“Are you going to vote for Finn?” Sasha asks.
“For what?” I say. We’re at Goodwill, looking through a rack of old wedding dresses. It’s Sasha’s idea for her prom dress. Mom is making me buy a dress from a department store; she says that, right now, she needs something like buying me a real prom dress. I didn’t put up as much of a fight as I might have in the past. Brooke bought a dress from a department store too. She says that there are a lot of sequined nightmares at the mall, but it won’t be as hard as I think to find something cool.
Angie is making her dress out of blue crepe. It’s hard for her to find clothes now. Her mother-in-law buys her maternity shirts that look like something Sylvie would wear if she ever got fat. Mostly Angie wears giant T-shirts from bands that broke up in the nineties.
Angie holds up a mock Victorian dress with a high collar for me to see. “If you want to tell Alex to keep his hands to himself, that will do it,” I
say. I go back to searching the rack.
“Well, since I’m about to be the last virgin of our friends, I might as well look the part,” she says. I look up again. Sasha has the dress flung over one arm.
“Jamie told you about that?” I say. She nods. “Yeah, why didn’t you?”
I shrug. “I dunno,” I say, and I honestly don’t. “It doesn’t seem real, I guess.”
“Well, you’ve got two months and one week until it will be all the way real.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I say. I finger the yellowed lace on the nearest dress. “What were you saying about Finny?”
“Oh, are you going to vote for him for Prom King?” I feel my face scrunch into a grimace.
“He’s going to run for Prom King?” I say.
“He and Sylvie together. I thought you would know.” I’m not surprised that I didn’t know though. When Finny and I do talk, he never mentions Sylvie. Ever since Christmas, he usually only asks how I’m doing and I say fine and then we watch TV or go finish our homework. Sometimes we talk about school or the weather.
“I guess that was Sylvie’s idea,” I say. “No wait, I know it was. He hates being the center of attention.”
“But he’s so popular,” Sasha says. I shrug. “That’s not his fault,” I say. “He’s likable.”
“I guess,” Sasha says. “And he is so hot.” I shrug again. She looks down at the dress in her hands. “I’m going to look so cool,” she says.
***
My mother and I go shopping on the first day that it actually feels like spring. Mom’s face is thinner and there are always circles under her eyes, but today she is excited.
“Now,” she says, as we glide up the escalator toward evening apparel, “is all pink entirely banned?”
“Not if it’s like a sassy pink,” I say. “But if it’s a sweet, girly pink, yes.
Maybe some shade of sarcastic pink if it isn’t too abrasive.” “I’ll keep that in mind,” she says.
***
I try on all kinds of pink, for her. I wear blues and greens because Dad is leaving her, and we consider oranges and reds because the whole world is open to us now. In the mirror, I see the girl I could have been if I’d tried out
for cheerleading. I see what I would have looked like if I was the sort of girl who could turn a cartwheel and have more friends than favorite books. Every dress is another girl who is not me.
And then there is one. Beige satin, nearly the color of my skin, with one, just one, layer of black tulle over the skirt and bodice. A corset top and a black ribbon for my mother to tie in the back. We watch me in the mirror.
“Okay,” my mother says. “So.” “Please,” I say.
“Oh yes,” she says. I smile and then I laugh. I try to hold my hair with my hands but it falls between my fingers.
