Behind every fight, and every sleepless night, and every marshmal ow stolen out of my Lucky Charms box, there was something more. There was me wanting to talk to her, and me wanting to be around her, and me not real y caring if she ate al the food on my half of the snack shelf, as long as she had something to eat.
And as long as I could annoy her about it after.
“Me neither,” Mia says.
The toaster dings, but she ignores it, pul ing me closer. She kisses me again, that spark that used to fuel every argument we’ve ever had finding a new home, as the room around us disappears.
GRAY
In a world of Bing Crosbys, my perfect guy would probably be a Danny Kaye.
Sweet-talking, talented dancer, gangly limbs and a smile that radiates pure sunshine. To me, Danny Kaye is the epitome of 1950s classic cinema charm.
You can keep Bing’s smooth baritone and polish. I don’t want it.
However, I might be convinced to change my stance, if only for Rosemary Clooney’s dress in the “Love, You Didn’t Do Right by Me” number in White Christmas.
That’s how much I love that dress.
Gray: I’d give up Danny Kaye for that dress.
Jude: Whoa.
Jude: Bold words.
I giggle as I read his reply, turning up the volume on my laptop to ful y appreciate Clooney’s song. Halfway through the scene, my A2NeighborGram tab flashes again, and I click on it.
Jude: Thankful y, you’re a genius with a needle, so you can have both!
I sigh, my cursor hovering over Jude’s avatar, a tiny black-and-white photo of Danny Kaye’s headshot that he put up as a joke after the first time we chatted. I’m pretty sure Jude and I are the only two people under age forty-five on this app, not to mention the only ones not paying a mortgage. It’s supposed to be used as a tool for communication around the various neighborhoods in Ann Arbor, Michigan. You know, lost dogs and lawn-mowing services and the like. But last week I put up an ad for face masks, and Jude happened to be scrol ing for his uncle’s pandemic-ready, porch-to-porch delivery business, and we’ve been chatting ever since.
Gray: Contrary to what Hal mark would have you believe, Christmas movies aren’t real life. Danny Kaye wasn’t an immortal, and worldwide pandemics wait for no prom.
Jude: …
You see, I’ve been sewing ever since my grandma gave me her prized Singer and taught me how to hem my first Hal oween costume. While some kids were actively auditioning for lead roles in children’s summer theater camp, I was the only one begging to apprentice in costume design. The Wizard of Oz, Les Misérables, Oklahoma!…I’ve seen it and done it. I rarely have time to make things for myself, and honestly, when would I wear one of my fancy creations?
Which is al to say, I’ve been planning my prom dress for years. From the moment I saw Rosemary Clooney step onstage in that black gown and shimmery gloves, I was head over heels. I couldn’t wait to have curves worthy of a gown like that. I practiced the scal oped neckline the entire summer before my senior year. I saved the money I made doing bridesmaid dress alterations for the expensive fabric.
But then Mr. COVID-19 came to town.
Jude: Are you sure you don’t want to save your dress?
Jude: My uncle has material. People have been donating scraps.
The truth is, I thought about saving my dress and maybe using it for a col ege formal or a wedding or something, but even stil , it was so fancy. Too fancy for anything less than prom. I spent a solid four days pouting and raging and making my family as miserable as I was, until I got a cal from my aunt Cam. She works as a special events coordinator in a nursing home, where they were out of face masks. The nurses and doctors were the front-line workers who needed the real-deal PPE, but the rest of the nursing home staff needed something to make sure they wouldn’t get their patients or their families sick. Cam was a wreck over it.
So I cut into the spare material I’d been saving for the scal oped back panel of my dress and made seven reusable masks. I put them in the mail that night. I figured I wasn’t using the scraps. It was being wasted in my room, along with my talent for sewing.
She liked them so much, she asked if I could make a few more. For the nighttime staff, she said.
I was out of scraps, so I cut into the mermaid-fit skirt that original y gathered at my knees and swooped and swished along the floor. I could make it into a modified tea length, I thought, and that mermaid skirt had a whole ton of gathers. Plenty of material to share. It made twenty more masks. This time, I masked up myself and drove them out to the nursing home, feeling pretty good about what I’d done.
That night, maybe due to boredom or just too much time alone with my thoughts, I went onto A2NeighborGram and spil ed my guts. I posted about my dress and the masks and the prom cancel ation and my new (!!) resolution to make more masks. First come, first served. I hit post and went to get a drink of water.
Less than three minutes later, Jude reached out. His uncle needed as many masks as he could get his hands on for his business.
And I was his gal. Me and my prom dress.
Somewhere along the last week, ever since I messaged him back, Jude-with-the-Danny-Kaye-avatar has become my friend. He likes cats but agrees they’re mostly assholes. He likes ’80s buddy cop movies but agrees Mel Gibson must be an actual racist if he’s racist when he’s drunk. He doesn’t know how to do his own laundry but admits it’s probably easy. He knows about my obsession with American Famous and subsequent fangirling over this season’s front-runner Judah MacKenzie, but only teases me about it half as much as everyone else does.
And he agrees that Danny Kaye is better than Bing. He says it’s only because Bing is rumored to have abused his kids.
Which is a solid reason, I’l give him that.
I check my app again, where Jude’s most recent message is waiting for me. I’d messaged him earlier that I was about to cut into the rest of my dress and needed some moral support. I stil haven’t made the masks I’d promised him, but tonight is the night. Jude was the one to suggest we social y distance-watch White Christmas together, as an official farewel to the dress. I’m not sure it’s helping.
Gray: You don’t understand. It HAS to be this dress.
Gray: If I can’t have prom, this is the only acceptable alternative.
Jude: That’s fair. Have I told you I’m sorry about your Rosemary Clooney dress?
Jude: Because I am.
Gray: You have. Like twice. So I real y need to just suck it up and make the cut.
Jude: It’s for a good cause.
Gray: The best cause, yes.
Jude: Would it help if I counted you off?
Gray: It would help more if you were heeeeere.
The honest-to-God truth is that I have zero idea how to talk to boys. Like ZERO. Or at least, I thought that was the case. Turns out, I’m pretty bold when I’m texting during a pandemic, under quarantine when the boy is a total stranger.
Jude: Be right there.
I snicker. We’ve been talking a week and we’ve had this conversation six times already.
Gray: Such a tease. You don’t even know where I live.
Aside from Ann Arbor, that is, which is a pretty giant col ege town.
Despite being on the neighborhood app, Jude’s not from my neighborhood on the west side. Apparently, his uncle is fairly close, but Jude says he goes to one of the other high schools in town, which I happen to know is on the north side.
Wel . He did. Before COVID-19. Now we’re both seniors, just waiting on social y distant graduation ceremonies.
Jude: How about this: send me a picture of the material now, and the material after you make a cut and then the material after you make a mask. It wil be like I’m there with you and I can cheer you on.
Gray: Sigh. That’s genius.
Jude: Obviously.
I pause the movie, scoot back from my desk, and cross my room to my sewing table in the corner. It’s a mess, with itty bitty scraps of
the blacker-than-black raw silk I’d skimped and saved for months to buy. Rosemary’s dress was rich velvet, but prom is in May and I figured I’d die of heatstroke.
A lucky coincidence, since velvet doesn’t breathe and raw silk is washable.
Not only that, but I did my research and raw silk happens to have special electrostatic properties that make it compatible for very fancy face masks.
Also on my table is a sandwich plate covered only in crumbs and two dirty cups with the dregs of cold cinnamon spiced tea staining the bottom. I clear away the debris and take a quick photo of the materials, careful to keep myself out of it. I’m not sure why I don’t want Jude to see what I look like. I only know I’m happy in this space where we’re relatively anonymous.
I send the pic and sit down at my table, pul ing out my sewing shears.
One snip. I can do this. It’s for a good cause and there wil be other dresses.
My phone flashes with a notification.
Jude: Excel ent. You’re going to help so many people.
Jude: I’m so proud of you.
I feel my cheeks heat. Thank goodness he can’t see. It’s strange. I’ve only known Jude a little over a week, but it feels like longer. It’s so easy to talk to him like this. It’s like we skipped over al the awkward smal talk and went straight to being close friends. I can’t tel if it’s because we’re online or if it’s just Jude and the effect he has on me.
Gray: That’s a bit of a stretch.
Jude: Is it? Maybe if it was JUST a dress. But I know it’s more than that to you.
Jude: I get it. It sucks.
Jude: You’re al owed to think it sucks.
I feel hot tears prickle in the corners of my eyes. It does suck. There are people sick and dying al over the world and I can’t leave my house and now I won’t ever wear this dress. Things most definitely suck right now.
Gray: Whew.
Jude: Right? So yeah, Gray. I’m proud of you for doing this.
How is he so nice?
Gray: How are you so nice?
Jude: You’re the one cutting up your dream dress to make masks for people you’ve never met. How are YOU so nice?
Gray: I’m not sure I am.
Jude: I’m not sure I am either. My younger brother definitely thinks I’m a dick.
Jude: It’s easy to be nice to you.
Gray: Your brother and my little sister could start a club.
I’m definitely stal ing.
Gray: Okay.
Gray: Okay. I’m going to make some serious cuts now. Thanks for cheering me on!
Jude: You’re welcome. Can’t wait to see how they turn out!
I toss my phone on my bed behind me, where I can’t be distracted by boys with sweet words. I need to concentrate. It’s time to make a whole lot of somethings out of nothing and let the magic hum of my sewing machine lul me into my happy place.
—
One week later, I’m finished. No more dress. Just masks. And last night Jude asked what time I’d be dropping off the masks, so he could make sure he was there to meet me.
TO MEET ME.
Now I real y wish I’d sent a selfie before this. I’m not nearly as nervous about seeing Jude as I am about Jude seeing me. Which is ridiculous. I’m not usual y like that. It’s just that I real y, real y like him. Which seems impossible since I’ve never seen his face and I don’t even know what he sounds like, but I know his heart? If that makes sense? Three nights in a row
now, we’ve been up past one a.m. messaging on A2NeighborGram. I know about his family (stupidly in-love parents, annoying younger brother who’s a freshman in high school), his favorite foods (barbacoa tacos from Chelas), favorite music (Isak Danielson and Lewis Capaldi), favorite movie (Beverly Hil s Cop). I know about his hobbies (playing guitar, Cal of Duty, and street hockey). I know his goals (col ege in the fal , performing a song he’s written in front of an audience). His fears (school shootings and that his grandpa wil catch COVID-19). And I know his history (one quasi-serious high school girlfriend who fel in love with her female best friend…things ended amicably).
My phone buzzes with a text. Oh. And that. We exchanged numbers, so we could text al hours.
Jude: Stil coming at 10?
Gray: Yep. Packing up the masks now.
Jude: Great! We got a cal but I sent my cousin out. I’m determined not to miss you.
Gray: Okay, then. Just remember: I’m the real y gorgeous one.
I cringe. What am I saying?
Jude: Obviously.
I grin, relieved.
Gray: That’s the spirit.
Gray: See you soon.
I stash my phone in my pocket and give myself a final once-over in the mirror. First time leaving the house this week, so I decided to have fun with it. A pair of skinny-fit denim overal s, cuffed; a bright red tank to celebrate the sunny spring weather; and some careful y applied winged eyeliner. I’ve got my dark brown hair curled and pul ed into a high pony and I’ve tied a cherry
red bandana around it. I slip into my flip-flops and grab another red bandana that I’ve made into a face mask.
Am I dressed like Rosie the Riveter?
Yes.
Did I coordinate to match my face mask?
You betcha.
You can take the girl out of the costume department, but you can’t take the costume department out of the girl.
I grab the box of masks in both hands, wave at my sister who’s on the couch watching Schit ’s Creek again, and am out the door and into the sunshine. It’s glorious. The kind of day when I want to drive through for a smoothie, crank some tunes, and tool around Joann Fabrics.
But since that kind of thing isn’t al owed, I’l just stick to the music. I turn on some Kacey Musgraves and take some cleansing breaths as I slip on my sunglasses. I can do this. It’s just a normal day.
The storefront Jude’s uncle rented is in a strip mal . When I pul into the lot, I can see it’s the only place with an open door. Everyone else is boarded up for the duration. There’s a bookstore on the corner that is doing curbside pickup, but they must have limited hours because the lot is a ghost town. I go around my little Outback, open the trunk, and remove my masks just as another car pul s up, music blaring. A teenaged guy who looks vaguely familiar jumps out, mask on. He’s gangly and a little bit soft around the middle. His hair is a bril iant carrot color, sticking out at fuzzy angles, and he’s wearing a bright neon tee that says DUBOIS DELIVERY.
I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off.
“Gray Archer! The mask queen!”
I squint. “Jude?”
He laughs. “Wrong guy. I’m Colin. I don’t know if you remember me….Seven Brides for Seven Brothers?”
“Oh, right!” I nod as I suddenly place him. Colin DuBois goes to my high school; he played the lead in the fal musical while I designed costumes and sets. He’s got strong vocals and charisma for days, and I’m pretty sure I met his boyfriend at the cast party last fal .
Jude mentioned that he works with his cousin; he must be related to Colin. Jude DuBois, perhaps? Very French. I tuck this potential last name away for secret Google research later.
“Jude! Gray’s here!”
My heart leaps up somewhere near my esophagus and I whip around, box of masks in hand, to where another teenaged guy is standing at the entrance of the store, watching us. I smile and then realize he can’t see it. This is weird. Colin gestures for me to fol ow and I do, keeping a careful six feet of distance between us.
Jude’s tal . Real y tal . His hair is as dark as mine, with a slight curl that peeks out from underneath his Detroit Tigers cap. His eyes are hidden behind sunglasses and of course his mask is covering the lower half of his face.
I can tel Jude is active; wiry and broad under his neon delivery uniform and khaki shorts. But that’s about al I get. I wonder what he’s making of my Rosie outfit.
Somehow his entire body seems to smile when he says, “Hi, Gray.”
; I press my lips together and push my glasses to the top of my head. “Hey, Jude.”
Under his mask, I can see his cheeks bulge and I know, I just know he’s beaming.
“Or should I cal you Rosie?”
I shift my box and strike a pose, making a muscle and glancing over my shoulder. “Hel , yes. I’m here to kick some COVID butt.”
He laughs, and my heart actual y throbs. He has a beautiful laugh. Rich and ful and hearty.
I hand him the box, careful to keep my distance. He places it on the table behind him. No accidental (gloved) hand brushes here. No, sir.
“Thank you for these. After the governor made the order for everyone to wear them shopping, a lot of our costumers panicked. You’re a lifesaver, literal y.”
I lift a shoulder and drop my hands into my giant overal pockets. “I’m happy to do it.”
Silence stretches between us, but it’s not completely awkward. I wonder if it would be too obvious if I pul ed down my glasses again, so I can check him out? I definitely feel his gaze on me. I’m tempted to pul out my phone to text him, asking him what he’s thinking about.
Colin clears his throat and we both jump. I’d forgotten he was there. “So my dad had a business proposition for you, Gray…”
Jude straightens. “Right! I almost forgot! He was wondering if we could commission more masks from you?”
More? My scrap pile is looking rough. I must look skeptical, because Jude keeps talking.
“We’d provide you with materials, obviously.”
I raise my eyes to Jude’s. Even through the lenses, I can see he’s watching me intently.
“Okay. I have plenty of elastic stil , but my scrap pile is running low after every person in my family asked for masks, so if you have some fabric…”
“We do. I think my uncle got some donations in the back…”
“I’l get it,” Colin says, giving us a knowing look as he moves past Jude.
As soon as he leaves, Jude exhales and my shoulders slump in relief. Jude laughs again.
“Is it weird that I want to pul out my phone and text you?” he asks in a low voice, his hands tapping out a rhythm on the box in front of him. “I real y don’t know how to talk to pretty girls.”
Together, Apart Page 18