Connie stops and eyes Ben, feet to forehead. “You’re here for the Spring Fling, huh?”
“How’d you know?” Ben grins. I can tell he’s enjoying the VIP treatment. It’s like this pretty much everywhere in town. People might not know who represents them in Congress, but they can pull up a varsity Bucc’s jersey number on sight.
Ben’s arm slides around my waist, and Mrs. Bonine smiles. “Oh my. Is this pretty little thing here your girlfriend? Now that’s the kind of girl to date.” She grabs Ben’s arm, then winks at me. “I’m gonna borrow him for just a second, sweetheart.” She steers Ben toward the back of the store like she’s a bulldozer in tennis shoes. “C’mon with me. You’re a couple feet longer than most of my customers, but I keep a stash of big-and-tall things in the back.”
The point of Spring Fling is to look ridiculous without crossing the line into absurdity. As we pick through Connie’s treasure trove of ancient fashions, Christy holds a flash of jade against my chest, the hanger under my chin. “Look familiar?”
“Should it?” Rachel asks.
Christy blinks from Rachel to me. “Oh, man. You two were drunk Saturday night. Stacey was wearing a red top cut almost exactly like this one.”
Stacey’s outfit surfaces through the fog that surrounds my Saturday memory. Red halter top, tiny black miniskirt. Spinning around Dooney’s kitchen, throwing her arm over my shoulder. You’re empty, Kate. Time for some shots! Her tipsy whoop as Dooney pours tequila. Rachel’s laugh as she licks the back of her hand so the salt from the shaker Stacey is holding will stick. The burn of the liquid. The bite of the lime. Stacey turns away, but I reach out and grab her arm. No, wait! One more shot! Don’t be a quitter!
“Don’t you remember?” Christy pulls the sides of the flimsy top across my body. The fabric doesn’t quite make it under my arm. She laughs. “More side boob than the law allows.”
“I remember,” I mumble.
“Sort of wish I didn’t,” says Rachel.
“Oh, c’mon. Where’s your sense of humor?” Christy tosses the halter top back onto the rack and flips through more hangers, draping every other garment over her arm, and grinning as she hunts for the perfect outfit. She doesn’t seem fazed by the arrests or the accusations. I’ve always envied her ability to let bad news roll off her back. She could lead a pep rally on the deck of the Titanic.
“This whole thing is making my stomach hurt,” I say.
Christy shrugs a whatever my way and barrels into one of two makeshift dressing rooms. She tosses a rainbow of polyester pantsuits on the stool by the mirror and jerks the curtain closed. Christy shops like she plays goalie: Divide and conquer.
Rachel sighs and shakes her head. For perhaps the first time in our friendship, she’s fine with not talking about something. I’d rather not discuss it either, but this isn’t a comfortable silence. It’s like someone has poured itching powder all over us, only we’re pretending nothing’s wrong and trying not to scratch ourselves. I can hear Christy pulling clothes off and on, laughing and groaning at the results.
“Find anything good?” I ask Lindsey.
She shrugs. “Feels weird shopping for a dance when all this is happening.”
“Well, we don’t really know for sure what’s going on,” Rachel says, pulling a dress off a rounder behind me.
“Yeah.” A funny sensation crosses my tongue as I say that word. My agreement tastes sour. Don’t we have a pretty clear picture of what went on? I smile at Rachel and keep looking for something to wear. I’ve flipped through a whole rack, but wasn’t really paying attention. I keep seeing Stacey in that halter top.
Christy sweeps open the curtain to her dressing room. “Boom. Mic drop.” She struts out in a powder-blue pantsuit that looks like a costume from an old disco movie, dancing over to us, bell-bottoms swaying. The rest of us laugh so hard we can’t speak.
Lindsey regains composure first and shakes her head in amazement. “It’s perfect.”
“Right?” Christy is as pleased as we are. “I’ll tell you one thing, Stacey woulda been just fine if she’d worn this to Dooney’s.”
Letting things go is not Christy’s strong suit. I hold my breath for a second hoping that Rachel will allow the moment to pass, but she doesn’t.
“Wait—what?” Rachel cocks her head to the side.
Christy sorts through a bin of platform shoes. “C’mon, Rach. Stacey went to that party looking for trouble.”
Lindsey frowns as Rachel turns back to us, her wide eyes encouraging me to jump in at any time. Instead, I stay silent. Please let’s not talk about this here. I try to beam the words into Rachel’s brain, but she misses my mental text message.
“I think she went to that party for the same reason we all did,” Rachel tells Christy. “To have some fun.”