize I was witness to the birth of a new relationship.”
The waiter takes Cyn’s and my food order and promises to serve all four lunches together.
“Speaking of Rome,” Cyn says. “Didn’t you go to Italy this summer, Eric?”
“Sì, signorina.”
“What was the funniest thing to happen to you on your trip?” she asks.
Eric regales us with his international antics throughout lunch. Jay interjects now and again when he feels Eric left out an important detail, like when he split his pants leaping over a bench in a piazza, or when he dropped his gelato on a policeman’s shoe.
“I’m spending this summer backpacking through Europe,” Cyn says, giving me a meaningful look.
I look down at my mostly empty plate and lift another french fry to my mouth, simply for something to do. I can tell Jay notices Cyn’s accusing tone. He frowns as he looks from her to me.
“What’s that all about?” he asks.
“Lola’s a total bum, that’s all.”
“More like my mom, you mean.” It isn’t like I wouldn’t go to Europe with her if I could. But I’ll be an adult by then, and adults must be responsible and apparently never have fun.
The waiter offers to take my plate and I’m happy for the distraction.
“Hey, Lola?” Jay’s voice is pitched low, so it only grabs my attention and allows Eric to continue giving Cyn advice on places to go on her trip. “I’d love to interview you for the paper.”
I raise my eyebrows. “On what? Homecoming attire?”
“No.” He chuckles. “The speech contest you’ll be participating in.”
“Oh. Do you think kids will really care about it?”
“No less than any other article in the paper.” His eyes are hopeful and shy when he looks at me. “I’ll take you out for coffee one night this week?”
My stomach twists. I think I recognize the look in his eye and I don’t want to lead him on. “We could probably just do it during lunch.”
He leans back in his chair and his posture is so relaxed I wonder if I imagined his interest. “Seriously, if I’m gonna do this paper thing, I hope to have some fun with it.”
“Okay. But I’d rather go out for ice cream.”
“Deal.” His smile is genuine.
Chapter 8
“I know this man,” I tell Rodney the next Saturday. “Who I thought I knew well, but now I think I only know a small bit about him.”
Rodney wipes a dribble of caulk off the siding and raises his eyebrows at me.
“I’ve known him a couple years. We talk all the time. I feel like I know his wife, though I never actually met her when she was alive. And recently I found out—out of the clear blue—that there was almost a whole other wife for him. A whole other life. It’s crazy.”
I scan the south wall and stifle a groan. Caulking is a never-ending job. I check the time. Still an hour before I can even begin to hope Hank calls a lunch break.
“Has anything like that ever happened to you, Rodney?”
He shakes his head, but his concentration never leaves the straight line he’s making between the pieces of siding.
I lean against the house and watch him work. “It really made me think, you know?”
His gaze flits up to mine.
“How many other people in my life are like that? I’ve asked Mr. Whitman so many questions about himself in the two years we’ve known each other, and not once did he volunteer the information that he was on a different career path, engaged to a different woman, served in a war—for cripes sake.”
Rodney flashes me a half smile and I can only assume it’s over my word choice. He strikes me as a guy who uses stronger language.
I mirror his smile, but his attention has already returned to his work. I take a moment to admire the caramel sheen of his hair in the sunshine. I love the way it gleams. It’s downright appetizing.
“Someone like my best friend, Cyn, she seems easy to read. She puts it all out there. Doesn’t play an
y games. But she’s top of the food chain. You know? Do lions have to bother with secrets? They stroll around with their majesty all out in the open.” I sigh, turn to the wall, and practically whisper. “But even she has them.”
A wave of sadness washes over me at the thought of all the secrets in the world. I feel like the only open book around. The only person who doesn’t have anything to hide. Does that make me lucky? Dull? Shaking off the melancholy, I squat to continue working just as Rodney slides toward me, moving to a new section on the wall. He bumps into me and knocks me off balance.
“Whoa!” I flail, trying to keep my balance. Rodney lunges, reaching for me, but when I grab for him, I miss. Mud sprays up around me as I crash onto the squishy ground. “Ew.”
Rodney chuckles, almost silently. I mainly see his shoulders shaking. He reaches down again and helps me up. I twist around to see the damage to my jeans. My entire bottom is soaked through with mud. Though getting dirty doesn’t bother me, I could do without the discomfort of having a cold, damp rear end. I yank my shirt down further hoping it acts like a blanket. A bum blanket. I snort and look up.
When I meet Rodney’s gaze I freeze. Or rather I become motionless because nothing about his gaze is cold. I feel its intensity in my very core. His caramel dipped eyes are so warm my damp jeans no longer bother me.
“What about you?” I whisper.
His brows pull downward.
“Unlike Mr. Whitman—who I thought I knew and didn’t—I know that I don’t know a thing about you. Tell me something.”
The penetrating gaze doesn’t falter, even though I expect him to brush off my question. Instead it seems to bore deeper into me, touching my very soul. I swear my insides expand and lay open under his perusal. All we’re doing is staring at each other, yet I feel more exposed than I ever have before.
When he doesn’t answer, I whisper, “Won’t you share something about yourself, Rodney?”