Pretty in Punxsutawney

by Laurie Boyle Crompton

  It’s significantly depressing that my hair is more ridiculous than his hat.

  I glance once more toward Kaia and Colton, who seem to be starring in their own lunchroom love scene. The rest of us are clearly just subplots and background artists in the cozy couple’s feature film.

  I numbly follow Tom as he pays for our food and carries the tray from the registers. Our plates clink softly against each other.

  I realize he’s heading toward the table filled with the eclectic choir room crew as they make extra room for us. No, no, no . . . If I sit here, Colton will never think of me as girlfriend material. I know it’s pathetic, but I can’t give up on true love the very first day.

  “Thank you so much. I’ll pay you back tomorrow,” I say abruptly, and Tom stops walking. I pause a beat before grabbing my pizza off his tray and toppling his plate of brown goo. He catches the sliding plate and I help him rebalance his tray.

  “I am so sorry,” I say. Half his brown goo has dumped onto the tray. “I’m pretty sure the trays are just as clean as the plates.”

  He smiles. “That’s not actually all that clean.”

  When he lunged to save his goo, his hat lost its rakish tilt, and it’s practically hanging off his ear. Instinctively, my hand that’s not holding pizza reaches up and straightens it. “Wait . . .” I tug at the front corner until I’ve re-created the rakish tilt.

  “Thanks.” He tips his head and gives me a grin.

  “No, thank you,” I say, holding up the pizza. Then I realize his whole table of friends is watching us.

  Looking over, I see Kaia is talking to her friends while Colton scans the lunchroom. I’m sure he’s looking for me, wondering where I am.

  Tom gestures to the empty space that’s been made for us. It’s barely enough room for two people. With a glance back toward Colton, I make a choice. Rushing all my words together, I tell him, “I’ll-pay-you-back-I-promise-and-sorry-again-about-yourbrown-goo-and-if-you-get-sick-from-tray-germs-it’s-all-myfault-and-thank-you-again-and-bye.”

  Clutching my pizza plate, I turn and zip back toward the girls’ room before he has a chance to respond. I probably should’ve stayed, or at least gone over to confront Kaia on boxing me out, but the lunch period is half over by now and I haven’t eaten a thing.

  I just need a chance to regroup, and the quiet girls’ room seems like the most reasonable place to go.

  I will say this: eating greasy cafeteria pizza while crouching on a toilet in a high school bathroom stall would probably be the number one most humiliating experience imaginable if anybody could actually see me doing it. As it is, I feel the confines of the worn metal walls quite comforting.

  Chewing slowly, my mind rolls over how neatly Kaia stole Colton from me. Like the easiest heist ever, she conned me into handing him directly into her manicured clutches.

  The doors to the other stalls begin to creak open and slam closed with increased frequency, which I assume means the lunch period is about to end. I watch the shoes coming and going on either side of me and try to picture the owner of each pair. There’s probably a sporty girl attached to those plain white sneakers, and most likely a funky punk wearing the glittering high-heeled boots that sashay past the front of my stall. But the shoes’ owners are all strangers, and I don’t know anybody here. Suddenly, the patheticness of sitting here, alone on a toilet, hits me. Dropping my ballet-slippered feet to the ground, I instantly realize that both of my legs have fallen asleep. Also, my toes have been tangled in the fishnet holes for far too long. Six of the ten are completely numb.

  I don’t think I can walk, and here’s one thing I’m sure of: if I ever hope to have a social life at this school, stumbling awkwardly into the middle of a bathroom filled with chattering girls is not an option. Keeping my door locked, I do a few deep knee bends to get blood flowing to my legs and try to kick the feeling back into my toes.

  Under the divider, I see a pair of cute black pumps move into position in the stall next to mine. Kaia’s kitten heels—I’d recognize them anywhere. Except they’re facing the wrong direction. At first, I’m afraid she’s about to step up onto the toilet so she can see into my stall, but then I hear the slightest gag. And the sploosh of . . . something . . . hitting the water. She gives a small cough, and it takes a moment for me to realize; Kaia is throwing up.

  I have a hard time marrying the image of perfect-looking Miss Hair Gloss to the eating-disordered girls from my seventh-grade health video. But the evidence is undeniable. She’s just eaten lunch. She’s now puking her guts out. Unless she very recently contracted the flu or got instant food poisoning, Kaia must be bulimic.

  I’m so shocked, I unlock the door to my stall and haltingly make my way toward the row of sinks.

  “Are you drunk, Pinky?” A girl with an eyebrow ring is glaring at my dress. I recognize her as the eyeliner girl whose smile I rejected by accident earlier.

  I shake my head no to her, trying not to look scared as I twist the closest faucet to cold and splash water on my face. Of course, this makes a mess of my mascara. After being barefaced all summer, I forgot I was wearing any. As I scrub at the stubborn black underneath my eyes, I can feel the stares of the other girls.

  Eventually, Kaia moves into place beside me, her eyes slightly red and watery. I wonder who else knows her secret. Pulling a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste from her bag, she proceeds to brush her teeth. Catching my eye in the mirror, she stops and gives me a frothy, “What?”

  I turn my attention back to scrubbing my face, wishing I’d stayed hidden in my stall until everyone left. By the time Kaia finishes brushing, reapplies her lipstick, and starts running a completely unnecessary comb through her hair, my face matches my pink dress. But thankfully, my mascara is gone.

  I make my escape and hear Kaia give a melodic chuckle as I lunge out the swinging door.

  And smack into Colton.

  “Whoa, Andie,” he says. “Missed you at lunch today.” He looks at my hair as if ginger-flavored cotton candy is not really his preference.

  Patting him on the chest, I try to mimic Kaia’s feminine chuckle and instead bray like an amused donkey. Before I can embarrass myself more, I push off of Colton and make my way down the hall. It isn’t until I turn into the doorway of my next class that I realize my ballet flat has a long toilet paper tail attached to the heel. Because, of course it does.

  Wadding up the white streamer of shame, I shove it into the wastepaper basket at the head of the classroom. This whole day is turning into a slow-moving train wreck. I head for the back of the room, slide into a chair, and lay my big-haired head on the desk. I shift in my seat and swear I hear my stupid dress chuckle out loud at me.

  Okay, new strategy: quietly get through the rest of the day without calling any more attention to myself. Which would be so much easier without the red bouffant. Not to mention my highly amused, pink polka-dotted dress.

  I press my forehead into the smooth surface of my desk. My life is officially over.

  When the glorious final bell rings, marking the end of this unending day, I finally track Colton down at his locker. Kaia is already attached to his bicep. “You ready to go?” he asks me with a grin.

  Her perfectly symmetrical eyebrows furrow. “But, Colt, baby,” she whines. “You were going to take me to the mall, remember? I have a gift card for Lucy’s.”

  “We can head to the mall right after I drop off Andie,” he soothes.

  Kaia eyes me. “I’m sure Andie won’t mind taking the bus home. It’s good for her to learn her way around.”

  The way Colton has to drag his eyes off of Kaia when he turns to me confirms that my romantic fantasy is ending, and not in a happily-ever-after sense. True love cancelled today due to Typhoon Kaia. Before Colton can say anything, I cut in. “It’s really no problem.” I feel myself blinking rapidly as I lie. “I love riding the bus.”

  “Are you positive?” Colton asks. “You’re right on our way. I’d be happy to drive you home.”

&nbs
p; I imagine myself sitting in the back seat of his Honda Element, watching Kaia flirt with him across the center console as she flings her long, glossy hair into my eyes. The healthy-looking blunt ends could probably blind me. “I’m good, really.” I say. “Just point me in the right direction.”

  Colton is such a nice guy that he sees me onto the big yellow school bus, which makes me feel about five years old. At the head of the aisle, I stop and look over the field of green seats sprouting with curious faces. One girl near the back is wearing a straw hat and frilly collar that would go great with my polka dots, but she breaks eye contact. She probably remembers me ditching her choir room crowd along with Tom today at lunch. But that was only because I thought I still had a chance with Colton. I want to tell her, I’m really not a horrible person. Though I fleetingly ask myself if ignoring everyone but Colton’s crew makes me a horrible person after all. Then, I wonder if worrying that I’m a horrible person automatically makes me not horrible, or if it’s evidence I’m most definitely horrible.

  The goth girl who’s been giving me the eye all day is sitting in the middle of the bus, staring out the window. She starts to turn her head in my direction, and I dive into the seat directly behind the bus driver before she notices me. Keeping my head down, I glare at my stupid pink lap the whole twisting ride home. By the time I climb off the bus at my stop, I’ve developed motion sickness on top of everything else.

  My mother greets me at the door wearing a royal blue miniskirt, asking, “What happened? Where’s Colton?” The hope in her eyes makes everything infinitely worse. Instead of making progress toward my first kiss with my one true love, all I got was one giant kiss-off today.

  “I’m just glad the first day of school is over,” I tell Mom, and we move inside so I can spill about my shiny epic romance bursting into a flattened Mylar balloon of tattered silver dreams.

  “Dang. The two of you looked so adorable together too.” Mom holds up her camera with the screen turned in my direction. Displayed is the photo of Colton and me from this morning. He looks a bit surprised, but I look so excited and happy, it’s utterly heartbreaking.

  “Thanks, Mom. You’re making this whole thing so much easier.” I slump into the pink couch. It seems almost more comfortable than I remember.

  With a sigh, she sits down beside me, looking at the picture as if she’s the one with the deflated heart.

  Since the bus ride home, the greasy pizza I ate inside the bathroom stall has declared a civil war against my stomach. All I can manage to swallow down for dinner is a sad bowl of Puffs ‘o Oats cereal.

  Afterward, my dad needs to take his psychology degree out for a spin by trying to figure out why I’m taking Colton’s rejection so hard. He digs deep into my psyche and spouts some of his psychobabble wisdom about self-esteem and shame. In the end, he decides my expectations were just too far outside the realm of possibility.

  Thanks a bunch, Dad.

  Mentally, I burn the beautiful, hopeful pictures of me dancing with Colton at the prom. By the time I change into flowered flannel PJs, I have to admit my father is probably right. No more high expectations for Andie.

  I open my phone and count twenty likes for my picture with Colton. A few people have written #squeee, and Rhonda gave me an OMG he’s hawt, which only makes me feel worse. Then some semi-acquaintance who is clearly just jealous of Colton’s hotness had to insert the obvious: Redheads should never wear pink.

  I quickly close the app.

  This sad evening can only end in one way. With me sitting on the couch watching a movie, eating ice cream with my mom. She insists I need to re-watch Pretty in Pink so I can see just how wrong I am about Duckie being a better match for Andie, but there is no way I can face that final prom scene and Andie’s pink sack dress without crying.

  Finally, Mom backs down and puts on The Breakfast Club, which has a group of teens from different cliques connecting with each other over Saturday detention. She says, “I wanted us to watch this one together before school started, but you were so busy with the movie theater.”

  “That will no longer be a problem,” I say. “Seeing Colton will be too painful.”

  Patting my hand, she says, “Don’t worry. Things seem terrible now, but you never know. They could turn around in an instant.”

  “Sure, Mom. Maybe Colton just had amnesia for a day, and tomorrow he’ll remember I’m his true love.”

  “That’s the spirit.” She grins, and I turn away before rolling my eyes. No point in her having hurt feelings on top of my own.

  She and I sit side by side, watching and laughing and tearing up and basically losing ourselves in the comforting oversimplification of a high school caste system.

  When the movie’s over, I immediately restart it from the beginning. “Sorry, Mom, I’m not ready to discuss this one,” I explain, but I’m really hoping for some inspiration on how to handle this new world of complex cliques I’ve entered. Tomorrow I won’t have Colton, so I’ll be navigating all on my own.

  Mom shrugs. “You can’t really know a movie until you’ve seen it multiple times.”

  I couldn’t agree more.

  Just at the point in the film when Allison is emptying her Pixy Stix onto her sandwich, Mom kisses me on the forehead and heads up to bed. As I lie back on the couch, watching the movie and trying not to cry, my mind won’t stop drumming with regret over so many parts of today.

  As I haltingly drift off to sleep, I can’t help wishing that real life had a restart button. Or at the very least a chapter rewind.

  chapter 5

  I wake up with my cheek once again sealed to the armrest of the pink leather couch. Nice, I think as I peel my face free. Falling asleep in front of the TV is a lovely, life-affirming habit. This morning the living room looks less rosy and more depressing than yesterday. I hear familiar music playing in the background, and clutch the blanket to my chest when I realize it’s the Pretty in Pink DVD menu playing again. Which is odd, since I’m positive The Breakfast Club was still on when I fell asleep last night.

  Not only did I reject Pretty in Pink, I seem to remember threatening to crack the disc in half when Mom kept pressuring me to re-watch it. I can’t imagine why she’d sneak back in and put it on after I fell asleep.

  Dad whistles as he walks down the stairs into the living room. “Good morning, sweetheart. You up for pancakes?”

  “Pancakes won’t work,” I say. “Uprooting me my senior year is not the type of misery that can just be griddled away.”

  Dad gives me a double take, like his body has a stutter, and heads for the kitchen. He’s stopped whistling. As a therapist, he should be glad I’m sharing how I feel, but now that I’ve hurt him, my feelings have all shifted to guilt.

  Mom bustles in and spreads her arms wide. “Happy first day at your new school, Andie!”

  “Not funny, Mom.” I lie back down and pull the blanket over my head in an attempt to block out yesterday. “I don’t get a do-over.”

  I hear her mutter, “Somebody woke up cranky,” as she heads into the kitchen. “Maybe you should get some more sleep, sweetheart.”

  With a sigh, I fling down the blanket and, What the . . .?

  I’m wearing the pink polka-dot dress again.

  My mouth refuses to close. I stop breathing, and my eyes feel like they’re about to pop out of my head as they take in the pink sea of floating polka dots. I toss off the blanket, and the skirt springs free in victory.

  Scanning my brain, I definitely remember changing into comfy flannel PJs last night. The ones with the flowers. Did Mom do something insane, like sneak in and put this dress back on me while I slept? Why on earth would she do that? Did I do this in my sleep? Maybe I’m so distraught over epically blowing things with Colton that I’ve taken up sleepwalking. And sleep DVD changing. And sleep dressing.

  I have terrible taste in clothes when I’m asleep.

  Picking up my phone, I quickly open my social app. I scroll all the way down, but the picture I posted
yesterday of Colton and me is gone. Which is something that’s never happened before. Sure, I may have exaggerated how hard I was rocking Punxsutawney High, and the photo might have implied that Colton and I were together when we’re not, but it’s not as if lies are automatically deleted from the Internet now.

  My phone must be having updating issues. I check the settings and restart it, but the most recent image that will load is a close-up shot of an unfortunate zit someone from my old school posted early yesterday morning with the caption, “First day of school. Huzzah.”

  And then I look at the date. September first. Which was yesterday. Just what I need; a wonky phone to deal with on top of everything else.

  Spotting Mom’s camera sitting on the end table, I pick it up and scroll through the recent pictures. The last one shows me posing dramatically in this stupid pink dress in a photo I remember Mom taking during our try-on session the other night. I guess she decided to delete the pictures of me with Colton so I wouldn’t get upset. But while she unquestionably cares about my feelings, that doesn’t really sound like her. I mean, she was fully stoked about those photos.

  I head into the kitchen, and Mom turns from the sink. When she sees what I’m wearing, her face opens wide with a hopeful, toothy smile. “Oh, Andie. Perfect choice. That dress is so lovely on you.”

  Gathering up the skirt of the dress, I angrily hold it out toward her. “This dress? Needs to be burned. I’m never wearing it again.”

  “Sorry.” Mom turns back to the sink. “I thought you maybe decided to dress up for your first day.”

  “What’s with all the ‘first day’ crap?” I slump into a chair. “You know I already wore this stupid dress and had the worst day of my life. I hate Punxsutawney High.”

  “Language, Andie, and what on earth are you talking about?” Mom furrows her brow. “You’ve never been to Punxsutawney High. You were looking forward to getting a ride there with Colton this morning.”