Living Backwards

by Tracy Sweeney

  The next day, I stood in front of the mirror, clasping the rental bowtie around my neck. I refused to wear one of those bands around my waist. I didn’t care what Grace said about the way it was supposed to look. It was ridiculous. I would bet my left nut that Josh would be wearing one, though. If the Poor Bastard showed up in a top hat, he only had himself to blame. His girlfriend was out of her mind.

  While things had fallen into place for me and Jillian, it didn’t change the fact that Danielle’s meddling was torture. But I had planned to pay her back. She wanted the perfect prom experience. I was going to give it to her.

  Truthfully, I really never imagined myself going to the prom. The prom was for kids in John Hughes movies and on Dawson’s Creek. But there I was, wearing a tux, a gray bowtie and shiny black shoes. There were flowers downstairs for Jillian and a limo waiting for us at Danielle’s house. Grace was making canapés and bruschetta. I’d be willing to bet that Carter was sitting at the table trying to figure out how to use the camcorder.

  I ran a hand through my hair. Grace would give me a hard time about that too, but I nearly choked when I saw the tub of gel she left on my bureau. Luke Chambers does not gel his hair. Not even for Jillian.

  Tonight wasn’t about the tux or the shoes, though. And it definitely wasn’t about my hair. I was finally calling Jonas tomorrow to let him know that he needed to find someone else to help out over the summer. Tomorrow I’d start looking for a job in New York. I was sure I’d be able to find something near her campus. It wouldn’t be as good as the job Jonas was offering, but we’d be together and we’d figure shit out.

  But tonight I wouldn’t think about Jonas. Tonight I’d forget that proms reminded me of bad made-for-TV movies, and I’d dance with Jillian, holding her close, remembering what she looked like in the moonlight. Tonight I’d ride in the limo with her friends, and laugh at the ridiculousness of Josh and Danielle. Tonight I’d tell her that I couldn’t leave, not when we were just getting started. Tonight I’d say the words that had been playing in my head over and over because you don’t throw rocks at windows and move across the country without saying those words.

  This time when I headed to Jillian’s house, I knew exactly what I was going to say.

  CHAPTER 15

  Jillian

  When I was a little girl, I used to dream of what it would be like to sneak out after dark to meet a boy. I pictured him waiting by the streetlight around the corner. I never really saw his face, but I envisioned him leaning against the pole, his legs casually crossed at the ankle.

  I devised complicated plans. If my parents were in the living room, I would open my window, climb onto the roof and like the inner gymnast I believed I could be, would grab a hold of the edge and catapult myself safely onto the driveway pavement below. If they were in the kitchen, I would crawl on my stomach, like a cat, across the living room floor until I reached the door. I would ever so carefully open the door and slide out through the tiniest crack I could manage. If I was feeling really adventurous, I’d try to shimmy down a drainage pipe, but even in my daydreams, I imagined that I’d find myself in the emergency room.

  All of the careful planning was in vain, though. I never once snuck out of my parents’ house. One time, Suzanne and I skipped last period and went back to her house to watch TRL. It was new and interesting. We hadn’t figured out that Carson Daly was lame yet. Afterwards, I was so overcome with guilt that my parents found me in their bedroom that night, sleepwalking where I proceeded to admit to them that I skipped school and listened to the devil’s music. They were so amused by my Footloosian admission that I didn’t even get punished.

  So when I heard a clinking sound at my window, the last thing I expected to see was the cute boy, waiting for me in the moonlight. Especially the cute boy who freaked out after sort of deflowering me earlier in the evening.

  For a brief moment, I flashed back to those plans I made years ago and wondered if I really could have catapulted off the roof. But in this daydream, instead of running into his arms, I’d clock him. Not only had I dealt with his embarrassing post-coital meltdown, but now he was risking the wrath of Henry Cross by pelting my window with debris. I couldn’t begin to imagine what the hell he had to say when I couldn’t get a coherent thought out of him just a few hours earlier. Was it worth risking my second grounding ever for him to look at me with that pained “oh-I-screwed-up-and-shouldn’t-have-had-sex-with-you” look? I considered hopping back into bed and pretending none of it ever happened, but this was Luke. He might not be the kind of guy that would stand under my window with a boom box, but I couldn’t imagine him leaving until I talked to him either.

  I had spent the last three weeks over-thinking and analyzing everything—trying to keep him at bay. When I finally let my guard down, I channeled my inner teenage trollop and ended up attacking him. When I messed up, I did it right.

  So while I waited for Luke to tell me how sorry he was for stealing away my virtue, I verbally kicked his ass. But as I was describing just how unpleasant I would make his life if I was grounded again, he charged over to me.

  Instead of telling me that he had made a huge mistake or engaging in another round of tortuously awkward dialogue, he was honest, sweet and just…genuine. I may not have had as many boyfriends as Megan, but I dated enough to know that was rare.

  That night as I lay in bed all I could see was the image of Luke, walking backwards down the street, staring up at my window with a devilish smirk. It took hours before I finally fell asleep and when I did, it was restless and fitful.

  It was already mid-morning when I woke up with a vague recollection of the dream that had haunted me all night.

  I’m lying on my bed, curled up and clutching a pillow. The comforter is littered with balled up tissues. I’m devastated. The pain in my chest is staggering. I hear a rustling in the doorway and I look up. It’s Danielle. Her arms are crossed and her brow is furrowed. She slowly crosses the room and sits down, careful not to disturb the pile of tissues I’ve accumulated.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, brushing aside a dampened piece of hair.

  I look at her, wondering how I can explain the gaping hole in my chest. I can’t, so I say nothing.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up,” she adds as she grabs a waste basket and starts throwing the tissues inside. I take a deep breath, knowing I need to get up, but I can barely move. I stare at the comforter, wanting nothing more than to lie back down and disappear.

  I could almost feel the ache in my chest as I recalled the scene from my dream. What bothered me the most was that the comforter wasn’t purple. It was white like my bedroom in Seattle.

  Because I had slept in, I didn’t have the luxury of lounging around in bed. I had already vetoed Danielle’s suggestion that we spend the day primping. Having trained Danielle years ago on the ways of Jillian Cross, she knew not to drag me shopping or force me into some ridiculous get-up. She knew my style and she’d usually buy something appropriate. I always held veto power and she normally respected that. When Danielle-Circa-1999 was informed that I wouldn’t be spending the day having little rhinestones applied to my toenails, she was not pleased. I met her halfway though, and allowed her to come by at noon for lunch, and we could paint our own nails like normal people. Her visit was kind of unavoidable anyway since I had yet to see the dress she picked out for me.

  Always punctual, at noon Danielle was standing on my doorstep, holding a black garment bag. Her eyes were shining with excitement as she bounced on the balls of her toes.

  “I cannot wait for you to see this dress,” she beamed walking into the living room. “I listened to everything you said. No pastels, no gloves, no satin, no lace, no plunging necklines. I did, however, break one rule.”

  “Which rule?”

  “The one about the bows,” she replied, wincing as she prepared for my inevitable meltdown.

  “Bows?!” I exclaimed. “There are bows on the dress? For the love of all that’s holy,
do I look like someone who should be wearing a dress with bows?!”

  My mind began racing as I mentally tore through my closet in search of a less offending option.

  “Just hear me out, Jillian,” she cautioned. “When we saw this dress, we just knew—”

  “Knew that I wanted to look like a Christmas present?” I asked, irritated that this Danielle was not yet schooled like my Danielle was. Now I was going to look like an idiot, going to a prom I wanted no part of.

  “Why don’t you just—”

  “Stay home? Okay. Great idea.” Maybe Dr. Grayson still had an appointment available for a cleaning. Or maybe a root canal. That might be less painful.

  I turned to tell her that I was just going to wear whatever I found in my closet. But as I turned around, instead of glaring at Danielle, I found myself staring at the black dress that was hanging from her hand. Dangling on the hanger by spaghetti straps was the most beautiful dress I had ever seen. The bodice was plain black, but gave way to a full length tulle skirt with tiny silver bows affixed to it. It was understated. It was elegant. It was perfect.

  “Danielle,” I gasped. “You’re—”

  “Amazing? Fantastic? Unbelievable? Yes. I am,” she replied, looking smug and satisfied.

  “There are silver strappy shoes in the bag,” she added. “Low heel.”

  “I’m an ass. I shouldn’t have barked at you,” I replied sheepishly. I should have known better than to question her. She knew me inside out even when we first met in college. Of course, she’d find me the perfect dress…and the perfect date.

  “I just want you to have fun tonight. And look how well you and Luke get along!” she mused. “Did he get a hold of you last night?”

  I froze at the mention of last night, images of the cliff and his subsequent trip to play Romeo underneath my bedroom window flashed through my mind. Yeah, he got a hold of me all right.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, looking away so that the blush on my face wouldn’t give me away.

  “He came by the bonfire acting all…well, like Luke, and wanted to know where you were. I figured he stormed off to find you.”

  “Yeah,” I stammered, remembering how he marched over to me raving that I wasn’t at the bonfire and by the cliffs alone. “He…wanted to know what time to pick me up.”

  “Oh,” she replied, furrowing her brow. “Well, did you tell him you needed to be at my house by six?”

  “Yeah, but I think Grace wants to see us first.”

  “Who’s Grace?”

  “Luke’s aunt.”

  “And you’re on first name basis with Aunt Grace…how?” she inquired suspiciously, cocking her right eyebrow.

  “I had…Luke invited me...well, technically Carter invited me to dinner last week,” I explained, averting my gaze again.

  “Carter?” she asked, the arch in her brow rising higher.

  “His uncle,” I added meekly, hoping that she’d just drop it. Danielle was my best friend. I never kept any secrets from her. Ever. But for some reason, I just didn’t want to talk about Luke, last night or any of its implications yet.

  “Well, well, well,” she sang. “That’s interesting. You hadn’t mentioned dinner with the Chambers family before, Jillian. Is this a common occurrence for you?”

  “Relax, Danielle,” I replied coolly. “It wasn’t a big deal. His uncle works at the hospital with my mom. I ran into them. His uncle thought I was Luke’s girlfriend or something so he invited me over.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold on,” she interrupted, palms facing out dramatically. “Why did Uncle Carter think you were Luke’s girlfriend if he had never met you before?”

  That was a good question. Luke never answered that one. Either way, I was digging myself deeper having this conversation.

  “I don’t know, Danielle. It was stupid, and I was just giving Luke a hard time so I accepted the invitation,” I answered defensively.

  “But why—”

  “Danielle, honestly, I think we have more pressing issues to discuss.”

  I had to end this conversation and there was one sure-fire way to stop Danielle from cross-examining me. Unfortunately, it was a miserable idea, but in this instance, I needed to take one for the team.

  “You know,” I began. “I was thinking that a few rhinestones would look fantastic on my toes.”

  Danielle popped up on the balls of her feet, clapping. “I’ll call the salon now!”

  I spent the next hour in white trash hell as an over-processed blonde attached shiny rhinestones to my toenails. Even in my high school do-over, I’d have a humiliating experience to recall. At least I’d match Joan.

  After a quick lunch, I convinced Danielle to head home. I didn’t need a team of stylists to get me to a high school prom. I could curl my own hair and apply my own makeup. Well, I was never really good at the make-up thing, but I’d figure it out.

  By five o’clock, my bravado had faded and my stomach was in knots. The nervous energy had turned me into a twitching mess. After nearly burning my forehead on the dime store curling iron that I apparently never used, I stubbed my toe when one of the rhinestones got caught on the area rug.

  Maybe I did need a team of stylists.

  I did a quick twirl in front of the mirror, grabbed my purse and shoved Joan inside. She, of course, was empty since I had barely used her in two weeks. Then I stuffed a few things into my duffle so that I could spend the night at Danielle’s house. Before heading for the door, I glanced at my calendar. The Word of the Day was terminus.

  Terminus: 1. the end or extremity of anything; 2. the point toward which anything tends; goal or end.

  It will be the terminus of me if I didn’t calm down.

  I hobbled down the stairs in my amazing dress, looking the part, but feeling utterly terrified.

  “Oh my goodness!” my mother squealed. “Henry, come in here and see Jillian,” she called into the kitchen. “Oh, honey, you look so beautiful. You’re just going to knock this boy’s socks off.”

  Yes, and he may pin me after prom, mom. God, I was better off not dating in high school if this is what I was missing.

  “Thanks, mom,” I replied instead.

  “Do you have a coat or something to wear with that, Jill?” my dad asked as he entered the room. He motioned uncomfortably towards my bare shoulders. “You might want to…cover up a bit.”

  “Henry!” my mother exclaimed. “She looks beautiful! You look beautiful,” she reiterated turning towards me. “Oh! I almost forgot. Let me look for that Polaroid.” She scurried into the back hall and was rummaging through the closet when the doorbell rang.

  I was going to throw up.

  Taking a deep breath, I walked to the door, swinging it open. I hadn’t put a lot of thought into how Luke would look. I knew he’d wear a tux and he’d naturally look amazing. I just hadn’t really visualized it. It was hard to reconcile the guy with the leather jacket and motorcycle wearing a tuxedo and bowtie. So when I opened the door to find Luke standing on my doorstep dressed in black and holding a clear plastic case with what appeared to be an orchid inside, I immediately felt all the blood in my body flood my face.

  He stepped forward across the doorway, reaching his hand up and running his thumb along my cheek.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered softly.

  “Found it!” I heard my mom exclaim from inside. She turned around, finally noticing Luke in the doorway. “Oh my goodness! Where are my manners? Please come in. I’m Jillian’s mother, but you can call me Lucy,” she beamed extending her hand. I cringed, knowing how uncomfortable Luke probably felt and how awkward the ensuing conversation was going to be.

  “Hello, Mrs. Cross, it’s a nice to meet you,” he replied, grasping her hand. “I’m Luke Chambers.”

  I was pretty sure that spittle had accumulated in the corners of my mouth because I had yet to close it. I stared in awe at the pleasant exchange between my mother and Luke who seemed more like a chess club member than a moto
rcycle-driving tough guy. Who was this boy?

  “This is for you,” he said opening up the clear case. He pulled out the white and purple orchid, carefully sliding the cloth-covered elastic around my wrist.

  “I need to get a picture of this,” my mother squealed. “Luke, can you pretend you’re putting the corsage on her wrist again?”

  “Of course,” he replied looking up at me through his lashes. He tilted his head towards my mother, breaking our gaze at the last minute before the flash of the Polaroid blinded me.

  “Okay, why don’t we just get a few shots over by the fireplace?” she suggested, shaking the damp photo in the air. “Jillian, you stand in front of Luke.”

  “Mom, please,” I ground out through gritted teeth.

  “Oh, come on, Jillian,” Luke added smoothly, “You don’t want something to remember this by?”

  I stared in disbelief as he smirked at me. I was about to tell him he had already given me a lot to remember him by before he grabbed my hand and led me over to the fireplace. He stopped in front of it and spun me around so that my back was pressed against his chest. Resting his hands softly on my waist, he squeezed my hips lightly, in a way that wasn’t noticeable to anyone else but me. I felt my face flame once again as I recalled the last time he touched me that way.

  “How is this, Mrs. Cross?” he asked innocently.

  “I told you, Luke, call me Lucy,” she admonished.

  “Sorry,” he corrected himself with a grin. “Lucy.”

  “That’s much better,” she replied pointing the clunky camera at us. “Say ‘cheese’.”

  “Root canal,” I sang at the same time Luke parroted his response.

  “You’re going to hurt my feelings,” he whispered softly in my ear. “I thought you liked it when I touched you like this.”

  “Okay, just one more,” my mom added as she finished shaking the shit out of the picture she had just taken. “And say ‘cheese’ this time, Jillian. Try to look enthusiastic.”