I start sweating, the room spinning. I don’t have a paper bag so I cup my hands and breathe into them, sitting at my desk chair to drop my head between my knees. From down here, where I can see the flaws of my room again, I hear the bleep of an email on my computer.
I sit up, too fast. The room’s spinning again. When it stops, I reach for the mouse and click open my in-box. It’s a note from Lipton:
I can’t wait to see you. I’m so nervous. I just put my shoes on the wrong feet. Please don’t laugh if my clothes are on backward when I come to pick you up. It’s like I no longer have opposable thumbs. Ouch. I just poked myself in the eye with my toothbrush.
I laugh out loud, and my nerves begin to slip away. Not completely, but enough. I write back:
Thanks, I needed that. See you tonight!
I head to the bathroom, still shaky, and stare at myself in the mirror. The eye makeup that was so expertly applied is now all smudged. I wash it off and make three attempts at reapplying before it looks almost as good as it did when we left the store. Mom calls me for dinner and I try to eat, but my stomach is too knotted. For once, she doesn’t give me a hard time. I excuse myself to get dressed. The new clothes go back on, and Mom’s shoes. I even add a pair of earrings and one of Vicurious’s bracelets, which I’m counting on not being recognizable by itself.
Then it’s time, and my mother shouts, “They’re here!”
I peek out the window and see a minivan in the driveway. I breathe. The doorbell rings. Mom is calling my name. She’s answering the door.
I look at myself in the mirror one last time. Smooth my hair that doesn’t need smoothing. Pull the ponytail tighter. Put my hand to the doorknob.
“Vicky!” Mom calls down the hall. “Gregory’s here!”
Oh, God. Did she really just do that?
When I reach the living room, Lipton is saying, “It’s Lipton, ma’am. Lipton Gregory.”
“Oh, yes.” Mom does an exaggerated head palm. “I knew that. I must be nervous for your date.” She giggles.
I want to die, but I’m too busy looking at Lipton and trying to keep my jaw from scraping my knees.
He got his hair cut.
Gone is the bowl-shaped mom cut. In its place is the best hair I have ever seen on a guy. It’s cut super short around the sides and back, but the front is still longish. Kind of intentionally shaggy and . . .
“Your hair.” I didn’t mean to say that out loud. “It looks great.”
“Yours too.” He grins. Tooth gap, check. Dimple, check. “You look really nice.”
My mother is teary-eyed smiling at us.
I grab my coat and the purse I spent an hour packing with a lifetime supply of mints, tissues, and an extra T-shirt rolled very small and squeezed into a Ziploc bag, just in case I sweat through the one I’m wearing. Which, at the rate things are going, might happen before we even get to the concert.
“Let’s go,” I say.
Lipton holds the door to my house for me, and even puts his hand gently on my lower back to lead me out.
“Would you like the front seat or back?” he asks.
I’m a little puzzled, because I figured we’d sit together. “The back is fine,” I say.
He closes his eyes briefly before opening the car door. There’s a girl sitting there, on the opposite side. She looks about eight. “That’s my sister, Tammy,” Lipton says. “Are you sure you don’t want to sit up front? I can sit in the back.”
I glance at Tammy. She smiles. “It’s okay,” I say.
We load ourselves in. Mrs. Gregory turns and introduces herself, reaching a hand out to shake, which I do. I hope she doesn’t notice how clammy my palm is. Then his little sister reaches her hand out. “It’s very nice to meet you,” she says. “Lipton talks about you all the time. He said—”
“Tammy!” Lipton and his mother silence her in unison.
“Geez,” she says. “I wasn’t going to say anything bad.”
“Don’t say anything at all,” he says, teeth clenched.
And thus commences the most awkward car ride ever. Lipton and I can’t talk to each other, and his sister did the lip-zip-and-throw-away-the-key gesture. So, that leaves his mother to fill the silence with attempts at conversation.
“Have you heard this band before, Vicky?”
I swallow. Small talk with parents (or anyone, for that matter) is not my forte. “Yes,” I manage quietly. “But never live. Only on YouTube.”
More silence ensues. Lipton turns on the radio. It’s Taylor Swift, and he immediately turns it back off.
“I like that song!” Tammy whines.
“We are all painfully aware of your fascination with Taylor Swift,” he says.
Tammy turns to me. “Do you like her? If you like her, Lipton will turn it back on.”
I pause to consider my options. Taylor Swift is not my favorite, but turning Lipton’s sister against me right off the bat doesn’t seem like a wise choice. “I like some of her stuff,” I say.
“She likes her!” Tammy reaches forward to pound on the side of Lipton’s seat. “Turn it back on.”
Lipton twists around to raise an eyebrow at me. I can only shrug. So he turns it on, and his sister bounces around to the tune. The moment it ends, she puts her eager face in front of mine and says, “Are you going to be my brother’s girlfriend?”
My mouth pops open in surprise. “I, uh . . .”
“Tammy,” Lipton’s mother scolds. “Enough.”
“Well, excuse me for living,” she huffs.
I know Lipton is mortified, and I feel bad benefitting from his embarrassment, but it’s the only thing keeping my own anxiety in check. If he was as smooth and cool as he looks right now, I’d have passed out. And here I am, still upright.
We arrive at the concert venue a few minutes later, and Lipton barely waits for the car to stop before he leaps out and opens my door. I manage to exit the car without any further embarrassment, except for the kissy faces I’m fairly sure his sister is making behind my back.
Lipton glares at her as he shuts the door.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I had no idea my sister was going to have to come along. My dad had to work, and—”
“It’s okay,” I assure him.
We both turn to face the Clubhouse, and that’s when we realize there’s a line wrapping around the building and down the street.
“Did you get tickets?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I don’t think they even sold tickets in advance. I just have this.” He holds up the little postcard Adrian gave him.
We get in line and shuffle slowly forward with everyone else. “I didn’t realize they were so popular,” says Lipton.
“Me either.”
The girl standing in front of us looks me up and down, then Lipton, sort of rolls her eyes, and turns back to her friends.
Lipton leans toward my ear. “Am I not dressed right or something?”
“You’re fine.” Very fine, I might add. He’s got new, slim jeans on that fit perfectly, and a charcoal-gray shirt and black peacoat.
It’s late November and pretty cold. I shove my hands in my coat pockets and shiver. Lipton inches closer and puts his arm around my shoulder, slowly tucking me against him. A smile slides easily to my lips. Lipton notices and bestows one of his widest grins upon me. I feel a flush rising to my cheeks.