Being Friends With Boys (34 page)

“You were better today,” he says.

“Um, thanks?”

He realizes how that sounded like a backhanded compliment. “Not just better than at Earhorn, but better than I’ve ever seen you. I think the rest of us were too.”

“We needed each other,” I say.

“I think we all did,” he smile-says back.

Every afternoon for the next whole week I’m at Oliver’s house practicing, even on Wednesday, when Benji and I have to work on our next 20th Cen. test. I tell him to come over to Oliver’s, and we sit together on the couch and work like always, except every now and again I have to stop to give critiques. Other times, of course, I have to get up and sing. And somehow it makes sense that Benji’s a part of the whole experience.

The week goes by: every afternoon, practice; every night, cramming homework, ending the day—too late, usually—emailing a song to Trip. I don’t know why I keep doing it, because he never writes back, but when I think about not doing it Wednesday night, it seems weird, and then the next day and the next are the same. I consider sending him the new lyrics I’ve written, but I’m
not sure if they’d have relevance to him now, and anyway, what I really want to be doing is showing him how much I appreciate what we had when he first played these for me.

Then it’s the weekend, with chores and movies with my family, and me and Fabian hitting the Masquerade Saturday night for a show. Benji comes with us, as well as Fabian’s boyfriend, Drew, and I find out—now that my jealousy’s had a chance to unhinge itself—that he’s actually very funny. And attentive. And nice. If Fabian’s not going to be into me (not
that
way, anyhow), I guess I can be glad that he has someone like Drew to be into him. Especially if he can become my friend too.

I feel a little edgy, though, wondering if Taryn might come crashing up to us, or if I’ll see Sylvia lurking in some corner, full of all the things she hasn’t said to me yet. They used to hang out here with us, after all. I’m not sure why they wouldn’t be here tonight. The idea of bad feelings between us still makes me feel a little strange. I know I don’t want to sing with them, but I feel like I still owe them something.

As the second band starts up, I pull Fabian to a quieter place in the outside stairwell to talk.

“Everything okay?” He is so nice, so concerned.

“I just want to know if there was more to it.” I have to half shout it. “Between you and Taryn and Sylvia? When you quit their band?”

He pauses while a group of tattooed guys and girls thumps past us.

“It’s a long story.”

“So why didn’t you tell me all of it?” I holler.

“Because the details aren’t important. After a while . . . they weren’t my thing.”

“Why did you let me do it, then? When you knew they were such a mess?”

“Because you wanted to, silly. You were so cute. And I didn’t know; maybe you liked messes. I mean . . .” He chuckles and leans in. “You
were
hanging out with Benji.”

I twist my mouth. “You didn’t even know him.”

He shrugs, meaning,
I’m just sayin’
.

“I haven’t talked to them since,” I tell him.

He nods. “I know.”

“What do they say?”

He shrugs again, annoyingly stoic and removed. “Taryn’s all over the place. And, you know, for better or worse, Sylvia goes with her.”

“But should I call them?”

A knowing pause from him before he answers: “
Should
you?”

So I do. On Sunday. I figure I will end up leaving a voice mail, anyway, so—

“Hello?”

“Um, Taryn?”

“Oh my god! No way! Charlotte, we were just talking about you. I swear to god, you are utterly fate.
Guess
where we were last night. Earhorn! And it was boring as all hell and all so amateur, and we were looking at each other and going, ‘We really need to get back into practice.’ I’ve found, like, fourteen songs you’d be great at, and Sylvia’s working on some new ideas about maybe doing originals—though, you know, she has no real training in poetry, which I keep telling her she needs. But I wanted to write songs inspired by Sharon Olds poems. Or Elizabeth Bishop, maybe. Something, I don’t know, with some teeth. But you can bring some poems too, and we’ll talk about it. What are you doing Tuesday?”

I can’t help being shocked. And for a moment, I’m terrified to tell her I’ve decided to go back to Sad Jackal. But I can’t do things simply because I don’t want her to get upset. I need to listen to myself.

I tell Taryn I’m not going to be able to play with her and Sylvia, and there is a long, long pause.

“Aaron said you were going to say that.”

“Well, I guess, tell him thanks for understanding.” And—
what
?

“I don’t think so. We broke up. But thanks for noticing.”

I pretend not to hear the nastiness in her voice. “Well, I’m sorry, Taryn. I really am. I learned a lot singing with you and—”

“I’ll tell Sylvia you called.”

And then, I guess, that part of things is over.

I don’t have very long to feel weird about it, because about five seconds after I hang up with Taryn, Hannah’s at my half-open door, knocking politely. She has her keys in her hand.

“You’re not ready?”

“Ready?”

Brief, exasperated stepmom sigh. “Dresses? Shopping? Winter Formal next weekend? The way Darby’s pacing downstairs . . .”

“Oh. Right.” I guess I do remember Darby, Gretchen, and Hannah talking at dinner the other night. I just hadn’t realized they meant today.

Darby appears behind her mother. “Why aren’t you
ready
?!”

“I’m not going to the mall.”

“Not the mall, dummy,” she growls. “A boutique. Gretchen found it. Get your butt in gear.”

“Wait. You have a date?”

She makes a nasty face. “Do you not hear anything I say? Having a date means you have to hang on one guy the whole night.”

“Oh.” I pull open a dresser drawer, look for some clean cords. “I forgot about your harem.” I look at Hannah. “Is it a harem? Or are those only made up of women?”

Hannah lets out a hoot. “You two can work it out. I’m leaving here in ten minutes, because otherwise it will dawn on me how unpleasant Buckhead traffic on a Sunday afternoon is going to be.”

Darby gives me a pointed look. “Hurry up.”

The entire way up and across town, Darby chatters about her friends and what they’re wearing to the dance, who their favorite guys in Sad Jackal are, what bets they all have about what I’m going to wear, and their general curiosity about whether this means Oliver and I have gotten back together.

“That last part is a joke,” she breezes, right before I’m about to punch her. “Nobody thinks you’re together. At least, they hope not. They want him themselves.”

We finally find the boutique Gretchen wanted—a small, glass-front place tucked into a mini-strip of shops, one with barely any parking.

“Hello, hello!” the owner sings to us from the rear of the shop. She’s attaching giant binder clips to the back of the wedding dress another woman is trying on.

Darby looks over the woman in the dress. “It’s pretty,” she says. But the woman doesn’t seem very grateful for the compliment. She turns to face herself in the surrounding mirrors.

“Here, see?” Gretchen says, going over to the rack along the right wall—the one full of formals, instead of wedding gowns.

Hannah checks the price tag of the first dress on the rack, raises her eyebrows. “Not exactly cheap,” she mutters.

“But not mall prices either,” Gretchen says testily.

“Ooooh! Lookit this one!” Darby pulls out an emerald-green column dress.

“I am
not
wearing anything fitted,” I growl.

“We’re not just here for you,” Darby snaps, my rock star position apparently eclipsed by visions of herself making some grand entrance at the dance.

“Fine, then.”

I move down the row, past Darby in the sizes made for tiny ninth graders, past Gretchen in the sizes designed for average-framed girls, and onto the You Are Not a Water Buffalo But Don’t Push It, Honey, end of the rack. The band’s been so song-obsessed, so focused on playing things over and over until we can do them flawlessly backward, that I haven’t really thought about the
formal
part of Winter Formal. I can’t picture the boys in tuxes, but this isn’t going to be a jeans affair for them either. I’m about to text Oliver for ideas when Hannah comes up behind me.

“What about this one, Charlotte?”

I turn around. She’s holding up a cream-colored A-line, strapless dress, with a dark blue satin ribbon across the waist. A little ruffle of tulle pokes out from under the hem, but other than that, it’s completely smooth.

“Oooooh,” Darby sighs, looking up.

“I don’t know about strapless” is my first response.

Hannah’s brow creases. “Why not? You have beautiful collarbones.”

It’s such a random thing for her to say—and a random thing to notice—but still, it’s nice to hear. “I do?”

She holds the dress up against me. “Of course you do. And you could wear your hair down, if you wanted. Or up would look good too.”

I check the size. It’s actually what I wear.

“Try it on.” Gretchen’s face is approving.

“It doesn’t look like a wedding dress? I’m not going to be”—I picture stage lights glowing off me—“too pale?”

“The blue offsets that,” Hannah says.

“And we can spray tan you,” Darby adds.

“What a beautiful choice,” the shop lady says, finally coming over to us. “Shall I start you a dressing room?”

I look at Hannah, uncertain, but she’s already handing the dress to the woman.

“You can look at other things, if you want,” she tells me. “But I think that one’s going to be it.”

And in the end, my stepmom is right. As soon as Gretchen gets the zipper up, I can feel how well the dress fits me. I don’t have
much of a waist, but somehow with whatever’s structured inside it, this dress gives me one. My boobs have never been more than annoying most of the time, but the way the neckline curves just right at the top, they’re suddenly
up
. And they’re pretty. I thought the flared-out hemline would make me look wider, but really it just balances out my hips, makes me look . . . perfect.

“Such a nice hourglass,” the shop lady says, smoothing her hands along my waist.

It’s embarrassing, but, looking in the mirror, I see that she’s kind of right.

Darby and Gretchen find dresses that make them look fantastic too. The maroon spaghetti-strap column dress Darby picks makes her look, as Hannah says sadly, like she’s twenty-one already. Gretchen’s dress isn’t quite as glamorous as Darby’s, but the shimmery pink material brings out her healthy, All-American Girl glow.

Enlivened, I guess, by her happy, pretty daughters, Hannah agrees to an unplanned stop at Lenox, to get the accessories over with. She gives us each some cash to supplement the funds we brought ourselves and tells us to meet in an hour outside of the Crate & Barrel, where she wants to do some shopping of her own. Gretchen and Darby both disappear in separate directions immediately, so I’m searching solo, not sure whether to go up the escalator or stay down on the main floor.

I wander into the first shoe store I come to and spend some uncertain time dawdling near the entrance, pretending to be interested in stiletto-heeled boots and brown leather clogs. The salesgirl is superglad to see me, and just as I’m telling her I’ll let her know if I need any help, a display deeper in the store catches my eye. Or, more specifically, a single pair balanced on the clear plastic shelves. I go straight to it, surprised to be drawn to shoes at all, particularly such girly ones. But these are so perfect it’s almost funny: vintage-looking heels that maybe a pinup girl would wear, with a little peep-toe front spanned by a multilooped bow. Picking them up, I know that these are shoes I could be comfortable in. The heel is more sturdy than the skinny spikes you usually see, and when I try them on, they hug my feet in a way that’s supportive instead of pinching. The best part is? They’re the exact dark blue of the ribbon on my dress.

I thank the shopgirl after I pay, and then I just about skip out of the store. Until I stop dead in place, seeing Lish and Bronwyn walking past.

They stop too and are—oh god—coming over to say hi.

“We’re shopping for Winter Formal too!” Bronwyn squeals, indicating my bag. She hugs me, one thin arm wrapped around my neck.

“Haven’t had any luck yet, though.” Lish pouts a little.

“If someone wasn’t so picky.” Bronwyn pokes her.

“Can we see?” Lish asks, leaning forward to peek.

Why they’re acting like they haven’t ignored me the last few weeks, I don’t know.

“I, um . . . want to keep it a surprise,” I fumble. “If you don’t mind.”

Lish nods. “Of course, of course. We were certainly surprised—in a good way, I mean—when we heard you were back with Sad Jackal. But ooops—” She covers her mouth with her hand, makes a coy face. “Was that supposed to be a surprise too? I mean, you didn’t say anything to us, so . . .”