by Beth Reekles
My hands stop on a black dress a few racks away from where I started. I push the others away from it, the hangers scraping noisily against the metal rail. It’s a floor-length dress, sleeveless, with a V-neck. The material, which catches the light and gives the dress a soft shine, is gathered at the shoulders and wraps around the bodice before falling gracefully into the skirt.
It’s a very simple dress. Elegantly simple. I think that’s why I like it so much—there’s no fuss, no ruffles or sashes or anything, and yet it’s still a fantastic dress. I grab the hanger before I even think about it.
“Ooh, Madison’s found something!” I hear Summer trill across the store, and I find she’s not far away. “Let’s see?”
Walking out from behind the rack, I hold the dress up in front of me, suddenly precarious, nervous, feeling as though I need their approval on this.
“Black?” Summer and I glance over at Tiffany, who’s scrunching her nose up at it. “Isn’t that a bit … a bit …”
“Boring?” I offer up, smiling wryly. “Depressing?”
She shrugs, not denying it. “Well, maybe you could just look around a bit more? A bit of color never hurt anyone. How about blue? Powder blue would look great on you.”
“I saw a baby-blue dress over that way,” Melissa says.
I see Tiffany open her mouth to retort, but she decides against it and twists her mouth into a hard line instead. She turns back to pull out another silver-white dress to add to her collection.
I walk back around my rail to put my dress back, and Summer wanders over to the other side, looking at a bright purple dress.
When she speaks to me, her voice is hushed and gentle. She says, “I liked the black one too. Don’t put it back.”
I blink at her, and she smiles.
I don’t put the black dress back.
When we all decide to go try on our dresses in the large dressing rooms, I have the lightest load. I have maybe half a dozen dresses, while the others each have at least a dozen.
There are fairly large cubicles with curtains drawn across them, all arranged in a semicircle around a wall of mirrors and tiny pedestals, which I assume are used for tailoring. There are a few cushioned seats too.
In my cubicle, I hang my dresses around me. Three light blue ones, the black one, a peppermint-green one, and a deep burgundy one. None of them are particularly fancy; they’re all quite simple. The burgundy one is probably my favorite: it’s strapless, with a lacy bodice, and the skirt has these cool golden threads woven into it. I still have a soft spot for the black one, though, even though I can’t explain it.
I try on the green one first, but it looks hideous on me. It gives me curves in all the wrong places, and makes me look washed out. I don’t even bother showing the girls that one.
Two of the three blue ones get their approval, but I’m hugely disappointed to discover that the burgundy one doesn’t look quite as good on me as it did on the hanger. I try the two blue ones on again, since the others are still working through their piles; but neither of them call out to me, particularly. I decide I’ll look somewhere else rather than getting one of these, and poke my head out of my cubicle’s curtain to tell the girls so.
“But that periwinkle one looked so perfect on you!” Tiffany pouts.
I nod my head at her. “Not as perfect as that one looks on you, though,” I tell her. The shimmery silver dress she’s wearing has sleeves to her elbows and a flaring skirt. I say that mostly to distract her, but it really does look amazing on her, with her dark skin and hair and big brown eyes. She flashes a grin at me and twirls, so that the skirt swings out around her, and I disappear back into my cubicle.
I hear Summer announce that the spaghetti-strap one with the sequins makes her look frumpy, but I’m studying the black dress. I’ve hung the others, my rejects, on the other side, so this one hangs alone.
I decide to try it on. I haven’t got anything to lose by just trying the thing on, have I?
The material slips over my skin, smooth as water, and I contort my arms around myself with the intention of doing up the zipper before I remember there isn’t one. I didn’t notice at first, but this dress is entirely backless, save for the two straps that crossed over my spine and join the dress at the waist.
I run my hands over it. During this whole shopping trip I’ve felt a bit like a kid playing dress-up, but this one feels different. I just really, really, inexplicably like this dress. A heck of a lot.
This is the dress, I think, smiling at my reflection. I know I’ve only tried on about five, and we still have a bunch more shops left to look in, but this is the dress. This is the one I want to wear to the Winter Dance.
I especially like the way the gathered material around the bodice makes me look like I have more curves than I really do.
Even though I’m sure this is the one, I don’t need to get the dress just yet. I saw a sign at the front of the store saying they can keep items on hold for up to ten days, so I’ll do that.
Then I change back into my regular clothes and go sit out on one of the cushiony seats to nod and mm-hmm and tell the others how good they look in their dresses until it’s time to leave, and I ask the guy on the counter at the front to keep the black dress on hold for me.
After that’s done, Tiffany says to me with a reassuring smile, “I’m sure we’ll find something brighter for you, Madison, don’t worry.”
And I reply, “I’m not.”
Chapter 32
The roar of the crowds and the added noise of the school’s marching band are deafening, and the atmosphere is so charged it seems almost tangible. With my small bucket of popcorn, I make my way up the stairs of the bleachers. I left Ricky and the other guys somewhere around here, I’m sure of it … Maybe we were a couple rows higher up?
I’ve never gone to a football or soccer game before; now, I see what all the excitement is about.
“Hey, Madison!” a voice calls, and whipping my head around, I spot Andy on my left, near the end of a row with a few empty seats beside him.
“Hi!” I call back, smiling. I’d wave, but I don’t have any free hands right now. Instead, I edge like a crab into the bleachers beside him. Carter’s on his other side, and he leans forward to greet me too, a big smile on his face.
“I didn’t know you guys were into soccer,” I say, not in a judgmental way—just curiously.
“I’m not,” Carter says. “They dragged me here.”
“They?” Suddenly my blood seems to be running colder in my veins.
“Andy and Dwight,” he clarifies, giving me an odd look, furrowing his one and a half eyebrows.
“Soccer and football matches are an integral part of high school life,” Andy informs me, distracting me. “You can’t miss them. Besides,” he adds in a conspiratorial whisper, “some of those cheerleaders are hot—can’t deny it.”
I laugh, as do the two of them.
Then I hear an “Oh,” from behind me, and I freeze.
“There you are!” Andy exclaims. “I’ve been dying of thirst here!” He reaches past me, and in my peripheral vision I see a hand passing a plastic cup over.
“Long line,” Dwight replies simply. He doesn’t sound like his normal self. He sounds as tense as I feel.
The notion that he told them about the kiss briefly crosses my mind; but from the looks of things—like how they seem to be baffled by the edginess between the two of us—they have no idea whatsoever.
“I should get going,” I mumble, ducking my head. I shoot a fleeting smile to Carter and Andy. “See you guys.”
“What’s the rush?” Carter asks, and that’s when I know for certain that they don’t know anything about the kiss, which is a relief, although I don’t feel much better for it.
“I just—I shouldn’t …”
“Madison has more important things to do than talk to people like us,” Dwight says, and unless I’m mistaken, there’s a patronizing note in his voice that makes my blood boil. “Like file he
r nails.”
I bite my tongue—literally. I close my eyes briefly. I want to whirl around and snap at him; tell him he has no right to say anything like that; tell him to shut the heck up. But I can’t. I won’t. This is one of those occasions when I’ll be better off trying to be invisible.
“Wouldn’t want your boyfriend to get jealous now, would we?” The disdain drips from his voice.
“Dwight—come on, dude,” Andy says quietly, looking at me. There must be something in my expression that shows he’s upsetting me, even though I’m fighting desperately to keep my head down and look impassive. It used to be so easy. I guess it’s harder to look like you don’t care when you really do care.
“I was going anyway,” I mumble. I raise the hand holding my purse to Carter and Andy, attempting to give them a smile. “Enjoy the game, guys.”
I keep my head down when I walk past Dwight, but it’s difficult not to catch the look on his face—I can’t help myself—and the second our eyes lock, the scornful mask he wears gives way to a flash of hurt, an apologetic, sorrowful sort of look—and then the mask is on again, and my eyes are back on the floor. It’s an image that will haunt me, I know.
The thunderous voice from the speakers around the field announces: “It’s only fifteen minutes till the match begins, folks, so take your seats! Oh, and the home school’s cheerleading team will be coming out in just ten minutes!”
I shuffle up a couple of rows until I hear someone yell my name and, grateful, I make my way along and take my seat next to Ricky.
“Everything okay?” he asks, taking a few pieces of my popcorn. “You look a little … I don’t know. Weird.” Then he makes a face. “Ew, salted. Why didn’t you get butter?”
I force a laugh and say, “I didn’t know I was buying the popcorn for you, sorry. You should’ve specified.”
He sighs, but his smile is good-natured. “Well, remember for next time, okay?”
“Okay,” I laugh; this time it isn’t so forced, but my heart’s still not entirely in it.
We win the soccer match 3–1. Bryce scored two of those three goals, and one was with just two minutes left to go. Even for me—and I’m not all that interested in soccer—it was a pretty exciting match. And the excitement doesn’t die down after the match, since everyone will be heading to Liam Kennedy’s house.
All the cheerleaders and soccer players have gone to the locker rooms to shower and change, so there’s no point in going to congratulate Bryce now; I’ll wait until the party.
Ricky is giving me and a couple of other guys a ride to Liam’s, choosing to be the designated driver this time. We make our way out through the swarms of people—parents and teachers and students alike—to the parking lot. And I can’t stop myself from looking around for Dwight.
I’ve been avoiding thinking about the entire library scene because of the kiss; I refused to let my thoughts linger on it. But right now, after the way he acted, I can’t help it. The guys are engrossed in a verbal replay of the entire match, so I tune out when I climb into Ricky’s car, already thinking about that morning.
After the way Dwight acted earlier, saying those things to me … I’m sure he hates me. He regrets kissing me. He regrets even speaking to me yesterday.
He wasn’t exactly very warm toward me at the start of the school year, once he noticed me hanging out with the popular clique—though after that things were okay. The thing is, I like Dwight. I don’t know why I told him so much about my history, especially when I wanted to bury it away forever.
Panic swims through me in an instant. He knows my whole story. And now he hates me. He could spread it around and I could end up a social outcast again. Except this time, it would be even worse.
Would anyone listen to him, though?
Yeah, I decide. Yes, people would listen to him. The slightest gossip about anyone can spread like wildfire in high school, no matter who the source is or how reliable they are.
He wouldn’t really tell anyone, though, would he? I know Dwight. He’s a nice guy: he comforted me in the library; he didn’t freak out when I started crying. A guy like that wouldn’t be vindictive enough to go feeding the rumor mill. That thought finally calms me down.
Then I think back to his reaction at the match. I really don’t want Dwight to hate me. I liked hanging out with him. I actually enjoyed working on the Physics project, not just because he was good company, but because his enthusiasm made it so much more bearable.
I just …
I’d miss him if I didn’t have him around.
I haven’t let on to the others just how much I like having Dwight as a friend. I know that Tiffany would call it “social suicide”; the others probably wouldn’t understand either. Summer might—like she did with the black prom dress. I just don’t see why I should feel guilty because I’m friends with a guy who isn’t considered popular.
Fingers snap loudly in front of my eyes, making me jump violently, so that the seat belt cuts into my shoulder. “What?” I snap.
“We’re here,” Owen from my algebra class tells me. “You okay? You looked a world away.”
I shake my head a little and put on a broad smile. “I’m fine. Totally fine.”
I clamber out of the car after Owen and smooth down my skirt. There are maybe a dozen or so cars here already, and a bunch more are looking for a place to park. Liam’s already here—I spot him near the door, waving people in and saying hi, accepting the congratulations for his performance in the game.
I wonder how he got here so fast—until I see he’s still wearing his soccer uniform.
“Hey, Madison!” he calls as I appear behind the guys at the porch of his house.
“Hey.” Even from this distance I can smell the sweat and dirt on him. “Great game tonight, by the way!”
“Thanks. You know, I really don’t get enough credit as a defender. I mean, come on, we both know I carry that team of losers.”
I laugh and give a semi-sarcastic, “Of course you do.”
He winks and then yells behind me, “Hutchins! How you been, man! Long time no see!”
I’m not sure who’s arrived. I doubt the girls are here yet. It’ll be ages before they’re ready if they are taking showers. But this time, I don’t hide in the bathroom. I want to—like at that first party at Tiffany’s house—because I still don’t know a lot of people here. I only really hang out with one small group, and try and keep up with who’s who, and who’s dating who.
But I decide that, just for a change, I’ll grin and bear it, and be a little bit braver.
Following the guys to the kitchen, I see a bunch of cans in a cooler on the floor. It briefly crosses my mind that one can of cider won’t hurt anybody—my parents won’t know; it wouldn’t get me drunk or anything … And everyone else does it.
But that’s all that happens; I think about it for a split second, and then I grab a can of diet lemonade instead. Not because I’m worried what my parents would say if they found out. I just don’t want the alcohol, period.
“Madison! Hi!”
I turn and recognize Nicole from my English class, and a girl who after a couple of seconds I remember is called Mary-Jane. I smile, glad to have people to talk to. “Hey. How are you guys?”
The night is actually pretty fun; the girls find me when they finally arrive, so I hang out with them for a while. I think about trying to find Bryce, but I don’t catch him, even though I keep an eye out, and frankly, I’m having too much fun with the girls, attempting to dance without looking like a total dork.
I’m laughing as Melissa, hiccupping and giggling, overbalances into Tiffany. I reach forward, laughing, to help steady her, when a hand lands on my waist.
I turn around to see who it is, and find myself being kissed. In a split second I recognize Bryce, and kiss him back.
We break apart eventually, and he leans to whisper in my ear, “I’ve been waiting for that all night. Come on, let’s go someplace quieter.”
He keeps hold of m
y hand as we weave through the throngs of sweaty people. Eventually we make it outside. The night air feels cool on my bare skin after the warm house. There aren’t many people in Liam Kennedy’s backyard, and when Bryce guides me over to the far corner, the thrumming music fades into the background. He drops down on the grass and pats the space beside him.
“Great game, by the way,” I tell him as I sit beside him. He reaches over to pull me onto his lap. “You played really well. I don’t know why you’re worried about being picked up by college scouts. They’ll snap you up easy.”
“I don’t want to talk about that right now,” he says dismissively, and kisses me again.
“Is everything okay?” I ask him.
“What, so now I can’t even kiss my girlfriend without something being wrong?” He tries to say it jokingly but there’s an edge to his voice.
“Bryce …”
“It’s fine, for God’s sake,” he says, this time a little more sharply. Snapping, almost. He starts to kiss me again but I move my head back so he can’t. I expect him to get even angrier, since he’s obviously in such a bad mood, but to my surprise he curls his arms around me instead and says, “I’m just—just stressing out about the whole college thing a little. Tonight’s game wasn’t my best.”
“Are you kidding? You were fantastic! Everyone says so.”
His mouth twists a little, and I put a hand to his face. His shadow of stubble scratches against my palm—and my cheek when I lean forward to give him a kiss. “Stop worrying about it so much. It’s going to be fine. Everyone knows you’re going to get that scholarship. Wouldn’t Coach have told you before now if he thought you needed to step it up and do better?”
“I guess.”
I plant another kiss on his lips. “Exactly. So you should be celebrating. You should be happy. You guys won, and you played fantastically.”
