The Night We Said Yes (16 page)

THEN

12:00
A
.
M
.

“Walmart!” Meg shouted proudly as we pulled into the parking lot. It was only about a mile away, so the journey was a quick blast of loud music and fast driving. We needed the escape. The chance to feel like we were flying.

“I can’t believe we’re actually getting new outfits for the night,” I grumbled as we got out of the car. The parking lot was mostly empty with a few straggling cars here or there. They probably belonged to employees and insomniacs.

“Why not? We’ve done it before.”

“Yeah, but never at midnight.”

Inside it was freezing. I shivered as we walked through the doors, passing the spot where an employee usually
greeted us. It was always the same white-haired man; he was there so often, I almost thought he lived there. It seemed like a boring, monotonous job to me, but he seemed to love it, constantly offering smiles and conversation. He wasn’t there tonight, though. As familiar with the store as we were with our own homes, we walked to the right, toward the women’s section. We came here often for odds and ends—pens, hair ties, snacks for movie theater excursions.

“Remember when we played hide-and-seek here?” I asked as we walked past some clothes.

“And that lady yelled at Barker for hiding under the women’s clothes rack. That was hilarious.”

“Not as hilarious as finding you and Jake making out in the camping section. I’m pretty sure that didn’t count as hiding,” I said, shaking my head.

“You were taking too long to find us!” she protested, just as she had back then, and I laughed.

We walked through the aisles, touching clothes here and there. We’d feel the fabrics, as if they’d answer our prayers and say,
Yes, we are the perfect shirts for tonight’s adventures.

“So what are you thinking?” I asked Meg, holding up a blue shirt to my body.

“I don’t know,” she said, putting back a skirt. “Something nice, but not
too
nice.”

“Too nice, like we went out of our way to go to Walmart to get new clothes.”

“Exactly.”

“Oh my god, look at this.” I held up a pink taffeta dress that looked like something my mom wore in the ’80s. It had long sleeves, small shoulder pads, and very bright, shiny fabric.

“You
have
to try that on.”

“No way. It’s terrible.” Meg pouted until I relented. “Okay, fine, only if you try on something equally as heinous. You have to say yes,” I taunt. We quickly forgot our original mission, and instead concentrated on finding ridiculous ensembles. We were wasting time, but we needed the distraction. Meg was active again, out of her melancholy funk. I wanted to keep her that way, so I didn’t mind spending a few minutes looking for ugly outfits. And besides, I
did
kind of want to look nice for Matt.

“How about this?” she asked, picking up a brown-and-black leopard-print jumpsuit.

“
Yes.
Who would wear that?” I asked, touching the horrendous outfit.

“A backup dancer for Lady Gaga? Anyway, have you seen the red carpets? I mean, celebrities wear some ugly things. And yet they manage to get away with it.” Meg paid attention to award shows and red carpet galas as if they were sporting events.

“I wish I was like that sometimes.”

“Right?” she said. “I think the difference is self-esteem. They wear something ugly, and act like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. And it ends up looking that way to
everyone else. I’ll wear something ugly and cower in fear. So I just wear something nice to feel nice. It’s an odd circle, I guess.”

“
You
cower in fear?” I asked, eyeing her.

“You know what I mean.”

“I know, I know,” I said. “So, essentially, you don’t have to dress pretty to look pretty. It’s a matter of . . . conviction or something like that.”

“Yeah . . .”

“Which sounds so much better in theory. Because I’d just as easily wear pajama pants to school, then.”

“You already do sometimes,” she pointed out.

“I did on pajama day! You’ll never let me live that down, will you?”

“Nope! Although you did give me a great idea.”

“What’s that?”

“We don’t have to dress nice to look nice. So let’s not dress nice.”

“Meg, if you suggest wearing these outfits we’re currently holding to the record store, I’m walking out and leaving you here.”

“No, not that. Let’s just wear something comfortable rather than something nice. You know? Go low-key. As if the event isn’t that important.”

“So, head games.”

“Sort of. Only it’ll leave us more comfortable than we are now. What I wouldn’t give for a sweatshirt.”

“It’s like a hundred degrees out,” I argued.

“That’s beside the point.”

“Okay, so let’s grab some comfortable clothes, and try those on with our ugly outfits.”

“Sounds good.”

We scoured the store and came up with options. I settled for a plain black racerback tank top, as I needed one anyway. Meg picked up a loose-fitting plain black T-shirt. Our jeans, despite previously being soaked, had dried by that time, so we didn’t need to replace them.

I came out of the dressing room in my pink ensemble and laughed. Just laughed. I couldn’t believe someone would not only try on, but purchase, the dress. I waited patiently for Meg.

“Introducing . . . Megdonna!” she shouted from her dressing room. She came out strutting, as if she were on a catwalk, and I cracked up. Not only was the jumpsuit hideous, but she paired it with oversize glasses and a wide, bright gold belt. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a huge knot.

“That . . . is . . . amazing,” I said, catching my breath.

“Isn’t it? I can totally rock it.”

“Of course you can. Megdonna?”

“Like Madonna,” Meg said matter-of-factly, before belting out the chorus of “Like a Virgin.” I joined in, offering backing vocals and laughing the entire time. “El, you should totally join the drama club.”

“And hang out with people more dramatic than you? No thank you,” I declared.

“But you love singing!” she continued.

“With you. Here alone. Not in front of people.” Which was mostly why I never tried. I did love singing, I loved how it made me feel, how I could express myself not with words, but with notes. But the thought of someone judging me felt wrong. Which was why I never asked Jake if I could sing with them. Despite part of me wanting to, I was too petrified.

“Whatever. You’ll get over your little stage fright sooner or later. By the way, why aren’t you strutting around in your amazing dress?” I took my cue from her and performed a full-on twirl, letting the dress puff out all around me.

“Six-year-old me would have loved this,” I said, watching the fabric shine under the lights. Meg laughed loudly, covering her eyes from the sparkle.

“El, I think we found your prom dress.”

“Oh man, yes please. I’ll get all the guys in this.” I laughed. “Okay, change?”

“Yeah, I think I’m getting a wedgie,” she admitted. I laughed, shook my head, and walked back into the dressing room. I put on the tank top, along with my worn jeans, and felt . . . like me. It was an outfit I’d normally wear, normally feel comfortable in. Not like a dolled-up fancy version, or even lazy-on-the-couch version. Just like . . . myself. I walked out and waited for Meg.

What was simply a plain loose black tee on the hanger
was now stunning on her. Her body transformed it so instead of just looking frumpy, it fell perfectly off her right shoulder. Even low-key for her was fantastic. We wouldn’t have had it any other way. That was how she dressed. And this was how I dressed. I looked down at my black flats and felt ready to go to the show.

“You were right, you know. These are good choices,” I said to her.

“Yeah, I think so, too,” she said, twisting and turning in the mirror. The light hit her hair and she started to glow. She always glowed, though; she was always the star. And though sometimes it scared me, I still hoped some of her light would cast off onto me.

After paying, we walked back to the car. By Meg’s tire there was a small scrap of paper. I instinctively leaned down and picked it up.

Milk, Yogurt, Eggs, Orange Juice, Bread, Nacho cheese

I laughed, thinking of someone getting the essentials, and then a huge, economy-size jar of nacho cheese. I stuck the note in my pocket, folded up as it was found. I knew Matt would like it, and I couldn’t wait to give it to him.

NOW

11:35
P
.
M
.

I put the Xbox controller down on Evan’s couch and realize that my new plan has one large problem—I have no mode of transportation. Meg left with her car and I’m stuck here with the video game guy. Great.

I know she’s already with him, but I feel compelled to text Jake. As I pick up my phone, I feel it vibrate and realize he’s beaten me to it.

Meet @ Kikis.

Are you w/Meg?

Yes. She’s pissed.

It’s my fault.

Yep. And you’re gonna make it better.

I sigh, realizing, yeah, he’s right. Right now it’s my job to calm her down, not his. But at least he’s telling me to meet her. At least he’s bringing us together. I need to end this before it gets bigger.

Just as I’m about to ask video game guy if he has a car, Evan walks out of the bedroom.

“EVAN!” I shout, and he balks at my excitement, raising an eyebrow in confusion. “I need your help.”

“What’s up?” he asks, then, “Where’s Meg?”

“Um, that’s why I need your help. Meg kind of left.”

“She left?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“She left you here?”

“We kind of had a fight.”

“You had a fight?” he asks, even more surprised.

“It’s a long story, but anyway, she left.”

“It must have been bad if she deserted you.”

“Well—”

“But she gets like that. You know Meg, kind of overemotional at times.”

“Right, so I was wondering—”

“Do you want me to call her or something? Get her back over here?”

“No, actually—”

“Because I will. I’m sure she’s calmed down by now.”

“Evan,
listen
,” I yell. Just like Meg, he has a tendency to bulldoze over everyone else when he’s on a roll. “We got into a fight. It’s not bad. But she did leave. She’s going with Jake to Kiki’s right now. Can you take me there?”

“To Kiki’s?”

I sigh in frustration. I know I shouldn’t take it out on him, but I’m impatient and he’s making it too easy. “Yes, to Kiki’s. It’s, like, down the road.”

“Yeah, I know where it is. Sure, hold on,” he says, turning around back toward his room. I love that he understands without me needing to expand any more. I look over and see a photo on the table. Unlike the one Matt originally found in Italy, I know the people who are in it—Meg and Evan. It’s from a few days ago, at graduation. I smile, remembering how we had to take it five times because Meg’s hair looked off, or Evan’s tie wasn’t straight. And even though I just saw her, I miss her.

He comes back out in a few minutes, swinging his keys on his index finger, and I walk with him to the door. My mind is made up, and I have to follow it before I’m too chicken to leave. I know I have to figure out Matt and what I want, I know that’s going to come up, but right now I just want to talk to Meg. She was right, in a way, but so was I. Maybe we
need to be a bit more honest from now on.

But before leaving, I turn back and look at the guy playing video games. He’s still there, engrossed in his epic battle. He made it farther than I did in the game.

“Thanks,” I say, hoping he knows why.

He just nods in response, as if to say
No problem. It was my pleasure.
As if to say
Good luck.

“So what was the fight about?” Evan asks once we’re in the car.

“Matt. Jake. College. Everything,” I sigh.

“College?” he asks.

“I think she’s upset that I’m moving away.”

“Of course she is. You’re her best friend.”

“Yeah, I know, and I’m not looking forward to leaving her, but we talked about it. I thought she was cool with me leaving. She knew how much I wanted to. . . .”

“You know Meg. Sometimes she says one thing and thinks another.”

“But never with me,” I admit. I didn’t know me leaving was hurting her so much. “It’s not like I’m going to disappear on her, I’m not going to just stop talking to her once I’m up there—she’ll still be my best friend.”

“I know. Tell
her
. I love my sister, but she can be a bit melodramatic at times,” he says, and I nod because, yeah, she can be. “And let me guess, she doesn’t think you should get back together with Matt, either?” he continues.

“No, and I kind of told her it was hypocritical to say that, considering Jake and all.”

“She has a tendency to see things one-sided,” he says, nodding.

“I feel bad pointing it out.”

“Eh, she probably needed to hear it.”

“But it’s my job to cheer her on and support her.” It’s always been my job. I’ve always been in her corner. I pull on my bracelet, thinking of the millions of nights we’ve had together. I might have cut a lot of them off, but they’re all still a part of me. She’s a part of me.

“No, it’s your job to make sure she’s being smart. I like Jake and all, but if he messes with her again . . .”

“You’ll . . . ?”

“I don’t know what I’ll do.” He grins because he’s Evan and he’s not one to fight. Meg’s the fighter, after all. “But I’ll do something.”

I smile at him and shake my head. My purse vibrates and I figure it’s Jake texting, again, to see where I am. He’s impatient like that. But when I pull my phone out, I see that it’s an unknown number.

What do you call cheese that isn’t yours?

My heart jumps, and I almost stop breathing. It’s Matt—it has to be. I deleted his number after he left, but only he would ask me this, after everything. He’s daring himself to
say yes, too, by continuing to try.

My fingers hover over the letters, but I hesitate. I practically just got out of his car; he can’t expect me to decide so quickly. I have no idea what I want yet. I look over at Evan and think about what he said, realizing that, well, maybe I do know. I type back
Nacho Cheese
and wait for his response. I can picture him at home—wherever his new home is—leaning over his phone waiting for my answer. I can picture his fingers perched over the phone, too. I can picture his hair falling over his glasses, which more than likely are still spotted from the rain. We might have left on uncertain terms—we might still
be
on uncertain terms—but we’ll always have that stupid nacho cheese joke that started with the piece of paper I found in the Walmart parking lot.

And sometimes just one thing is enough.