by Donna Cooner
“How is the dress coming along?” I ask, trying to fill up the awkward silence. Nikki has been working on her prom dress for over a week now. She can’t wait to walk into our gym wearing a Nikki Aquino Creation
“I’ve narrowed it down to two possibilities.” Nikki turns to the computer on her desk and pulls up a picture, rolling her chair out of the way so I can see. “I’m thinking something like this.”
“Cool. I like the mermaid silhouette,” I say, glad things feel back to normal again. “That’s new, right?”
“You like it better than the ballroom style?”
“Definitely. It will show off your curves perfectly.”
She nods slowly, contemplating the photo. “I hope Jake likes it.”
My heart sinks a little bit. Shouldn’t that be beside the point? Everyone will like it. No one else in the room will be wearing a dress as fabulous as Nikki’s.
Nikki’s gaze suddenly shifts to look at me, and her eyes narrow. Uh-oh. I know that look.
“You should have worn a green shirt with that skirt. Lime green with a lot of yellow undertones. Like the stems and leaves of the tulips.” I can tell by the faraway look in her eyes she is picturing it. “The white is all wrong.”
“I don’t have a green shirt,” I say.
“It’s a problem.”
“Nobody wears green shirts,” I say, and then watch as she walks over to her closet and picks out a green T-shirt to wave in my face. I should have known.
“I don’t think shirts are what I need to be focused on right now.” I sigh loudly and pick at the pillow in my lap. “I should never have volunteered to be in charge of prom publicity. What was I thinking?”
“Are you kidding? It’s the perfect job for you. Everyone will be amazed at how creative you are,” Nikki insists. “You’re going to blow them away.”
I hope she’s right. “Nobody in my family has a creative bone in their body. My dad is all about biology and nature. All my mom wants to do is save lives … ”
“That’s pretty important.”
“And then, of course, there’s Rat. He’s in a category all his own. They’re all so … ” I pause. “Practical.”
“And that’s exactly why you need to jump in and do something totally different that will make a name for yourself. Something that is you.”
“I was thinking … ” I sit up on the side of the bed. “I could film some promposals and put them up on the page. Maybe ask for a heads-up when it’s going to happen so I can be there to film it?”
Nikki nods. “Immortalize it.” She pauses, and adds, “Too bad you weren’t there when Jake asked.”
“Yeah,” I say, and then I feel the awkwardness between us again.
I reach into my book bag and take out my laptop. I open it, power up, and type down a couple of notes about promposals. Energy snaps through my brain. The ideas are starting to flow.
“What about putting up prom fashion tips on the Hornet?” I wonder out loud. “I could interview Torrey Grey? And you could do a makeup tutorial?”
“Ooh, I like it,” Nikki says. “See, I told you you’d be good at this.”
A thought takes hold. If I do it right, this publicity thing could be my ticket to making me better than average. It’s a chance to tip the scales and put me on the plus side of popularity.
Nikki motions to the plate sitting on her nightstand. “Do you want a lumpia?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Why don’t you want it?”
“I need to stay away from carbs. With my build, even a few pounds can be noticeable.”
“Jake said that?” I ask. Another reason not to like Jake. Like I need any more.
“Of course not,” Nikki says, but I’m not sure if I believe her. All of sudden I want to hug her and whisper in her ear, “Don’t listen to Jake Edwards.” But she isn’t going to hear me.
“So, I guess you can watch me eat.” I pick up the Filipino egg roll and take a huge bite. “Ummmmm.”
She doesn’t seem tempted and it worries me. I take another bite and chew slowly. Nikki might never be a size two, but that’s never stopped her from wearing what she wanted to wear. No way was she going to wear some dress from the women’s section that looked like some kind of tablecloth that would attract bees.
It started a few years ago, with a two-dollar skirt from Goodwill that she tore apart, seam by seam. Then she reconstructed it on an old sewing machine she bought at a yard sale, studying what happened when she changed a bit here and took up a bit there. The result was that she needed to get another skirt and start the process all over again. So she did. Again. And again.
Just like I rewrite my stories over and over to make them better, Nikki perfected her designs with excruciating attention to detail. Our final creations were very different, but we inspired each other. I would tell Nikki a story about a girl who needed the perfect skirt to wear to a picnic in Central Park. And in return, my main character would wear that skirt, in all of its Nikki Aquino glory, on the pages of my story.
Even though I never let anyone read the stories. Not even Nikki.
But Nikki wasn’t so shy about sharing. Eventually, all the trial and error paid off, and now she wears her creations to school on a regular basis. At first, there were a few compliments here and there, but it was never about what other people thought. It was about Nikki and the way she wanted to look. Maybe that’s why this whole thing with Jake Edwards is such a shock. Somehow he slipped under Nikki Aquino’s skin, and I don’t like it one bit.
I force a smile and change the subject. “So what should I wear to the game to see Alex?” I ask.
Nikki pulls out a sketch pad and starts to draw quickly. She slides the paper over to me. “I’d suggest some boyfriend jeans. Maybe with a tank top and a cardigan?”
I nod. “The white wrap one?”
She bites her lower lip and thinks about it a minute. “That could work. Do you want me to come over and do your makeup before I go to work?”
I nod gratefully. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
A smile spreads slowly across her face. “Without me you’d be wearing T-shirts with puppies on them everywhere,” she says.
“But great shoes.”
“True. I don’t know how your shoe Spidey-sense somehow developed when every other fashion sense didn’t … ”
“I’m a shoe superhero,” I say. And Nikki nudges me and laughs, and just like that, Jake Edwards and prom seem very far away.
It’s already dark by the time I leave Nikki’s house. I’m exhausted, but my mind is still working on the publicity ideas. I wish I could come up with something that would make everyone sit up and take notice. I don’t want to keep feeling like I’m always behind—with fingers grasping, arms reaching, stretching—but never getting there.
I shouldn’t care what everybody thinks about me, but I do.
When I pull into the driveway, Max Rossi is sprawled out in a tangled mess of legs and skateboard on the sidewalk. It is always amazing to me how he can recover from fall after fall. It is even more amazing how he still thinks skateboarding is cool when he is obviously so bad at it.
Slowly he gets to his feet and picks up the skateboard.
I put my head down on the steering wheel and whisper, “No. No. No.”
Not tonight, Max. Not in the mood.
When I lift my head, I see Max walk across the front yard toward the driveway, carrying the skateboard. He lifts one hand in greeting, and I know I can’t ignore him no matter how bad I want to. I open the car door and get out.
Over the years, Max and I have cycled through almost every stage of friendship. When I was six, I built a tent out of tablecloths and he managed to destroy it with his remote-controlled helicopter. At age eleven, when Nikki and I designed a new line of fashionable headbands, he dropped water balloons on our runway show from the tree limb above. When we were twelve, we shared our first kiss in the tree house his dad built. Then we went to high school, made new friends, and wen
t our different ways. Max grew out of his awkward stage and into the popular crowd. This year he was even elected junior class president. So now we don’t talk much, even though he tries sometimes. Especially when it’s just in the neighborhood and no one better is around.
“What’s up?” he asks when I get out of the car.
“Not much.” I feel sticky and my shirt clings to my back, making me want a shower. In a few more months, when the heat of the Texas summer builds to unbearable heights, I’ll be taking showers twice a day.
“Did you see that thing about Taylor? The app?”
I nod. “Does anyone know who did it?”
“No, but it’s spreading like crazy.”
“Good for her,” I say, and slam the car door shut behind me.
“So … what’s this I hear about you and Alex?” He stumbles over his words awkwardly.
I pause, my backpack halfway to my shoulder. He definitely has my attention now. “Alex? What exactly are you hearing?”
“He was asking me about you the other day at baseball practice. I guess he knows we live near each other.”
“And?” I wait, every muscle frozen until I hear his answer.
“I said you were great.”
I let out a long breath. “Thanks, I guess.” I pull my backpack up on one shoulder and start toward the house. I need to think about this new information. Alex is talking about me to other guys? Is that a good thing?
“So he likes you?” Max sounds doubtful. Like it couldn’t possibly be true. Leave it to Max to ruin everything.
“You don’t think I’m likable?” I ask him.
“You know I’ve always liked you, Linden. You have your own style. It’s just a shame to think you’re going to go out with someone like Alex.”
I turn to face him. “What’s wrong with Alex?”
“Nothing.” Max snorts. “That’s kind of the issue, don’t you think?”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I stare at him.
He thinks for a second, then says, “He’s not exactly your type. You deserve someone a little higher up on the popularity radar.”
My throat tightens. When we were eight, Max dared me to jump off the high dive at the pool. Being a natural-born scaredy-cat, it’s hard to believe I agreed. Adrenaline, and pure stubbornness, kicked in enough to get me up the stairs and out to the end of the board. But when I looked at that water shimmering so far below, and all that air in between, I just couldn’t do it. Crippling panic slammed into the backs of my knees, leaving my legs quaking so badly the board under my feet started to sway. I turned around slowly, away from the edge, then dropped to my hands and knees to crawl back to safety. Everyone waiting to go next had to get off the ladder, sneering and giggling, so I could get back down again. The worst part of all was that Max didn’t even say a thing. He just looked at me and shook his head in disappointment. Sort of like how he was looking at me right now.
“Whatever,” I say, and keep walking toward the house. I fire one final shot back over my shoulder. “You’re just jealous because I’m dating someone and you’re not.”
“Are you sure you’re dating Alex? ’Cause I haven’t seen any dates yet.”
I stop, then turn to face him. “For your information, we’re going out tomorrow.”
“Funny. He didn’t say anything about that to me.” He glances over at a car passing down the street, then back at me.
“He doesn’t have to tell you everything,” I say.
“True.” He shrugs. “I guess it’s a good thing you’re dating someone now that you’re in charge of prom publicity.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re going to prom, right? You really have to go now that you’re in charge of it. It’d be downright hypocritical not to … ” His voice trails off and he grins his know-it-all grin, letting his words sink in. Then he adds, “Sort of like false advertisement.”
A hot flush spreads over me. “Of course I’m going.”
Max gives me one of his slimy little half smiles, like he doesn’t believe me.
“Who are you taking to the prom?” I ask, even though I don’t really care.
“I’m leaving my options open right now,” he says. He runs one hand through his blond hair, brushing it back from his forehead. “Maybe I’ll just go by myself. Less pressure.”
“Yeah. Sure,” I say, turning my back to him for the final time. I’m done with Max Rossi. But as usual, he doesn’t seem to get the hint, because he just stands there and watches me with his skateboard in his hands, shifting from one foot to the other.
I hate that what he’s said has gotten to me. What if I don’t have a date to prom? I think as I climb the steps to my house. What if I end up not going at all? If I make a success of this publicity job, everyone will notice. I don’t want to turn into some kind of pitiful joke. I can just hear Taylor Reed whispering to her friends now: “Poor thing did all this work and she didn’t even get to go.”
Then I think about the feel of a dress swishing against my legs and the music playing in the background. Everything suddenly turns upside down in my head. I want to go to the prom, and I’m going to do everything possible to make it happen. I just need a plan.
A message dings across my phone from Worthy. I should have turned off the push notifications when I downloaded the app. Or maybe I shouldn’t have downloaded it at all. I slide the phone out of sight into the outside pocket of my backpack and push open the front door.
Instantly I’m bombarded by a happy, wiggling Labrador retriever sliding across the hardwood floors and into my legs.
“Hi, Murphy.” I lean down to pet the dog, wishing everyone was so happy to see me.
Murphy flops over onto his back at my feet and I give him a quick tummy rub.
The living room is dark, but the smell of baking cookies and a light are coming from the kitchen. I throw my backpack over on the couch.
“Hey, Linden. Come here, honey. I want to show you something,” Mom calls out.
I go into the next room, Murphy bouncing along beside me.
My mom never made cookies, or anything else, from scratch until she became a firefighter. Then cooking turned into a competition just like everything else. Her first attempt was chocolate chip cookies. Every day, I’d come home to a different batch. We ate chocolate chip cookies for weeks, while she meticulously researched, and then perfected, the recipe. There were cookies with white chocolate chips, and chocolate chip cookies with three kinds of nuts—walnuts, pecans, and almonds. She even made chocolate chip cookies with marshmallows. Nobody in our family complained, but it was like a whole new Mom. In many ways.
Tonight, Mom is sitting at the table wearing a faded blue T-shirt and drinking a Dr Pepper out of a can. The cooking channel is playing on the television on the countertop, but for once she isn’t watching.
“You’re not going to believe this.” She pushes something across the table. It’s the Huntsville Firefighter Calendar. “Look at August.”
I flip over the pages, then stop to stare at the photo. “Wow. Congratulations, Mom.”
The picture for August is my mom wearing a black tank top, black pants, her bright yellow suspenders, and a bright yellow helmet. Behind her is one of the big ladder trucks, and she has a heavy yellow fire hose hoisted up on one shoulder. Her sculpted shoulders are impressive and her biceps are the result of hours of hard work that can’t be seen in the photo.
“Great guns, Mom,” I say. I lean forward with both elbows on the table to get a better look.
“I’m the only woman who made it.” She smiles proudly. “This is just the draft; it won’t go to print until late summer. Just in time for Christmas.”
My mom used to be an elementary school teacher, but last year she called a family meeting and told us all that she always wanted to become a firefighter. Who knew? We certainly didn’t. She tried out three times before she made it, training every day to get stronger and stronger. Now there always seems to be a fire
man or two lounging around on couches or rummaging through the fridge. Firefighters work four days in a row with the next three days off, which makes for a strange family life sometimes. But my dad takes it all in stride. He is the mellowest person on the planet, which is good because he has to put up with a lot. Or at least I think he’s putting up with it.
“You look amazing,” I say. We both stare down at the picture for a few more minutes before Mom asks, “How did your day go?”
“Okay,” I say, slipping down into a chair beside her. “I made a ninety-two on my math test.”
Mom looks toward the television and picks up the pen in front of her to jot down a few notes on the legal pad lying beside the calendar. Alton Brown is making meat loaf.
They rotate cooking duties at the firehouse, and next Wednesday is her day to cook. She is determined to be the best cook at the firehouse when her turn comes up.
She watches the television, but says to me, “What did you gets points off for?”
I cross my arms over my chest and stare straight ahead. Never enough.
I stretch my legs out underneath the table and frown. “Stop.”
“What?” Mom finally, actually looks at me.
“It’s a good grade,” I say.
“Of course it is.” She looks mystified. “What did I say?”
She isn’t even aware of what’s she’s doing. “Never mind.” I straighten and stand up, heading toward the fridge. I can’t do anything right these days where my mother is concerned.
Be an engineer. An architect. Create something important. Like a building.
She doesn’t have to tell me everything I do isn’t important. I know. I get tired of being in everyone’s shadow. Especially when my own mother can’t even see me lurking there.
“You have the grades to be anything you want,” my mom mumbles behind me. It is an all-too-familiar conversation, and tonight I will not respond.
“I went to a meeting after school today to help plan the prom,” I say. “They elected me publicity chair.”
“Are you going to the prom?” she asks, surprised.