by Laura Preble
“Dad?” I ask cautiously. You don’t want to surprise my dad when he’s in the studio; he’s liable to electrocute you or himself, or blow something up. “Dad? I need to ask you something.”
“Hmm?” His eyes are covered by huge plastic safety goggles, and he’s hunched over a circuit board, staring at it through an oversized magnifying lamp. “Hang on.” He solders something and the smell of burning metal and silicone slices into the air. He straightens up, pushes the goggles out of the way, and looks at me expectantly.
“I need to get my learner’s permit. For driving.” He says nothing, so I continue. “There’s an online course I can take to do the classroom portion of it, so all I need is your credit card, and then you can teach me to drive. How’s that sound?”
“Uh . . . bad?” He shakes his head. “I’m not ready for you to drive. You’ve only been sixteen since January, only a few weeks, Shelby.”
“A few months, Dad,” I say, a little more snotty than I should be. “And besides, wouldn’t it be great if you didn’t have to haul me around everywhere I need to go?”
“I kind of like hauling you around. I get to see more of you.” He nudges the still-smoking circuit board with a latex-gloved hand. “I don’t know, honey. Why do we have to do it now?”
“Well, to be honest . . . I’ve been thinking of doing volunteer work. At the orphanage.” Oh, boy. I am surely going to burn in hell.
“Do we have an orphanage?”
To distract myself, I start picking up bits of discarded wire and plastic off the floor, putting them in his trash can. “Sure. I know it sounds strange, but colleges really look at that kind of stuff. I need to start racking up some community service. And I need to be mobile to do that.” I don’t look at him; I’m kind of ashamed of how easy it is for me to lie about orphans who don’t exist.
“College, huh?” He rubs his stubbly chin and thinks about it for a minute, then sighs. “Okay. I guess it has to happen sooner or later. Let’s go set up the class online, and we’ll get you started. But schoolwork still comes first.”
“Sure.” I give him a big hug. “Thanks, Daddy.” I’m a horrible person. But it’s all for a good cause, I remind myself: saving me from being totally and utterly alone.
Later, I call Becca to tell her the good news. “My dad is letting me get my permit,” I squeal.
“Awesome!” she squeals back. “How soon before you can drive us all around?”
“Legally? I think I have to wait till I’m, like, twenty-one or something.” I am sitting on my bed, making my bunny slippers do ballet. “Of course, off the record . . .”
“Oooh. You are bad.” Becca chuckles an evil little laugh. “Of course, that’s one of the reasons I like you.”
I don’t want her to think I’ve totally become corrupted, though, so I add, “Of course, I’d only transport people my own age in an emergency. You know, like if we needed to go to a study session or something like that.”
“Right.” Becca sighs into the phone, and I hear her making squeaky stretching sounds. “Oh, by the way, Melvin is totally in. I convinced him that helping us with our event would be good for his career, too. I mean, he hasn’t really had a hit since 1995, so he could use the publicity.”
“Was that the year he did Killer Pumpkin?” Boy, that was a stinker, I’ll tell you. But a lot of people liked it, I guess. It fed everyone’s secret fear of jack-o’-lanterns and getting fat on mini-Snickers. “Is that the movie he wants to show?”
“I don’t know yet. He’s been talking about screening it again, a retrospective sort of thing. He also has a new movie coming out that he’s thinking he might premiere at our event.”
“Brand-new? That would be cool.” The bunny slippers look fatigued, so I let them take five. “What’s the new movie about?”
“It’s The Drainpeople. It takes place under this old house, where a whole race of mutants lives in the sewer, and they come up out of people’s toilets to wreak havoc on the population.”
“And I suppose too much two-ply toilet paper got them mad?”
“Not sure he goes into the details that much,” she answers. “It’s mostly just an excuse for gory scenes in people’s bathrooms and girls in wet T-shirts.”
“A piece of art.”
“Indeed.” She yawns. “Gotta go. Meet me at lunch tomorrow, under the tree. Good night.”
I flip my phone closed and smile contentedly. I hope nobody pops out of my toilet unannounced. That would kind of ruin my good mood.
When I finally get to our designated lunch spot the next day, everybody’s already there, and things look a little tense. Becca’s fuming, Evie looks miserable, and Amber and Elisa are sitting between them, looking like they expect machine-gun fire to erupt at any moment. “So, hey,” I call as cheerily as possible.
Becca waves halfheartedly. Evie says nothing. Elisa explains: “Carl asked Evie to the prom.”
“What?”
Amber nods. “Yep. He called her and actually asked her to go.”
“And she said . . .”
“I said no, obviously!” Evie shouts. “But some people”—she shoots a malicious look at Becca—“don’t seem to understand that I cannot control what her former boyfriend does.”
Amitha and Naveen show up and Elisa goes all wet noodle. “Hi, honey,” she says, so sweet I feel a diabetic coma coming on. “I’m so glad we’re not fighting.”
“Yeah, it’s quite a relief,” Naveen answers as he grabs Elisa around the waist and gives her a squeeze. Amitha rolls her eyes and plops down on the grass. “My sister is here to report on her progress regarding decorations,” Naveen says.
Becca perks up a little, momentarily distracted from her disastrous love life. “That’s great, Amitha. What have you figured out?”
“I want to do the whole thing in silver and black, like an old movie,” she says, eyes shining. “Maybe even some big silver statues, like the Oscars. Very classy.”
“That would be good except that the movie we’re going to show is about as far from Oscar material as a health-class sex ed film,” Elisa grumbles as she nuzzles Naveen’s neck.
“Some of those are actually pretty entertaining,” Naveen answers, grinning. Elisa smacks him as Amber blushes violently behind her hair. “Where’s Jon, Amber? Isn’t he part of the Geek Prom posse?”
“Yeah, he’s helping, but he had to go to the photo darkroom to develop some pictures for his class.” Amber leans against the tree and stares wistfully in the direction of the photo lab. “He shot a whole roll of black-and-white photos of garbage. It’s really artistic.”
“So, are we going with the drive-in?” Naveen asks.
Becca clears her throat noisily. “As a matter of fact, my dad has already made arrangements for it. He had to pay twice the regular price because they already had some event booked there that night, but once they heard he’d be screening a premiere of a new movie, they jumped.”
“And how are the plans for global domination coming, Evie?” Elisa asks. “The computers and such.”
“Dad is renting all that equipment, too,” Becca answers instead. “We just have to get it hooked up and make sure the people in the other parts of the world are on board.” Evie just sulks.
“And my most important concern—food?” Elisa asks as she munches on a chicken salad sandwich.
“I called a bunch of places yesterday,” I answer, “but I still don’t know which one is best. We’ll get something together, though, don’t worry.”
“Are we all going together to look for clothes at some point?” Amber asks. “I think it’d be fun. Especially since we don’t have to wear stupid taffeta dresses and heels.”
“But I was really looking forward to that,” Naveen protests. “I look great in taffeta.”
The conversation drifts into details of Geek Prom-related things, but my mind is elsewhere, specifically with Fletcher. I don’t know where he is, but I suspect he’s comforting Carl after his painful breakup. I’m going to
need two outfits, I realize; one blue thing for the real prom, and something else kind of funky for Geek Prom. I guess maybe I’d better get Euphoria to Velcro everything so I can make like Superman and change in a phone booth. Or in the back of the Volvo.
“He only asked me out so he could get you to pay attention,” Evie blurts out. Everybody stops chewing. “He really likes you, Becca. Why are you mad at me?” She’s practically crying. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked, and I’ve put tons of time into this project. You’re going to punish me for something I have no control over?”
Becca’s clenched jaw relaxes just a bit, and I see her soften. “I know you can’t help it if he picks up the phone and calls you. But why did he call you? I guess what I keep coming back to is that you must have done something to make him think you might go with him.” With that out in the open, she chomps down on a big apple violently and challenges Evie to prove her wrong.
Evie grabs her bag, throws it over her shoulder, and stands up in the graceful, tornadolike way only a really pissed-off girl can manage. “Listen, if I wanted your stupid boyfriend, I’d already have him. I’ll talk to you again after you’ve figured that out.” She trudges angrily across the grassy lawn.
“Harmony reigns supreme,” Elisa says sarcastically. “No wonder we have a hard time getting things done.”
DRESS TO CONFESS (or The Secret Lives of Liars)
“Watch the curb. Watch the curb!” Dad screams and covers his face. So much for having a calm, seasoned driving instructor.
“I wasn’t going to hit it,” I reason with him. In fact, I missed it by at least a portion of an inch. I’m steering the Volvo down our tree-lined street, and I have to say I’m getting the feel for driving. I’m a natural at it. It’s like I’m one with the car, a glorious blending of girl and machine, and intuitively I can feel the power of the beast beneath me, raring to go, wanting to put on a burst of speed. Unfortunately, Dad doesn’t understand cars like I do. He gets mad if I go over the speed limit.
I took the online driving course, and it was so easy that it makes me worry about other people driving, to be honest. It’s supposed to take thirty hours, but I did it in a lot less time (a lot less). Within a couple of days I got my certificate of completion, and we took that down to the DMV, which I believe stands for the Department of the Monumentally Vague. Nobody could answer any questions I had unless I got into at least three lines and waited for at least twenty minutes in each one. I usually ended up back in the original line with the same vague person behind the counter, and once I’d done the line shuffle, the person was able to help me. It’s kind of like a ritual or something. Maybe if I’d brought a chicken to sacrifice, I could have saved myself some time. Either way, I find out that I have to wait for my official learner’s permit to come in the mail.
Anyway, Dad and I are driving on a beautiful Saturday morning after a grueling week of schoolwork and the prolonged silent treatment between Becca and Evie. I’m kind of concerned that if they don’t patch it up, the whole Geek Prom thing will fall apart (which wouldn’t be so bad, I guess). I’m driving over to pick up Becca and Amber and Elisa so we can go shop for Geek Prom clothes. I’ll have to go separately to get my traditional stuff, since I’m not really supposed to be going to the real prom. I may have to bust out my trunkful of disguises in order to shop incognito.
“Okay, now, slowly apply your foot to the brake,” Dad says evenly. I jam my foot down and the car lurches forward as if an invisible hand has grabbed the back end. Tires screech and I smell burning rubber, so I throw Dad my most dazzling smile. He just pops another Tums and breathes deeply.
As I pull into Becca’s circular driveway, I honk a little pattern to let her know we’re there. Dad slumps down in his seat, hoping, I guess, that Thea doesn’t see him, or that he doesn’t see her (or, more important, her and Melvin). Becca races out of the front door, a backpack slung over her shoulder, and she opens the back door as I get out to let Dad take over.
“So, how—” I don’t get further than that because Becca stands, grinning, at the open door of the car, her long fingers pointing to her now unspiked hair. “What happened?” I gasp.
“I decided I needed a new look for the event.” She does a little twirl, showing off the short, gold-blond pixie cut that has replaced the signature white spikes. “What do you think?”
We climb into the backseat, and I can’t take my eyes off the hair. “I think it’s good,” I mumble. It just seems so strange to see it different, since she’s worn it the same way ever since I met her during our freshman year. “It really makes your eyes stand out.”
“Yeah,” she says, fluttering her eyelashes. “I plan to get an extremely funky outfit to match.”
Meanwhile, Dad is driving as fast as he legally can away from Becca’s house, and doesn’t seem to mind playing chauffeur. When we pick up Amber and Elisa, they shove into the backseat while I take the front, then squeal simultaneously when they see Becca’s new do. “Wow,” Elisa says. “You look shorter now. I feel closer to you.”
“I guess that’s a plus,” Becca says, shrugging.
Dad graciously drives us to Parklane Mall and also graciously hands over a wad of cash so I can buy my necessaries. “See you in two hours,” he says as he gives me a peck on the cheek and then pulls away.
“Shelby was driving when they got to my house,” Becca says casually.
“What?” Amber slaps me on the arm, a little too hard. “You didn’t tell us you could drive!”
“Technically, I can’t. I’m supposed to wait until I get my official learner’s permit, but Dad is letting me try it out, just on our streets and near the house and stuff.”
“Is it fun?” Elisa asks as we shove through the double doors of Silver Buckle, one of my favorite stores. “Driving, I mean?”
“Yeah. What’s most fun is knowing that at some point I won’t have to depend on my dad for rides.” Amber has already zipped across the store and is waving frantically for us to come over.
“Look what I found, right off the bat!” She holds up a faux leather waistcoat trimmed with red velvet. “Isn’t this awesome?”
“If you want to dress up like Dracula’s French maid, I guess,” Elisa snorts. “But for you, I suppose that would work. I, on the other hand, will need something for the more vertically challenged.” Elisa putts over to the petite section.
I’m still staring at Becca’s hair; I can’t help it. She does look a little less tall, but somehow older, and the deeper platinum blond sets off her pale skin and eyes. “You look like a model,” I tell her.
To ruin the magical modeling moment, she does her donkey-honk laugh, makes a horrific, contorted goofy face, and picks up a fuchsia-colored corset with lime-green ties. “What about this?”
“Only if you want to be in Rocky Horror Picture Show.” I browse through racks of fancy dresses, little black dresses, slinky dresses, and dresses so skimpy they really shouldn’t be called dresses, but cocktail napkins. “What are you looking for exactly?”
Her face squinting in concentration, she bites her lips as she considers a turquoise blue satin jacket with a matching scarf. “Something with a lot of color. Something glamorous but not prommy.”
“Prommy? Congratulations, Mrs. Webster. You’ve just hatched a new word.”
And then I find it.
I expect a golden light and a choir of angels to sing a power chord as I pull this exquisite outfit off the rack. It’s a shining sage green sleeveless mini, slit from knee to mid-thigh. It comes with a pair of black capri tights, and I can’t wait to try it on. In the dressing room, I peel off my clothes like they’re on fire, and then reverently unzip the dress.
When I slip it over my head, it feels like I’ve just met the dress I will spend the rest of my life with. I mean, it fits tightly in all the right places but doesn’t hug too close to anything. The slits in the skirt hit at just the perfect place, and the neckline is cut just low enough to be revealing but not low enough to be slut
ty. The fabric, soft and cool as a cloudy summer morning, clings to me and seems to energize every inch of skin it comes into contact with. In short, I want to marry this dress.
I slip into the tights and check myself in the mirror. Dazzling. I walk outside so I can share my gorgeousness with everyone else.
Standing in front of the full-length mirror, Elisa picks and pulls at a cobalt blue pantsuit trimmed with fake diamond buttons. “I look like the mother of the bride,” she moans. She looks at my reflection standing behind hers, and her eyes go wide. “Holy God, that’s the most gorgeous dress I’ve ever seen!” she gasps.
Becca and Amber hear her and come dashing out of the dressing room in various stages of decency, but no one else is in the store, so it doesn’t matter. They all coo and ooh and ahh over my perfect dress, just like normal girls. “Of course,” Becca says as she heads back toward her cubicle, “you’ll have to wear tennies with it.”
“Tennies?” I gasp, faking drama. “This dress cannot be worn with tennies. It will explode.”
The rest of the girls eventually find something formal yet funky to wear, and it’s kind of fun to spend some time just doing what other girls do, namely, primping and squealing about clothes. We hardly ever do it, which is fine, but today it feels good. I also eyeball a really traditional blue gown that I might be able to come back for later to form the basis of my super-secret real prom getup.
“We still have about an hour before my dad picks us up,” I say. “Let’s go over to the bread place.” The bread place is a restaurant where they have amazing French bread and soup and stuff, and they play classic jazz and have soft lighting. Plus, it’s less crowded than the food court.
We drag our bags into the restaurant, find a cozy booth, order food, and park. “This is going to be the best event ever,” Amber says between sips of iced tea. “Is Evie still going to work out the details of linking it to places around the world?”