“Kent,” I say, “the tunic’s not going to fit you if you suck it in. Let it all hang out.” And he does.
When I get to Henry, it’s a little more complicated than with the other guys. I avoided a Henry dream last night, so it could have been worse, but I can’t help but notice his solid stomach as I bring around the tape measure, or the broadness of his shoulders. I didn’t ask anyone to take off their shirts (Mostly because these are just going to be loose-fitting tunics anyway, but partially because I didn’t want to have to see Kent or Eddie without shirts. And they seemed grateful when I told them they could keep their shirts on). Being this close to Henry shirted, well, is my mind really going there?
Dottie and I decide to go to the fabric store tomorrow after school and then collect money from everyone after we see how much it will cost.
I walk the crew out when we’re finished, and I’m surprised when they each give me a friendly hug along with an enthusiastic thank-you for making the costumes. My parents come in from the garage just as I close the front door.
“Hiya, Jess. Who just left?”
“Hi, Dad. Those were my friends,” I tell him.
The day had turned out to be so fun and easy that I almost forgot about Van and the drum kit. He was long gone when everyone left. I didn’t want to ask Barrett about it at dinner in case my parents would lay some guilt on me about the destruction of someone else’s property, so I wait until he’s getting ready for bed.
“So?” I ask.
“So what?” he says through a mouthful of toothpaste foam.
“What happened with Van?” I demand. My adrenaline is pumping, like I’m ready for a fight if Van wants to start one. I can just see us at the bike racks after school.
Barrett spits into the sink and runs the water, taking his time so he can keep me in suspense as long as possible. So obnoxious, yet so predictable. He’s about to floss when I kick his slippered foot with mine. Barrett finally spills, “Well, I wish you could’ve been there. I was totally ready for him to blow up when I told him I had his book and was going to use it to call all of those girls if he didn’t.”
“What did he say?” I sit on the toilet (grateful for a lid) and rest my elbow on the sink, chin in hand, looking up at Barrett.
“He grumbled that he’d call them, but I said I’d keep the book for a while just in case. You and I can check up on some of the names to see if he’s calling.”
“That’ll be fun,” I smirk. “And the drums?” I’m practically vibrating with excitement at the thought of Van’s discovery of the explosion-like holes in his drum kit.
“Oh, that was hilarious. He was so trying so hard just to be cool. I saw him stop, though, and his mouth puckered a little like he just sucked on some deodorant. Classic.” Barrett laughs to himself at the memory, continuing to heighten my anticipation of the big moment. “And then . . .” Yes? Yes? “Then he started taking apart the kit and carrying it piece by piece to his car.”
“And then what?” There has to be more.
“And then he said, ‘Later,’ no eye contact or friendly handshake, of course, and left.” Barrett folds his hands across his chest and looks down at me.
“That’s it? He wasn’t even mad?” I’m shocked.
“I’m sure he was mad, but what could he say? He knew I had a million things to be pissed at him about, plus I had his notebook. Maybe a part of him thought he deserved it.”
Weird, but possible. And it’s not like he was that attached to his drum kit, considering it had been at our house for the last three years. I can’t say I’m not a little disappointed that there wasn’t more of a fight, because Van so deserves to have his ass kicked. But when I think about how many girls he has to call and tell he might have given them gonorrhea . . . Maybe he’s saving his fighting for that.
chapter 31
THE SCHOOL WEEK PASSES IN SUCH a mild-mannered way that it almost makes up for the assiness of the beginning of the year. I see Van a couple of times in the hallway, but he passes by with no acknowledgment. I at least hope he’s trying to ignore me and not that he truly doesn’t notice me. I’d like to think I’ve got more effect on him than that at this point. Char gives me a half-assed friendly wave but never stops to chat when I see her (not that I stop either). I catch glimpses of Bizza here and there, back to her dramatic punk look, but she seems to be avoiding me because we haven’t actually passed in the halls all week. It’s pretty sweet that I’m not the one having to do the avoiding anymore.
I spend my lunch hours with the band geeks, who I’d feel bitchy dropping altogether since they were so amazingly welcoming when I needed it. Besides, the only D&D person in my lunch hour is Henry, and I’m trying to keep my cool. Not truly consciously, but I’m worried that the more time I spend with him, the more I’ll like him. Stupid, I know, because there really shouldn’t be anything wrong with liking him. But the jerky part of my brain thinks otherwise.
Dottie and I buy fabric for the costumes on Monday after school, and I rush home each day to sew. I only have this week, this weekend, and next week before we leave for Fudwhalla on that Saturday morning. My parents were perfectly willing to let me go, particularly after Barrett noted, “No worries, guys. Jessie’s nerd herd will take good care of her.” I thought we were beyond name-calling after yesterday. I guess Barrett was just being polite. I can’t say I’m not disappointed. But it’s not like I’m one hundred percent past the labeling either.
It’s Friday, and I wonder whether Henry will remember about our Friday lunch going-out thing (not a date). I debate pretending to forget, but I hate when other people forget things and I hate lying. I rarely forget things. My wonders and worries are answered when I see Henry in the hall before second-period gym. Until this morning, I had managed to keep him out of my dreams (and I won’t go into detail of the very graphic nature of today’s pre-alarm-clock fandango), but now I’m all fidgety with Henry confusion. He looks cute, too, with his full-length pants and a Batman T-shirt I remember seeing at Target. It’s somewhat fitted and shows off his decidedly unnerdy chest and arms. He smiles at me in a completely comfortable, nonflirty way, and I wonder why I had any worry at all about seeing him. He confirms that “We’re on” for lunch today and reminds me that I’m buying.
As I trudge around the track during gym, I’m surprised at how I feel a little disappointed about the undateness of the whole thing. Would Henry be different to me in a different universe? All twisty hair and scorching eyes? But this is the universe I’m in, so I need to figure this out on my own plane.
Lunch today is as pleasant as it was last week, with held-open doors, multiple burgers, and excellent, easy conversation. I am completely hung up on the nondate thing when I do something unexpected (even to me, which is weird since I’m the one doing it). After we’re done eating and it’s time to cross the street, I remember how Henry grabbed my hand last time to help me across. I decide (and this is the unexpected part) not to wait for Henry, or even for when the time comes to cross the street, but to grab his hand preemptively. So I do. We stand there, on the wrong side of the street, holding hands until a very clear break in the traffic forces us to cross, still holding hands. And we keep holding hands all the way up to the school doors, when Henry lets go to hold a door open for me. The bell rings, and we both hurriedly separate and yell, “See you tonight!”
All I can think about during precalc is how warm and perfect it felt to hold Henry’s hand and how terrified I am that I’ll feel that way again.
chapter 32
IT TURNS OUT DUNGEONS AND Dragons is at Henry’s house almost every Friday night, due to his parents’ active social life and, as Kent explained, “His fancy chairs set a good mood for the game.” Is it weird that I totally know what he means?
I end up sitting between Henry and Kent again, which I’m glad about so I don’t have to avoid (or attempt) eye contact with Henry the whole night, but not glad about because there’s always the possibility of touching his masculine veiny (but no
t in a gross, steroid way) forearm.
The vibe is happy, with even Eddie lightening up on me because of the costumes. We pause from the game for a while when the pizzas arrive (our party was in the middle of trying to disarm some traps around a mysterious cabin in the woods). Kent and Doug are discussing highlights from last year’s Fudwhalla.
“Remember that guy with the giant—”
“That was hilarious! And that girl with the thing—”
“Totally!” Pizza bits fly everywhere, but I don’t gain any more understanding of what I’m in for next weekend. Dottie calls me over to sit beside her.
“Jess, guess what I found in my mom’s forbidden drawer.”
Did she really want me to guess? The lengthy pause tells me yes. “Um, handcuffs?” I guess because that seems like something that might be in a forbidden drawer.
“That, too, but come here and I’ll show you.” Dottie leads me into the foyer while the guys eat. She rifles through a giant messenger bag and pulls out two elaborately lacy and ribboned corsets. “Score, right?” I can only look at her and pray she doesn’t hand one to me. Apparently, I’m not quick enough on the prayers because she thrusts a black corset, intricately woven throughout with lavender ribbon, into my hand. “I’m keeping the one with red ribbons because it has more padding. I don’t think you need it.” To say it’s disturbing that Dottie has thought about if I needed padding would be undermining the fact that she wants me to wear her mom’s corset.
“Dottie—I can’t wear this. Your mom’s boobs touched it.”
Dottie snorts, “I wouldn’t do that to you, Jess. The tags are still on, see? My mom just buys this stuff in case the mood hits. She has drawers of it, complete with tags.” I double-check, and thankfully the tags are still intact. But a corset?
“When exactly do you want me to wear this?” Visions dance through my head of a surprise after-pizza dual striptease performance.
“For Fudwhalla, duh. We can wear them over our blouses. They’ll look great with the skirts you’re making.” Dottie and I decided that I would sew full skirts, and she would take care of the top half. I guess it won’t be too bad if we’re wearing them over our shirts.
I stuff the corset into my bag so no one sees, even though it would not technically be seeing my underwear (because it would technically be seeing Dottie’s mom’s underwear). I really hope this doesn’t mean the guys will be wearing jockstraps over their pants.
When the pizza boxes have been thoroughly demolished, we continue our adventure. I say we should try breaking through a window near the back of the cabin. Dottie merrily sneers and commands, “Roll for initiative.” A chorus of “Shits” and “Nice going, Imalthia” round the table. “What?” I question. “It doesn’t mean something bad is going to happen, it just means something is going to happen. And it’s better than standing around picking our butts in the woods all day. Unless you enjoy that sort of thing, Eddie,” I add onto the end.
“Watch it, n00b,” he threatens, but I know he’s just kidding.
The adventure gets really exciting and violent at this point, and midnight rolls around way too quickly. We decide to forget D&D next Friday for a costume fitting and an early night’s sleep. Fudwhalla is an hour’s drive, and we need to get there early to set up our “Place of Residence,” as Kent calls it. I’m freaked about spending an entire weekend with a group of new friends and a whole lot of men in tights, not to mention SLEEPING near all of them. What if they snore? What if I snore? What if I fart in my sleep? What if I have to poo in the woods in the middle of the night? What if—
My panicked thoughts are interrupted by a strong hand on my shoulder and Henry’s voice in my ear. “Your brother’s here, Jessie.” His eyes are Nalgene bottle blue tonight. I wish I could be as relaxed around him as he is around me. I wish my pervy dreams and overactive brain would leave me alone. I wish . . . I wish he and I were the only ones in the room right now.
Barrett’s horn honks, and I quickly gather my stuff, careful not to let the corset accidentally peek out of my bag. When I get home, I decide to store the corset in the bottom of my never-wear-but-too-sentimental-to-get-rid-of T-shirt drawer. But first I absolutely have to try it on. I lock my door, take the corset out of my bag, then double-check to make sure the door is still locked. I take off my shirt, then my bra, then check the lock one more time with my hands over my chest. Still locked. I examine the corset and am happy to discover that instead of having to lace it up, as I’ve seen done in countless period movies, there’s a hidden zipper on the side. The crisscrossed ribbons are just for show. I bring the zipper around the front, zip it up, and then turn the corset so it’s on correctly. It’s tight. The zipper is surrounded by elastic, but it’s definitely snug. My boobs are smashed down below the plunging sweetheart neckline, and I delicately reach in and pull them out so they’re sort of sitting within the supportive cups sewn inside. I look in the mirror and am in awe of my cleavage, which is now dangerously close to attacking my neck. I put my hands on my hips and think, Hey, not bad. There is my blah brown hair, though, so I jam my fingers in and shake it. It falls slightly less flat, and I’m about to try flinging it forward for even more height when I realize the corset doesn’t exactly allow for forward motion. I unzip it and place it carefully in its hiding place. As I fall asleep, I wonder what Henry will think of all of this. I awake the next morning to faint dream memories of corsets and jockstraps.
chapter 33
THE WEEKEND IS A BLUR OF FABric and thread. By Sunday night, I’m almost finished with the skirts (I made them before I made the guys’ things so I can perfect my corseted self before next weekend). That leaves me with five tunics to sew by Friday. The panic sets in, but I have to put aside the sewing for a bit of homework. This is a particularly brutal week for quizzes and tests. (Why do teachers do that? Is it some teacherly conspiracy to put students over the edge? Are they sitting in the teachers’ lounge evilly laughing about it right now?) I’m in the middle of (what else?) precalc homework, when Barrett busts into my bedroom.
“Read this.” He shoves a sloppy stack of papers on top of my precalc book.
“What is it?”
“It’s my NYU early admission essay. I have to send it in by November first, so I want to make sure it’s perfect. Will you read it?”
His electric excitement almost eclipses the reality of him going away to college. I look down at the papers. “Is it okay if I read them later? I kind of put off my homework for the weekend until now.” He deflates and tries to take the papers off my desk. “Leave them,” I say. “Maybe I’ll have a little time after my math homework.” He perks up a bit and kisses the top of my head before he leaves my room. It’s very rare that Barrett kisses me, and for a second I almost think he may feel a little sad about leaving.
Doubtful.
By 11:30, I have completed all of tomorrow’s assignments and outlined my English short essay for Friday. Barrett’s application sits tauntingly on the corner of my desk, and I think about leaving it there until he asks me about it again but know that he’ll for sure ask again first thing in the morning. Might as well read it now.
I snuggle down in my bed with my trusty lightweight book light flopping over the loose pages of Barrett’s application. Several of the pages are short essay or fill-in-the-blank Social Security number type questions, and I decide I’ll leave those until later. The part everyone always freaks about is the essay, and it seems like it would make much more interesting reading than a list of Barrett’s accomplishments and grade point average. Barrett’s essay choice is A, to write about a person, place, or event that has meaning and why it is important. My mind races for a minute, thinking about how I might answer the question, but my droopy eyelids convince me to read Barrett’s essay before I fall asleep. I wouldn’t want to have to wake myself even earlier in the morning in order to read his essay (I never know what kind of dream I may be interrupting).
Barrett’s essay begins:
As someone who has
always considered himself a leader, I have a major distaste for followers. Followers are particularly obvious in what is known to many as the “popular” or “in-crowd.” Some people spend their entire school careers trying to be liked and to fit in with a group that doesn’t even want them. But the popular clique isn’t the only group with followers; many of the fringe groups have them as well. For the last four years I have been immersed in the local punk scene. I have definitely seen my share of followers, poseurs, and wannabes. Sometimes it’s hard to weed out the genuinely interesting people from those who just desperately want to be liked. I’m not immune to the guile of the try-hards, but there is one person in my life who has consistently reminded me how unimportant it is to do what everyone expects you to do—my sister, Jessie.
Did I just read what I think I read? I scan the page and see my name peppered throughout. I reread the opening paragraph and confirm that he’s talking about me, then skim the rest of the page, too tired to read it thoroughly. I catch snippets:
. . . such a natural talent, learning the drums and adopting an unfamiliar style of music . . .
. . . her distinctive fashion sense; Jessie designs and sews her own skirts.
But the line I’m most drawn to is
I admire how she fearlessly dumped her user friends for a new group of oddballs.
I put the essay down. I don’t know whether to feel flattered or offended. Of course, it’s way flattering that my brother, whom I have always looked up to and adored, would make the focus of his precious college essay about me. But his basic thesis is that I made friends with a bunch of dorks. It’s all well and good that he “admires” me for that, but he’s the one who went from freaky to preppy in the span of a month. Sure, it’s “cool” in theory to be friendly to nerds, but it’s another thing entirely to be seen as one of them. And that’s how Barrett sees me.