PANDORA

by Rebecca Hamilton

  Those are about the nicest words anyone has ever said to me. I hug him and let tears of relief fall. He’s mine again. He hugs me back, and we embrace for a long moment. I never want it to end.

  He pulls back. “Will you go to the homecoming dance with me?”

  “I thought you’d never ask . . . again,” I say, trying to joke through my tears. He uses his thumb to wipe a tear away, gently tracing a path down my cheek.

  “I already did. Three times. So you better not blow it this time.” He smiles, drawing me close and kissing me. Once again I’m floating on a cloud of purple-tinged blueness.

  18

  Miranda and I are in Forever 17, shopping for my homecoming dress. When she’d called to invite me to the mall, neither of us brought up our fight, preferring to move on as if nothing had happened. I’m grateful to not have any more emotional crap to deal with—I’ve had enough to last me a lifetime. I can tell by the way Miranda eagerly helps me shop that she feels bad about everything. She’s on a frenzied search: rummaging through sale bins, pointing out accessories, running to me with different dresses that she thinks might look good.

  The store is so bright it hurts my eyes: white walls covered in shiny mirrors, glossy white and silver floors. Sales clerks bustle around, dressed head-to-toe in white and wearing large sequined hats. All of this white and silver, along with bad hip-hop blaring from overhead speakers, gives me a headache. I just want to get this dress-shopping over with. Unlike Miranda, who could spend all day in a store, I’m not much of a shopper. She’s paying, though, making good on our dare-bet, so I should spend the time and find the right outfit for homecoming. I want to knock Jason’s eyes out. In a good way.

  “How about this one?” she asks, holding up a red dress with a black heart pattern.

  “It’s a homecoming dance, not a Valentine’s party.”

  She laughs and shoves me playfully. “I think it’s pretty.” She has more weight behind her now, so I nearly lose my footing and am forced to grab on to a chrome stand holding Capri pants.

  “Miranda!”

  “Sorry.” She rifles through more dresses. “What about this?” She holds up a striped yellow and black number.

  “Great, a bumblebee. Is there a Halloween theme this year?”

  She throws me a smirk. “You’re a tough one.” She pauses to examine a black dress, then holds it up.

  I shake my head. “It’s way too short.”

  She giggles at my expression. “You’re right. It’d show your cooch.” She puts it back, right next to a pile of monogrammed satin underwear. She holds up a pair of pink panties embroidered with an A, and raises her brows. “Remember what I told you?”

  I shake my head and look away. I don’t want to be reminded of Annika’s unsolved murder.

  “So how’s your pregnancy going?” I ask, deliberately changing the subject.

  “Okay, I guess,” she says with a sigh. “I still haven’t told my parents, but I think they suspect something’s up. They’ve been acting real weird lately.”

  “Miranda, you have to tell them. You can’t wait much longer.”

  “I know, I know. But I’m so afraid they’re going to throw me out of the house. They’ve always said that if anything like this ever happened, they’d disown me.”

  “They wouldn’t. You’re their daughter.”

  She stares at me, hard. “Yes, they would. You don’t know them like I do. They have high standards. If I fail them, well . . . I don’t know what they’ll do. But it’ll be something drastic.”

  I contemplate this. “Well, don’t you think it’d be better they find out before you have the baby? So you and Victor can make plans one way or another? If you have to move out, it would give you time to get everything in order. You know, find a job and an apartment, things like that.”

  “Find a job? Leave school?” Miranda looks at me with stricken eyes.

  Is she really that out of touch?

  “You can always go back to school,” I say. “But right now you need to make sure that you’re thinking about what’s best for the baby. What are you going to do if your parents throw you out after you’ve got a newborn? Then what? How will you pay rent? I mean, I could always ask my mom if you could move in with us, but our place is small. I doubt she’d go for it. You need to think about these things, Miranda.”

  She bites her lip. “I hate Billy for doing this to me.”

  You did it to yourself, too. I feel bad for my friend but also want to shake some sense into her. She’s going to be a mother, for Pete’s sake!

  She swipes at her eyes then starts vigorously pawing through the dresses. She holds up a deep bluish-purple velvet dress, form-fitting and simple. It’s perfect. She knows it, too, by the triumphant look in her red-rimmed eyes. She flashes me a wan smile.

  “That’s the one,” I say. “I’ll go try it on.”

  “Take this one, too.” She hands me the red and black heart dress. I acquiesce, rolling my eyes and nudging her in a playful way that I hope will snap her out of her funk. Instead, she follows me to the dressing room with a glum expression.

  When I walk out of the room with the purple dress on, Miranda is standing by the large three-sided mirror. She is picking at her nails, looking morose. Her face changes when she sees me.

  “You’re gorgeous,” she says, inhaling deeply. “Jason is going to die when he sees you.” Her face falls. “I don’t know when I’m ever going to be able to wear a dress like that again. My mom bought me a beautiful black silk for homecoming but I don’t have the heart to tell her about . . .” She falters, looking like she’s about to cry again.

  “Miranda,” I say gently, “Let’s go tell your parents. Together. I’ll go with you. They need to know. You need to get this over with, to find out where you stand.”

  She looks at me, biting her lip. “Will you really go with me?”

  I nod, and she hugs me. We stand together in silence until she gathers herself, seeming to shrug off her melancholy. She lifts her chin and says in a brisk tone, “Good, then. Let’s do it. They can’t kill me if you’re there.”

  We both attempt a half-hearted giggle at her joke, but it sounds stilted, forced.

  When I exit the dressing room with the beautiful purple gown over my arm, Miranda is huddled on the ground next to the mirror, her arms around her knees. Her head is buried in the heart dress in her lap.

  She’s crying.

  ***

  Mrs. Gough sits on the dark green designer couch, her face stiff and expectant. She picks at one of her acrylic nails abstractedly—a habit she shares with her daughter—as she stares at Miranda. She knows bad news is coming; it’s obvious by her guarded, watchful expression. Miranda’s father sits next to his wife, leaning forward, tense, his face expectant and hands clenched together at his knees. Beads of sweat are popping up on his bald, pink head. His wife reaches over and grips his hand, and he shifts his gaze to her.

  “It’ll be okay,” he says under his breath.

  Mrs. Gough takes a deep breath and forces a nod. Her eyes move frantically from her husband to her daughter, bulging orbs in an immobile, Botoxed face.

  Miranda’s parents must know. They have to. They’re acting so intense, so weird.

  “What is it you have to tell us, Miranda?” asks Mrs. Gough, her words trembling slightly. “It’s clear something has been on your mind.” She twists a tissue in her lap.

  Miranda clears her throat. “Um. Well . . .” She looks at me, next to her on the couch. I nod and pat her leg, trying to give her the courage she needs. You can do this, Miranda. Tell them.

  “Out with it!” barks Mr. Gough abruptly “You’re torturing your mother!”

  Miranda cowers, leaning into me. I grab her hand and squeeze it. She squeezes it back. She clears her throat again and takes a deep breath. Her parents are staring at her intently. Mrs. Gough’s eyes focus on my hand holding tightly on to Miranda’s.

  “I knew it!” she cries, pointing at our clasped hand
s with a shaking finger. “See, David, I was right.” She bursts into loud sobs and buries her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving.

  David Gough stands up, his face white and strained. “Impossible! Our only daughter. I don’t believe it! Didn’t believe it when our neighbor Mrs. Lischke first told us. Still can’t believe it, to tell you the truth! But what choice do I have now? It’s here, right in front of my eyes. Flaunting it in front of your mother, breaking her heart!” He gestures to his wife, who is huddled on the couch, sobbing into her hands. “You were always such a feminine girl, Miranda. You liked dolls and boys and . . . well . . . This has to be some sort of game. A mistake! We’ve never seen this side of you. Never saw this coming!” He’s pacing the floor now, his hand covering his shiny head as if to keep it from popping off.

  Miranda stares at me and I stare at her in confusion. What in the hell is going on?

  Mrs. Gough looks up with stricken eyes, babbling through her tears. “When the neighbor saw you kissing Winter at the beach, I didn’t want to believe it was true. That you were a . . . lesbian. But now I see if for my own eyes and—”

  “Mom!” Miranda shouts. “You’ve got it all wrong!”

  “Don’t worry, honey. Really,” says Mrs. Gough. “I’ve been trying to work it through in my mind.” Her hand trembles as she tries to blow her nose. “I’ve been doing a lot of reading on homosexuality lately, trying to come to terms with it. All the books said that you would come to me when you were ready . . . and now you have. I’ll learn to accept it, somehow. I’ve been watching a lot of Ellen DeGeneres. You know her mom loves and accepts her lesbian daughter. And Cher, too . . . .”

  “Mom! Will you listen to me!” Miranda jumps up.

  Her mother puts up a hand, cutting her off. “I told David that the part that really gets me, the part I just can’t bear to think about is . . . losing my daughter. What if you decide to become a man after this? A lot of lesbians become transsexuals, you know. Just look at Cher’s daughter. I can’t bear it if we never . . .” She covers her mouth, choking back a sob. “Never have grandchildren!” She sobs openly and loudly, with deep emotion.

  Mr. Gough sits down beside his wife and gives her a hug. “Darling, there’s still hope. This is probably some silly teenage phase.” He casts a glare in our direction. “We haven’t lost our daughter to that lifestyle yet. Not until she starts taking sex hormones and gets her, ah, chest cut off. Look at her, she’s still the same, hasn’t gone anywhere. She’s just chosen to play boyfriend-girlfriend—or is it girlfriend-girlfriend?—with her friend Winter, that’s all. Probably to test us. She’s always been the perfect child. Maybe this is her way of rebelling. Teenagers do crazy things, you know.” He strokes her hand. “Remember how in our day it was crazy to smoke clove cigarettes and wear a Mohawk? We both did those kinds of things, don’t deny it. Now it’s tattoos and bisexuality.”

  “Mom, Dad! I am not a lesbian. Or a pre-op tranny!” Miranda shouts, her expression incredulous. She rushes over and grabs each of them by an arm. “Are you two on crack? Omigod! What are you thinking? I’m not Winter’s lesbian lover and never would be. O-mi-god.” She throws her hands into the air and stalks over to the corner of the room. She crosses her arms, shaking her head and glaring at her parents.

  “But Mrs. Lischke saw you two kissing down at the beach,” says Mrs. Gough. “How do you explain that? She said it was a long kiss, too, and that you seemed very close. She said you both were, uh, fondling each other, and that it was obvious you had a . . . relationship.”

  Miranda gasps and her mouth drops open. I shake my head at her, stunned. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  Fondling?

  “Mrs. Gough,” I say, mustering my courage to speak up. “I can tell you for a fact that Miranda and I never fondled each other. Ever. Your neighbor is lying.”

  “That old geezer’s mind is in the gutter,” shouts Miranda. “What do you expect from a lady who lives alone with four cats?”

  “Well, what about the kissing? Is that true?” Mrs. Gough asks, her voice quavering.

  I take a deep breath. “Yes, but only because—”

  “It was a dare,” Miranda says. “I dared her to kiss me. But it was only for fun, to get the guys on the beach excited. You know how guys like that stuff.”

  Mr. Gough narrows his eyes at his daughter. “No, I most certainly do not.”

  Mrs. Gough rubs her forehead. “Mrs. Lischke said something about some boys cheering you on. She said they were laughing and talking about the pretty lesbian girls on the beach.” She sucks in her breath at the thought, clenching her tissue tighter in her manicured fingers. She looks at her daughter with stricken, heavily made-up eyes, but eyes that have a flicker of hope in them. “So you were doing it to titillate boys on the beach, then?”

  I cringe. Mrs. Gough’s words sound much too eager for such a statement, especially coming from a parent. I can’t imagine my mom saying something like that in such a happy, hopeful tone. But then again, given the right circumstances, anything is possible.

  “Sure, that’s the way it is these days.” Miranda waves her hand dismissively. “Guys like the idea of two girls kissing. It’s just silly, just for fun. Nothing more. Winter did it as a dare.”

  The mother jumps up and runs to her daughter, nearly tripping in her green zebra print mules. She hugs Miranda tightly. “Oh honey, I’m so glad! Not that I would have minded if you were gay. Really. I’ve learned so much about that lifestyle. It’s much more common these days. But I just . . . well . . . it was a hard adjustment to make.”

  Mr. Gough stands off to the side, watching his wife and daughter embrace. He catches my eye and raises an eyebrow as if to say that I’m still suspect in his eyes. It’s clear he’s still thinks I’m bad news somehow.

  “Isn’t there something else you wanted to tell us, Miranda?” he asks. “The reason for this little meeting? Maybe something about the dead girl?”

  Miranda steps back from her mother’s embrace and sighs. “I do need to talk to you guys, but it’s not about Annika.” She looks at me, takes a deep breath, and blurts out, “I’m pregnant.”

  Her parents look pole-axed. They stare at each other, at us, and at each other again.

  “You are?” Mrs. Gough, instead of sounding upset, sounds positively giddy with joy. “Did you hear that, David? Our daughter is not gay. She’s pregnant.”

  “Yes, Mom,” says Miranda in a rueful tone. “You wanted grandchildren. Well, now you’ll get them early.” She looks over at me with a cautiously optimistic expression. I give her an encouraging smile. This is turning out better than we’d both expected.

  “Who’s the father, honey? Is it Billy?” asks Mrs. Gough.

  “Um, yes. But Billy doesn’t want it.” Miranda’s voice sounds pinched. Her hand reaches out to mine again, but then she stops herself. “But Victor does. He wants to marry me and raise the baby as his own.”

  Mr. Gough and Mrs. Gough exchange a glance.

  “Is Victor the nice Mexican boy we met last month?” asks the mother.

  “Yes. But he’s not Mexican. He’s Guatemalan,” says Miranda.

  The parents continue to nod, bright smiles plastered on their faces, still exchanging glances with each other.

  “Well,” says Mrs. Gough, “I suppose that’s nice. Latinos certainly value family, don’t they?” She looks at her husband for encouragement. “And I do have such a nice Guatemalan print rug that I bought when we were first married.”

  “Does this mean that you’re okay with it?” asks Miranda. “Can I still live here?”

  “Of course, sweetheart.” Mrs. Gough’s eyes fill with tears. She hugs her daughter tightly again. “Did you think we were going to throw you out? Oh honey, we would never. This is our grandchild we’re discussing here. Oh my, we have adorable little baby clothes to shop for.”

  “But what about college? I know you wanted me to go to a good school,” says Miranda.

  “We’ll work that out la
ter. What matters now is that we have a new little Gough to think about. Our daughter is pregnant. Let me see your belly.” The woman tugs at her daughter’s baggy track sweatshirt, and Miranda lifts it to show her mother her swelling stomach.

  Mrs. Gough hovers over her daughter, touching the taut, rounded skin with gentle fingers and a wondrous expression. Seeing them together like this, I know it’s all going to work out. I’m indescribably happy for Miranda.

  Mr. Gough shakes his head, wiping the droplets of sweat off of his shiny forehead. “This has been some evening. I need a drink. Ginny?”

  His wife nods, and he disappears into the kitchen.

  Mrs. Gough sits down with a deep sigh, blotting her tears with her ball of wadded up tissues. Miranda and I look at each other for a long moment, and then, despite ourselves, burst out laughing. We can’t help it. It’s a combination of relief and the craziness of what just happened.

  Mrs. Gough looks at us with a bemused, slightly confused expression. “What’s so funny, girls?”

  Miranda doubles over with giggles. “I was just picturing you and Dad with Mohawks.”

  ***

  Later, as I’m driving home, something niggles at me. I can’t figure out what it is.

  It’s not until I’m pulling into my parking space that it hits me.

  Why did Miranda’s father mention Annika?

  19

  I’m putting the finishing touches on my hair for the homecoming dance. Mom and Jason wait for me in the living room. I take a moment to look myself over in the closet mirror. If I’m going to pull off my plan with Kirby Cahill tonight, I have to look extra good. Plus I want to “wow” Jason with everything I’ve got. I’ve succeeded, knocked it out of the park. I almost don’t recognize myself.

  I’m wearing the outfit Miranda bought me from Forever 17: the beautiful formfitting, above-the-knee velvet dress with the scooped top. The deep violet blue color reminds me of kissing Jason. A push-up bra gives my chest a sexily rounded appearance without being over-the-top. I’m wearing Jason’s glittering daisy necklace and sexy platform heels. My hair flows loosely around my face in soft waves, the result of an hour with the large-barreled curling iron. My makeup is dark and sultry with just a touch of shimmer. My lashes have loads of lengthening mascara on them so they frame my eyes, making the green pop.