Before either of us can say something to ruin the moment or uncover a new conflict—begin a new round of Truth or Dare—I scoop up my bag and slip out the car door. “Soon.”
He echoes it back, his eyes earnest. “Soon.”
I dance up the walkway to the door, not wanting to go to bed, but knowing Never will bark if I linger outside. Everything seems possible tonight. People can change; I can matter. I can kiss a boy. He can see me so clearly that it forces me to take a second look at myself.
Once I get through today, tomorrow and the entire summer stretch before me with so much possibility.
I shut the door and stare at myself in the foyer mirror. Never wanders over and leans his head against my stomach. I absently stroke his ears and continue to examine my reflection. My curls are wild. My eyeliner and mascara have melted and melded until I have smoky, smudgy eyes typically reserved for nightclubs or Goths. The collar of my dress has dried warped, and the left side points up while the right curls under.
I look like a disaster. No wonder Silvie wasn’t sure it was me.
And yet he kissed me.
Or, I kissed him and he kissed me back.
I give Never one last pat and pull away. His drool marks drip from hip height down to the hem of my dress. I bend and plant an impulsive kiss on his nose before heading up to the bathroom.
While I brush my teeth, I pull out the nail polish remover. Sometime around our arrival at the party, the green glitter stopped seeming rebellious or attractive. It might be someone else’s form of rebellion or someone else’s preferred color, but it isn’t mine. I erase the traces of sparkles from my fingers and drop them in the trashcan. I consider losing the Band-Aids too—my palm isn’t bleeding anymore, but they were sealed with a kiss and I’m not ready to let that go quite yet.
I blush at the cheesy romance of the thought, but my fingers still curl protectively over the bandages.
I reach for the bottle of Pointe-Shoe Pink Mom bought for between visit touch-ups. Shake it, uncap it. Then replace the lid and put it back in the drawer. I may not want green glitter, but I don’t want that either. Tomorrow I can decide on my new color, or color-for-this-week, or even if I want to be a girl who wears nail polish at all.
Though I know I’ll wake with a mess of snarls, I don’t braid my hair either. Or wash off my makeup.
In my room, my black dress is back on my closet door. A note from Evy pinned to its collar with a rhinestone hairclip.
B—
I shouldn’t have taken this. Wear what ever you want tomorrow. And tell me to butt out sometimes.
I hope you had fun to night … But not too much. I want details!
Xo,
E.
But she was right the first time. The dress is wrong. I shove the hanger in the back of my closet.
Grabbing a pen from my desk, I circle the last line of her note and add: Maybe … If you let me sleep in. And slide it under her bedroom door. If I’m still in bed, she’ll have to deal with Mom, questions from the caterers, any early-arriving guests. Evy won’t be happy about it, but she’s a big girl and I’m tired.
There’s only one thing I have left to do before I change into pajamas and climb into bed, but I stand in front of my closet and reject my outfits one at a time: too beige, too black, too khaki, too bland. Finally I choose a navy-and-white-polka-dot blouse. Normally, I pair it with white capris, but tomorrow I’ll wear it with a red skirt. And a green-and-navy-striped belt. And red shoes. And my ring. I lay it all on the back of my desk chair. Dad used to call me his Rainbow Brite—how could I celebrate him dressed in anything drab?
Even after I turn off the lights and get into bed, I’m still smiling in the direction of my chair. It feels right.
I roll onto my back and whisper up at the ceiling, “Dad, I don’t have an answer for you tonight, don’t have my ‘one thing I did to make the world better.’ I don’t even know where to begin … I did lots of things today—some of them good, but I made a lot of mistakes too … and some of my mistakes turned out to be good things …”
I blow him a kiss and roll onto my side. I wish he was here, I wish I could hear his voice. I think he’d say he’s proud of me. I’m proud of me too. But I don’t feel like me. Curls tickle my cheeks and my toes sting when I brush them against my blanket.
One night with Jonah and I’ve morphed from Teflon to something that reacts when scratched … a record or a match. No, not something that’s damaged by use. Something better.
My brain’s too tired to spin ideas and pick a new analogy. And why bother? Amelia will come up with something soon enough.
I shift and shake a piece of hair off my cheek—I don’t feel settled in my skin. In the skin of this girl with chaos in her brain and curling around her shoulders. A girl with a rumpled dress on the floor at the foot of her bed, smeared eye makeup, flushed cheeks, and lips swollen from kisses.
Who is this girl?
I owe it to myself to find out.
Acknowledgments