by Kris Hui Lee
I yank my hand out of his, rolling my eyes, as the rest of the guys howl at his joke.
“Did you really use a science pun for a pickup line?” I ask, but I’m laughing too.
“Admit it. You’re really turned on right now,” Joey says, sitting up straight again. “Okay, Cody. Truth or dare.”
“No, I will not make out with Marnie,” Cody says, “and no, I will not tell you the last time I got a hard-on in school.”
This peaks my interest greatly, but I keep my eyes fixed on the menu, already planning ahead for my dessert order.
“Fine, party pooper,” Carrot says. “Let’s play Penis instead.”
“You’re regretting coming to dinner now, aren’t you?” Cody says to me.
“You have no idea.”
Before anyone can shout penis over the rock-and-roll music playing in the background, our waiter comes back with our fried combo appetizers and drinks.
Luckily, I’ve grown up with a boy—and also with Cody and Joey (and Sara)—so I know how to secure food at a table full of guys. You don’t wait to be polite. You take what you can get, and to anyone who misses out, it sucks to suck.
It’s less of a free-for-all once our main dishes arrive because everyone has their own designated plates of food. The only things that are up for grabs from someone else’s plate are the fries.
To be honest, I was worried I’d be the odd one out at this team bonding dinner, but they’re actually all making an effort to make me feel like one of them. It’s not so hard to fit in. And actually, it’s really fun.
I forgot that being on a team isn’t only about working well together on the field. It’s about being friends and hanging out and just being silly together. I’m doing that with these guys, and they’re letting me.
“You did say Chizz is paying for this little excursion, right?” Wes asks after all our stomachs have been defeated by Cecil’s infamous large portions of food.
“Yes, I did,” Joey says.
“Then methinks it’s time for dessert,” he says.
“Yes!” the guys cheer, and Carrot grabs the dessert menu from the center of the table.
Seriously? Dessert sounded good before we ate, but do these guys’ stomachs have no bottoms?
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I could survive a dessert round.” I grab my wristlet and my phone from the table and start to get up.
“You can’t leave!” Jiro shouts.
“Yeah, what’s so important that you can’t stay and watch us eat dessert?” Carrot asks.
I gesture in the general direction of the exit. “I have to check out some stores for…” I think better of giving them an easy target. They’ll give me shit for going dress shopping during bro-bonding night. “For some stuff,” I finish.
“Some stuff?” Jiro says. “That’s not vague at all.”
“Is that code for tampons?” Joey asks.
I roll my eyes as the guys laugh like tampons is the funniest word they’ve ever heard.
“No,” I tell them.
“Drugs?” Carrot asks.
“A male prostitute?” Davis says.
“A female prostitute?” Joey asks.
“Oh my God, you guys!” Just to make them shut up, I say, “I’m getting a dress for this event I have to go to this weekend.”
“A dress?!” Joey and Carrot cry.
“Yeah, a dress. In case you didn’t realize, I’m a girl.”
“Whaaat?” Joey says.
I stand up all the way. “Have a good night. I hope you all don’t get kicked out of here before you get your dessert.” Then I pull out a few bucks from my wristlet and drop it on the table. “For my share of the tip.” I half salute them. “Good night.”
“Nooo, don’t goooo!” they call after me as I leave.
I know they’re begging to be obnoxious, but still, it feels nice to be wanted, even if it’s in the most ridiculous way possible.
I step out into the cool night. Now that the sun has completely set, the lights around the square seem more impressive. As I search for the least intimidating clothing store, I notice a sign hanging over an empty storefront. CAMPO, coming soon.
Campo.
Why does that sound so familiar?
That’s right—Santino’s mom is opening up a store in this shopping plaza. That must be it. The lights are on inside, but the door looks locked. I bet if the store were open, there’d be tons and tons of dresses for me to pick from. But if Geanna’s designs are similar to her own clothing style, it’d probably be a real test for me to find something I’d like.
“Marnie!”
I turn to find Cody coming out of Cecil’s.
“Where you headed?” he asks as he catches up to me.
I shrug. “Hopefully somewhere that won’t make my bank account cry too much.” I glance back at the restaurant. “You’re not staying?”
“Nah. Hanging out with those guys when they’re high on sugar is something a person should only do once in their life.”
I laugh. “I can imagine. So are you going home?”
He slides his good hand into the pocket of his jeans. “Well, I thought if you wanted some company…”
“You wanna go dress shopping with me?” I arch my eyebrow. “Might as well stab yourself in the eye.”
He laughs. “I’m sort of avoiding going home. My dad’s grading tests tonight, which means he’ll be cursing his students and wondering if he’s really that bad of a teacher. I figured helping you try to find a dress would be slightly less painful than listening to that.”
As usual my mind starts arguing with itself. One half is like, Going dress shopping with Cody = mortification beyond belief. The other half is all heart eyes, greedy for time alone with him.
“I guess you can come if you want,” I tell him, sounding as indifferent as I can. “Just don’t complain when your mind starts melting of boredom.”
The first place we go is Samson’s, the main department store. Cody and I head up the elevators to the juniors’ section, and thus my hunt begins.
“Holy shit,” Cody says when we get to the formal section, which has racks and racks of dresses arranged by color. “It’s like a rainbow threw up here.” He pulls a dress out of the lineup. “What is this color? Brown? Purple? It’s like someone’s shit after eating hundreds of grapes.” Then he puts the dress back and grabs another hanger. “You should get this one.”
He’s holding a hot pink dress with a flamingo feather pattern on it.
“I think you would look very nice in this,” he says, failing to maintain a straight face.
“Of course you would find this entertaining,” I say, taking the dress out of his hands and hanging it back up.
I reluctantly peruse the racks, hardly even registering what’s in front of me.
“What the hell?” Cody suddenly says. “A hundred and fifty dollars?” He holds up a shiny silver dress. “Why would you spend that much money when you could wrap yourself in aluminum foil?”
I laugh. “And now you understand the pain of dress shopping.”
It takes him only five seconds to find another winner. “Can I see you try this on?” He holds up a white, nearly see-through tube dress that probably covers less than a bath towel.
“Hell no.” I slap his hand away as he tries to pick out another hideous one. “You need to stop,” I tell him, only half seriously. He’s actually making this experience more interesting than it would be if I was alone.
“Can you try on one slutty dress?” he asks.
“No, pervert. Now quit fucking around.”
“It’s not like I haven’t seen you half naked,” he says. “Nothing will top the image I have of you in that black-and-red bikini you wore to the beach last summer.”
A sensual spark rushes through my body as I r
emember how it felt having him check me out like twenty times when he saw me in that bikini. It was pretty much the most skin I’ve ever shown, and I’m not gonna lie, it was sort of exhilarating to completely stun him into submission for a good two minutes.
“If you’re not going to try on a slutty dress, at least try on one of those poufy ones that’s leaking sparkles,” Cody says, pointing to a display on the far end of the dress section.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” I say.
While he continues to amuse himself, I start down another row of dresses. The problem isn’t that I hate dresses. I think dresses are pretty and fun—when other people wear them. The painful part is how strange I feel wearing them. They only seem to call attention to what’s wrong with me—my disproportionately long torso, my equally disproportionate long arms, and of course, my complete lack of cleavage. Not to mention, it’s hard to find dresses when you’re taller than the average girl. I always wind up showing more leg than I want.
Basically, for me, wearing a dress is like wearing the wrong skin. And to sit in the wrong skin for hours on end, even for just a day, is uncomfortable enough for me to have an aversion to the whole experience.
What can I say? I’m of the T-shirt and jeans camp. Down with your scratchy fabric and waist-squeezing devices of torture.
“Look,” says Cody, who’s been trailing behind me. I turn. “It’s your favorite color.” He pulls the dress off the rack and gives it to me.
It is my favorite color—a cross between maroon and burgundy. Clearly I must not be looking too carefully if I missed it on my way down the aisle.
I check the tag. It’s my size. And on clearance.
“I still think you should reconsider the hot pink flamingo dress,” he says.
“I think you should reconsider not talking.”
But I keep the maroon dress to try on.
It takes me a whole half hour to peruse Samson’s entire stock of dresses for junior girls, and in the end, I wind up with all of three potential winners. At the ten-minute mark, Cody’s amusement with dress shopping ceased, and he decided to follow me around playing some word game on his phone. It looks difficult to play when he can use only one hand.
“I’m going to try these on,” I tell him. “I won’t be offended if I come out and you’re gone.”
“No worries,” he says, taking a seat on a bench outside the dressing room. “I would never abandon you at a department store.”
“Okay, good,” I say, “so you can hold these for me.” I give him my wristlet and my phone, and then I go in to the changing room to see how much damage these three suckers are gonna do on me.
Contestant number one: a simple knee-length black dress. I like it, but I know what Mom would say: “You can’t wear black to a wedding! You’re not mourning their marriage!” I could argue that it’s not all black—there’s a white diagonal band on the front. Not that any of this matters, because when I try it on, it’s too loose on the top. It’s made for people with boobs, so I have to nix it.
Contestant number two: a navy halter dress. The tag claims that it’s knee-length, but I suppose they meant for someone shorter. The waist hits way above my belly button, and the so-called knee-length skirt hardly covers my upper thighs. The woes of being a tall person.
Which leaves contestant number three: the thin-strapped, maroon cocktail dress that Cody picked out. When I look in the mirror, I don’t look like the same me, and I sure as hell don’t feel like me, but it’s closer than the other two dresses got. And it fits.
“Marnie,” Cody calls from outside the dressing room.
“What?” I call back.
“Your mom is calling you.”
I didn’t tell her that I was going dress shopping tonight, but it’s like she knows. I almost tell Cody to ignore the call, but then I think she might be calling to congratulate me. I’m sure Nick and Dad have told her about our win by now.
“Bring it here,” I say.
“Uh, that’s the girls’ changing room?”
“There’s nobody in here. Hurry, before she hangs up.”
I can hear Cody’s steps grow louder on the linoleum flooring. I slide my arms out of the dressing room and wave my hand for the phone.
“Are you not wearing clothes?” Cody asks as he puts the phone in my hand. I can hear the grin in his voice.
“No,” I say. “I mean, no, I’m not not wearing clothes.” I slide the phone inside the dressing room. It stops vibrating. Great. I try calling back, but the phone goes straight to voicemail. I text her and tell her that I’m dress shopping.
Cody knocks on the door again. “You’re not going to let me see?”
“Get out,” I say. “This is the girls’ dressing room.”
“Hypocrite.”
I stare at myself in the mirror, contemplating. And then, with no warning whatsoever, delusional images of Cody coming in and getting all sorts of inappropriate flood my mind. Forget that Cody has a cast on his arm. In my mind, shirts come off. Skirts go up.
Stop it.
I mean, this is a very cozy space. And the entire fitting room is empty.
Right, like you want your first kiss with Cody—your first kiss ever—to be in the changing room of a department store. Real romantic.
Hell. What a place to have a romantic epiphany.
I want to kiss him.
Not just kiss him in the way that everyone expects us to—a one-time hookup where the entire relationship starts and ends with one kiss—but the real way. The way that means there will be more on the other side of the kiss. I want to be with him, and I feel that want so intensely that I can’t remember the last time I’ve ever wanted anything so badly.
Admitting that to myself is scary and complicated and a relief all at the same time.
Without giving myself another second to change my mind, I throw open the door of the dressing room.
Cody’s mouth drops open a bit. His gaze starts at my chest (even though there’s hardly anything there), then trails down my legs, then back up to my eyes.
Normally I hate when guys get all horny and start checking me out, but when Cody does it, I feel good about myself. I like his attention. And I love disarming him when he least expects it.
“You look…” He swallows and then tries again. “You look…nice.”
Suddenly I regret opening the door. What the hell was I thinking? I’m not ready for things to change. Don’t get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoy being the object of Cody’s affection, but I’m not prepared to cross the line if it means jeopardizing our friendship.
“Like…really nice,” he continues.
Shit. My heart. It’s going to explode.
One second of confidence has screwed me over.
I search my vocabulary for something, anything to say, but I’ve got nothing. Of all the times to be speechless. I need to stay in control of the situation. If Cody makes the first move, God knows what he’s going to do.
And then he does it. Cody steps inside the dressing room with me. He reaches out and pulls out the hair tie at the end of the braid. My breath catches in my throat as he starts undoing the braid, and my hair cascades over my shoulders.
His fingers trail from the ends of my hair, down my bare arm, sending spark after spark through my body. All I want is for Cody to shut the door behind him and for us to forget the reasons to be afraid of kissing one of your best friends.
My phone starts vibrating on the bench where I left it.
Dammit, Mom.
Cody steps out of the dressing room abruptly. “I’ll wait for you out there,” he says, and then he disappears, just like that.
I close the door with a heavy sigh—out of relief or disappointment, I don’t know.
I grab my phone, which turns out not to be a call from Mom, but a string of texts from Sara:
&
nbsp; You still chilling with the team?
Is Joey there?
Does he have his phone on?
What are you guys doing?
You and Cody almost kissed on the field after you won! I saw it! Don’t deny it!
Can you ask Joey to open my texts?
I hope you’re having fun. You deserve it.
Call me when you’re done celebrating.
There’s too much to process. What the hell is going on between Sara and Joey? I sit down on the bench in the dressing room and stare at myself in the mirror.
Holy shit, I almost made out with Cody.
I don’t text Sara back. Instead, I try to decide what I want more: for Cody to come back in here or for me to go out there and for everything to be normal between us. Neither seems possible.
After a few minutes, I change out of the dress, pull on my skinny jeans and faded blue shirt, and braid my hair again. Hoping for the best, I head out and find Cody on the bench, his stare glued to his phone screen. It’s like he never even moved.
“Ready?” he asks.
Okay. I can be chill. “Yeah.”
He gets up and sticks his phone in his back pocket. I’m still holding the maroon dress, but I don’t know if I want to buy it. Do I really want to think of that moment in the dressing room when I wear it to Abram and Geanna’s wedding?
“So,” he says, and I think, This is it. He’s going to say something about what just happened—about us, but then he says, “Semifinals.”
He regrets almost kissing me. He must.
“Yeah, semifinals,” I say, playing along.
“Ready to kick more ass?”
“Perhaps.”
“There is no perhaps when you go to the semifinals. There is only fuck yes.”
I laugh, grateful that we can slip into normalcy so easily. “Is that what Yoda would say if he was our age?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
Then we both laugh, like we always do, and we walk with just enough space between us, like we always do, and I wonder how I could have lived all these years being okay with what we always do. I want more. I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts, I almost start toward the escalator.