Jonah’s comment about Evy’s curves echoes loud enough for me to put on a better bra—but I refuse to reach for anything push-up or padded.
I limp down the hallway. Now that I have time to examine it, the bathroom is chaos. Evy has piled bags and bottles all over the counter. My brush is buried beneath a shower caddy and a tube of toothpaste. I wipe off a smear of something sticky and smooth my hair out of its ponytail.
My makeup case is not in its regular spot: the left side of the second drawer. I check the third drawer. Check the cabinet.
“Brighton!” Evy calls up the stairs.
“Two minutes,” I call back.
Since I can’t locate my makeup, I rummage through hers. Rejecting hot pink, then glitter gold, I settle on plain gray eyeliner. It has a wide, smudgy tip that leaves my eyes thickly outlined. Attempting to rub it off results in further smudging. I resign myself to looking raccoon-like and impatiently swipe on mascara—again, too heavy and gloppy for my taste. Her shadows, blushes, and glosses are all too bright for my I’m-not-trying look, so I guess I’m finished. I fix a stray speck of mascara and frown. I shouldn’t care this much. It’s just a party, not prom, not anything that matters. And I look fine.
Except the two people standing downstairs are waiting to judge me. No matter what I wear, all they’ll see is how desperately I want their approval.
21
Jonah
10:10 P.M.
CAN I GO BACK IN TIME & TELL MYSELF THIS IS A BAD IDEA?
“Is this okay?”
I don’t answer. She knows she looks good. The dress probably costs more than I made in a month when Carly and I worked at Dairy Queen. And the girl all but treats the stairs as a runway, pausing at the top so we can admire her. I keep expecting someone to cue the soundtrack of one of Carly’s cheesy romantic comedies—except that would make me the date waiting in awestruck wonder, and I’m not impressed. If this were really a teen movie, it’d be Carly floating down the steps. She’d be wearing something a lot sexier.
Bright looks up at me from the bottom step and her dark brown hair slides back from her face. I suck in a breath—she wasn’t lying; there is some resemblance between her and Evy. I didn’t see it earlier when she’d looked about eight with the headband or when she had her hair in a ponytail, but now, with it hanging down around her face, there’s something older and arresting about her.
Her eyes are still too big, still remind me of a doll’s, but they look pointed instead of round; sexy in a subtle way—though the look she projects is much too innocent.
But Brighton isn’t someone you easily look away from either. If I’m honest with myself, she’s beautiful. Beautiful. Not that Carly isn’t. Carly and Brighton side by side would be something to see. Carly’s head would barely reach Bright’s shoulder, yet Carly projects so much larger a presence, while Brighton blends in. Or tries to.
Right now, she doesn’t look vanilla at all. The guys will drool for her; the girls will hate on her. Carly will have a fit of jealousy.
God, what am I doing?
She carefully slides a flip-flop over her bandaged foot, wincing a little as she lets go of the strap. She’s left the ring off. Good. I want her to stand out, but not because she’s flaunting a daddy’s-girl status symbol.
“I just need to grab my purse and we can go.”
Evy holds it out with a smug smile. “I’ll fill Mom in when she gets home, but we won’t wait up. You two have fun … but not too much. And don’t get into trouble. Mom keeps a bail fund for me—for you, she only has college money.”
When Mom gets home. I don’t think Dad has been mentioned all night. Who would’ve thought Brighton’s parents would be divorced? I bet they have one of those still-best-friends divorces and Bright’s got a second car, a second fan club at her dad’s house. Perfection times two.
“Let’s go,” I say. Let’s get this over with.
She stays silent as we back out of her driveway, not even picking up the iPod. Her answer to “Which way back to Main Street?” is so quiet she has to repeat it. So quiet that I can hear her stomach when it growls.
“Hungry?”
“A little,” she admits.
“We can stop and get something on the way.” Of course, now that we’re on the highway, there’s nowhere to stop till we get to Hamilton. I have no clue why she’s gone incommunicado. Or what she likes to eat. She’s staring out the window and absently rolling the hem of her dress with green fingernails. My eyes keep shifting from the road to her legs to the back of her neck.
“Are you going to tell everyone in Cross Pointe I was in your room?” she asks quietly. She’s still facing away from me, but instead of fidgeting with her dress, her nails are hidden against the palms of her hands.
“I hadn’t planned on it. Why? Are you embarrassed to have people know you know me?”
“Hardly. If you remember, I’ve been trying to get to know you at school for months.” She takes a deep breath, then continues, “It’s just that you said that in front of Evy, just to embarrass me and make me come.”