Practically Ever After

by Isabel Bandeira

  Chapter 49

  “Customization, fit, individuality,” I said aloud as I added those bullet points to my presentation. I hadn’t needed Mom’s essential oil diffuser this morning because the energy of finally finishing the project had given me enough of an adrenaline boost to keep awake. It was satisfying to lay out everything and see how it had flowed from concept to design. It had taken a lot more work than I’d expected and was way more evolved and complicated than the original idea I’d had when I first pitched the project, but that was okay—hearing patients who actually would use my design say they’d want to use it was magical. I’d learned so much from this swirly, sintered metal glove.

  The project was coming to an end, but, for once, I was excited. I slipped my prototype onto my hand and smiled as it reflected the light from the desk lamp like a piece of incredibly complex art or jewelry. I didn’t know how Mr. Newton was going to react, but I was proud of what I made. It was a not-exactly-perfect-but-close blend of practicality and style—a little bit like me. If this idea was feasible, maybe more things were possible, and part of me wanted to explore those possibilities. Maybe, someday, I’d actually make it real, and not just a prototype. Maybe, someday, it would help make a difference in someone’s life.

  Maybe I’d make more beautiful things that improved the quality of life for people who needed it, in a way that fit their lives.

  I could also blame the energy running through me on recital day nerves—my body was practically vibrating, but everything was ready. My makeup case and recital dress bag were by the front door and Natalie and I had already done a final run-through last night. Like Aunt Drina always told us, recital day was too late to worry, it was now time to let go and enjoy the results of all our hard work. Like my engineering design class—there really wasn’t anything more I could do for the project at this point beyond tiny tweaks to the presentation and polishing my prototype.

  Like whatever was going to happen with Leia.

  Whatever happened, I was ready to keep moving forward.

  A flash of red and orange caught the corner of my eye as I passed the dining room, and like a good PCHS Muskrat, I couldn’t help but stop and check out what was going on. Mom had covered the table in piles of red and orange cardstock and was setting up rows of mini mason jars down the center of the table. It looked just like school spirit had vomited onto a crafty production line. She’d piled her hair on top of her head in a messy bun and was sticking her tongue out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrated on cutting the cardstock with her paper cutter. I hadn’t seen her this focused since she was doing the Martins/Steffanson wedding layout.

  I leaned against the doorway and smiled, watching for a second before saying, “Need help?”

  Mom looked up from her paper cutter with a surprised look. “You don’t have homework?”

  “It’s a Saturday morning at the end of the school year.”

  She smiled at me. “That hasn’t stopped you from finding things to do before.”

  I pulled away from the doorway and conceded her comment. “And recital nerves for tonight are making me useless, anyway.”

  “Okay, that makes more sense.” Mom wiped a stray hair out of her face as a nostalgic look came over her features. “You always had the worst nerves whenever you had to go up on stage. You know, when you were little, you’d get so nervous, you wouldn’t want to eat. I even used to slip dry milk powder into your milk to get some more protein and calories into you.”

  That didn’t even sound legal. “That’s a thing?”

  “At least according to your pediatrician, it was.”

  “Wow. Okay.”

  “Anyway, yes, I’d love your help if you’re willing to make favors for your own graduation party.” Mom gestured for me to take a seat.

  “I didn’t know people gave out graduation party favors, but sure.” I pulled out the seat next to her and stared at her glue gun and stapler setup.

  “They’re a must-have when I’m planning the party. Plus, I think these will make great table decorations.” Mom deftly rolled one strip of red paper into a loop, glued it onto a square of matching cardstock, and, after a few seconds, took the tiny cardstock graduation cap and slid it on top of one of the little mason jars. “Aren’t they cute? I’m filling them with red and orange candy. I also found red, white, and orange tinsel piks that look like your pom-poms when I stick them in vases, so we’re going with these jars and ‘pom-pom’ centerpieces instead of flowers.”

  I smiled at how she lit up when describing her plans. “Really cute. You should think about making a job out of this.”

  Mom attached a tiny gold tassel to one of the hats and held it up for me to see. “Maybe I will,” she said, giving me a small wink. “But maybe after Trixie’s wedding, because we still don’t know if that’s going to be a success.”

  “You managed to get Trixie and her mom to agree to the same things even though they’re exact opposites. Even Phoebe is calling you a miracle worker. I think it will go fine.”

  “I hope so.” She handed me a pile of cardstock strips and a stapler. “Make circles out of these, please. I need about fifty tubes.”

  I pulled the first strip off the top of the pile and looped it on itself, trying my hardest to match the one Mom had just made. After a few loops where my only soundtrack was the swish of the paper cutter as she cut endless little squares, I took a deep breath.

  “Mom, do you ever regret picking Dad and leaving NYC? You could have been this amazing events planner there doing movie premieres and stuff, or maybe doing something in fashion, instead of being stuck here.”

  Mom froze halfway through cutting. “That’s a really loaded question for a Saturday morning.”

  “You wanted your Gilmore Girls moment and now you’re complaining about my timing?”

  She studied my face for a second, then cracked a smile. “Fine. Should I get us some ice cream or coffee or something?”

  I raised my eyebrows and wagged my finger. “No food. Recital nerves, remember?”

  Mom raised her own eyebrows. “Don’t make me sneak milk powder into your smoothie.”

  “Also, lactose intolerant, remember? Which makes me wonder if your milk powder trick is the reason why I’m like this now.”

  She let out a short laugh. “I’ll blend a lactase tablet in there. You’ll never notice.”

  This was a side of Mom I didn’t get to see too much, and it was surprisingly fun. I tilted my head at her and cracked a grin.

  “You’re really taking that show’s witty banter thing seriously, aren’t you?” I always found it funny that Mom was more like the brunch-at-the-Plaza grandparents in her favorite show but kept wanting our relationship to be like the diner-and-takeout free-spirited mom and daughter.

  “I got a daughter who was as smart as Rory but who never bothered to do the bonding thing until now. Don’t kill my fantasy,” she said, turning her nose up at me.

  “Fine, we’ll bond with banter.”

  “Good. To answer your question, I want to make it very clear in case I haven’t been already these past few weeks—I love your father and you very much and I’d never wish for a different life for myself.”

  “But what about the city? I know you had so many plans. Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if you hadn’t left?”

  “No.” She put down the piece of paper she was holding and turned to look me straight in the eye. “Plans change, and it’s okay. I wouldn’t trade you or your dad for the best apartment in the Upper West Side. You’re both worth putting up with living in the suburbs.” She studied my face for a minute, then said, “So, what brought on this heart-to-heart?”

  I twisted the paper in my hands. “I asked Leia to come to the recital tonight.”

  “Oh?”

  “She didn’t say yes or no.”

  Mom let out a soft “oh.” “And you wonder if she’s going to be your big regret if she decides not to come, even though you think being with her migh
t throw off your plans?”

  I looked down at my hands. “I don’t know how to fix this. We were both fighting, but I was the one who decided we should break up. It made so much sense on paper. I’m trying to fix it, but now—” I shook my head and worried at my lip. “I think I messed up one of the best things in my life.”

  Mom reached over and wrapped her arms around me in a soft, lilac-scented hug. “Oh, my ridiculously practical girl.” She smoothed my hair in the same comforting way she had when I was little. “It’s not easy not being in control of everything, is it?” She ignored my snort, and added, “I wish I could fix this for you, but no matter what happens, you’re going to be okay. You can’t control everything or everyone. But life will hold wonderful surprises for you, regardless, I promise.”

  “That would have been really comforting if you hadn’t called me ‘ridiculously practical,’” I said, my voice a little wavery. Only the tiniest bit, because I was way too old to cry on my mom’s shoulder.

  “I’m a native New Yorker. We get to the point.” She then gave me one last pat on the head before straightening up and pointing at the table. “Now, let’s get these favors done. I’m not wasting any more of this free labor you offered.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I grabbed the stapler and started making loops again. Glancing at Mom out of the corner of my eye, I let out a soft, “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” she responded, just as softly. “And I hope Leia shows up tonight.”

  “Me, too.”

  Chapter 50

  Backstage was complete and total chaos. As the junior jazz class came offstage, I made shushing gestures at them before waving the senior jazz class onstage though the layers of curtains in the wings. Hairpins and pieces of costume flew through the air as the junior girls started half-changing while rushing to the classroom we’d designated as a changing room. I pushed the pins to the side with my feet as the seniors’ music came on and I started swinging my legs to keep my hips warm. Natalie and I were up next, right before the finale number.

  I patted my super-slicked-back low ponytail to check for last-minute flyaways, and rechecked to make sure the rhinestones one of the adult students had glued around my eyes hadn’t fallen off, then ran my tongue over my teeth one more time to make sure I didn’t have lipstick on them.

  Even though the theater had told us not to, one of the ballet dancers had snuck rosin backstage and had set up a shoebox lid full of it in the wings. I rubbed my feet in the powder left behind after the ballet dancers had crushed the rosin to dust with their pointe shoes, all muttering about the slippery stage floor as they came on and off throughout the ballet earlier. Its sweet, piney smell brought me back to recitals past and rubbing rosin onto my heels and hands to keep my shoes in place or to keep from slipping in acro routines.

  My phone buzzed in the pocket of my warmup pants and I pulled it out, tilting my screen to make sure it didn’t shine onto the stage. “Leia is here,” Em’s text read, super bright, and my nerves ratcheted up threefold.

  “Put away the phone, Grace,” a whisper came over my shoulder and I turned to frown at Natalie. “You know the rules: no phones backstage,” she added with a grin, before plucking it out of my hands and dropping it onto one of the sandbags.

  “Leia came,” I whispered back at her, half in explanation, half-helplessly.

  The music from the senior’s number came to an end and Natalie grabbed my shoulders, looked straight into my eyes, and said, “You’re going to wow her. We’re going to be great. Just breathe and dance,” before stepping between the last set of curtains and out onto the dark stage.

  Taking her advice, I took a deep breath and stripped off my warmup pants and legwarmers before following her, padding out as quietly as possible onto the dark stage and trying my hardest not to squint out into the audience to find Leia. Still, as the lights came up, I finally caught sight of her sitting in an aisle seat next to Em and Phoebe, whose bright teal top was impossible to miss. My brain froze and it felt like every step in our dance flew out of my head in that moment. I was going to fail, be like one of the baby ballerinas who forgot their steps and stood stock-still on stage the entire number, and Leia was going to see, and Aunt Drina was going to be disappointed. But then, my body and weeks’ worth of practice took over as the music washed over me and I let go, feeling everything melt from stiff to supple. It was the dress rehearsal all over again, except this time Leia was there and I bled my heart out in sweat and leaps that were higher than I’d ever leaped and turns that left me dizzy with their energy. Tears and sweat mingled on my face until I couldn’t tell which was which. Natalie anchored me and spun around me and we helped each other up, two pieces in this musical puzzle until the music stopped and so did we, out of breath, staring into the audience as they applauded, some standing.

  Leia stood, too, and, just as the lights went down, I managed to catch her eye for a split second before she turned and started hurrying her way out of the auditorium while everyone else sat back down for the next number. Throwing caution to the wind, I took another shuddering, burning breath and ran, leaping off the stage—thankfully, the middle school didn’t have an orchestra pit—and followed her down the center aisle, ignoring all of the stares. I caught the lobby door before it swung shut and, just as Leia started pushing through the double doors to the outside, called out breathlessly, “Thank you. Thank you for coming.”

  Leia paused, her back straightening in familiar surprise, before she turned to look back at me with a hint of a smile on her face. “Your aunt is going to kill you.”

  I sucked in some more air, my lungs protesting at the abuse, and choked out. “Thanking you was more important.” Another breath, and I added, “You’re more important.” One more breath, “Than anyone.”

  She ducked her head and started pushing through the door again, but just before she left, she looked up through her eyelashes at me in a way that nearly stopped my heart and said, so softly, “You were beautiful up there.” And then she was gone, leaving me alone to catch my breath in the deserted lobby before Em and Phoebe came out to both wordlessly wrap me in a giant bear hug, smushing bouquets into my back.

  A few minutes later, Natalie joined us, laughing as she added her sweaty body to the cuddle pile, then she reached over and flicked my hairsprayed-solid ponytail. “I told you we were going to be great, dummy. I’m glad you actually listened for once.”

  I just stuck my tongue out at her and squished all three of them even harder, holding back the urge to laugh in relief.

  June

  WEEK 26 INSPIRATION: “It may be the warriors who get the glory, but it’s the engineers who build societies. Don’t forget that.”

  -B’Elanna Torres, ST: Voyager

  Chapter 51

  After sitting through over ten final presentations, my classmates’ eyes had already started glazing over, like mine had been just before Mr. Newton called me up to give my own presentation. Since I knew most of them cared as much about my design as I had about theirs—which was pretty much not at all, I focused my attention on my teacher, who had seated himself in the front row.

  I had already walked through most of my slides on the what and how of my design, and the prototype was making its round around the classroom. Just when I was sure Mr. Newton was about to pipe in with a question about financials, I pulled up a slide I’d made specifically because of his last digs at my projects.

  “I also took some time to research price points of similar products on the market, as well as determining the potential market size based on knowledge of the target patient population. As you can see from this slide, utilizing the manufacturing methods I discussed in the earlier slide for mass production, we have favorable financials coming in already at year one.”

  “That’s good,” Mr. Newton said, half-frowning, “but aren’t you concerned that your market size is a bit optimistic?”

  “Not really. Not only do I have solid numbers behind these projections, but I decided to per
form an end user design evaluation with my prototype and, while it’s a small population size, the physical therapists I spoke to thought it was a good representative sample. It’s a niche market, but people want it.” I pulled up as many terms that Oliver had taught me as I could, trying to sound as professional as possible. “And what I also learned from this evaluation was that this is something missing from the market. There are a lot of functional stroke rehabilitation gloves out there that work perfectly well, or that patients can adapt to, but function and beautiful design are not mutually exclusive and shouldn’t be. Good design that matches the user’s style can give the user options, allowing them to take claim over the device. I had users comment that something like this would allow them to use their gloves in public without feeling like they’re standing out too much, at least not as a patient. By designing something tailored to encompass the needs of all users, especially those with smaller hands, I did the opposite of many designers for, well, many products on the market, who tend to design using morphometric data typically collected from males or some squished generic numbers. This isn’t a new concept, especially as we move towards a society that really values customization, fit, and individuality.” I flipped to the next slide and nodded to Nick, who had kept the glove on his desk until that moment, finally passing it to Mr. Newton. “Why should we believe someone might want a customized cell phone cover but not a customized long-term medical accessory?”

  My teacher played with the glove for a minute, taking a few notes in his notebook before looking back up at me with an unreadable expression.

  “Good point. Grace, I’m really proud of your work. Your prototype, design, analyses, and test plan are, honestly, above and beyond what I expected for this project. And while I disagree with you on the viability of this from the financial side because, you’re right, this is a really niche product, I appreciate that you did the legwork for your argument.” He took his red pen and wrote a letter on the top of the report I’d turned in earlier in the week and handed it to me. “Good job.”