I remember the yellow Star Wars clown cake and giggle; I get the feeling Dad is thinking of it, too, since I catch him staring at his fork and stifling a secret smile aimed at me.
“We may need to think on that,” Dad finally says. “Unless there was something you liked, Shelby?” He asks it with a twinkle in his eyes, daring me to order it.
“No,” I answer, holding in a snicker. “I’m good.”
“Right, then, Wanda, I’ll just give you a call after we’ve thought on it for a few days.”
“Keep in mind, we can make just about anything,” Wanda says as we rise and move to the door. Avoiding the giant cake displays was hard enough the first time, but now that we’re stuffed and sluggish, it’s near impossible. We somehow make it to the car without sending too many confections teetering on their stands.
“Who knew there were so many types of cake? I thought it was just… cake. Chocolate, vanilla… cake,” Dad says as we back out of the Sweet Bakin’ Cakes parking lot.
“When you said Princess Ball, I figured something less like a wedding,” I say. I instantly worry I’ve said too much—truth is, planning this thing hasn’t been quite as bad as I anticipated. I’d hate to have made it this far without wounding Dad’s feelings only to crush them now.
“You and me both, actually,” Dad answers, and it makes me smile. “You know how much I hate suits….”
“Speaking of,” I add as we zip past the rows of strip malls that flank Sweet Bakin’ Cakes, “do you think I can wear my old winter formal dress to this thing?” I cast away a stab of spite for Mona Banks, all dressed up to give an insincere vow.
“That light green one?” Dad asks, and I’m ashamed to realize it surprises me he remembers. Dad looks over at me as we come to a stoplight, and I nod. “I think you’re supposed to wear white. Maybe they’ve changed the rule, though. But you can buy something new, Shelby. I don’t mind paying.”
“Yeah…” I try not to cringe at the memory of picking out my homecoming dress. Ruby was out of town, so I ended up letting the saleslady pick it out because I just wanted to get out of there. Hearing “This one really minimizes your butt” seventeen times in an hour was not a pleasant experience. The light turns green, but Dad doesn’t stop looking at me; it’s like he’s analyzing, reading something for the first time.
“Maybe we can figure something out,” he says, finally urging the car forward. “If you don’t like dress shopping. That’s it, right? You don’t like dress shopping?”
“You’ve nailed it,” I answer, smiling a little. “I can pull something together, though.”
Dad nods, but I can practically see little gears turning in his head.
There’s not too much left of the day by the time we get home. I watch TV for a while, too full to move, then eventually entertain the notion of cleaning my room. When I toss an armload of clothes into my closet, I uncover the ball questionnaire.
I lift the paper, still folded unevenly, and open it. Same stupid, annoying questions. I scrounge up a pencil from my barely visible carpet and write in, “We both enjoy edible Star Wars memorabilia.” I grin and look at question seven as I lower myself to my bed.
7. What is your favorite memory of your father?
My favorite memory of Dad. Huh. I tap my pencil on the paper for a few moments. The trouble is, I don’t really have any memories of my dad. I have memories of my mom in which Dad was present, but they’re undeniably memories of her. My dad and I are merely players in the scenes, the ensemble of a grand performance that was her life. Everything from my childhood involves her, somehow, with my dad tagging along for the ride. I think back as far as I can go, but no, even my first memory is of her on my fifth birthday, helping me decorate the lopsided cake she made me. I vaguely remember Dad leaning over me as I blew out the candles, but I remember Mom’s arm around me, her face close to mine. I remember the way she smelled, the way she spoke, the way her hair brushed my shoulders. But he was just in the background—I’m not even positive about where he was standing.
The memories mostly exclude Dad all the way up to the point when Mom got sick, and even then my “alone time” with my dad was only a result of her illness. We were still wrapped up in her needs, her wants, her time. What was left of it, anyway.
I sigh and lie back on my pillows. There has to be something, though, something with just Dad and me. Or more Dad and me, even, since cutting Mom out of the picture altogether seems pretty impossible.
The french fries.
Yes, yes, the french fries. I close my eyes, trying to remember the scene perfectly before I write it down. It’s tied up with Mom, of course, but still… it was when Mom had gotten so sick, they’d turned to “experimental” treatment, which even at ten I understood meant “we’re practically just giving her vitamins and seeing what happens.” It was near the end, though of course I didn’t totally realize that. My mom had taken my dad and me to the fall carnival every year before she got sick, and she begged Dad to take me alone since she couldn’t go. I didn’t want to go with him, and I suspect he didn’t really want to leave her bedside to go with me, but we were both so desperate to make her happy that we agreed.
“Bring me something back,” she said with a weak wave as we left the hospital room, bundled up in scarves and hats.
“Like what? A stuffed animal?” Dad asked. I could see the worry in his eyes as he tried to figure out what monumental task of a carnival game he’d have to accomplish to win a giant teddy bear.
“French fries. They have those french fries at that stall. All they sell is french fries. Just bring me back some of those.”
“Jenny, they’ll be cold by the time we get back with them. I could bring you some cotton candy, maybe? It’ll keep.”
But no, she insisted on french fries. So after we walked around the carnival for an hour, rode the Ferris wheel more out of obligation than desire, and tried to ignore the sights of little girls with their beautiful, healthy, perfect mothers, we stopped at the french fries stall. Dad bought a box of french fries and asked for extra aluminum foil to wrap them up tightly. By the time we got back to the hospital, they were all cold, and Mom was so sick she could eat only one.
But still. I remember watching Dad carefully wrap the french fries, and how simply nice I thought it was that he was getting them, knowing they’d be cold and mushy by the time we got back to the hospital. There was something beautiful in someone trying to purchase happiness for a dying woman via a three-dollar box of french fries. I remember hoping that one day someone would buy me french fries if that’s all I wanted, even if he knew they’d be no good in the end.
I remember understanding what love really was. It didn’t hurt; it didn’t ignore your prayers, didn’t seem to not care that your mom was dying. It didn’t leave you wondering what you did wrong. Love tried to make you happy, even if it was useless. Love would do anything to make you happy.
I can’t write all that down. Even if I wanted to, I’m not sure I could find the words. Instead, I just scribble down “French fries day” and figure if Dad wants me to explain when we go over the questionnaires, I can. Or maybe he’ll remember french fries day on his own.
How could he forget it?
22 days before
I’m still thinking about cakes the next day—probably because the sugar high doesn’t show signs of wearing off for a few weeks at best. I head to Flying Biscuit to meet Jonas for lunch. Apparently he’s been there all day continuing to work on college admissions essays, because he doesn’t know how to use his summer vacation for anything other than evil. I barge in the door and glance toward my and Jonas’s normal booth.
To my surprise, sitting to Jonas’s right is Anna Clemens. She looks up at me and waves with a big grin on her face. I nod and wait for Jonas’s eyes to rise and meet mine. He shrugs, and I wind through tables and empty chairs to take a seat across from him in the booth. The table is covered in papers with college logos at the top, but very little work seems to have actually be
en done—the legal pad beside Jonas’s plate is empty. I step toward their table, but Ruby suddenly steps in front of me, cutting me off.
“I got you an early birthday present!”
“My birthday isn’t till November,” I remind her.
“A really, really early birthday present, then. Jeffery, cover my table for a second?” she calls across the restaurant, and he nods. I raise my eyebrows as Ruby ducks behind the hostess station, then pops back up with a Victoria’s Secret bag.
“They’re not the expensive ones—do you have any idea how much nice lace naughty panties cost? I was floored. Especially considering they’re made to end up on the floor.”
I peer into the bag, where a pair of black panties with little pink bows on them rests amid tissue paper.
“For Ben, you know. So you can knock this thing out. See, I’m a supportive friend, even if I don’t keep your list!” she says.
“Much appreciated,” I say, grinning. I look back at Jonas and Anna. “So has she been here all day?” Flying Biscuit is sort of my and Jonas’s and Ruby’s place, I thought, and I’m surprised that Anna’s presence feels so… strange.
“Yep. Why?” she asks.
“No reason.” I shrug and walk over to the booth. I try to hide the pink bag from view, although I can tell from Jonas’s expression that Ruby has already told him—and probably shown him—her pity gift to me. Anna grins as I sit down.
“Hey, Shel!” she says. “How’s your summer going?”
“Pretty good, yours?” I ask.
“I got invited to the drama department’s year-wrap party next Saturday,” Anna says with a shrug, though her eyes are sparkling with delight.
“The wrap party? Who goes to that?” Jonas asks with a note of concern. “Wrap parties” are the drama department’s way of throwing giant alcohol fests. I don’t know why they need an excuse—the cheerleaders certainly don’t—but they always call them wrap parties.
“Everyone, especially since Kell was in the spring play,” Anna says gleefully. Kell was a cheerleader who somehow got into the musical-theater class. She managed to bring a huge crowd to the spring play’s opening night, despite the fact that she had a nonspeaking part and kept waving at people from the stage.
“Huh,” Jonas says, and dives into his grits.
“Will—” I hesitate. “Will Ben Simmons be there?” Jonas’s eyes dart up at me.
“It’s at Ben Simmons’s house, actually,” Anna says. “I think he’s providing all the beer. Or his parents are or something.” Ben’s parents are famous at Ridgebrook for being of the “If you want to drink, I’d rather you do it in the house” mentality.
“Do you think I could tag along?” I ask carefully. Best to play it casual. If I get too eager, Anna will think I’ll embarrass her and I’ll never get the invite.
“Um…” Anna studies me, and I can tell she’s playing through various scenes in which I might kill her fragile popularity. “I guess,” she finally says. “Why? Wait, didn’t you ask me about Ben Simmons during finals week?” she says, a sly grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.
I lie. “I’m just a little interested in him. I thought maybe I could talk to him at the party or something.”
“Talking isn’t his strong point,” Anna says, giggling and shimmying her shoulders a bit.
“Well, that, too,” I add, but I can feel my cheeks turning a little bit red.
“I so don’t want to hear this conversation,” Jonas says.
“Ah, sorry,” Anna says, though her giggly voice continues. “Anyway, Shel, just give me a call on Saturday and I’ll swing by your house and pick you up if you want. Do you know what you’re going to wear?”
“Not really.”
“Maybe I’ll bring over some of my clothes just in case,” Anna says, a warm smile trying to disguise the “your clothes might suck” expression underneath it.
“Sounds good,” I answer as Anna slides out of the booth, then heads to the bathroom.
“What’s she doing here?” I ask as she disappears.
“I do hang out with people other than you and Ruby, you know,” Jonas says, smiling. “I mean… not often. And not many people. But sometimes I do.”
“All girls, though, I’ve noticed,” Ruby teases, swinging by the table to hand me a drink. She flashes a grin as she walks away.
“Not exactly a bad thing,” Jonas calls after her.
“You should come to the party, too,” I suggest when Jonas turns back to me. He raises his eyebrows.
“Not my scene. Also, rumor is that if you get too close to Ben Simmons, you wake up ten years in the future in a community college production of Oklahoma!”
“He’s not that bad.”
“Bad? No. It’s hard to have personality traits as intense as ‘bad’ after crushing all those beer cans on your head.” I roll my eyes but laugh anyway.
“It’s the only way,” I say when I see Anna coming back from the bathroom.
“I’m not debating that,” Jonas says. “But that doesn’t mean I want to think about you and Ben Simmons if I can avoid it.”
I wouldn’t say it out loud, but to be honest, I don’t really want to think about me and Ben Simmons, either—especially when Anna slides back in beside Jonas and I remember that she and Ben hooked up once. I’ll be kissing the same lips Anna Clemens did. That’s just wrong.
But what choice do I have?
20 days before
Monday morning, when I trudge downstairs in my pajamas, my breath catches in my throat.
Sitting in our dilapidated living room is my dad’s sister, my aunt Kaycee. She’s wearing a short skirt and a cowboy hat. Because, you know, she’s going to wrangle some cattle in those designer alligator-print sandals. Her face is caked in makeup and bears evidence of at least one or two plastic surgeries, and I’m pretty sure the itty-bitty designer handbag she’s carrying probably cost more than most cars.
“Hey, Shel! Are you ready to go dress shopping?” she near-shouts.
“Oh no,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Shelby? Is that you?” I hear my dad call from the kitchen over the sound of running water. He steps out, drying an ancient plastic cup that says Myrtle Beach on the side. He’s grinning. “I thought Kaycee could go dress shopping with you today. You know, to help you out and stuff.” His good intentions, clearly based on our conversation post–cake tasting, are laid out on his face. Part of me wants to slap them away. Especially when Kaycee bounces on her heels like a person in her teens, not forties. Promise One, I chant to myself. Love and listen to Dad. Promise One. I have to do it.
“Come on, girl! It’ll be a blast. We can even get smoothies afterward—I’m on day four of my carb-sugar-fat cleanse so I’m allowed anything with organic strawberries now!” Kaycee says enthusiastically. Dad gives me a hopeful look. This Princess Ball is making Promise One very, very hard to keep.
“Mind if I bring some friends along?” I ask.
“Sure! The more the merrier,” Kaycee says. Is she drunk? I think she might be drunk. Surely no one is this happy about dress shopping without some sort of alcoholic assistance.
I run upstairs and dial Ruby and Jonas.
I have a feeling the desperation in my voice persuaded them to hurry, because within thirty minutes they’ve arrived together in Lucinda. Soon after, Ruby is applying her eyeliner in the back of Kaycee’s sedan as we race toward Four Corners Mall.
“Be careful with that makeup, Reba,” Kaycee says warily. “I just got this whole thing detailed.”
“Ruby,” I correct her. Kaycee doesn’t seem to hear me. When we exit the car, Kaycee glances back at the seat Ruby was sitting in, as if she expects to find giant streaks of Maybelline on them.
“Shoot, someone hold my keys? They don’t fit in my clutch,” Kaycee says, holding up the tiny sparkly purse she’s carrying. Ruby rolls her eyes and allows Kaycee to drop the keys, complete with key chains bearing beads, rubber ducks, and New Orleans 05!, into her palm.
Sending Aunt Kaycee to pick out a dress for a virgin ball seems a little bit like sending a wolf to host a sheep’s birthday party. She sweeps into the formal-gown section of Macy’s like the grand duchess of style and begins pulling dresses off racks so quickly that soon she’s hidden behind a mountain of taffeta. Ruby and Jonas look scared, like I’ve just led them into a war zone.
“That’s the eleventh pink dress she’s picked up,” Jonas mutters in amazement. The store is organized by color and, much to Kaycee’s delight, seems to have an extensive collection of dresses befitting Tropical Barbie.
“All the girls in the brochure were wearing white, weren’t they? Didn’t your mom wear white to it?” Ruby asks as Kaycee finds the turquoise dresses with a delighted squeal.
“Kaycee doesn’t like white,” I say. “She and her bridesmaids wore sunshine yellow to her second wedding. But I’ll admit, I do sorta want to see everyone’s faces when I show up in lime green.”
“Good point,” Jonas says. “Make sure you take a picture for me. Hey, do you think if we formed a ‘Ban Kaycee Reaver from Ridgebrook’ committee, your dad would join it?”
I smile just a little and answer, “I’ll happily be committee president either way—”
“Shelby! Here, they’re gonna put these in a room for you. Go ahead and start trying them on while I grab a few more!” Kaycee shouts from across the racks of dresses. I give her a thumbs-up and giggle with Jonas and Ruby as soon as Kaycee turns her back.
“Just give me whichever monstrosity you end up with,” Ruby suggests. “I can probably make it wearable.”
“Shelby? Hey!” a voice cries out. I turn to see Mona Banks heading toward me, detouring around circular racks of clothing. It takes her ages to actually reach me.
“Hey, Mona,” Jonas says.
“And Ruby, right?” Mona says, nodding in Ruby’s direction. “I haven’t seen you in forever!”