I nod, wondering if that knowledge about his views played into my decision not to go through with it. I suddenly recall several pro-life comments he made during the ’96 presidential election, at the time believing that it was an offhand philosophical remark in the context of a political discussion. Now I see that he could have been sending me a message. Now I have to rethink everything, all of our conversations over the years. I can feel the entire framework of our relationship shifting. Nothing is what it once seemed to be—and it occurs to me that this is the nature of keeping secrets. In this moment, I begin to understand how I’ve made Peter feel, but still can’t fathom how Conrad would feel if he ever finds out.
“Do you agree with him?” I ask. “Do you think I would have regretted that … choice?”
“Honestly … I don’t know,” she says, finally getting choked up. “That day at the clinic … I very much wanted you to have it all done and over with … so that you could move on with your life. As quickly as possible. But I respected your decision. Just as I respected your decision to give her away.”
“And what about Dad? How did he feel about the adoption?”
She sighs and says, “Your father wanted to keep her. He thought you should go to Northwestern or another nearby school or that we should move to Ann Arbor for a few years and help you raise her. He even suggested that we do it for you. Raise her as our child. Your sister.”
“Talk about secrets,” I say.
“I know.” She nods. “But that’s how he felt. It caused a problem in our marriage for a long time. The decision itself and the fact that I wouldn’t let him talk to you about it. He resented me … And I think it changed his relationship with you, too.”
“How so?” I ask, even though I’ve always had the same sense.
“You two used to be so close. It was always Daddy’s little girl.… But ever since then … there’s a distance between the two of you. You’re so … formal with one another … Something.”
I nod, thinking back to those pre-Kirby days when we were as tight as a father and daughter could be. “As thick as thieves,” my grandmother used to say.
But after that summer, things were never really the same. At the time, I told myself it was just part of growing up, going off to college, getting my own life. I told myself that we were still close, just not in the same way. But now I can clearly see that he was another casualty of my lie. I was not only avoiding him, but he was doing the same with me. Even when we were alone, we never really talked about big, important things like marriage and babies, life and death. We stayed on the surface of things, the great gulf of our secrets between us.
I look at my mother, wondering if it would have been different had she kept my secret. Wondering if my father meeting Kirby might somehow fix things between us. Wondering if you can ever really go back to the way things once were.
19
kirby
It is Sunday morning, my favorite time of the week since my mom gave up trying to make me go to mass, and I’m in my zone, playing my drums as hard as I can, knowing that our neighbors on either side of us are at church, too. I scroll through my “classic drum solo” play list, going from Led Zeppelin’s “Moby Dick” (John Bonham’s solo is one of the best of all time) to “One World” by the Police (can’t get much better than Stewart Copeland) and then mixing in Gina Schock (I have a vintage poster of the Go-Go’s over my bed), Sheila E. (who, even if she didn’t kick ass in her own right, has played with all the greats, including Prince, Ringo, and Marvin), and even a little Karen Carpenter (probably the only artist on my iPod who my parents know a thing about).
Meanwhile, I find myself replaying my date the night before, putting the best moments to music like a little video in my head. After the movie, there was only time to grab a quick burger at Blueberry Hill before my curfew, but it was enough time to determine that Philip liked me. At least as a friend, but maybe more. It wasn’t so much what he said, but the way he looked at me—with “that big goofy smile”—in Belinda’s words when we convened in the ladies’ room. I objected to the word “goofy,” but agreed that it was a full-on, genuine smile.
Thinking of him now, I take off my headphones, put my sticks down, and reach over for my phone to find a Facebook icon in my in-box—a friend request from Philip. I can feel my pulse as I click my acceptance, and seconds later there is a post on my wall: Still trying to figure out the end of that film. Had a great time. Let’s do it again soon, okay?
I let the words sink in, feeling light-headed with the realization that I not only went on my first real date with a cute boy, but that he had a good enough time to ask me out again and post the invitation on my wall for all the world to see. Or at least for my 114 friends to see. It’s sort of pathetic—but I’ve never felt so cool, not even rapping in the writers’ room—and I post a comment back on his wall (for his 316 friends to see): I did, too. As for round two, sounds great. Just let me know.
As I greedily scroll through his four albums of photos, mostly consisting of outdoorsy camping and skiing shots, my phone rings. It’s Belinda. I pick up, grinning. “Yesss?” I say. “May I help you?”
“OMG! Holy Facebook exchange!” she says, and then squeals so loudly that I pull the phone away from my ear.
“And what’s with ‘round two’?” she continues. “Did he sneak in your bedroom last night for round one?”
“God, Belinda. Would you chill,” I say, wondering if the comment I posted actually sounded the way Belinda took it—or if her mind is just perpetually in the gutter, apparently even on Sunday mornings when she, too, should be in church. “I was referring to the movie. Jesus.”
“Admit it. You love him,” she says. “You totally love him.”
“He’s cool,” I say, refusing to admit, even to my best friend, that I have a small crush—my first on someone other than a famous person or Mr. Tully.
“You wanna do him.”
I sigh loudly but say nothing, as if the comment isn’t worth one syllable in return.
“Do you think he’s cute?” she asks.
“I answered that last night,” I say. “Yes. I think he’s cute. He has nice eyes.”
“OMG! Prom here we come! You have to ask him.”
“Whatever,” I say. “Let’s not jump the gun here.”
“It’s two weeks away,” she says. “You have to jump the gun. C’mon!”
“Did you ask Jake?” I say, thinking of how handsy they got during the movie, likely the reason that neither of them had a single opinion about the very bizarre ending that Philip and I couldn’t stop analyzing over our burgers.
“Yesss. I was just getting to that.”
“And?”
“And he said yes.” She squeals again and then bursts into an off-key rendition of Drake’s “Best I Ever Had.”
“So what did you do last night?” I ask, knowing that her curfew means nothing—and that her mother is a ridiculously sound sleeper.
“Topless make-out session in my basement followed by a BJ,” she says. “With results. I’m still batting a thousand.”
I make a face. “Ewww. That’s disgusting, Belinda.”
“BJs aren’t disgusting,” she says, and launches into further nauseating details about Jake’s impressive anatomy. “It was hard to get it all in. But I managed. That practice with the cucumber really helped with my gag reflex.”
“Stop!” I yell, cracking up.
“Okay,” she says, laughing. “But only if you promise to ask Philip to prom.”
“We’ll see,” I say, that strange feeling in my stomach returning.
“Yay!” she says. “Philip’s gettin’ a BJ of his own soon!”
I shake my head and unwittingly picture Philip in the front seat of his car, his jeans slid down to mid-thigh, the back of my head bumping against the steering wheel, his eyes rolled back with pleasure. I have no plans to make that happen soon, if ever, but am shocked to realize that the vision isn’t altogether disgusting.
* * *
Later that week, after Philip has sent me several private messages on Facebook, including one asking for my number, my cell phone vibrates with an incoming call. I am in the family room with Charlotte who I’ve fully debriefed, telling her everything other than the way I’m starting to feel inside. I think she can tell, though, and is so excited for me, mentioning prom several times herself. She mutes the TV, raises her eyebrows and says, “Well? Is that him?”
I pick up my phone from the coffee table to see Philip’s name, already programmed in my address book, lighting up my phone. I nod and smile, then scurry out of the room, answering once I’m halfway up the stairs.
“Hey. Whatcha doin?” he asks casually, as if we’ve spoken on the phone lots of times.
“Not much,” I say, trying to catch my breath as I close my bedroom door and collapse onto my bed. “Just watching TV. Putting off homework. Avoiding my parents. The usual.”
“Yeah. I hear ya,” he says, right before he tells me, once again, that he had a good time going out with me. A warm, tingly feeling washes over me, like a giant wave, followed by another intimate vision of us, this one more PG-13 and romantic than my amateur, front-seat blow job. In it, Philip is wearing a tux; I’m in a beautiful organza gown, and the two of us are slow dancing.
“I did, too,” I say, overcome with this feeling of “what the hell.” So with clammy hands, a dry mouth, and a galloping heart, I say, “Hey. Philip. I have a question for you?”
“Shoot.”
I take a deep breath but feel myself start to falter. “I don’t know. It’s probably sort of a dumb idea … Sort of cheesy … And I really am not this type of person … But it might be fun … And Belinda and Jake are going … So I just wondered if maybe—”
“Kirby,” Philip says, throwing me a lifeline. “Are you trying to ask me to prom?”
“Um, yeah,” I say, with a nervous laugh. “I guess I was trying to do that.”
“So just ask me,” he says, laughing back at me. “No more disclaimers.”
“Would you like to go to my prom? With me?” I tack on the last question, just to make one hundred percent certain that there’s no confusion about what he’s getting.
“I’d love to,” he says, his big, bright smile coming right through the phone.
“Good,” I say, smiling back at him. “It’s a date.”
* * *
The very next day, my mother takes Charlotte, Belinda, and me to Robin’s Bridal Mart to shop for prom dresses. It’s crunch time, as Belinda keeps saying, prom only nine days away. As we pull dresses off the racks, it is clear that Belinda and Charlotte are leaning toward long gowns in bright, spring colors, while I find myself favoring shorter, black ones, perhaps because that is much of what I saw in Marian’s closet. “LBDs” she called them, for “little black dresses”—and said that every girl needs at least one, really more like two or three.
My mother, of course, makes it clear that she thinks black dresses are inappropriate for teenagers and wrinkles her nose whenever I pull one off the rack. At one point, as I select a flapper-style black dress with fringe, my mom comes right out and says, “That dress is way too mature for you.”
“Too mature?” I say. “I thought you wanted me to be mature?”
“You know what I mean,” my mom says.
Charlotte springs to my defense. “Mom, that rule about black is from back in your day. Everyone wears it now. They even make baby clothes in black. Have you seen Angie and Brad’s kids?”
My mom rolls her eyes and says she does not think we should aspire to be like “those weirdos.”
“Regardless. You promised you wouldn’t judge if we let you come along,” I say.
“No offense, Mrs. Rose, but that’s why I’d never shop with my mother,” Belinda says. “Really nobody does.”
“That’s not true,” my mom says, looking annoyed at Belinda—which is not unusual. “I saw Mary Margaret with her mother at Dillard’s last week. They had just found a very pretty tea-length dress…”
“Tea length?” Belinda repeats as if she’s just smelled something foul. “Talk about out of date. Short or long is the only way to go. What, is she going to a tea?”
“Well, the point is, I’m not the only mother—”
I interrupt her with an important distinction. “Mary Margaret sucks. She’s only shopping with her mom because she has no friends.”
“Her mother told me she’s the prom chair,” my mom says, doing her best to ignore the word sucks. “Surely the prom chair has friends.”
“You’d think,” Charlotte says. “But not in this case. No one can stand her.”
“She doesn’t even have a date,” Belinda says as we exchange smug smiles. In just a matter of days, we have transformed ourselves into the girls she’s always wanted us to be—and that maybe, secretly, I’ve wanted to be as well. I even find myself feeling different in school where no one even knows—or cares—about my updated status. But I know it, and it feels pretty good.
“Okay. Okay. I get the hint. I’ll zip it,” my mom says, trying to be the fun mom, although it goes against her every grain. “I am eternally grateful for the invitation to join you in this momentous shopping spree and promise to keep my old-fashioned opinions to myself.”
I nod my acceptance of her promise while the four of us, with the help of a young sales clerk named Shelly, continue to scour all the racks. About thirty minutes later, we are in three separate dressing rooms, frantically trying on dress after dress, casting most aside, asking Shelly for different sizes, mostly exclaiming how bad they make us look, and only occasionally emerging when one is either comically hideous or pretty enough to consider.
After much analyzing, vetoing, encouraging, and admiring, we each come down to our top choice, and stand before my mom and Shelly in the huge, three-way mirror for a final decision.
“Oh, girls! You look gorgeous! I could cry,” my mother says.
“You are crying,” I say.
“Mom!” Charlotte says with uncharacteristic scorn. She casts her eyes around the store, then whispers, “Stop that. It’s so embarrassing! I mean, really, it’s not our wedding gowns!”
Then Charlotte turns to me, her posture perfect, and adds under her breath, “Although I’m so going to marry Noah one day.”
“I can’t help it. My little girls are all grown-up. I remember when the three of you were in diapers, running around at the pool with your little orange water wings. And now look at you,” my mom says, so nostalgic that she seems to forget all her gripes with Belinda. And me for that matter.
“Okay, let’s start with Lottie,” Belinda says, examining my sister in her long chiffon gown.
“Turn around,” I say.
She spins as Belinda and I murmur our approval. Unlike Belinda and me, Charlotte has looked good in just about everything, but this one is the clear winner, from the salmon color that complements her hair and tanned skin to the strapless style that showcases her cut swimmer’s arms, shoulders, and back. The dress looks trendy, but still fairy-tale sweet, pleasing both generations in the room, and Belinda and I tell her that she is done, this is the one, there is no need to try on anything else. It is clear that Charlotte agrees because she sashays around the dressing area on tiptoes, admiring herself from every angle, even making sultry, come-hither stares into the mirror that my mom should find more disconcerting than the color black.
“How much is it?” my mom whispers to Shelly, although she knows we can all hear. She looks worried even after Shelly chirps that it’s very reasonable.
“How reasonable?” my mom asks.
“It’s three hundred—”
My mother gasps until Shelly finishes her sentence: “—but you’re in luck, it’s fifty percent off!” She leans over her large solar calculator, punching the numbers as Charlotte and I exchange an amused glance; even I can do that math in my head.
“One hundred fifty plus tax,” Shelly says.
“Perfect,” my mom
says as we shift our attention to Belinda’s top choice—a long turquoise gown made of raw silk with one shoulder and a fishtail, rhinestone-encrusted train that makes her look like a sexy mermaid. Belinda calls it a miracle gown because it hides her hips and belly while flattering her perfect, round butt (which she proudly calls her “ghetto booty”) and big boobs.
“I love it,” I say.
“Me, too,” Charlotte says.
“Is it too racy?” my mom says.
“No, Mom,” I say, as Charlotte points out that it doesn’t even show much cleavage. Of course Belinda takes this as a cue to hoist up her “girls,” as she calls them, but my mother doesn’t say another word, probably figuring that Belinda’s a lost cause.
“Now, I must tell you, my dear,” Shelly says after a bit more raving, “this is one of our most expensive dresses.”
“I know,” Belinda says. “I saw the price tag.”
“How much?” I ask.
“It’s four hundred,” Shelly says with a grimace.
“Is it on sale?” Belinda asks.
“I’m afraid not,” Shelly says. “But you get what you pay for. That train is exquisite.”
“Call your mom. Or your dad,” I say. “Maybe they’ll each pay half and let you splurge.”
“Not a chance,” Belinda says, but still steps inside her dressing room to make the call and begin the negotiating. I can hear her ask her mom if her dad has sent them any checks lately, and I can tell by Belinda’s reply that the answer is no, as usual.
She emerges seconds later, changed back into her faded red polo and tight khaki skirt, looking gloomy. “Your turn, Kirb,” she says.
Feeling sorry for her, I nod and gaze down at my black flapper dress, deciding that I definitely love it. It is flattering enough, sophisticated not just for the color, but the overall style, with extra points for originality. Nobody will have a dress like this one. And it shimmies when I walk in the most satisfying way; I can’t even imagine how cool it would look if I were dancing.
“It’s so you,” Belinda says, sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Very cool.”