Enzo had a lot of stories—and a lot of different ways to tell them. He’d tried writing, painting, filmmaking, playing in a band. I asked him if it was overwhelming to have so many things he wanted to do. He said the storytelling was the important part, not the medium.
I wondered if I had my own story to tell, and if so, what medium I would use. I’d never wanted to be an artist, but I could see the beauty in the idea.
Later that night, I brought it up with Sundog. He said that we’re all born with our paths already in place; our job is simply to find them.
I imagined my dad would disagree. When I went to my room, I found a stack of college catalogs on my bed. There was a sticky note on the top one that said, “It’s time.” I shoved the catalogs under my bed without looking through them.
Unlike the man who worked in the fortune cookie factory, I wasn’t ready to find my future. For once, I was enjoying the present.
Chapter 22
On the Threshold of Everything
Enzo and I went to the thrift store because he liked looking for messages in books. He had a collection. He looked for school books with doodles in the margins. Or inscriptions in books that had been given as gifts. Those were the saddest, because why would someone give something like that away? Enzo had even found one book with a forgotten letter tucked between the pages.
“These notes are little pieces of history no one cares about,” Enzo told me. “But they remind you you’re not the first person to hold that book. Someone else owned it first and read the exact same words, and one way or another, it impacted them. We’re all connected.”
“That sounds like something Sundog would say.” I liked the sentiment though. It made me want to write messages in my own books.
Dusty Roses was the only secondhand store in Layton, and there were only a few other shoppers that morning. I trailed behind Enzo, watching him open books and flip through pages, then I got bored and wandered off on my own.
I could see what Enzo meant. It was weird to think about how everything there had once belonged to someone else. Why had they gotten rid of it? Did they ever think about someone else using their dishes or sitting on their couch or wearing their beat-up fedora? It felt like giving away memories.
I walked through the section of women’s clothes, running my hands along the racks as I passed. Everything smelled funny. I wondered how many of the people who shopped there didn’t have any other choice than to buy something another person considered old or broken. It made me feel a little guilty about my own closet, stuffed with clothes I seldom wore. Though that was largely my mom’s fault for continuing to buy me things that were hideous.
Out of the corner of my eye, I got a flash of hot-pink tulle. It was pretty much impossible not to see. I parted the hangers to get a better look.
The dress was a monstrosity. It must have been worn to a prom in the 1980s and spent the intervening decades forgotten in someone’s attic. In addition to all the tulle, the dress was covered in lace, with a ridiculously poofy skirt that stopped at the knee. It was so absurd that I couldn’t help but grin. I had to try it on.
I didn’t bother taking off my jeans or tennis shoes—I just pulled on the dress over them. It was a perfect fit. I admired myself in the mirror. I spun, and yards of lace flared up like a tutu.
Enzo was still examining books when I walked up behind him.
“What do you think?” I asked.
He turned, and I did another spin.
Enzo laughed. “Not bad.”
“Do you think the first owner had a good prom? I bet she did. She probably had a ton of friends, and they all chewed bubble gum and twirled their hair while talking about if they’d go all the way with their dates.”
“I wonder where she is now.”
“Maybe she married her high school sweetheart.”
“And got divorced ten years later when she realized her husband wasn’t a star athlete anymore.”
“I can always count on you to look on the bright side,” I said dryly.
He laughed. “Come on, can’t you see it? They’ve got, like, five kids, and he’s working a dead-end job and spends every night at the bar.”
“That does seem to be most people’s fate around here,” I agreed. “Except they wouldn’t get divorced. They’d stay together and make each other miserable forever.”
“And you call me a pessimist?” he said, grinning.
“Go to homecoming with me,” I blurted out.
“What?” Enzo looked baffled by the sudden change in conversation. I was a little surprised myself.
“Please?” I said before I could think about it too much. “I want to wear this dress somewhere. And it would be fun to go together.”
Granted, the last party we’d attended hadn’t been a roaring success. But I’d stay away from alcohol, and it wasn’t like I could get in another fight with Emily—we weren’t even speaking to each other.
“Hawthorn, I didn’t even go to my own homecoming dance.”
“Exactly. That’s why you should make up for it now.”
“I’ll be the same age as the chaperones.”