“Julianne, you look—” I break off, trying to find the words.
“You look hot,” Cora says.
“Damn right. This is the one. Don’t try anything else,” Tamsin says, reaching to unzip. “Now go get changed so we can do your hair and makeup without making a mess.”
Julianne puts her jeans and T-shirt back on, then sits down in my desk chair while the girls go to work. I play DJ and observe the action as the glam squad spends the next half hour putting about a dozen finishing touches on Julianne’s look. Her hair is flat ironed and then curled with two different curling wands. Cora spends so long applying various shimmers to Julianne’s eyes that I’m surprised they can’t be seen from space.
“Close your eyes,” Cora says as she shakes a can of something she plans to mist all over Julianne’s face. Julianne squeezes her eyes tight. “So who’s your escort?” Cora asks.
Julianne pauses, stock-still and racked with panic.
“I need an escort?” she asks.
“Well, yeah, it’s homecoming,” Cora says.
“But I thought that was just if you were in the running. I mean, I had one last year.”
“Yeah, who was that guy?” Tamsin asks.
“A guy I met at a book festival last summer. He’s in my fandom.”
“He’s in your what now?” Cora asks.
“Fandom. We both like Crystal of Souls.” She looks at Cora and Tamsin, who are both blinking at her like she’s speaking Sanskrit. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. His name is Laramie, and he doesn’t go here.”
“He looked good in the pictures,” Cora says with a gentle smile.
“Yeah, you couldn’t see his braces at all,” Tamsin says. “Anyway, everyone’s supposed to have some arm candy. You know, to show you off to the crowd?”
I see Julianne go from zero to terrified in just a few seconds.
“I didn’t know I needed an escort! I don’t have one. It’s a two-hour drive from here to Barnesville; there’s no way Laramie can get here in time, even if he was avail-able, which he’s not because he’s spending this weekend at East Watkinsville Comic Con. He’s probably already in his War Bringer costume!”
Cora is squinting like she’s trying to figure out what a War Bringer is, and Tamsin just looks alarmed.
“Okay, you need to calm down before you shake all the curl out of your hair,” Natalie says gently. “Just close your eyes and go somewhere peaceful.” She sucks in a big gulp of air, her shoulders rising around her ears, gesturing for Julianne to join her. Then she blows it out.
“We can take care of it,” Tamsin says, though I’m not sure what her plan is aside from blind confidence. Though blind confidence has managed to carry Tamsin through most of her life, so why knock it now?
“What about one of the guys? Eli? Or Colin?” I ask.
“They have a fall ball tournament this weekend. They all left right after school,” Cora says.
Shit.
“Honestly, you’re probably just fine without an escort. Everyone’s going to be paying attention to the new queen,” Natalie says, but she sort of looks like a nurse assuring her terminal patient that it’ll be okay.
“It’s true, everyone will be looking to see if one of the losers is going to make a scene. No one will even notice if you don’t have an escort,” Tamsin says.
But I can see Julianne isn’t buying it. And once again, I know who to call.
He answers on the first ring. “What’s up?” Tristan asks.
“Julianne needs an escort for homecoming,” I tell him.
“And?”
“And…,” I say, hoping he’ll fill in the blanks, but he’s either too slow or, more likely, too determined to force me to say it. “And I’m asking if you can do it. You’re off tonight, right?”
“Since when do you keep track of my schedule?”
I blush, even though he’s not here to see me. But the girls are, and they’re watching me closely, trying to decipher who’s on the other end of the call. Julianne smiles, because she already knows.
“Will you do it or not?”
There’s silence on the other end of the line, and it goes on long enough that I’m almost positive that he’s screwing with me. When I’m finally about to hang up out of frustration, he answers.
“I’ll take care of it,” he says.
“I have to be there early for pictures!” Julianne shouts from behind me.
“Pick her up at my house. Five o’clock.” I bark the orders like a drill sergeant.
“Yup,” he says, and then the line goes dead.
“Goodbye,” I mutter to the darkened screen of my phone. I turn to Julianne. “It’s taken care of.”
Julianne heaves out a shuddery breath. “Thank you,” she says. “God, this is such a nightmare.”
“Why? You’re going to look fucking fantastic,” Tamsin says.
“Oh, come on, like you don’t know,” Julianne says, a bit of acid dripping into her words. It’s the first time she’s so much as hinted at what happened last year, and I can tell that it’s making everyone a little tense. There’s a thick silence over the room.
Finally, Tamsin speaks. “You know what? Fuck ’em.”
“What?” Julianne says.
“Fuck ’em. Seriously. A bunch of trolls who are probably already flunking out of their freshman year,” she says. She sees Julianne’s puzzled face. “It was a group of stupid seniors with nothing better to do.”
“Did you vote for me?” Julianne asks, and Tamsin doesn’t hesitate.
“No, I did not. I don’t have time for that petty shit. I voted for Amelia Brackin,” Tamsin says. And I believe her. Sure, Tamsin can be a lot, and she’s got one of the sharpest tongues I know, but I don’t think she would do something that purposefully mean. “Now go get your dress on. It’s almost time to go.”
Julianne disappears into the bathroom, and when she emerges once again, the full look is a real knockout.
“You look amazing,” Tamsin says, giving Julianne an up and down that I can tell is making her cringe. “And I’m not just saying that because you’re my creation.”
“She’s not Frankenstein, my god, Tamsin,” Natalie says.
I open my mouth to correct her, but Cora beats me to it. “Frankenstein was the doctor, not the monster, and Julianne is neither. She’s lovely, so show some respect.”
At that, Julianne blushes a deep cherry that matches her dress, but that only seems to make her look even more luminous.
The ringing of the doorbell pulls us all out of our reverie. Dad calls up the stairs.
“Ladies, your gentleman friend is here,” he says. I’m surprised I didn’t hear the familiar chugga chugga of Cecilia approaching. I hope the bus doesn’t make Julianne smell too much like fossil fuels.
We all go running for the stairs, taking them two and three at a time before leaping the last four and landing with consecutive bangs on the wood floor.
But it’s not Tristan at the door.
“Holy shit,” I say. He’s the same geeky Frank, tall and gangly, but the tuxedo he’s wearing is unbelievably well fitted to his lanky frame, making him look a bit like a Secret Service agent. Nothing like a buser at a pizza parlor. The pants are a smidge too short, showing off red socks that may or may not have the quadratic equation on them, but he still looks very suave. Until he takes a step forward and trips over his own shiny shoes.
Frank rights himself, adjusting his tie so that it’s somehow more askew. “Tristan sent me,” he says. “I mean, I volunteered. I wanted to come. I heard Julianne needed someone, so, um, I’m, you know … here. For her.”
Okay, maybe I wouldn’t go right to suave.
“That’s really nice of you, Frank,” I tell him, and now it’s his turn for his cheeks to turn red.
“I mean, it’s not a big deal, I just wanted to, um—” And then he trails off as his eyes sweep up to the top of the stairs. His mouth drops open, and he stands there for a minute looking like a fish
plucked straight out of Pearce Lake. Because Julianne’s walking out to meet us, and if Frank’s reaction is anything to go by, she’s about to have an honest-to-god teen-movie moment.
“Isn’t she gorgeous?” Tamsin squeals as Julianne stops at the top of the stairs. Natalie swats at Tamsin to shush her.
Frank swallows hard, then steps forward as Julianne slowly descends the stairs. He watches her every step, but he doesn’t give her any kind of up and down. Instead, his eyes appear to be locked onto hers, tracking her all the way down the stairs until she stops right in front of him. He’s nearly a foot taller than she is, but in her heels, she doesn’t have to look up much to meet his eyes.
“You look amazing,” Frank says, his voice cracking only a little bit.
“Thanks,” Julianne says, looking down at her shoes, loaners from Cora.
“I hope it’s okay that I’m here. Tristan called and said you needed an escort.”
“It’s nice of you to volunteer,” she says.
“Are you kidding? Getting to stand next to you all night is, like, an honor.”
Tamsin lets out another tiny squeal before Natalie gives her an elbow.
Frank holds out his arm and grins. “You ready? My mom let me borrow her Lexus, as long as I promised to drive five miles under the speed limit.”
A smile spreads across Julianne’s face. It looks like the last bit of fear has melted off her body. She’s not thinking about mean girls or pig’s blood or yearbook photos. It’s just her and Frank wearing a pair of goofy, happy smiles.
We all pile out onto the lawn like proud parents (my actual parents included) and watch as Frank opens the door for Julianne, then slams his own finger in the door, then yanks his hand out before bolting around to the driver’s side to climb in. We wave as they pull away from the curb and watch as the taillights disappear around the corner—which takes longer than it should, because Frank is, as promised to his mother, driving way under the speed limit.
“So you guys wanna grab a bite before the game?” Natalie asks.
“Can’t. I’ve got to get to work,” I say, turning back to head into the house. I need to change into my work shirt. I’m already late for my shift, but hopefully Del won’t mind.
“You’re not going to be there to see our girl do her thing?” Tamsin asks.
I pause, the words coming out before I can stop them. “Our girl?”
“What?”
“I didn’t realize you and Julianne were friends.”
“I didn’t realize you and Julianne were friends,” Tamsin says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you’ve barely been around, and it’s because you’re replacing us with your new pizza friends. And you’re acting like that’s somehow our fault,” Tamsin says. And there’s definite sass in her voice, but there’s something else, too.
“I’m not! I still eat lunch with you guys every day.”
“Sure, but you don’t say anything. You’re just, like, there. And apparently you’ve got this whole life that we’re not a part of. I mean, who’s that guy you called to get Julianne an escort? You managed to pull up his number pretty quickly, and you turned, like, six shades of red while talking to him.”
“That’s Tristan. He works at Hot ’N Crusty. He’s a senior,” I say, offering his stats like I’m reading off a baseball card. It takes all my effort not to betray any kind of emotion.
“Okay. Fine. But you don’t get to act all high and mighty when you haven’t been a very good friend lately,” Tamsin snaps.
Her words are wounding, but I’m angry, too. I haven’t been a very good friend? What does being a good friend to Tamsin even look like? Is it hanging around doing whatever she suggests and always following the group? Because that’s what I’ve always done. And suddenly she’s mad that I have new friends, one of whom she was calling weird just a few weeks ago? And I’m about to fire all this back at her when I notice Natalie, whose cheeks are blossoming into a patchwork of red that’s also creeping up her neck. Her glossed lips are turned down, and she looks like she’s barely holding in tears. And it’s in that moment that I start to worry that maybe tonight didn’t represent a joyful coming together of my friend groups. Maybe it’s the moment they finally fracture in two.
And I have no idea what to do about it.
“I have to get going,” I say, barely concealing the quiver in my voice. “Take lots of pictures, okay?”
Tamsin rolls her eyes, but seems to already be cooling down, and Cora nods with a smile, ready to defuse whatever situation is brewing. “You know we will,” she says.
I hide in the bathroom while they gather their beauty arsenal, and they’re gone before I emerge in my Hot ’N Crusty shirt, my hair in a ponytail through the back of my cap, ready for my other life.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
I stroll into work expecting most of the usual suspects to be gone. Julianne and Frank are at the game, and Tristan’s off tonight. But when I walk into the kitchen to clock in at the office, I see Tristan standing at the prep counter slicing red onions next to Joey.
“I thought you weren’t working tonight,” I tell him, both shocked to see him and shocked to see him in the kitchen. When he’s working he usually avoids the premises as much as possible unless he’s picking up a delivery.
“Again with the keeping tabs on my schedule,” he says with pure Tristan Porter snark, only this time his smirk seems to have morphed into an actual smile. Instead of just an upturned mouth, his genuine smile migrates all the way up to his eyes, which crinkle, and his nose, which wrinkles, making his freckles dance. Something feels like it’s shifting between us. Something akin to the way Frank stared at Julianne when she walked down that staircase. The way Tristan smiles at me makes me forget I’m wearing an ill-fitting poly-cotton blend T-shirt and a baseball cap, the smell of garlic already seeping into my soul and sweating back out again under the heat of half a dozen pizza ovens.
“Okay, yeah, I know when you work,” I say, starting off carefully before deciding oh fuck it. “I pay attention. Because I like the shifts when you work. They’re more fun.”
He grins as he works on the onions. “I knew it, Brix. You like me.”
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” I say, with a matching grin spreading across my face.
“Get a room,” Joey mutters. “But not till you finish with those onions.”
The air between us feels charged, because we’re at work in an industrial kitchen. It’s not like anything can happen, especially not with Joey standing between us tossing dough in the air.
Tristan smiles one last time before returning to his work.
“So why are you here?” I ask.
“Because someone had to fill in for Frank so he could take his dream girl to the big dance.” He dices like a pro, another hidden talent, apparently.
“You knew he liked her? You big softie!”
“Yeah, yeah. I was just tired of watching Frank moon over her and never doing anything about it. He needed a push to finally make something happen.”
“I can’t believe Tristan Porter is a romantic. All this time, under that floppy hair and sarcasm lies a giant puppy dog.”
“So did it?”
“What?”
“Did something happen?”
“Oh, you mean did he dip her right there on the front lawn and plant a kiss on her in front of my parents and everyone? No, that did not happen. But she certainly looked happy to see him. He cleans up pretty good, too. Where did he get a tuxedo on such short notice?”
“Apparently he keeps it for show choir,” Tristan says, and we both burst out laughing at the thought of goofy, gangly Frank kick-ball-chaining across the Brook Park auditorium stage.
Del pops his head into the kitchen, a trickle of sweat already working its way down his temple. “Beck, have you clocked in yet? It’s started to get busy out there, and we’re down a cashier tonight.”
“On it, boss,” I s
ay, and the honorific makes him beam. “It was nice of you to give Julianne the night off.”
“She’s more than earned it! I want that girl to have some fun,” he calls before disappearing back out to the register. I quickly clock in and tie my apron around my waist, then head back out where, sure enough, there’s a line starting to form at the register. Del is taking orders, but I elbow him aside so he can head back to the kitchen and help Joey with the orders that are starting to line up on the board. Soon, Tristan will have to stop chopping and start running food and busing tables. I glance at the schedule by the phone and see that Greg is due in an hour, which is when Friday nights usually pick up, but apparently homecoming’s brought out the crowds, with alumni stopping in for dinner before the big game.
I throw myself into work, which mostly distracts me from the electric buzz I feel whenever Tristan pushes through the swinging door with a tray of food or a full bus tub on his shoulder. I try not to notice the bulge of his bicep when he’s carrying a tray of sodas or a heavy stack of plates, but I fail miserably. I worry that I’m the walking, talking embodiment of the heart-eyes emoji, and the heavy eyeball I get from Greg when he arrives and takes one look at me tells me that yup, I’m not keeping the secret. Not at all. Greg is half an hour early, which earns him a bear hug from Del that looks like it’s not appreciated. But when Del tells him to go ahead and clock in, Greg looks pleased to get the extra money, and all is right with the world again.
There’s a lull right around seven when the game is set to start, but it doesn’t last long. All the families taking advantage of the full stadium are out for dinner, and soon we’re overrun with wild kids and their exhausted parents. Greg and Tristan spend way too much time on their hands and knees fetching stray silverware and pizza crusts that have been tossed to the floor beneath the tables.
It's Kind of a Cheesy Love Story Page 17
