Along Came Jordan

by Brenda Maxfield

  "Ay, what are friends for?" She smiled and waved my thanks away with her hand.

  Sally had pulled out her phone. "Okay, the ball is Saturday. We'll go Friday after school, which only gives us about thirty seconds to find you a dress. Margo can get her mom's car, and if we have to, we'll hit every thrift shop in the state."

  I giggled. I looked at my two friends, and a wave of warmth flowed over me. I put my arms through theirs and gave them each a light, quick squeeze.

  Now, if I could get through to Sarah, and if my parents would start liking each other again, maybe my life wouldn't suck anymore.

  After school, we had another decorating committee work session. I dreaded going. For one thing, I didn't relish the idea of being in the same room as Janae. I was certain she was in on the whole cheating ring rumor, and I wasn't sure I'd be able to keep my mouth shut. For another thing, Jordan would be there. I couldn't stop thinking about him. Every time I took a breath, I remembered the unsettling jolt I felt when he looked into my eyes.

  I didn't want to like him. Period.

  I dragged myself into the workroom, and the minute I stepped through the door, all jabbering stopped. I paused.

  Laine was waiting, and when she saw me, her upper lip curled. "Emili, you're not needed," she said, her voice dripping with acid.

  "Fine by me," I answered. "I didn't want to come anyway."

  I turned to go, but Jordan jumped up from the corner of the room. "Emili, I need your help over here."

  His eyes told me he understood everything that was going on. I didn't know if he wanted me to stay or if he wanted to stick it to Laine.

  Laine whirled around and faced him. "How nice, Jordan, but since I'm here, I can help you." She looked back at me. "I'm serious, Emili. I know you have a lot of homework to do. Go on home."

  Anger bubbled in my gut. "A lot of homework, you say." I walked toward her, each step slow and deliberate. "A lot of homework? You mean like other people's and not my own?"

  She retreated a step and then must've realized I was forcing her back. She dug in her heels and stood firm. "Yes, Emili, lots and lots of homework."

  The room turned quiet, and I think all breathing stopped. Everyone stared. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jordan move closer and then look at me and pause. I knew he was giving me space, and I appreciated it.

  My hands balled into fists. Laine's left eyelid twitched. Janae walked behind her and stood motionless.

  I gulped in air. I hadn't come here to make enemies, but this had careened out of control. Laine was a jerk — a huge jerk. But did I want to make her my problem? Didn't I have enough problems of my own? Could I afford to waste energy on this? My grip relaxed and my hands fell to my sides.

  "Not as much homework as you'd think, Laine. Nope, I hardly have a drop. I think I'll stay, since Jordan needs me." I couldn't help myself. I stressed Jordan's name, throwing it up in her face.

  I brushed past her toward Jordan. He came alive, pressed up against my side, and walked me back to the corner where he'd been working.

  "What's everyone looking at?" Laine asked, her voice shrill. "The ball is this week. Get to work."

  I kept my head down, hiding the beginnings of a smile and pretending to study the cardboard cutouts of huge snowflakes. My heart pounded against my chest as though I'd finished a long run.

  "I was going to come to your defense." Jordan spoke close to my ear, his voice quiet. He handed me a pair of scissors.

  "I noticed you closing in." I looked at him and felt pure gratitude. I nudged him in the ribs and let my head brush his shoulder for a brief moment.

  "You had it handled." He crisscrossed his long legs, and there was pride on his face. Along with my racing heartbeat, heat rushed through my veins.

  "Not so much."

  "You were cool. Laine was boiling, and you were ice."

  "Were you there?" I scowled. "I was furious. I almost punched her."

  "But you didn't. You definitely won the round."

  "I don't want rounds, Jordan. I don't even like to be noticed." I exhaled, my breath gushing out in a bluster of long-suppressed frustration.

  "Too late," he said. "She's threatened, and she never takes it lightly. Now I'm the one who feels sorry for her."

  My eyebrows shot up. "You do?"

  "I do."

  I squatted back on my haunches and glanced over at Laine. She was putting together the archway for the ball's entrance. Her expression was guarded and somber.

  "I guess I do, too," I said, surprising myself. She'd done nothing but torment me since I arrived, but my anger had fizzled into nothing, at least for the moment. All I felt right then was a heavy sadness. I visualized her mansion and her servants and all her stuff. I remembered the cavernous room on the first floor — like the empty elegant husk of her life. Which was worse — hearing your parents fight every day or not hearing anything at all?

  I’d bent over to cut out the snowflake when I sensed someone hovering above me. I looked up into Laine's face.

  "It's not over." She spoke through clenched teeth, then turned on her heel and stomped back to the archway.

  Okay. Pity party finished. Anger was recharged.

  ****

  That evening, I mixed one last batch of perfume, after which my main supplies would be gone. I was going for something light and happy, so I dropped in some essence of jasmine with a touch of gardenia. I breathed in deeply. Already, even before melding for a couple weeks, it smelled delicious. I used my last bit of jojoba oil as my base.

  Some people use alcohol as a base, the kind that will get a person drunk. Mom put her foot down when I suggested it, which made me mad because it's cheaper and easier to get than jojoba oil. I'd spent my birthday money on this last batch, and I had no money to buy more. All extra money was now devoted to Sarah.

  My phone rang, and I didn't recognize the caller ID.

  "Hello?"

  "Is this Emili Jones?" The caller had a perky voice laced with a heavy accent.

  "Yes. Are you Margo's tía?"

  "I am, chica. Margo tells me you like to work for me, yes?"

  "Yes, please."

  "I trust mi sobrina. If she says you good worker, then you good worker."

  "I work hard."

  "Few hours is okay, yes?"

  I nodded despite the fact that she couldn't see me. "I'll take whatever you have."

  "Bueno. Can you come Thursday afternoon after school, ¿por favor? We start then."

  I was about to agree when I realized she'd hung up. I closed my phone, set it on my bed stand, and smiled. With her warm quirky accent, I already liked her.

  Now I'd have money. How much did counseling sessions cost? If Mom wasn't willing to get them for Sarah, I would. I was afraid to talk to Dad. If he sided with me, Mom would come unglued, as if she hadn't already.

  I wasn't sure if medical insurance covered counseling. I knew we'd lost some of our insurance when Dad was laid off, and his part-time job didn't give us any. We had some through Mom's work, but I didn't know how good it was. She griped about it often enough. Come to think of it, she griped about everything these days.

  I opened my phone. Maybe I could find some info about counseling online. I hated to search on my phone's tiny screen, but I didn't have much choice.

  I typed in "Counseling & Selective Mutism & Indiana." From there, I clicked on the hospital in Edgemont. I figured I could get Sarah there easy enough. I found the payment page. It didn't give the prices, but it said if people had no insurance or insufficient insurance, they could apply for assistance. Maybe with my wages and the assistance, it'd be enough.

  There was also a grant available. People didn't have to repay grants, so if I could get one, it might take care of the whole issue. I figured the best idea was to get some money and then contact them and ask for help.

  Mom and Dad would kill me.

  I picked up the photo of Sarah and me in the playground. I wanted to see that smile on her face again.

&
nbsp; Mom and Dad could kill me — I didn't care.

  ****

  Bud had mono, which answered the question as to why we weren't having Environmental Club meetings. It suited me fine, because I didn't want to go to another EC meeting as long as I lived. The bitter taste of the Servant Sale still made me squirm. I was embarrassed to show up at a meeting — let alone brainstorm again for moneymaking ideas. I no longer gave a hoot if the community garden was developed. I wanted it all to go away.

  On Thursday, I talked my dad into taking me to Cosas Preciosas. When I told him I had a part-time job, his eyebrows raised like a wrinkled arrow.

  "Let me get this straight," he said. "You got a job in a week, and I've been trying for months and have nothing."

  "I guess. It's part-time with Margo's aunt, so it's not like I had to be interviewed or anything." Why did I feel obligated to make my dad feel better? Why was I making my new job sound like nothing more than a kid's cookie sale?

  "I'm happy for you, dear," he said, but it didn't ring true, and the lines around his lips deepened.

  He turned onto Markel, and I saw the strip mall where the boutique was located. "Over there." I pointed.

  He pulled into the narrow lot.

  "I don't know how long I'll be. Can I call to get a ride home?"

  "What else would I be doing?" he asked with a smudge of sarcasm.

  "Okay then. See ya later."

  I hopped out of the car and headed toward the store. The window display was cram-packed with the zaniest color combinations I'd ever seen. There were wildly flowered pottery pieces amidst draped shawls. One corner boasted a jungle of beaded necklaces in all the primary colors, and dangly earrings bordered the necklaces. I paused and gawked. Those earrings would reach my shoulders. There was a paper maché sun beaming from behind the spotlights.

  The muscles in my face relaxed, and I realized the cloud of depression had left with my dad. I pushed open the door to a tinkling chime. A tiny robust woman bustled out from behind a counter that was piled with jewelry. "Ah, it's Emili, yes?"

  She rubbed her hands over her ample chest, then pulled and twisted her skirt until she was satisfied it was straight. "Margo tells me you are super worker." She spread her arms wide and gestured around the store. "You like?"

  I nodded, grinning. "I like."

  "Bueno. Now I show you all things."

  "Excuse me, ma'am, but what's your name?"

  "Call me Chi Chi. Not my name, but me encanta. I like it." She moved to the racks of dresses, trotting around like a young colt, which surprised me, since she had to be at least forty. "My dresses. They are beee-uuu-tee-ful. Tan bellas. Dressing room back there. Go in. You like it."

  I walked to a stall with a brilliant yellow curtain draped across the opening. The cloth was a design made of pictures of high-heeled shoes, which looked like footprints on a fashion runway. I pulled the curtain aside and stepped into the booth. There were mirrors on all three sides, framed with decoupage pages from magazines such as Vogue, Hola, Marie Claire, and Cosmopolitan. There was a huge sign in the middle of one of the mirrors that said Tu eres tan bonita. You are so pretty.

  No wonder Margo was always in a good mood. If this was what her family was like, she was the luckiest girl I knew. I reached out and ran my fingers over the edges of the sign. It was crinkled, and the edges curled to my touch.

  I remembered when my family was happy. I wondered what it meant when a family changed in such a short time. Did it mean it was never good in the first place — that lurking underneath the happy exterior were all the negative, depressing vibes, waiting to reveal their ugliness? It didn't make sense. Especially my mother — how could she have made such an about-face?

  The dressing room curtain was yanked back, and the metal rings scraped the pole with a screech. "You lost in there, Emili?" asked Chi Chi, the lines around her eyes crumpling into a bouquet of wrinkles. "I told you, you like."

  "Yes, I do like it." I came back to the matter at hand with a jolt. "What is it you want me to do?"

  Again, her arms spread wide, waving around the store. "Little bit of everything. You dust. You organize. You help customer. You stock shelves. Whatever I need. Margo told you minimum wage, yes?"

  "She told me, and it's fine."

  She went to the counter, reached behind it, and produced a fluffy feather-dusting wand. "Here, start with this."

  I took the duster, and the chimes at the door sang someone's entrance.

  "¡Bienvenidos! Welcome!" Chi Chi cried, rushing over to the three teenagers who'd entered.

  I didn't recognize them, although they could have been students at Edgemont, since I only knew a third of the kids there. I left Chi Chi to it and started dusting — which, considering the sheer volume of stuff lying everywhere, was no small chore.

  ****

  After school the next day, Margo and Sally raced ahead of me in the parking lot to Margo's unbelievably large station wagon — not an SUV, but a real station wagon. By the amount of rusty holes and scratches it displayed, I figured it had to be from 1960 or earlier.

  "Is this yours?" I asked, catching up.

  Margo threw her arm across the hood as if she were giving it a huge hug. "Isn't it perfect? The whole family loves it. But it eats gas, and I mean eats it."

  Sally opened the front passenger door, which squawked and creaked as though it was ready to fall off into her hands. "It's vintage," Sally said and laughed. "Plus, you can eat and spill and dribble and no one can tell."

  I grabbed the handle of the back door and pulled. It wobbled, and I half expected it to rip from the car.

  "I know the handle's loose, but it hasn't come off yet. Climb aboard." Margo jumped into the driver's seat. "I figure we'll hit all the thrift shops on both the east side and the west side of town, and if we find nothing there, we'll drive to Smithville. It's not far down the road."

  "If we drive to Smithville, the gas will cost more than the dress," Sally pointed out. She rubbed the eternal rash on her neck. "You hurt worse than ever."

  Margo turned her head and looked at me from the front seat. "Sometimes she talks to her rash."

  The car swerved, and Sally hollered, "Margo! Eyes on the road, please!"

  Margo swiveled around and jerked the car back into its lane. "It's true. She has quite a loving relationship with her rash." She laughed.

  "Totally not funny," Sally said and glanced back at me. "Don't you dare laugh."

  I held up my hands in surrender. "I wouldn't think of it."

  We all cracked up.

  "Gonna get me a rash, too," Margo started singing. I joined in, belting it out in a sad tuneless warble.

  Sally was doubled over. "Stop, you guys. I mean it." She wiped her eyes.

  "Morgy's Thrift Shop ahead," Margo announced.

  "I've only got a couple dollars," I said, fingering the cash in my pocket.

  "It's all you need," Sally answered.

  Margo parked and peered through the car window to the front of the store. "Okay, half price today are the blue tags. So, every blue tag is fair game."

  We raced each other to the door and pushed inside together, giggling. I wanted a knockout dress. Even though Jordan and I were going as friends and not even as real ball attendees, I wanted to look good. No, better than good. A few months ago, I would've said hot. I shuddered — only bad memories there.

  Margo hurried to the rack on the side wall, which bulged with long gowns. I followed her and as I got nearer, the musty odor made my nose twitch. Margo pulled a bright fuchsia dress from the scrunched offerings. It had stiff netting flowing over the skirt and pearl buttons sewed to the bodice.

  "Margo, I could puke," Sally said, eyeing the dress. "It couldn't be uglier."

  "Try it on," Margo urged. She pushed the dress toward me, and it crackled like a scrunched paper bag.

  I pinched my nose. "Not to hurt your feelings, but it's not only disgusting, it stinks."

  Margo surveyed it at arm's length. "It is kind of ugly.
Love the color, though."

  The same color was in her tía's display at Cosas Preciosas.

  Sally pawed through the mass of satin, silk, and velour. "Emili, don't worry. I can do better."

  She pulled out a short forest green silk dress with thin straps. "Hey, this is actually cute. Try it on."

  I had to admit it didn't look half bad. I took it from her and glanced around for the dressing room.

  "You can't take only one." Margo grabbed a red dress with a hoop skirt — A hoop skirt? "This looks about your size."

  I frowned. "Margo, you have horrible taste, worse than mine." Without warning, Farah's face and boisterous laughter echoed in my mind. I loved shopping with her — she could dress me up to look like a model fresh off the runway. I shoved her image back to the corner of my mind labeled Traitor.

  "Agreed," said Sally. "It's a good thing you brought me along. Margo, need I remind you she's dressing up for Jordan? Our friend Jordan. We can't have her looking like a goon."

  Margo lips were pursed into an actual pout. "You guys have no imagination. You can't tell what something looks like until you try it on."

  "Okay, Margo, find me two more dresses, and I'll try them on."

  She perked up. "You got it. Go try on the green one, and I'll bring you two more."

  The dressing room was at the front of the store. It was crude-looking, made from sheets of plywood nailed together. I opened the makeshift door and latched it behind me. The lock looked like something off a doggie door. There was a full-length mirror and barely enough room to turn around — the hoop skirt wouldn't have fit through the door.

  I peeled off my clothes, folded them, and laid them on a tiny metal chair. I slipped the green dress over my head and pulled it down.

  I looked like a zucchini.

  There was a knock on the door. "Let me in, I want to see." It was Sally.

  "There's hardly room for me," I answered. "Besides, this dress is a total loser."

  Another knock. "Hey, open up, Emili. I've got a few more."

  I opened the door only enough to stick my arm through, but Sally was too quick. She yanked the door open and stood staring at me and the zucchini suit.