by Eliza Gordon
Georgie stands in front of me, her hands on my still-damp upper arms—she’s shorter by a few inches. Just a tiny little thing, and I’m positive she’s still smaller than I am in every way, despite being fifteen months older and the mother of three. We teasingly call her Elastigirl. She pops out a kid and springs right back to her prior size. Her fuzzy strawberry-blond hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, escaped curls arcing toward her face, making her look all of fifteen.
“I was really proud of you out there today, sis,” she says. “I had no idea what this whole thing entailed, so I’m still sort of in awe.”
“Thanks, Georgie.”
“The Rock—he is pretty awesome.”
“I’ve been telling you that for a million years.”
“I was never into wrestling, though. That was sort of between you and Gerald Robert Steele.”
“Do you remember anything good about him?”
“He wasn’t the same father to me and Jackie that he was to you, Dani. Maybe because you were the baby? He worked a lot when we were little. And he and Mommy fought a lot. He always felt like a visitor with us—and I know you were really sad when he left, but life was so much more peaceful, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I guess,” I say, turning so she can run the comb through my wet hair.
“That’s why you love The Rock, though, isn’t it? Because Dad did?”
“No. I love him because he’s nothing like Dad. The Rock would never leave his girls behind.”
We’re both quiet as she untangles a knot. “So . . .” She clears her throat, “anything you want to tell me? You know . . . about a certain hot British trainer?”
Heat prickles my cheeks, and I’m smiling again. “Marco.”
“I thought his full name was Miraculously Beautiful Marco . . .” She pinches the back of my arm. “And I’m going to guess by the size of the shit-eating grin on your face that he might find you miraculously beautiful too.”
I smile harder.
“Did he read the blog?”
“He says he didn’t,” I say.
“Probably for the best.”
“Yeah, probably why he kissed me before I left Delta Park.”
She spins me around, and I almost lose hold on my towel. “Whaaaaaat?”
“God, Georgie . . . I’m so in love. Like, this is serious.”
She squishes my cheeks between her hands. “I knew that sparkle in your eye had nothing to do with The Rock.”
“Don’t tell the whole world yet, okay?”
“What, you’re not going to blog about it?” she teases.
“I’m serious. I don’t want to jinx anything.”
“I saw the way he looked at you today, Dani. I don’t think there’s anything to jinx,” she says, gently weaving my wet hair into a single braid.
“My blog is off the air, if you hadn’t noticed. I’m all about the paper and pen these days,” I say. Yes, the paper that Marco brought me.
“Your blog wasn’t that bad,” she says under her breath.
“Yeah, it was. You lost your PTA presidency because I outed you. I’ll never be able to apologize enough.”
“Oh, stop it. You’ve made amends. I told you how much Samuel liked that chocolate . . .” She waggles her eyebrows.
“Okay, gross.”
“I’m buying some for you. You’re gonna need it now, sounds like,” she says, twisting a rubber band around the end of the braid. “And who cares anyway. Those PTA women were the worst. Most of them are cheating with each other’s husbands over three-bean quinoa salad, so I’m not the most depraved among the kindergarten set.”
“I really am sorry, Georgie.”
She pats my shoulder. “Not another word. Now cover your tight ass so I’m not jealous that you have no stretch marks. We only have a few hours to get Cinderella ready for the ball.”
“Love you, Georgie,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re a pretty good little sister,” she says, winking and then slipping out of the bathroom.
As I rub moisturizer into skin pinked by ineffective sunscreen, I try to remember the last time she and I had had a conversation that didn’t involve her nagging me about Mommy or telling me how tired she is or how frustrated she is that she’s basically a single mother because Samuel works such long hours or how she can’t believe she has so many kids and how she really, really misses painting that doesn’t involve drooling, farting canines.
I’ve missed my sisters. I’m so glad they’re here, rather than hunched over a cauldron planning my murder.
Panties and strapless bra in place, I wrap in a light robe and head into the living room. Someone has turned on music—so festive!
I have no idea where these dresses came from—a few still have tags attached—but I try everything from long to short, spaghetti straps to three-quarter length. Jackie can’t stop touching my upper arms; she can’t believe her little sister has biceps and triceps. “You’re like a new body.”
Yes. Yes, I am, Jacqueline.
By 9:00 p.m., those of us remaining, about half the crew we started out with, are exhausted—but we have a winner. A red strapless with an empire waist and a skirt that swooshes when I walk.
“The Rock will leave his wife when he sees you in this gown,” Viv says.
“Technically, he’s not married.”
“Even better.” Viv winks.
“Forget The Rock—did you see how her trainer fella looked at her today?” Charlene says. My face ignites, but I look down. Like I told Georgie, I’m not ready to spill any beans yet.
Aldous yawns and mewls in her sleep, curled up against Charlene’s ample bosom. “Howie would be so happy to see how wonderful his girl is doing with you, Dani.”
“She’s a handful,” I say, pointing to the recent snags in the curtains she has conquered. “Unzip me, will ya, Viv?”
She helps me out of the gown and rehangs it while I pop into my room to free my tired boobs from the suffocating bra. Though I still have champagne left in my glass, it’s warm, and I’m thoroughly drained. As soon as my butt hits the couch, my eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds each. I try to keep up with the conversation, but . . .
Next thing I know, Jackie is tucking a light throw under my chin, and my friends, one by one, say their goodbyes. I feel guilty that I zonked out on everyone, but the tank is empty. Once the front door clicks closed, Aldous insinuates herself under my chin, and we sleep the slumber of the sated dead.
SIXTY-TWO
“Hullo . . .”
“Dani, wake up. I’ve been calling you for an hour!”
“Who is this?” I didn’t even look at the caller ID before I swiped to answer.
“Danielle, it’s Janice. I need you to wake up.” I slide Aldous off me and push myself to sitting—wincing because dear god I am so sore. “Are your eyeballs open?”
“Yes.” No. “What’s up?”
“In one hour, my friend Jericho will be knocking on your door.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s twelve thirty. You’ve been asleep forever. I thought I was going to have to send in the police to make sure you weren’t dead.”
“Wait—who’s Jericho, and why is he knocking on my door?”
“He’s a hair-and-makeup artist. Absolutely fantastic. He’s coming over to get you ready for the grand fête tonight.”
Tonight . . . the VIP event—I’m meeting Dwayne Johnson tonight!
I’m seeing Marco again tonight.
My stomach flip-flops.
I’m suddenly wide awake.
“Janice . . . seriously, thank you. You’ve done so much for me.”
“Jericho owes me a favor. I got him a sweet gig with the Shakespeare Festival, and he happens to be in town this weekend visiting his grandma who just got back from climbing Everest, so he’s happy to do me a solid and make you beautiful.”
“Thank you. This is amazing.”
“Jericho’s great. You’re going to love him, a
nd when you look good enough for The Rock to eat, then you can thank me. You can be his cheat meal.”
I have an hour to make myself presentable for Jericho. Because I neglected to give Miss Aldous her wet food at her usual breakfast time, she’s helped herself to the dry food by chewing a hole in the bag. The kitchen floor is littered with the brown pellets she didn’t stuff into her face.
“At least she didn’t eat you, buddy,” I say, sprinkling fish flakes into Hobbs’s bowl.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Miraculously Beautiful Marco: Good morning—er—afternoon, Ms. Steele. Inquiring if it would be easier for us to take one car tonight. I can pick you up at 5:30 PM? Plenty of time for us to get downtown that way.
I am deliriously happy to hear from him.
[fumbling fingers] Me: Yes! That would be awesome. Thank you!
Miraculously Beautiful Marco: Did you find a dress? *wink*
Me: Well played. How???
Miraculously Beautiful Marco: Never ask a magician to reveal his secrets.
Me: Thank you. So much.
Miraculously Beautiful Marco: As much as I did appreciate your bull-print capris, I was concerned you might try to wear them to the event.
Me: You = no faith in my fashion sense.
Miraculously Beautiful Marco: With good reason. See you at 5:30. XO
I stare at his text, my brain on hyperloop as I review everything he’s done for me since the night I walked into his gym and hurled in his garbage can.
He’s the consummate gentleman—takes unrivaled care of his friends and family, doesn’t send pictures of his dong to strangers, doesn’t even read a girl’s diary when it’s up on the World Wide Web and everyone else in her close circle did read it.
And tonight, thanks to the money raised by the obstacle course he designed and organized, I will get to meet my lifelong hero, in the flesh, wearing a beautiful dress he also arranged to have brought to my house (I still cannot figure out how the hell he pulled this off).
This sort of thing doesn’t happen to me.
And yet, here I am.
INT. DANIELLE’S APARTMENT - MIDDAY
DANIELLE
I have to be so careful not to screw this up. I don’t want to say it too loud, DJ, but . . . I think he’s the one.
DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON
What would you do to screw it up? He’s already seen you barf. He’s already heard stories about and met most of your crazy-ass family. He’s already seen you cry like a baby over having to do too many push-ups.
DANIELLE
I really hate push-ups, though.
DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON
No one likes push-ups. But check out those sweet triceps, Dani-girl. The push-ups look good on you.
DANIELLE
(examines triceps in the mirror)
Yeah. You’re right. They are pretty sweet.
DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON
(The Rock offers his fist for a bump)
Now, about tonight . . .
DANIELLE
My tummy hurts. I’m so nervous!
DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON
About what? Didn’t we already establish that you’re not a candy-ass? You’ve met a decent guy who sees the good in you. What trouble could come from that, except the fun, kinky kind you should write about in your diary?
DANIELLE
He’s such a good person. He does so much for other people, whereas I just write nasty things about them.
DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON
Bullshit. You’re letting fear whisper garbage to you. You and Marco are perfect for each other--and as someone who’s known you since you were a kid, if I thought he wasn’t good enough for you, I’d let you know. His mana is good. I can sense this stuff.
DANIELLE
Thanks, DJ.
DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON
And you wrote some shit about a few people. Who cares? It’s not like you’re a serial killer, unlike your sister’s oldest kid. That boy’s got crazy eyes.
DANIELLE
I told you!
DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON
Danielle, it seems to me Marco knows a good thing when he sees one. Why else would he go to so much trouble, unless he was really interested in making you happy?
DANIELLE
Maybe he’s a crazy-stalker type. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Like, he does nice stuff for them, and then when she finally says yes in response to his efforts, he turns into one of those psycho dudes who controls her every move.
DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON
And maybe you watch too many movies. (slaps my forehead) Wake up, Dani. Not everyone is an asshole.
DANIELLE
Ow. (rubs forehead) He IS British. Isn’t there some rule about British dudes? Like, if they’re bad, we can kick them out of the country because we won the Revolutionary War?
DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON
Maybe refrain from calling him a redcoat tonight.
DJ’s right. As usual. I’m gonna have to let my heart just go ahead and fall totally and completely in love with Marco Turner, and if I’m wrong, well, then, we’ll deal with the fallout later.
(I don’t think I’m wrong. Not this time.)
The growling doorbell assaults my ears.
Aldous comes running, more dog than cat, to see who has come to visit her.
I open the door to a man with such a pretty face, he could be a doll. He extends a hand. “You must be Danielle,” he says, wide smile of dental-ad-impressive teeth. “I, Jericho, am here to make you even more beautiful than you already are.”
“Do come in. Flattery will get you everywhere.”
Four hours later, I don’t even look like me. I never want to wash my hair again; I want it to look this fantastic forever. I don’t know how I’m going to pay Janice back for this.
After Jericho zips me into my dress, I’m able to scrounge up forty bucks and an unused Starbucks gift card for a tip—he tries to deny me, but I refuse to let him leave until he accepts my paltry offering. When I tell him I’ve never felt so beautiful, he relents and even offers to stick around until Marco arrives so he can take a few photos. It’s like the prom!
“I’m so nervous,” I say.
“You look sensational. Also, nerves make you shiny, and that little handbag won’t have enough room for a powder compact,” he says, pointing at the beaded bag Jackie left for me.
We talk about his work at the Shakespeare Festival, how he got into makeup and hair work, about his grandmother who really did just climb Mount Everest. Again.
When the doorbell snarls at exactly five thirty, my heart skips a beat.
“I do believe your Prince Charming has arrived,” Jericho says, winking. “Shall I grant him entry?”
I nod. As Jericho pulls my front door open, all feeling leaves my body.
Marco extends his hand and introduces himself as he steps into the apartment. I feel light-headed, and not because of the tightness of the gown. In his opposite hand, he holds a gorgeous bouquet of long-stemmed white and red roses cradled in baby’s breath and greenery.
I might swoon.
Marco looks . . . miraculously beautiful. His curly brown hair hangs in messy spirals; he hasn’t shaved too close, instead sporting a fashionable shadow; and the tux. Dear lord, help me to breathe again.
He turns from Jericho, and his wide smile lessens to something . . . sweeter. “Danielle Steele with an e, you are a vision.”
I’m completely drunk on the look in his eyes. I spin, the dress fanning around me and catching the attention of my spastic cat.
He presents me with the roses. “I thought of getting you a corsage, but that felt a little cliché, even for me.”
“They’re stunning, Marco. Thank you so much.”
He steps back and looks at the dress again, his hands folded in front of him. “When I recruited those ladies to help find you a dress, I knew they would find something su
itable.”
“Did they? I mean, is it? Suitable?”
Marco closes the distance between us and takes my hand, kissing the back of it. I smile like a lunatic. I want him to do far more than kiss my hand, but Jericho is still here and I don’t want to insult him by smearing my painted-on face all over Marco. “Honestly, the other women in attendance will run and hide in the coatroom.”
Jericho poses us for a few photos, both serious and silly, to record this momentous evening on each of our cell phones. I’ll need proof to show my sisters that I can act like a grownup female.
“Now that I know the prin-cess is in good hands, I shall take my leave.” Jericho gives me an enthusiastic okay sign and bobs his head, lips pursed as he points at Marco’s back. “Nice to meet you, Marco!”
I step around my date and thank Jericho again for his handiwork. His cases full of magic in hand, he disappears down the stairs. I lean against the closed door, trying to control my racing heart.
“You really do look exquisite, Dani.”
I turn, at once unfamiliar with what to do with the arms and hands that have been attached to my body since I was little more than a blob of cells.
“Speak for yourself, Marcellus.”
He pets his lapels and adjusts his tie. “I clean up all right?”
“You’re pretty much the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen,” I say, emotion tightening my throat.
Marco actually blushes, rubbing a hand over his stubble to hide the smile. “Be careful or you’ll give me a big head.”
“Too late,” I tease.
“Ah, it’s just the hair. Makes it look bigger.”
“The hair is perfect,” I say. For a moment, we stand ogling each other, him by the kitchen table and me still near the front door, crazy Aldous attacking the plastic ring from the almond milk container in between us—at least until she sees the flowers in my hand. Her pupils widen, and you can practically hear her kittenish thoughts: What is that delightful creation? I could destroy those so good for her.
“Is it hot in here?” I fan myself. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Perhaps some water for the road? We should go soon.” He smiles, but the spell between us is far from broken. In fact, I fear if you were to light a match, the entire room would combust. “Were you aware that you’re only wearing one earring?”