I’ve never drunk alcohol before. Over the years, my father has drunk enough to drown the entire U.S. Navy, but I have never touched a drop. I don’t know why I agreed to go to the party, but Callan was looking at me with mischief in his eyes, and he was so strange and weird, and I suppose I was intrigued. He gave me the address where I should turn up and then disappeared, and I was left with a number of questions.
1) Did I have the courage to show up at a high school gathering of my peers?
2) Did I have the courage to show up alone?
3) What the hell was I going to wear if I did?
4) How was I going to explain where I was going to my father?
Questions one and two were tricky. I went home and Dad was out, still at the bar probably. I decided to gauge my courage levels based on how good I felt in whatever I found to wear, so I went about addressing question three. I searched through my own wardrobe, feeling less and less confident—I’ve always been a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl. Party clothes have never been my scene, and besides, it’s not as though Dad would ever buy me anything fancy. There was no way I was going anywhere if I had to wear my own clothes.
I knew I shouldn’t, and I definitely didn’t feel great about it, but I realized the only way I was going to find anything decent to wear was by rummaging through the storage boxes in the attic. Mom’s old stuff. My father’s hardly a sentimental guy, but for some reason he never got around to giving Mom’s clothes to charity, or simply throwing them out. I crept up into the attic, remembering to take a fresh roll of tape with me to close up the boxes when I was done going through them, and then I went on my mission.
Now that I’m up here, I keep imagining that I can hear the front door closing and it’s scaring the shit out of me. I don’t want to go back down the ladder into the house empty handed, though. And if Malcolm really were home, I’d be able to hear him slamming about, drunkenly walking into things as he makes his way around the ground floor. I steel my nerves and move quickly instead, holding my breath.
Once upon a time, someone, probably Friday, packed up eight boxes of my mom’s clothes with the greatest of care. Small bags of lavender and other sweet smelling flowers were placed in between layers of the neatly folded garments, and somehow, even after all this time, the scent remains when I cut open the first of the stacked boxes. At first I find pants and button down shirts. Loose, sheer blouses and camisoles. More of the same in the second box. The third box contains sweat pants and more loose fitting clothing, work out apparel, plus a few pairs of shoes that would never fit me no matter how hard I tried to jam my feet inside. Mom was kind of short—only five foot six. I’m taller than that now, but I’m slender and willowy just like she was. I still fit in her clothes right now, though Friday insists I’m not done growing. That I still have another foot or so to grow before I’m done. I’m kind of sad about that. Secretly wearing my mom’s clothes has made me feel close to her over the years. When I can no longer do that, it will feel like I’m losing another small connection with her.
I hit pay dirt when I open the fourth box. Inside, red, black, dark navy blue and green dresses are individually wrapped in tissue paper, a multitude of different materials and styles. I handle each dress with great care, briefly closing my eyes each time I take out a new one to see if I have any recollection of my mother wearing it long ago. Most of them, I don’t recall. Some of them I do.
I pick out a black, short dress—one I don’t remember—and I hold it up against myself, knowing that it will fit. Heavy beading decorates the neckline, where the material plunges down. I don’t exactly have the biggest boobs, but I’ll have a noticeable cleavage in this dress. Being sexy has never been top on my list of priorities but for some reason today I want to feel good. I want to look good. Callan Cross’s devious smirk flashes into my head and I scowl, trying to reject the idea that I want to feel attractive because of him.
I’m not a nun in training. I’m a teenaged girl, and I’ve been riding the crazy train of puberty for the past two years, so I’ve noticed boys. I’ve noticed how they’ve gone from a loud, abrasive, strange-smelling annoyance in my life to a loud, abrasive, strange-smelling distraction, but there hasn’t been one particular boy who’s grabbed my attention. I don’t even know if Callan Cross has grabbed my attention, but I suppose I’m interested to find out.