How I Found the Perfect Dress

by Maryrose Wood

  Follow the KISS rule, I thought, remembering one of my dad’s more annoying sayings. Keep it simple, stupid. Remember what Jolly Dan told you to do. Stick to the plan.

  “I wish,” I said carefully, “for Colin to put on the new boots I gave him earlier this evening.”

  And, with an enormous, half-goddess breath that I didn’t know I had in me, I blew out every one of those hundreds of candles.

  There was a smattering of lukewarm applause at my boring wish. Quick as a flash, Finnbar raced to the coat check to get the gym bag.

  “I had to tip her a couple of bucks,” he whispered to me, as he laid the bag at Colin’s feet. “You can pay me back later,’kay, sis?”

  With everyone watching, Colin unzipped the bag and took out the boots. A collective oooooh of admiration rose from the crowd. I caught Jolly Dan’s eye; he was on the dance floor, trapped in a sea of legs and looking ten feet tall with pride.

  Colin kicked off the glittering platform shoes and put on the boots.

  One spin, I saw Jolly Dan mouth at me, from knee-level. I hurled myself at Colin and spun him right around so fast he didn’t know what hit him.

  “Do they fit?” asked the queen, falsely sweet as a pound of aspartame.

  “They fit—perfectly,” Colin said, like a person waking from a dream. “I’d say they’re the best fittin’ shoes I’ve ever worn, if I was forced to pick.” He looked around slowly, seeing it all for the first time. Then he spotted me.

  “Morgan! What are ye doing in Dublin? And what club is this? I don’t recognize it.” He rubbed his eyes. “To be honest, I don’t remember goin’ clubbin’ to begin with. I was just home in me own bed, readin’ Popular Robotics.”

  “The shoes fit perfectly,” the queen repeated, sounding deeply disappointed. “How very Cinderella. Ah, well. We’ll miss you, Colin. But at least you were here for Morganne’s birthday. That’s all that matters, I suppose.”

  “And there’ll be no further mischief, with this boy or any other,” Jolly Dan bellowed to no one in particular. “Not unless all of ye want to dance barefoot for the rest of your immortal faery lives.”

  All the partygoers hung their heads, and Queen Titania glared at me as if she might reduce her own daughter to ash with a single crook of her finger. Even the disco ball stopped turning. Then, sudden as a lightning strike, she threw both hands in the air and whooped.

  “Mosh pit!” she yelled. The band was already in position, and Gene Simmons counted off into a screaming metal version of “Some Day My Prince Will Come,” from the Snow White movie. The disco ball swept a rainbow searchlight around the room, and the party came back to life as if nothing had happened—except now, of course, everyone was eating birthday cake.

  Colin stared at me as if he would never look away, and I saw the wonder in his eyes. “Damn, Morgan,” he said. “You look fantastic.”

  “Thanks.” I grinned. “So do you.”

  He rocked on his heels for a moment, shoved his hands into the pockets of his powder-blue polyester pants, and smiled shyly. “You wanna dance?”

  “I’d love to,” I said. “And then we’re going home.”

  “the crowd at this club, it’s a bit mallcore, if Чou ask me,” Colin shouted, as we struggled to stay together on the dance floor. “Though I can’t complain, not with Gene Simmons thrashin’ away for our personal entertainment! Before becoming a mainstay of reality television the man was a true musical legend, y’know. It’s like seein’ bloody Sinatra at the Sands.”

  It was a great party, I had to admit. Now Jolly Dan and Taffy were stage diving like rock stars, and the crowd was loving it.

  “Colin,” I yelled over the din. “Can we slow dance?”

  “What?”

  I cupped my mouth with my hands and yelled louder. “Slow dance! Can we?”

  “The music is hardly suitable,” he shouted back.

  “I don’t care.” I put my arms around his neck, in classic slow dance position. “It’s just that I had this wish that you’d be able to take me to my junior prom, and I know you can’t, and anyway, it’s tonight, and you’ll wake up in Ireland in a few minutes and won’t remember any of this, but . . .” I looked up and gazed pleadingly into his eyes. “Just—humor me, okay?”

  “I can manage that,” Colin said, right next to my ear. “A slow dance it is.”

  So, with Gene Simmons and Kiss rocking their highly amplified guts out, and an assortment of pierced and tattooed magical beings pogoing and body-slamming all around us, Colin and I slow danced. As soon as I felt his arms around me, we could have been anywhere—a moonlit beach, the top of Mount Everest or the middle of Grand Central Station at rush hour—and I wouldn’t have noticed. Or cared.

  “Seventeen, eh? Yer still too young for me, ye know,” he said, after a while.

  “Ha,” I retorted. “That excuse is bogus. I’m much older than you in faery years.”

  “Happy birthday, then, you older woman, you.” He held me tighter. “I wish I had a present for ye.”

  “You do,” I said impulsively. I stood on tiptoe and whispered something in his ear.

  “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  “Why?”

  “Because, according to you, I won’t remember it. How’s that gonna feel, eh? When I act like it never happened? Ye know I’m not that kind of bloke.”

  “I’ll remember it, though,” I said. “For both of us.”

  Taking a step back from me, he started patting the pockets of his tux. “I’ll write meself a note, then.” He found a pen and, on the back of his left hand, he drew a big heart and wrote inside it:

  On the occasion of her

  17th birthday

  Colin

  kissed

  Morgan

  He tucked the pen back into his pocket. Then he kissed me.

  It was, whoa. I mean, whoa.

  As we kissed, I slid my arms around his neck again, and somehow the music magically turned into “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” from The Lion King, which would have been awesomely promlike except it sounded like the William Hung version, but we didn’t care because we weren’t dancing anymore.

  It turns out a kiss in the faery realm can last as long as you want. A moment, a night, a year—even a whole magical lifetime.

  It was all the birthday present I wanted.

  twentЧ-three

  Word spread around the junior prom quicker than cribbed answers to the chemistry final—Morgan jumped in the fountain! Morgan jumped in the fountain!

  Do I even have to say what happened next? Sarah and Dylan led the way, right before appetizers were served. Clem and Deirdre (together, of course) took their turn when the entrees came. Then people started to get it. Before the evening was through, nearly every student at prom, singly or in couples or in groups of three or four, “accidentally” fell into the Kappock Fountain. So simple, so harmless and yet, in terms of completely freaking out the chaperones, and especially Mrs. Blainsvoort, so very, very effective.

  At least, that’s what Sarah told me the next day. I wasn’t there to witness the soggy triumph of the East Norwich High School junior class over the forces of boringness. All I knew was that by the time Mike had returned with our seating assignments, I was sprawled on my butt in the water, wearing a sopping pile of pink taffeta and a look of sheer bliss on my face.

  “Morgan!” He sprinted toward me, letting the place cards flutter to the ground. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  My dress was soaked, my hair was plastered to my head, my mascara was running in rivulets down my cheeks and dripping brown-black Maybelline spots on the bodice of my dress. “I was tossing a penny in the fountain,” I sputtered, as the water streamed down my face. “I guess I lost my balance.”

  “Well,” he said, after a moment, “I hope you made a wish.”

  This started me laughing so hard I couldn’t stand up. And Mike, who was trying to drag slippery me out of the water, started laughing too, and before you could say, Keep It Subve
rsive, Stupid, he tumbled into the fountain after me.

  We sat there, the two of us, laughing hysterically, with two enormous dolphins happily pouring water on our heads.

  “Mike,” I said, when I could catch my breath. “What do you say we blow this party off, go back to my house and watch TV?”

  To Mike’s credit, he didn’t look one bit offended. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  “Add pizza and I’m in,” he said, wiping the water out of his eyes.

  So that’s what we did. My parents came to pick us up and, admirably, didn’t ask an excessive number of questions. We hung our wet prom finery on the shower curtain rod to dry (it was kind of funny seeing Mike in my dad’s sweatpants and old First Bank of Connecticut T-shirt) and ordered a pepperoni pie with extra cheese. We even let Tammy rule the remote for a while, which got us stuck watching a Discovery Channel show about dolphins. Luckily the pizza came soon after, and we were spared any further Deep Thoughts about the “flippered wonders of the sea.”

  Afterward, Mike said he’d like to meet up with the gang for the planned after-prom breakfast, but I passed on it.

  “Are you sure?” he said. “We can stick a birthday candle in your pancakes.”

  I thought of Colin, and how he was probably soundly and deeply asleep that very minute, with no dreams to trouble him but the normal, everyday kind of dreams people have. Who knows? Maybe he was even dreaming of me.

  “Truthfully, Mike,” I said, “it’s been a long day, and I’d really rather go to bed.”

  i caught the fiercest Cold the night of prom. it started on Friday as a scratchy throat, but over the weekend it blossomed into a sniffling, feverish festival of misery. By Monday, the new Subversive Goddess of the junior class was much too sick to go to school.

  Dad had a job interview (second one for the same job, so things were looking up), and Tammy was off to another day of exchanging misinformation with Marcus in Miss Wallace’s class, but Mom offered to cancel her client meetings and stay home. I said no. I’d be fine. I was going to snooze and blow my nose and read fashion magazines and think.

  I had a lot to think about, frankly.

  Queen Titania? My faery goddess-mother?

  I’d been told the story when I was in Ireland, of how the half-goddess Morganne was the child of a mortal man and a faery mother. The mortal man had been dead for eons by now, of course. I guess it never occurred to me that Magic Mom might still be around.

  Boy, this is definitely a different spin on the “Heather has two mommies” concept, I thought. What was I supposed to do now? Send Queen Titania a mother’s day card through the faery mail once a year? She was definitely the kind of person you had to watch your back around. Poor Finnbar seemed terrified of her.

  It made me worry about him, which was ridiculous since he was just as capable of causing magical mischief as she was. Still, he was my little half-brother in the faery realm—I knew that for certain now—and family is family.

  After I got tired of thinking and bored with the magazines—there were some nice clothes and all, but I’d had my fill of dresses for the moment—I surfed the ’Net. Then I sent Colin an e-mail, nothing major, just I’m home sick and what’s up with you, that kind of thing.

  I missed him, I really did, but not in that crazed, does-he-love-me-or-doesn’t-he kind of way. Thanks to the weirdest birthday party ever, now I knew exactly how Colin felt about me. He might not remember all of it, yet, but he would. Someday he would.

  Colin wrote back about an hour later. Big surprise: He was feeling miraculously, one-hundred percent better and sleeping like a baby. The annoying campaign of “pocket adverts” seemed to be over as well.

  This part made me crack up:Bad luck about your sniffles. Perhaps it’s good we restrained ourselves from getting too affectionate during my visit, I’d feel awful if I thought I’d given you whatever nasty bug I had.

  Then he went on:

  My lackluster performance in the robotics competition failed to impress the DCU scholarship committee (shocking news). So, unless something better comes along, I’ll be working the bike tour again this summer, to make tuition for next year. It’d be good fun if you came, but you may well have better things to do, and if so I totally understand.

  Feel better, luv—

  Colin

  p.s.—how was the dance? & where’s my photo?

  Bloody hell, I thought. How could I send Colin the photo I’d promised? Nobody had thought to snap a picture of me on my ass in the fountain, and even if they had I didn’t think that was the kind of shot he had in mind.

  My real clothes had reappeared in my closet and drawers on prom night, while I slept, all cleaned and pressed—including the Strohman’s dress. Would it be worth it to get all prommed up again and have Sarah take a picture of me to send to Colin? Or would that be too much like lying?

  I was mulling this over when the doorbell rang. Even though I was seventeen now, years of being warned never to answer the door when I was home alone had taken their toll. First I threw a sweater on over my pajamas, and then I peeked out the front window to see who it was. Across the green, uncluttered expanse of our lawn, I saw the FedEx truck pulling away.

  I figured it was probably something for my mom, from one of her clients. Then I stepped outside to pick up the package and saw what the truck had delivered.

  Eight good-sized crates (each one big enough to hold, say, two pairs of garden gnomes) were neatly stacked next to the garage. The crates had air holes and were stamped PERISHABLE, and the return name and address on the FedEx label was T. Smoothcheck, c/o Ace Ministorage.

  Maybe I should open the boxes, I thought. But then I decided against it. This was a situation Mom and Dad would have to sort out for themselves.

  It wasn’t until I headed back inside the house that I noticed the flat FedEx envelope propped next to the front door. This one was addressed to me, with no return address. It’s probably something tedious from the College Board, I tried to convince myself, as I removed a stiff white envelope from inside the FedEx packaging, or the Connecticut Department of Motor Vehicles.

  It wasn’t. The envelope read:

  Your photos are ready.

  I tore open the flap. There were two photos inside. Gently I slid the first one out and removed it from its glassine cover.

  It was a prom photo of Colin and me. Me in my goddess gown, with my long princess hair piled on my head, him in his powder blue tux and magically ugly buckled boots. We were holding hands and we both looked completely, perfectly happy.

  Should I send it to him? I wondered. He did ask for my prom picture, though I was sure it never occurred to him that he’d be in it. And, to be honest, I looked like a zillion bucks in that dress, and I kind of wanted him to see it.

  Correction: I was dying for him to see it. But if I sent him the photo, there’d be an awful lot of explaining to do, and most of it would be stuff that Colin would find very, very hard to believe.

  It’s when ye like people, Colin had said to me once, in Ireland, that ye should be most willin’ to tell ’em the truth about yerself.

  Fine, whatever. I can decide later, I thought, as I put that picture aside and took the second photo out of the envelope.

  This one I had to stare at for a minute.

  The second photo was—

  Okay. Even I found this hard to believe.

  The location was unmistakable. The photo was of my living room, in my house. There was my Christmas tree, with all the goofy ornaments Tammy and I had made over the years.

  And there was Santa Claus: red suit, white beard, round belly, grinning and winking at the camera and sliding something under the tree.

  In the background, but clearly visible in the photo: me, stretched out on the sofa, eyes closed, The Magical Tales of Ireland propped on my chest.

  Oh fek, I thought. Wait until Tammy sees this.

  about the author

  Maryrose Wood has yet to find the perfect dress, but it’s so fun to keep loo
king. There are also shoes to be considered.

  Maryrose wrote Why I Let My Hair Grow Out, Sex Kittens and Horn Dawgs Fall in Love and My Life: The Musical. Visit her at www.maryrosewood.com.

  Berkley JAM titles by Maryrose Wood

  WHY I LET MY HAIR GROW OUT

  HOW I FOUND THE PERFECT DRESS