Girl on the Verge

by Pintip Dunn

  * * *

  I arrive at Miss Patsy’s dance studio. Now that I’ve gotten the girls’ measurements, I don’t technically need to work on-site. But Miss Patsy offered me free reign in the spare classroom, which has a ton of advantages. It’s got great afternoon sun. It helps me keep my extracurricular activity a secret from Khun Yai. Best of all, it’s right across the hall from where Ethan Thorne teaches dance classes.

  After the day I just had, I could use a little of Ethan’s company. And if he doesn’t talk to me, at least I can look at him.

  When I walk into the dance studio, however, the place is deserted. I remember all of a sudden that Miss Patsy cancelled classes because she is out of town.

  I sigh and am about to retreat to the classroom, when I hear voices. Two voices, to be precise. One female, the other male—and disturbingly familiar.

  “No, not like that,” the girl says. “Watch me.”

  “Maybe if you hadn’t made me wear this outfit, I could concentrate,” Ethan grumbles.

  “We have to practice in our new costumes sometime.”

  The voices are coming from the main classroom, the one with a large, potted plant right in the middle of the doorway. Miss Patsy put the plant there on purpose, so that parents could peek at their kids without making them nervous.

  Which means there’s no reason for my palms to be slick. No reason for my heart to thunder in my throat. I’m not a Peeping Tom, am I, if I’m using the plant for its intended purpose?

  I crouch down and part the leaves. And my mouth goes dry.

  Ethan pats his forehead with a white towel. He has on black pants and a white tuxedo shirt open halfway down his chest. A bright red bow tie is draped around his neck, as though he got interrupted in the middle of dressing—or undressing, as the case may be. The girl with him is a college student with long blond hair swept up in a ponytail. His dance partner, I’m assuming. I recognize her from the pep rally.

  The girl is fiddling with her iPod and wears an even more daring outfit than the one she was wearing this morning. The short red dress has a plunging neckline and is covered in sequins.

  Music blares out of the iPod. She turns, the skirt flowing out gracefully, and pulls Ethan into a Latin dance where the steps are slick and the movements are slow. Sensuality oozes from both of them. I feel like I’m watching sex on the dance floor.

  The heat creeps up my neck and warms my cheeks. Maybe I shouldn’t be watching this, his hand on her bare skin, her eyes half-closed. But I cannot rip my gaze away. Is that his girlfriend? The way he’s looking at her, she’s got to be his girlfriend.

  No one’s ever looked at me like that. I squirm, my elbows digging into the soil of the plant. I don’t know what I would do if someone did look at me like that.

  And then, the music ends and the two of them break apart.

  “You’re too slow,” the blonde snaps. “You were half a step behind me the entire song.”

  Ethan rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Jules. You were the one rushing the beat. Maybe you just want to get out of here so you can see your girlfriend.”

  “At least I have someone. Any girls show interest in your ugly face yet?”

  “Ha ha.” He takes a long pull from a water bottle. “You have no idea. They can’t get enough of me.”

  “Doubtful. High school girls are smart. I would know. I used to be one.”

  She lies facedown and straightens her arms overhead, twisting her stomach and rotating her shoulder to the floor. He imitates her stretch. Her blond ponytail falls onto his shoulder, but he doesn’t seem to notice, as though he’s as familiar with her body as he is with his own.

  Maybe this is my cue to leave. She’s not his girlfriend. That’s all I really need to know. My stomach limp with relief, I start to stand when he speaks again.

  “There is this one girl . . .” He shifts to a kneeling position, with one knee up and one knee down.

  I freeze, midcrouch, and fall back onto the floor.

  Jules, like Ethan, moves into a quad stretch. “What’s wrong with her that she’s actually interested in you?”

  “She’s not interested in me. We’ve never even had a real conversation.”

  My breath catches. He’s talking about me. Right? How many other girls does he not have a conversation with?

  I clench my teeth. Don’t be silly, Kan. He probably doesn’t talk to half the girls at school.

  Jules groans. “Oh, please. Don’t tell me you’re gaga over some girl just because she’s cute.”

  “I’m not gaga,” he says. “But face it. This thing called physical chemistry? It’s real.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “I guess something’s got to account for all those girls yelling your name at dance competitions. If only they knew you smelled like sweaty socks.”

  “Better than a sweaty butt.” He gives her a playful shove, and she falls to the floor, giving up on her stretch.

  “Go on.” She grabs her water bottle.

  “Well, she is cute, but it’s more than just her looks. She has this . . . passion. This focus when she throws herself into her work. That’s sexy to me. And it makes me wonder . . .” He lowers his voice. “It makes me wonder how it would feel if she put that attention on me.”

  She snorts, and water comes up her nose. “Oh, you have it bad, don’t you?” she asks, wiping a hand across her face. “But I approve of your reasons. When are you going to ask her out? Or, you know, talk to her?”

  “Tonight, maybe. I heard she was going to Derek’s party. I’ll be there, too. And . . . we’ll see.”

  “I guess we will.” She pulls him to his feet. “Until then, Romeo, break time’s over.”

  She taps a button on the iPod, and the music starts playing again. I get to my feet and back away from the plant, unreasonably hurt. I have no plans of going to Derek’s party tonight, so I’m not the girl he’s talking about.

  I gather my tote bags of fabric and walk woodenly to my car. There’s no way I can stay and work here now. I’m such a fool. I should’ve known it wasn’t me.

  Should’ve known there was no way I had a shot with blond, blue-eyed Ethan, not when he has a plethora of other girls from which to choose. Girls who aren’t the only Asian student at school. Girls who don’t have squinty eyes and puffy hair. Girls who look like everybody else.

  In my seventeen years in Foxville, Kansas, it’s never been me.

  Why should anything change now?

  Chapter 8

  I decide to make Shelly a shirt. The idea comes to me as I’m driving home from Miss Patsy’s. I need something to occupy my hands, and besides, I want to thank her for standing up for me. The girls’ costumes can wait. They would make me think of Ethan, anyhow, and I really don’t need him crowding my mind.

  Shelly’s in the living room when I get home, watching reruns on the television. I make up some excuse about needing her as a model for an emergency project and take her measurements. Not even stopping for dinner, I grab a peanut butter chocolate chip granola bar and retreat to the room above the garage.

  This is where I work when I’m not at Miss Patsy’s. I renovated the space last year and commandeered it as my own. I’m not sure what Khun Yai thinks I do up here. Meditate, maybe. Study, definitely. But she rarely comes up to check on me, and I always make sure the sewing machine and dressmakers’ dummies are stowed away in a closet when I’m not here.

  Guiltily, I think of Shelly, spending her first Friday night in Foxville alone. But she’ll forgive me when she sees the shirt.

  I use the purest white cotton I can find and design a wrap-around style with a daring, low neckline. It’s not Shelly’s usual style, but I’m determined to prove to her that she can pull it off.

  I work late into the night—and then get up early to continue working. By midmorning, I’ve slept a total of three hours, but I have a brand-new shirt to show for it.

  A thrill shoots through me. I’ve made countless articles of clothing—some I’m proud of, others of the m
ore experimental variety—and I feel a deep sense of accomplishment every time.

  I did this. This shirt wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for me. My hard work and skill brought it to life.

  Humming lightly, I carry the shirt to Shelly’s bedroom, not expecting her to be there. The sun is shining brightly, and the clouds are wisps of cotton in the sky. She’s probably off enjoying this beautiful weather.

  But when I knock and then push the door open, she’s sitting on her bed, staring at nothing, much as she was yesterday morning. Except this time, her eyes are narrowed and her mouth is twisted. I almost don’t recognize her. She looks consumed by rage.

  My heart skips a beat. “Shelly! Are you . . . okay?”

  With effort, she rearranges the planes of her face and attempts a smile. “It’s nothing. I was just thinking about my mom.”

  “Oh.” I step forward. Should I give her a hug? I want to, but the lingering traces of her anger make me hesitate. I settle for rubbing her shoulder instead. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Nah. It’s not good for me to dwell so much in the past.” She shakes her head, as if putting and end to the subject. “What’s up?”

  I hand her the neatly folded shirt. That should make her feel better. “Look what I made you!”

  “Oh, Kan, for me? You shouldn’t have.” She unfolds the shirt carefully, almost reverently, and holds it up. “It looks just like yours.” She beams at me.

  I smile back, even as bubbles of unease pop in my stomach. I’m glad Shelly can transition so quickly from anger to gratitude . . . but the end result feels like whiplash.

  I push the feeling away. That’s probably just my fatigue talking. I’m so tired I can barely stand up. “Thanks for sticking up for me. I’m lucky to have a friend like you.”

  “I’ve never owned anything so beautiful.” She strokes the fabric. “But I’m sure it will look awful on me.”

  “It won’t. I promise.”

  She looks uncertainly into the mirror, clutching the shirt to her chest.

  The white fabric is too plain against her pale skin. Too stark. She needs a splash of color.

  Red, perhaps. The color of passion, the color of life. Immediately, I think of Ethan, half-undressed with a red bow tie draped around his neck.

  My cheeks flame. That’s the color of passion, all right. The color of hips moving in a slow, sensual way. The color of steamy looks and smoldering silence.

  And . . . red and white is also a basic color pairing, so I just need to stop being so ridiculous.

  “You need a bright red accent,” I say. “Something in your hair or around your neck.”

  I move to the dresser, where I spy a few pairs of brightly colored earrings. “How about these?” I hold up a dangly red pair.

  “Oh, um, they were having a sale at Walmart. I never wear things like that, but I . . . I couldn’t resist.” She ducks her head. “I think being around you has inspired me to be more fashionable. Try to, at least.”

  “They’re perfect.”

  She takes a deep breath and puts on the earrings. “I’m being silly, I know. If you went to all this trouble to make me a shirt, the least I can do is put it on.” She strips off her blouse, and I look away to give her privacy.

  My eyes fall on another piece of jewelry: a BFF heart necklace hanging on a knob of her dresser. Did she pick this up at Walmart, too? Upon closer examination, I see that there are two necklaces, rather than one. The kind that Ash and I used to wear in the fourth grade—but different, too. Together, the two halves form a heart, but the bottom of each heart has this weird, jagged edge that looks almost like a key. What’s even stranger is that both halves of the heart are present.

  I pick up one of the halves and turn the pendant over. R & S, best friends forever is inscribed on the back. So, clearly not from Walmart. S is clearly Shelly, but who is R? And why does Shelly have both halves of the necklace?

  “Well, what do you think?” Shelly’s voice intrudes on my thoughts.

  Startled, I hang the necklace back up and flush, although I’m not really snooping. I mean, she’s standing right there.

  Clearing my throat, I walk to her and tie the crisp bow by her waist. “See? It fits you perfectly. I knew it would.”

  “I can’t believe that’s really me.” She twists back and forth in front of the mirror.

  “You look downright sexy.”

  She shakes her head, and the earrings brush against her cheeks. “Are you sure? Is this shirt too, um, classy for me?”

  “No way.” I pool her hair on top of her head and secure it in a messy bun. “You wear this outfit with skinny jeans and tall boots, and you’re as sophisticated as anyone.”

  She admires the new hairstyle in the mirror. “I don’t even recognize myself,” she says wonderingly.

  I shrug and smile. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s fashion. It doesn’t care about your race or which world you fit in. It just is.

  “You have no idea how it feels to be me,” she continues. “How it feels to be . . . ugly.”

  I’ve been ugly all my life, but now’s not the time to mention my own insecurities. Not when I’m trying to build her up. “You’re not ugly. Far from it.” I lick my lips, not sure how to proceed. “Do you think so because of . . . your scar?”

  She nods.

  “I think you look beautiful, just as you are,” I say. She shakes her head, as though she doesn’t want to hear it, so I keep going. “But if it would make you feel better, you could cover the scar up with concealer. You have lots of admirers, Shelly. Didn’t you see all those people who came up to you yesterday? I don’t think you realize how much people like you.”

  An expression I can’t read crosses her face, and she yanks the earrings off. “No, Kan. I’m not like you. Even if I didn’t have this scar, I wouldn’t be tall and pretty. I wouldn’t be popular like Ash. People like her make me feel like I’m a speck of dirt. I could get blown away in the wind, and nobody would care.”

  “The Ashes of the world shouldn’t matter, Shelly. Don’t let someone else determine how you feel about yourself.”

  She closes her eyes, breathing deeply, as if she is battling with invisible demons. I wish there were something I could do to help. Something to lessen the pain.

  “I think I just need to hear that every day,” she says, in a small voice. “Until I can convince myself it’s true.”

  “Well, I’ll be happy to tell you.”

  “Could you . . . could you say it again?” She takes a shuddering breath, sticking her hands deep into the pockets of her pants. “All of it. Especially the part about Ash.” She ducks her head. “You must think I’m really pathetic.”

  “Of course I don’t.” I look right into her eyes. “Shelly, you are beautiful and strong and kind. Don’t ever forget that, and don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. Don’t worry about Ash. Her opinion doesn’t matter. You determine who you are. Not anyone else.” Now if I can only internalize such lessons for myself.

  She grabs my hands. “Thank you, Kan. That means a lot to me.” She takes a breath. “I’m sorry if I seem needy. I had a . . . bad experience with my last friend. We were as close as sisters, and I supported her in everything. I thought she supported me, too. But then she got a new boyfriend, and she ditched me right when I needed her most. Right when my mom died.”

  “Oh, Shelly.” My heart wrenches. She must be talking about the R in the BFF necklace. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

  She grips my hands even tighter. “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you, Kan? You wouldn’t get a boyfriend and drop me? I don’t think I could go through that pain again. Not so soon.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Do you promise?”

  I pause. The promise feels a little dramatic, but again, it’s harmless. I’m not likely to get a boyfriend anytime soon, and besides, I would never forget about my friends.

  So, I smile at Shelly and squeeze her hands. And sa
y the words I hope I don’t regret: “I promise.”

  Chapter 9

  After Kan left the room, Shelly looked at herself in the mirror for the millionth time. Her new friend was a magician. With a few twists of the hair, a selection of earrings, and a new shirt, she had transformed Shelly into someone different. Someone better. Someone new.

  She almost didn’t even see the scar on her cheek anymore.

  She picked up the BFF necklaces, the ones with the two halves of a broken heart. As always, the sight of the two parts nestled together made her feel sad. The necklaces weren’t supposed to be reunited. They were supposed to hang around the necks of two separate people. Two friends, two sisters. Two girls coming together to make a whole.

  But there was no reason to feel sad. Pretty soon, the other necklace would find its rightful home again, around the neck of someone loyal and true. Someone who wouldn’t betray her, the way the last girl did.

  Maybe that person would be Kan.

  She inhaled sharply, the wish spurting through her veins. Oh, please, let it be Kan. Let it be this sweet, sophisticated girl, who was everything Shelly wasn’t and wanted to be. It would be a simple enough matter to turn the R into a K. Before the R, after all, there was a P. And before the P, there was a B.

  She was lucky, she supposed, that the girls who entered her life had such interchangeable first initials. Although you’d be hard-pressed to call her lucky at anything.

  Shelly wrapped her hand around her half of the heart pendant, squeezing until she could feel the jagged edge slicing into her skin. She just had to hold on a little while longer, and then she wouldn’t feel so alone anymore.

  She wouldn’t feel this darkness wrapping around her, threatening to choke the very life out of her.

  All she wanted was for one person to understand her. Someone to glimpse her pain and ease it, for a little while. Someone to look at her the way she’d caught the boy in the tight black clothes sneaking glances at Kan in the cafeteria. Not that Kan noticed. But Shelly supposed if you had lots of admirers, you wouldn’t pick up on one appreciative glance.