All You Never Wanted (13 page)

It felt like luck, to wear this dress. Or was it luckier to dig up the original? If I finally returned Mom’s “just checking in” call of last night, then I could ask her for permission. After all, Mom couldn’t possibly care about her wedding dress from her failed first marriage. Not today’s Mom, with her closets chock-full of all the hot, happening Italians: Pucci, Armani, Ferragamo.

Then again, if she came back at me with an “Over my dead body” and I wore her dress anyway and some minor disaster occurred—a red wine spill or rip in the lacework—that would be major Time-Out Chair for me.

Okay. The plan. (1) Return Mom’s call. (2) Assure her that everything is great. (3) Don’t even mention her wedding dress. (4) Find and wear it anyway.

Or: I walk into Welch & Co. and put this dress on my AmEx. Right here, right—

“Thea.”

I jumped.

She must have spied me from across the street. She was
actually panting. Her face was shiny and her breath wasn’t fully caught up to the bursting emotion of what she needed to say. My insides curdled. I really didn’t want to hear this.

“Hi, Gabby.” I checked my watch. “Oopsy-daisy, I mean hi and bye. I’m late to pick up the dog from the groomers.”

“Hold up a second, Thea. I gotta ask you something, I came running all the way from—”

“If it’s about orgo, why don’t you email me the question? Um, because I can’t really see the equations in my head. I’m way more focused when I can see it on email.” No way was I stopping—I was practically skipping along the sidewalk. Why’d I have to park the car all the way over on the corner?

Well, I hadn’t counted on a Gabby interception.

“Thea, listen to me. Stop—stop
running
. Please!” Above the murmur of pedestrian street noise, Gabby’s voice clanged too loud for my attention. I slowed. Against all better judgment. “Just answer me this one thing!” Too close on my elbow. I wanted to break into a full sprint. “Why are you trying to destroy me like this? Telling this filthy lie about me and Gavin Hayes? What’d I ever do to you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You do so. And you know it’s not true.”

“True, not true—who can tell? It was just some story I heard.”

“Except everyone heard it from you! Everyone!” Clearly, Gabby had decided to let me have it. Not that I blamed her—but she was wrong about my trying to destroy her. Please. That was a bit harsh.

It wasn’t like I was deeply against Gabby. I just wasn’t especially for her.

A soft-edged middle-aged couple ahead of us turned around to glare. “Gabby, please keep your voice down,” I said, more for their benefit.

And now it was a red light,
arrgh
. I stopped and Gabby pressed in alongside me. “So who’d
you
hear it from, Thea?”

“From Gavin himself. If you really want to know.”

“No. No way.”

“And the way I heard it from Gavin was a lot more raunchy than how I might have retold it. I mean, it was really … the way guys talk …” I shook my head, lost in the pretend memory. But what else could I do except transfer the blame?

“Uh-uh. You’re lying.” Gabby’s face was a freckled ball of fury. “You’re an intensely psychotic person, Thea. And, like a true psycho, you’re probably too far gone to realize it.”

“Before you call me names, think about it, Gabby. Why would I lie? What’s in it for me? It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone with that information. In fact, I wish I’d never heard it in the first place. It’s way too personal. And I shouldn’t have repeated it, so I am sorry for that. Really.” I was sorry for more than that. I felt wormy and low. Was I actually psychotic? In the moment of telling a story, the rush was so white-hot and extreme. The way people talk about cave-diving or roulette. But now … now was not a good moment. Not at all. “Maybe you should look at it this way,” I continued. “What if Gavin truly likes you? What if he started this rumor so you’d notice him?”

“Gavin would never do that. Nobody would.”

“Never say never. I think Gavin wants you to notice him. He probably wants to send you a secret signal that he
wished
that had happened at Mim’s party. Don’t you see?” I was stumbling through
the bullshit. And hating every minute of it. This was the longest red light in the history of Greenwich traffic.

“Shut
up
, Thea. That’s
garbage
. He didn’t start anything. Your disgusting lie is not just a slap in my face, either. You’re doing something awful to two other people. Because Gavin’s with Saskia, and if she hears about any of it …”

“If Saskia hears any of it,” I said, “then it’s
really
not my business. Because I’ve never even spoken a dozen words to Saskia.”

“So what? It’s the butterfly effect. There are always unexpected consequences for this kind of—”

Hallelujah, the light changed. But Gabby matched me stride for stride in hostile silence to the Mercedes. I sensed her gaze caressing the chrome, the butterscotch interior, and the racing stripe. As I recalled, she had some fuggity brown Toyota that looked like a Ten Pin bowling shoe on wheels.

“I’m not sure why you’re following me,” I said. “But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry Gavin was so immature. Making up that story. You should call him out on that, for sure.” If I squeezed my brain really hard, I could invent a new picture of this. Of Gavin telling everyone this story, instead of me. You just have to visualize it.

As I unlocked and slid into the car, Gabby folded her hands across her chest and started to back away. As if to show she wouldn’t dare touch it. “You could win an Oscar for your acting talents, Thea,” she said. “Everyone talks about you. You’re
known
to lie. But I won’t let up. I’m not scared to take a stand against you.”

“Really? Are you sure about that?” I had to believe that most kids would be, at least seven out of ten, scared to face off against me. “The thing is, Gabby, you’re
known
for a couple of things yourself.”

Just that blasé shout-out to absolutely nothing. To the white-hot paranoia burning in Gabby (in everyone, right?) that other people were gossiping about her and calling her names about some secret and detestable thing she was
known
for—it was all I needed to shake this mess. Temporarily.

For a moment, Gabby’s eyes bored into me with speechless, wincing rage. I could feel myself getting uncomfortably hot. Sizzling under her stare. But I kept her in my gaze as I turned the engine.

“I think it’s so fantastically appropriate,” she said slowly, “that you’re driving around today in Hitler’s limousine. I couldn’t have picked a better car for you if I tried.”

“What a coincidence. Because whenever I see you, I think Used Brown Toyota.”

“At least I’m not Nazi-dora.” And as she turned from me, jouncing purposefully away down the sidewalk, head high, I had to hand it to Gabby—she’d won that one. I didn’t know where to go with the Hitler’s limo, Nazi-dora insult.

Was she right? Or was she just serving me a taste of my own creative storytelling?

I looked around—nobody seemed to be checking out the Benz overmuch.

Forget it. Just forget everything. I pressed my palms to my burning cheeks. That Gavin story was probably the coolest thing that Gabby never did. She should thank me for throwing some notoriety her way. For saving her from Greenwich Public irrelevance. That story was her Fame card.

Full disclosure: Gabby had been totally, memorably mean to me at gym class. Screeching to everyone about how bad my feet
smelled. Alex had called me on my grudge, and fine, she’d been right. It wasn’t that I hadn’t gotten over it—I had. It was middle school. Years ago.

But if I had access to more revenge power, why not use it?

Yes, I’d overstepped the payback. But I wasn’t going to dwell on it. Not when there was all this fun happening at Camelot in a few hours. Yes yes yes. Nothing but gorgeous possibility stirring in this spring day.

Wild, provocative things scheduled for tonight.

And I’d be spinning like a sparkler at the center of it all.

It wasn’t until I’d pulled onto Greenwich Avenue that I realized I must have forgotten to put in one of my contact lenses this morning. That I’ve been driving and shopping and giving loser Gabby her beat-down with only one good eye, and half my world a blur.

They are speeding down the highway. Alex drives. She is technically controlling this car. She’s also the one who is the most trapped.

At Marisol’s request, she’d put the top down. But the afternoon got so hot that she’s sweating through her T-shirt. It sticks to her skin and the backs of her legs are sticking to the leather. Sticky, sticking, stuck.

Maybe she’ll unlock the door and let herself drop out into the road and
roll​roll​roll
onto the shoulder of the highway.

“It’s St. Nicholas Avenue to 135th Street,” Marisol pipes up from behind. “But it goes west–east. You have to turn a street before.”

“And slow down a bit, there, Danica,” jokes Xander.

“I’m a safe driver,” she snaps.

“No, you’re not. Not at that speed. Ease up. I’m serious.”

She’s not used to no. To being told what to do. Not really by anyone anymore. Her teachers, her mother, her stepfather, her sister, her friends, Joshua. They all just let her be. They keep their disagreements to themselves. She lets the speedometer drop.

It was Xander’s idea that they both give Marisol a lift back home. Alex had only said okay as long as she didn’t have to surrender control of her own car. And there’s something else. By this time tomorrow, Xander will be halfway around the world. It makes
Alex want to hold this day harder. To drive it at the right speed. That’s why she didn’t go home after they’d left his room and come downstairs together. She hadn’t been ready to exit Xander’s life.

So she’d followed him out back.

Where the smoky grill had made her immediately hungry. She’d stood in line at the barbecue grill, accepted a serving, and then sat next to Xander on the back-porch steps. An untouched hot dog and a scoop of potato salad balanced on a paper plate on her knees as she brain-surfed him. His left-side dimple, the smile that revealed almost every single one of his front teeth. His sweet growl of a laugh that let everyone inside the joke. The smack of his palms together like an exclamation mark. The “ohyeah
yeah
!” whenever he extra-agreed with a point in the conversation.

She’d also met a bunch more of the Empty Hands volunteers. Some of the tutored kids, and even Xander’s sister, Molly, who was home from her sophomore year of college. Inside and out, Molly was more like Xander than unlike him. Same knife-edged features and easy kindness, along with Xander’s teasing sense of humor.

“Might have to check the yard for craters,” Molly half whispered to him. But loud enough for Alex to hear. “You’ve fallen so hard.” Scooting out of the way of his pinch as Alex turned her head so that neither Heilprin saw her embarrassment.

“Xander. You gonna send postcards?” One of the kids had shuffled up to ask him shyly. “Cause you’re taking off soon, right?”

“Tonight.” Xander had looked over at Alex. Maybe to gauge her reaction? She’d smiled, close-mouthed. A smile that was okay with it. Totally chill with the fact that in a matter of hours, Xander would be vaulting halfway around the globe.

But she wasn’t chill with it. Not even close. Was that why she was freaking in the car now? Knowing that Xander’d be so far away, so soon? She grips the wheel with sweat-slippery fingers. The hot dog hadn’t been appetizing, but she should have had a couple of bites at least. She’s so hungry. Too hungry. She’s got head and body pains from it. It’s past three and all she’s ingested has been one thin triangle of toast at home this morning.

Hunger makes her dizzy and irrational. She wants to speed the car out of this moment and over a magical bridge to Anywhere Safer.

Maybe she should let Xander drive.

And now Pip Arlington is sitting next to her in the passenger seat. Hair flipped, spidery legs crossed, a hint of sneer like a well-placed accessory on her lips. “Have you ever thought for a moment about that smart, hard-working girl out there in the world, Alexandra? Saving up for her very first car, and here you will probably pee like an animal all over this brand-new, undeserved one?”

Shut​up​shut​up​run​run​run
.

The first five minutes are the worst.

But that’s not true. They’ve been on the road for more than twenty minutes, and she feels worse than ever. The rules have changed.

Except you’re the one making the rules, Alex. You’re the one knotting it all up
.

Marisol’s been talking nonstop about foreign films. Apparently, it’s one of her passions. “Almodóvar’s use of shuttered light is amazing! Thematically, it expresses a lot of the same neorealism you might find in, um, say, Rossellini.”

Oh for God’s sake. Alex tunes it out. The whole ride, Marisol has been talking so geeky-pretentious. She’s using all these obscure references and technical terms. Like she’s some forty-year-old movie critic whose only need is to be understood by five or six other esoteric Spanish-film experts in the world.

On and on she drones. Alex checks the rearview mirror. Marisol’s face is pinched with tension. Suddenly it strikes Alex that Marisol’s endless monologue is just like her own clenched silence—only flipped. Marisol isn’t talking about Spanish movies because of her passion for Spanish movies. She’s talking about Spanish movies because it’s a nervous habit. She wants to distract herself from her warped thoughts, her secret monsters. She’s just trying to keep it together. Same as Alex. That’s all.

It’s another fifteen minutes before they reach Marisol’s block, which looks beat-up but decent and kid-friendly.

“I like your neighborhood,” Alex offers as she checks the GPS to navigate a smooth parallel park. “Hey, Xander, will you jump out and see if that meter works?”

“You
like
my neighborhood?” Marisol repeats. She cuts a look that Alex catches through the rearview. “
None
of the meters work. And you should keep an eye on your car once we’re inside.” She is pointedly matter-of-fact. “This neighborhood isn’t very
likable
. Especially not when the sun goes down.” She runs up the steps and uses a key looped through the neon-pink cord around her neck to open the door.