Ms. Amelie seems like she reads my mind.
“It’s not always going to be like this, Dess,” she says, and squeezes my shoulder. “You’ve got a lot going on right now, but this is gonna pass, and then you’ll go on and there will be all kinds of possibilities opening up for you.”
Now my smile is real. She sounds like Rena, talking about “limitless possibilities.”
—
“Aren’t you still working on Hope’s costume for the Anguianos’ party?” Foster Lady asks when I’ve sat on the floor in Baby’s room for too long, watching him play.
“Nope.”
For the past hour, Austin has been scribbling out neckless, noseless people on sheets of scratch paper—Foster Lady, Mr. Carter, Hope, a floating rock with eyes that’s supposed to be Jamaira, and me—with bright green hair and a pink mouth. Baby’s drawn us all with orange and green crayons and given us all pink mouths. We look as alike as peas and carrots, but he asked me to spell “family,” so the word marches up the page in his backward, giant print. It matters very little in Baby’s head how “real” families look.
Foster Lady sinks to the floor next to me, her thick legs bent, ankles crossed, in one of her yoga moves. She watches me in silence for a moment. “Dess, I hate to see you just give up.”
“I haven’t given up,” I say with a frown, nudging a piece of crayon toward Baby. He draws so hard, he breaks them in half. “There’s nothing to give up on.”
“I know you’re worrying about your grandmother, but I hate to see you sitting here with the kids like you have nothing else to do,” Foster Lady says. “It’s Thursday night—no movies, no homework, no phone, you’re just…here.”
I shrug.
“Well, what are you wearing to the Anguianos’ party tomorrow?”
I’d forgotten that I’d need something. I shrug again. It doesn’t matter anyway.
“Have you decided not to go?”
I scowl. Hope would love to skip that sweater. Not even. “Oh, I’m going.”
“Well, then, let’s go shopping. Let’s find you a costume better than anybody’s.”
“I’m not going in a costume. I’m going as myself.”
Foster Lady rolls her eyes. “Fine. Then let’s get your ‘self’ something nice to wear.”
I shake my head. I can’t face the idea of the mall—stores full of strangers. “Nah. I’ll wear jeans.”
Foster Lady looks at me for a moment, her eyes narrowed. Then she digs in her pocket, and dangles a set of keys. “Okay, how about this? We could go shopping…in my brother Henry’s closet.”
Henry’s— I choke on my words and cough. It would be amazing to wear something of Henry’s. I wouldn’t even cut it up. I’d take one of his blue button-up dress uniform shirts and wear it with the sleeves rolled over my nubbly crocheted tank, belted, with skinny jeans, or—maybe Liesl’s red miniskirt? Or maybe I could—
Foster Lady just watches me, a grin widening her face, making her eyes crinkle.
I press my hands to my hot cheeks. Foster Lady’s cackle is straight evil. Whatever. She can laugh if she wants to. “Are you serious? We can go to Henry’s house, and pull stuff out of his closet? For real?”
Foster Lady nods. “We’ll take some of his old clothes. He’ll never miss them.”
I’m on my feet. In spite of everything, a party sounds…interesting. “Let’s go.”
Hope touched her hair—flat-ironed and unfamiliarly smooth—with the back of her hand.
Dess growled. “Don’t.”
“I’m not even touching my face,” Hope objected.
“Don’t,” Dess repeated shortly, peering out from under the tilted brim of Aunt Henry’s fedora. “Don’t touch your face, don’t smudge your lipstick, and don’t keep pulling that!” Dess slapped Hope’s hands away from where they tugged futilely at the hem of her sweater dress.
“It’s too short,” Hope hissed, darting a glance at the front seat. Her father was driving them, and his raised brows and long exhalation had been his statement on Hope’s outfit.
“It is not,” Dess argued for the nth time. “When you stand up, it’s just above the knee, which is fine. And anyway, you’re wearing boots and tights. It’s not like you’re flashing your backside at anyone.”
“You’d better not be,” Dad muttered from the front.
As Dess glowered at her, Hope smiled to herself. At least the party had distracted Dess from the hole she’d dropped into after her social worker came. Hope had asked her mother if she believed the story about the motorcycle gang, and Mom had said, “What’s important is that Dess believes it.” Dess yelling about the dress was a lot better than Dess sitting in the dark, too depressed to move and too scared to stand by the window.
Hope’s father braked as they turned and approached the security gate. The guard in his little house waved them through when he found their names on his list. The gate slid back silently.
Dad cleared his throat. “Okay, ladies, let’s go over the rules again. Stay with the group. If somebody spikes the punch, both of you drink some water and tell an adult. We’re leaving at fifteen minutes past ten o’clock, on the dot. If I have to—”
He slammed on the brakes, and they all strained forward against their seat belts.
“Hey, Dess. We’re here,” Hope said unnecessarily.
In silence they stared at the line of stop-and-go traffic from the car to the split-level ranch house up the wide road. The house and porch were lit with spotlights, revealing a circular drive and a three-tiered fountain.
“Jeez. That pink thing is Rob’s house?” Dess stared, stunned, as they slowly approached the sprawling coral-and-cream stucco with the terra-cotta tiled roof.
The house always made Hope think of a gigantic frosted cake. She laughed. “Yep. That’s Rob’s house. Remember when you thought we were rich?”
Dess gaped. “The Anguianos are rich? Rob? But…” She trailed off, her brow furrowed. Hope half expected her to say something dumb, like the sorts of things she’d said about black people when she’d first come, but Dess just sputtered. “He doesn’t even act rich!” she finally managed.
“How do you know?” Hope asked. “Maybe Rob’s how real rich people act.”
Dad tapped on the horn and waved at someone crossing the street, who waved back. Hope leaned across the car toward Dess and peered out the window. There were tons of cars and tons of people walking up the path to the house. The Anguianos knew everybody. And everybody was going to see her dress.
She looked at it and gulped. She kind of liked it—mostly. Instead of bright bands of neon-aqua blue at the hem and sleeves, Dess had replaced the knit with wide black ribbon she’d found somewhere. The original, oversized neck Dess had folded flat and decorated with a pair of big black buttons, turning yards of stretched, sagging knit into a cute off-the-shoulder cowl neck. With the rest of the sweater tight enough to hug Hope’s body and not just hang, the dress didn’t suck. Hope just wasn’t sure it was her. It was short, tight, and bright. Could she, Hope Carter, wear a slightly-longer-than-usual, off-the-shoulder sweater with black tights and tall black boots in public, in front of Jas and God and everybody? Her sweaty hands said no.
“I’ll have to drop you girls by the door and find somewhere to park,” Dad said, frowning at the lines of brake lights along the road ahead. “We should have gotten here earlier.”
“Sorry,” Hope mumbled. It was her fault they were late—Dess had had to practically drag her away from the mirror. Then Mom had taken about a hundred and sixty pictures while Dad fussed and muttered, until he finally hustled them out to the garage. He was cranky tonight, for sure. Hope thought it was partly how much makeup she had on, and the other part was the length of her dress.
“Ten-fifteen,” Dad repeated as he braked in front of the house.
“Ten-fifteen,” Hope echoed. Slipping out of the backseat, she grabbed her gift bag with one hand. With the other, she yanked on the hem of her dress.
“Wou
ld you leave that alone?” Dess slapped Hope’s hand, then turned to look around. “Who the hell are all these old people?”
Hope delicately touched her hair again. “Headwaters parents. The Anguianos always invite the whole family to their kids’ parties.”
Dess’s eyes widened incredulously. “Parents other than Mr. Carter are staying?”
“Yep. But don’t worry. We’re going to be in the back. The adults stay in the front, mostly.”
“They’re going to make us stay outside?” Dess wailed. “Nobody’s going to see our outfits with coats on.”
“It’s a sunroom, in the back. It’s not really outside—it’s got glass walls. There are all these plants and a pool table and Ping-Pong and air hockey.” Hope grinned and dragged Dess up the path with her. “Trust me—everyone’s going to see your outfit.”
“And yours,” Dess reminded her, which made her wince.
It would be fine if they looked at Dess. She’d borrowed an old brown-and-cream bowling shirt from Aunt Henry and belted it over a black tank and a pair of black legging capris. “Henry” was embroidered in brown thread over the chest pocket. Hope didn’t have the heart to tell Dess that the shirt had belonged to Grandpa Hank, whose real name had been Henry, too. Wearing Aunt Henry’s fedora and Hope’s stack-heeled brown boots, Dess looked adorable—not too dressed up but right. Hope tugged the dress, which seemed to shorten with every step. She was a mess. And she was probably flashing everyone, too.
“Hopeless,” Dess sighed. “If you smear that eye shadow, I’m going to kick you. Don’t try and pull up the cowl on the sweater. Your shoulders are supposed to be showing, and it’s supposed to be short. Pretend you have style, all right?”
“I know, I know, I know.” Hope swatted at Dess’s hand and prepared her company smile for Mrs. Anguiano, who was wearing an apron over her ruffled pink dress and was giving a hug to the woman in front of them. Hope wiped her sweaty hands on her hips, her pulse pounding in her throat.
“Don’t cross your arms. And remember, don’t talk to Rob until he apologizes,” Dess bossed in a loud whisper.
“We brought a present,” Hope hissed through her toothy smile.
Dess whispered, “So? Give it to his mom.”
“Bonitas!” Mrs. Anguiano smiled, holding out her hands. “Hope Carter, look at you! You look just like your mother!”
“Really?” Hope couldn’t remember ever seeing her mother wearing makeup, especially not as much as Dess had smudged around her eyes tonight.
“What a stylish dress, young lady. Love that hat!”
“Thanks.” Dess, who wasn’t too shocked to be polite, beamed. “This is our present for Rob.” She pushed Hope’s arm forward and offered the gift bag.
“Oh, you can give that to him. Roberto?” Mrs. Anguiano called to her son, who was standing in the high-ceilinged entryway, talking with a crowd of people from their class. His jeans looked as if they’d been ironed, and his thick dark hair, usually a freestyle mess of tufts and cowlicks, had been firmly and definitely gelled back from his forehead like Elvis’s. He lit up when he saw the two girls and came eagerly to the door.
“Rob owes Hope an apology, so we’re not giving him his present,” Dess said clearly as he came toward them. “We’ll just give it to you, Mrs. Anguiano.”
Hope winced.
Mrs. Anguiano whipped her head from Dess to her son. “Beto? What’s this?” she asked, her voice dangerous.
Rob was sulking. “Dess, come on. You are not still making a big deal over this—”
“Ro-bert-o.” His mother’s tone sharpened all three syllables. “What did you do?”
Rob widened his eyes comically. “Nada! I forgot to invite Hope to my party, Ma. That’s all. She knew she could come, though.” Rob flung up a hand to gesture at the crush of people moving from the entryway deeper into the house. “Everybody else knew.”
Mrs. Anguiano sighed and took the bag from Hope with a slight grimace. “Thank you, bonitas. I will take this until Roberto decides to work a little harder. Welcome to our home.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Anguiano,” Hope and Dess said, almost in unison.
Hope choked back a laugh as Dess made a big show of walking around Rob to go in, her nose in the air. Hope followed, amused and slightly embarrassed.
“See?” Dess whispered as Rob trailed after them, complaining at the injustice of not receiving his gift. “I told you we were going to come and rock that boy’s world.”
“Yeah, I’m sure he’ll never be the same.” Hope giggled.
The house opened up into an entryway, with a big living room two steps down. The girls found their classmates in the den off the living room. Almost everyone they knew was camped out around the food table, which looked like a good place to go. Hope dragged her feet as Dess bounced up to the group, but Dess turned back and tugged her into the circle of eyes.
“Check it out, people,” Dess announced over the gasps, “You like?”
“Look at your hair!” Ronica, her own natural hair cropped close for her gymnastics competitions, gave Hope’s sleeked strands an admiring glance. “That must have taken forever.”
“Hope, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear makeup!” Liesl exclaimed.
“I wore makeup for class pictures,” Hope mumbled, embarrassed.
“Lip gloss doesn’t count,” Dess informed her, and batted her eyes at Hope’s glare.
“So that’s the dress you ‘upcycled,’ Dess? It’s amazing!” Natalie, wearing a sparkly red dress and matching horns on her head, circled Hope and touched a sleeve. “I can’t believe that’s the same sweater!”
“It looks good on you,” Wynn assured Hope, giving her two very positive thumbs-up. “You look older—like a senior.”
Hope admired Ronica’s costume, which was her brother’s old basketball uniform, and Wynn’s outfit, which was halfway between Lara Croft and Indiana Jones. She admitted she couldn’t tell who Liesl was supposed to be, in her white turtleneck, navy jacket, skirt, and heels.
“I’m CEO Barbie,” Liesl said, lifting up a briefcase. Her jaw-length black hair was stiff with hair spray. “This is the same outfit as on my mom’s Barbie doll, except Barbie’s blond. And white.” Liesl laughed.
“Liesl’s mom collects Barbies,” Natalie said when Dess looked confused.
“Oh.” Dess looked horrified. “That’s…cool.”
Liesl laughed, but before Hope could hear her reply, a hand touched her shoulder.
“Hope? Hi!”
She turned, a goofy smile blooming as she saw Jas in dark-washed jeans and an orange T-shirt that read “This Is My Costume.” Hope clenched her fists behind her to keep from pulling, smearing, tugging, or fixing anything at just the wrong moment. “Hey, Jas! Did you just get here?”
“No.” Jas was staring at her oddly. “You look…taller,” he said, taking in her outfit.
Taller. Hope lifted her foot, and they examined the heel on her boot. “It’s three inches. That’s tallish,” she offered. Tall? Was that all he had to say?
“Oh. That would do it,” Jas said after a pause. “That’s weird,” he mumbled.
Hope clutched her middle, her smile sliding. “What?”
“Well, now that you’re taller, I feel like I should be…taller. Or something,” Jas said, looking confused. “Forget it—just a thought.” He cleared his throat. “Have you played air hockey yet?”
“I’m going to eat first.” Hope wished she had pockets in which to hide her hands.
“Oh. Well, I’m up next.” Jas looked toward the sunroom awkwardly.
“Maybe I’ll come watch when I’m done,” Hope suggested.
Jas nodded and shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Come play winner.”
Hope gave a deflated sigh when Jas disappeared. He was being awkward, but it was okay. Hope had been crushing on him long enough to not feel too bad. At least no one had gasped or pointed or laughed at her outfit. After a time, Hope realized that no one was really even looking at it. Reli
eved, she began to relax.
The house was packed—the Anguianos knew just about everyone and had invited what seemed like the whole town. Levi’s and Rob’s friends attended either Headwaters, St. Kateri Academy, or Cardinal Newman High School across town, and almost every stranger was an Anguiano relative—a first or second cousin.
When Hope had circulated for a time, Rob found her and muttered a completely incoherent apology. Hope accepted, because she knew Mrs. Anguiano’s eagle eyes were watching and also because, even though Rob was dumb, he’d probably suffered enough.
At one point, Hope drifted toward the front of the house to admire the chocolate fountain in the dining room and saw her father. He raised his glass in her direction, and Hope raised her chocolate-covered marshmallow. Her father made an “Eww” face and went back to his conversation. Hope went back to her marshmallow.
She played two games of air hockey against Grayson and then played winner when Jas beat Micah. She was sweaty when she grabbed a water bottle from the bucket of ice on the bar and stepped out onto the back porch. Micah was standing close to one of the sophomore boys, the two of them squinting at something on Micah’s phone. Someone had brought out badminton rackets, and there was a game going on between the pool and a strip of lawn, mostly in the dark. Hope watched idly, knowing someone was going to fall in, eventually, or lose the birdie thing at the very least.
One of the freshman girls pushed out onto the porch and looked at Hope. “Hey. You know Dess, right?”
“Yeah.” Hope straightened from leaning against the wall. “What about her?”
“Some guy is looking for her.” The girl’s gesture was vague. “Out front.”
“Really?” Hope wondered who. “I saw her, like, five minutes ago. I’ll tell her.”
Was it only five minutes ago? Putting her water bottle down on a wrought-iron table, Hope went inside. The crush of people seemed to be thicker now, and the noise level louder. Hope pushed for the dining room, where she’d last seen her father, but couldn’t find him. It was warm in the living room, with the gas fireplace that cut the room in half, and though she circled both sides, Hope couldn’t find him—or Dess, either.
Peas and Carrots Page 18
