My foot hurts and I’m tired. I glare at the cute shoes lining the bottom of my closet; there’s no way I’ll be able to wear anything but flip-flops. I direct the same frown at my bed—like my comforter and pillow are somehow betraying me by being simultaneously inviting and not an option.
Maybe this is a good thing, Jonah did invite me after all—even if he tried to weasel out of it immediately after. He even agreed to come to the library on Sunday. If he meant it, if he shows—then I’ve done it. A 100 percent.
Somehow securing the plaque is no longer enough; I need him to like me too. Or, at least, not hate me.
Evy shows up in my bedroom as I’m yanking my shirt over my head.
“What are you doing?” I squeak and cross my arms over my bra. “Ever hear of knocking?”
“I’m helping you. Don’t you dare put on something like Gramma Anna would wear.”
I grab a sweatshirt and zip it up over my bare stomach. “I don’t need help getting dressed.” I’m curious what she’d choose—curious but also terrified. I’d probably end up looking ridiculous in an outfit that’s fabulous on her but I can’t pull off at all.
“Yeah, well, I also want some details. His bedroom? And don’t tell me he was kidding. You know you can’t lie to me.”
“It’s not what you think. It wasn’t anything romantic.” Evy’s eyebrows shoot up and I hurry to recover. “Not that it was unromantic, it just wasn’t, you know … It was nothing bedroom related.”
“Fine,” Evy huffs. “Don’t tell me. But I knew the second you walked in the door something was up and I knew the second he walked in our door what it was. I don’t get what the problem is. Is he not preppy-boy-boring enough for you?”
“No! That’s not it at all. It’s not like that with us. There’s not an us. I barely even know him. He hates everything about me.” I pause to take a breath and remember the only argument I actually need: “And, he has a girlfriend.”
“Then why is he taking you to this party?”
“It isn’t a date.” I want her to shut up, to stop asking questions that make me say these things out loud. “She’ll be there. Quit trying to create a scandal where there isn’t one.”
“There’s always a scandal if you know where to look.” She pauses by my closet door and fingers the black dress hanging on the back. “Is this what you’re wearing tomorrow?” Her face has softened, teasing dropping to tenderness.
Tomorrow. I forgot. How could I forget? I sink onto my bed, sitting on my hands so I won’t make fists. “I should cancel. I shouldn’t go out tonight.”
Evy sits next to me. “Yes, you should.”
“But what if Mom needs me?”
“She’s fine. She called while you were out—she and Aunt Joan are at some wine bar in East Lake.”
“But—”
Evy reaches over and takes one of my hands, smoothing out the fingers. “That’s the ring Dad gave you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear it.”
“I don’t usually. It just seemed right today.” I slip it off and put it in my jewelry box. “I’m staying home.”
“No.” Evy yanks on my sweatshirt zipper. “Go. Have fun. And pick out something else for tomorrow. This is a memorial, not a funeral. It’s a celebration of Dad’s life. He’d want you in rainbow colors.”
She grabs my black dress and pauses before leaving: “You’re going to this party—so get dressed.”
I scowl at the back of my bedroom door—and then at my closet. Push hangers around and reject all my clothing. Figuring out what to wear to the memorial will have to wait for the morning. I can’t think about Dad right now.
I need to keep moving or I won’t be able to move at all. That paralyzing grief is right there, lurking in the corner, waiting for me to stand still long enough for it to pounce. But if Mom and Evy are still pulled together, then I can be fine too.
I have to make it through tonight before I can worry about tomorrow. Through this party. I don’t understand the rules of Jonah’s game or his expectations. Does he really want me to get to know him better? If I annoy him as much as it seems, then inviting me to the party makes no sense. If Evy’s right …
He said I was boring—like vanilla ice cream. I glance at the white eyelet top under my hand and shove it aside. I’ve got short things, sparkly things, but I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard. Effort that appears effortless is always twice as much work.
I tug a hand-me-down navy blue polo dress from a hanger. Amelia’s mom accidentally put it in the dryer and it’s too short and tight for her Kardashian curves. When Amelia made me try it on, she clapped and said, “You actually look more Victoria’s Secret Angel and less feathers-and-halo angel.” It walks the line between too-sexy-for-school and oh-I-just-threw-this-on. Perfect.