My mom and Charlotte agree that it looks great on me, and I ask my sister to take a photo with her phone. I strike a pose with my hand on my hip, one leg forward, the way celebrities stand in magazines. I must be doing something wrong because I feel awkward—and look totally stupid in the picture. So I ask Charlotte to retake it, standing normally the second time.
“Are you sending Marian the photo?” my mom guesses. She tries to sound casual, but I can tell the idea makes her sad—which makes me feel simultaneously sorry for her and annoyed with her.
“No. Mom,” I say. Although maybe, deep down somewhere, it had crossed my mind to show Marian my prom dress. Sort of as my way of telling her, once again, that there are no hard feelings about the clothes I sent back. And also because I just know she’d like it.
“Yeah! You totally should!” Charlotte says. “You can get her advice on shoes and bags and jewelry.”
“Who-ah! Shoes and bags and jewelry?” my mother says. “I’m not so sure that’s in the budget. You can borrow something of mine.”
“Or better yet,” Charlotte says, “maybe Marian will let you borrow some of her stuff! I bet she has some sick jewelry and shoes … What size does she wear?”
“My size,” I say. “Seven.”
My mother, who wears a nine, purses her lips, then says, “Well, I’m sure Marian will love your dress. And she’ll probably approve of black, too.”
I nod, positive that she will like it, and hoping that Philip will, too.
We determine the cost, just slightly more than Charlotte’s but also on sale, and I look to my mother who nods her permission.
“I’ll take it,” I tell Shelly as I undo the side zipper, step out of the dress, and give my mother a grateful smile. “Thank you,” I mouth, handing it to her.
“You’re welcome,” she whispers back, then takes both dresses to the front of the store to pay.
As I change back into my uniform, Belinda follows me into my dressing room, looking dejected.
I give her a sympathetic look and say, “Was there nothing else you liked?”
“Not compared to that one,” she says.
“Okay. Well. How much do you have saved?” I ask, knowing the answer before she holds up her hand in a big goose egg.
“Well. I’d loan you some,” I say. “But I spent it all going to New York. And besides—four hundred dollars! Belinda, that’s just stupid money for a dress you’ll wear once.”
“Unless you’re Marian,” she says. “I bet it’s chump change for her. You’re so lucky to have a rich relative.”
It is the first time anyone has referred to Marian as a “relative,” rich or otherwise, and although I like the way it sounds, I think of the clothes I sent back and remind Belinda that it’s not my money.
Belinda sighs, then heads to her dressing room to retrieve her big, fake Gucci tote.
Moments later, we are back in my mother’s car, Charlotte in the front seat, Belinda and I in the back. I check my phone and see a new text from Philip, my third thrilling one of the day: Any luck?
He is referring to my dress, of course, so I type back: Yep. Found a good one.
He replies almost instantaneously: Your dress or your date? LOL.
Both, I write, feeling so flirty and bold that I then type a semicolon and a closed parenthesis, forming my first ever winking emoticon, something I always vowed never to do.
“Are you talkin’ to Philip?” Belinda asks.
I smile and nod. “Have you heard from Jake today?” I ask.
“Lemme check,” she says, reaching down into her tote to retrieve her iPhone, along with a pack of cinnamon Dentyne gum. She takes a piece for herself, then offers me one. I take the pack, punch out two red squares, then lean down to toss it back in her bag.
And that’s when something catches my eye: a swatch of unmistakably bright turquoise silk buried deep in the bottom of her bag. I glance at Belinda, my eyebrows raised, as she looks up from her phone with an expression of guilt and embarrassment and defiance, a combination I haven’t seen on her face since the fourth grade when I caught her in a lie about a sleepover with Amy Bunce. The two had invited me, then at the last second uninvited me with some story about Amy’s mother having a migraine. I never confronted her about it, even to this day, but it hurt my feelings for ages, and I still don’t understand how she could do that to me.
I have the same feeling of betrayal and confusion now, although I’m not sure why. Belinda has stolen things, right in front of me, like a pack of cigarettes or cheap costume jewelry. Once she even lifted a pair of leggings that she put on under her jeans. And although I never came right out and condoned it, and often mentioned that the goods weren’t worth the risk of getting caught, I always sort of laughed it off. But this time feels different. For one, she didn’t tell me what she was doing. For another, the dress is four hundred dollars. Shit—it could be a felony for all we know. I try to make eye contact with her, but she refuses to look back at me, and instead buries herself in her phone, texting like crazy. I think of what my parents would do if they knew—I’d never be allowed to spend time with her again. But for some reason, I find myself thinking of Marian, too. What her reaction would be. What she would think of Belinda. And what she would think of me for looking out the window and pretending there isn’t a four-hundred-dollar stolen prom gown at my feet.
20
marian
A few nights after my mom returns to Chicago, I’m watching Mad Men and wondering how much the execs at my network would screw up that show if they could, when the phone rings. I glance down at it, my heart speeding up when I see Kirby’s name.
“Hey!” I say, answering quickly.
“Hi. Did I interrupt anything?” she says, sounding sad. I wonder if she’s still upset about the clothing—or if her voice just has this innate quality—the way some girls always sound bubbly and others perpetually sarcastic.
“No. I was just watching television … What’s up?” I ask, hoping that everything is all right in her world, and suddenly craving a conversation with her. About anything. Even Conrad.
“Well … I’m going to prom.” She delivers the news shyly but proudly, as if this is something of a coup for her.
“That’s great. Very exciting!” I say. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
“His name’s Philip Chang,” she says. “He goes to another school but my friend Belinda introduced us. She’s going with his best friend. The four of us.”
“Do you like him?” I say. “Or are you going just as friends?”
She hesitates and then says, “I don’t know. He’s nice and really smart. And we have a lot in common. He’s just … different than the boys at my school. So yeah—I guess I kinda like him.”
There is an excited, eager lilt in her voice that makes my heart ache with nostalgia and memories of Conrad, how connected I felt to him during our brief relationship, how much I loved that he wasn’t like anyone else I knew. I wonder if he still has this quality or if the years have changed him into something more ordinary; somehow, I just can’t picture him as a suburban dad with a couple of kids, a minivan, and an office job he hates. I push him out of my mind and tell Kirby I’m happy for her.
“Yeah. Thanks. It’s no big deal, really … But I did find a dress,” she says.
I ask her to describe it, and she says it is black in a flapper style. “I’ll send you a picture,” she says.
“Yeah, I want to see it … I want to see all your prom pictures. Take lots.”
“For sure,” she says, and then asks whether I went to my prom.
I tell her I missed it my junior year due to a raging case of mono, but went my senior year.
“With Conrad?” she asks.
“No,” I say, tensing. “I went with my boyfriend at the time. Todd Peterson.”
“Was it fun?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say halfheartedly, then laugh. “Well, no, not really, actually. We spent most of the night in a fight.”
&nb
sp; “About what?”
I tuck my phone between my ear and shoulder and tighten the tie of my terry-cloth robe. “He was very immature. And his friends were worse—just awful. I couldn’t stand most of them and resented how they turned the whole night into a booze fest.”
“And you wanted a little … romance?” Kirby asks.
“I wanted to at least dance. Heck, I would have settled for some face time at the actual dance. Instead I spent the whole night watching him booze it up in a dark, smoke-filled room at the DoubleTree. It was depressing.”
“That sucks,” she says.
“I’m not saying prom has to be the most important night of your life. But try to make it a little special, you know? At least try to stay sober enough so that you can remember it. Instead of passing out before nine o’clock.”
“Is that why you broke up with him?” she asks, as I find myself wondering what would have happened if Todd hadn’t been so immature. What if we had continued to date that summer? Would I have eventually had sex with him? What if he had gotten me pregnant? Would I have told him? Would I have kept the baby?
“Yeah. Pretty much, I guess. Although I don’t think I ever really liked him very much. In any event, we broke up the next day at Great America in line to ride the Iron Wolf. He was showing off, bragging about how hungover he was—as if that is some kind of badge of honor. I just couldn’t stand him another second … so I got out of line and went to get cotton candy alone.” I laugh and say, “He ended up puking on some kid on the second loop, so it was a good decision.”
She laughs, then grows silent again before saying, “So I wanted to ask you a question? Get your opinion on something? It’s about Belinda. My best friend.”
“Okay?” I say, waiting.
I can hear her take a deep breath before slowly continuing. “So we were shopping for prom dresses. Me, my sister, and her. With my mom. Charlotte and I found our dresses that were only, like, one-fifty. They were on sale—half price.”
“That’s a great deal,” I nervously interject.
“Yeah. That part was good … But Belinda … She fell in love with this really fancy one with rhinestones and stuff. It was crazy expensive. Four hundred dollars. I know that’s not a lot to you, but it’s a lot to us. And Belinda definitely can’t afford that.”
I cringe at the word “us,” and feel a fresh wave of shame over the Barneys trip as Kirby continues, “She has a single mom and kind of a deadbeat dad and she never saves her money. So it might as well have been a million dollars, ya know?”
“Yeah,” I say, trying to follow the point of her story. “So did she get another one?”
“No,” Kirby says. “She … got that one.”
“How? Did she put it on a credit card?”
“Noo,” she says as if I’m being obtuse.
When I don’t instantly reply, she sighs and says, “She stole it, Marian. She put it right in her bag and walked out with it. Right into broad daylight.”
I sit on my bed and shake my head, feeling oddly naïve, as if we’ve just reversed roles, and wonder how I didn’t see this one coming. I think of my fast-girl acquaintances in high school who shoplifted for sport. Most of them could afford anything yet they got off on the adrenaline rush.
“Did you see her do it?” I ask, hoping she wasn’t an accomplice or otherwise involved.
“No. Not in the act. I just saw the dress in the car. In her bag. After the fact.”
“Did you ask her about it?”
“No. I just pretended I didn’t see it. We both sort of pretended … Do you think I should, like, confront her about it?” Kirby says, as if prompting me to give her advice.
“Definitely,” I say. It feels like my first truly decisive parenting decision and something of a defining moment.
“What should I say?”
“Tell her you know she took the dress and that you think it’s wrong. Tell her she should take it back. She can even drop it off at the store anonymously. In a bag. There’s no need to turn herself in. Just get the dress back to the store. Surely there are other dresses she can afford…”
Kirby is silent, as if looking for potential pitfalls with my advice. Sure enough, she says, “That’s never gonna happen. Belinda wants what she wants. I saw the look on her face in the car. She’s only going to be pissed at me if I say something…” Her voice trails off.
I hesitate, then ask if she talked to her parents about the situation.
“Hell, no,” she says, as I feel simultaneously flattered and overwhelmed by the responsibility. “I didn’t tell anyone. Could I get in trouble? Did I do anything against the law?”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “Not if you didn’t help her take it … But I still think you should encourage her to return it. For her sake.”
“Shit,” she says.
“I know this sucks, Kirb. It’s hard.”
I can hear her breathing on the phone, as if digesting everything.
“Just talk to her … Tell her how you feel. Be as open and honest as you can.”
As I say the words, I realize that this has been my shortcoming—and that I want better for Kirby.
“I also think maybe you should talk to your parents,” I say.
“Hell, no. I can’t. They already have an issue with Belinda. Plus, they’d probably turn her in. They’re totally black-and-white about everything,” she says.
“Yeah. Some people are like that,” I say, thinking of Peter’s approach: Do the right thing and tell the truth at any cost, even when it’s not convenient, even if it means hurting others. Then again, maybe there’s more to be said for loyalty to a friend, to protecting those you love. Is that what I did, in part, when I lied to Conrad? And kept a secret from my dad? From Peter? Or was I only trying to protect myself? I am beginning to realize how few answers I have, and just how difficult it is to be a parent. To be in any real relationship.
“Just try to follow your heart,” I say, knowing how simplistic, even trite it sounds, but that it guided one of the most difficult decisions I ever made—to have her. “Whenever I’ve followed my heart, I haven’t been sorry. And when I haven’t…”
I don’t finish my sentence, but I feel the weight of it on the phone, both of us silently filling in the blanks. Filling in the past eighteen years of my life. All the secrets and lies. I had my reasons, of course. My rationalizations and justifications. But deep down, I think I always knew that what I was doing was wrong. And now I know that it might finally be time to fix things.
“Does that help at all?” I ask, hopeful that I’m giving the right advice.
“Yes,” she says. “It does help. Thank you, Marian.”
“You’re welcome, Kirby,” I say, wishing I had something more to tell her. Wishing that things were as easy as I was making them sound.
21
kirby
After school, I find Belinda in her kitchen, making strawberry Jell-O as she watches Days of Our Lives. She barely looks up, she is so used to me walking into her house without knocking.
“Hey!” I say, masking my queasiness with a big smile.
She shushes me, pointing to the ancient television set on the counter while she stirs the thin liquid with a wooden spoon. I glance at the screen and ask her what’s happening on the show.
Without removing her eyes from the set, she replies in rapid-fire monotone. “Taylor just confronted EJ. Asked if he’s responsible for Arianna’s death.”
I nod, momentarily taken in by the drama I only cursorily follow—until I remember that we are living our own little soap opera. A second later, a commercial for carpet cleaner breaks her trance.
“What’s up?” she says.
“Nothing much,” I lie, picking up the empty box of Jell-O and reading the nutritional facts. “Holy shit. Only ten calories per serving?”
“I know, right?” she says. “I’ve lost four pounds since last week. Straight Jell-O diet.”
“Huh,” I say, searching for a lead-in. ??
?Why are you dieting? You look great.”
“Just want a flatter tummy,” she says, patting her midsection. “So that when Jake sees me without my Spanx—”
“So you found a dress?” I interrupt, the question sounding as awkward as I feel.
She picks up the remote, aims it at the television and aggressively mutes it before resuming her stirring. “Come off it, Kirb,” she says.
“What?” I say, wide-eyed, as if I’m the guilty party who needs to feign innocence.
“You know I found a dress,” she says, making air quotes around the word “found.”
I stare at her as blankly as I can, waiting for her full confession. When it doesn’t come, I fire off a lame retort. “You come off it.”
She rolls her eyes.
“You stole the dress,” I say.
“So?” she says.
“So?” I say. “What do you mean so?”
“So I stole the dress.” She shrugs, licks the spoon, and nods her approval, as if she’s just cooked an amazing sauce rather than added water to a powder mix.
“Well, it’s … wrong,” I say, cringing at how self-righteous I sound, but unsure how else to say it.
“No shit it’s wrong,” she says. “But it’s, like, one dress. Do you know how much that place marks shit up? I bet they got that thing from China for forty bucks.”
I stare at her. I’ve always known that it’s impossible to argue with Belinda, not because she’s particularly good at it, but because she’s so bad at it—that there is no common ground to work from. She simply sees the world the way she wants to see it and no amount of logic can change her mind. Yet I still flounder about, looking for another angle. “C’mon, Belinda,” I say. “It’s not worth it. What if you get busted this close to graduation? Look what happened to Louie for putting Alka-Seltzer in the pool. He’s not going to graduate now—”
She shakes her head and says, “There’s nothing the school can do to me. Even if I got arrested—they can’t do shit because it happened outside of school.”
“You can get kicked out of school for a felony,” I say.
Belinda shakes her head. “It’s not a felony. It’s a misdemeanor.”