The Law of Tall Girls

by Joanne Macgregor

  “Not saying.”

  “Has he come out?”

  Rob laughed hysterically at that. “No way! He’s so deep in the closet he’s almost in Narnia. That’s why I can’t tell you his name, see. It’s not my secret to tell.”

  Fair enough. “Is he tall or short?”

  “He’s hot! More than that I’m not telling you. Identifying details must be concealed to protect the innocent.”

  “Does he-who-must-not-be-named know you like him?”

  “He does. And he likes me, too, though he’s scared to let it show.”

  “Well, I think it’s a damn shame that two people who really like each other can’t just be together,” I said, sighing heavily.

  “You don’t understand. How could you? You know nothing about prejudice, about how people judge what they don’t understand, how hard they can make your life just because you’re different to them.”

  How to respond to that? Where to even begin?

  I let it slide and instead asked, “So are we still confirmed for prom? I need to start making my dress.”

  “We are confirmed,” he said. “I’ve never seen my dad so excited. And my mother has already ordered my tux and the” — he circled his fingers around his wrist — “that flower thingy.”

  “The corsage?”

  “Yeah, that. We are so going to look the part of the dating couple.”

  I spent spring break making up my prom dress. Chloe loved my design for the evening gown in my fashion collection, and for my birthday, she’d given me several yards of the most beautiful lush black velvet fabric.

  “That dress needs to be made and to be worn. Make it for yourself, for prom,” she’d said.

  “You think so?” I’d been planning something a bit less revealing, a bit more conventional.

  “I know so. The new Peyton is done hiding in boring clothes. Besides, you’ve designed it for a tall girl — you’ll look sensational!”

  I wanted to look elegant from top to toe in that dress, so I trawled the web for stores that sold high heels in my size, finally finding an outlet called Trading Places that appeared to stock a huge collection of ladies’ footwear in large sizes.

  The premises were in a shady part of town, but it would totally be worth the two bus rides and ten-block walk if I found the perfect pair of shoes. It was only once I was inside the store, staring at the manager behind the counter — a beautiful woman with impeccable makeup, false eyelashes, and an Adam’s apple — that I understood what kind of a store it was.

  She gave me a long, evaluating stare, taking in my long, plain hair and my unmade-up face, lingering a moment on my large hands, raising a plucked and penciled eyebrow at my too-short jeans, before finally frowning at my ugly running shoes.

  “I’m Loretta,” she said.

  “I’m Peyton.”

  “Peyton, honey, you may be wearing a man’s shirt and shoes, but you aren’t a cross-dresser.”

  “Not by choice, no.”

  “You’re one of them.” She tutted sympathetically.

  “One of whom?”

  “One of the girls with big feet, am I right?”

  I nodded. In amongst the brightly colored feather boas and sequined evening gowns, I felt like the dullest of ugly ducklings.

  “We get them in here from time to time, looking for pretty shoes. Come this way and we’ll find you a magnificent pair.”

  I followed her to the racks of shoes at the rear of the store. My eyes immediately locked on a pair of stilettos in black suede with a discreet line of crystals running down the spine of the heels.

  “These. They’re beautiful,” I whispered in awe.

  “What size?”

  It was the question I always dreaded.

  “Do you have them in a thirteen?”

  “Sugar, we stock them up to a size fifteen.”

  The shoes were perfect, marginally wider than usual, so they didn’t even pinch. I stood tall, admiring myself in the mirror, feeling like a million bucks. I could take prisoners, break hearts, conquer the world in these shoes.

  “Cinderella is proof that the right pair of shoes can transform a girl’s life,” Loretta drawled, smiling at my obvious delight.

  “When I am queen of the world,” I told her, “I’m going to pass a law that all shoe stores have to stock up to a size fifteen.”

  “Don’t go putting me out of business, your highness.”

  While Loretta rang up the shoes, I ran around like a kid in a candy store, trying on hats that fit and gloves that slid easily onto my hands with cuffs that covered my wrists.

  “Sure you won’t take those?”

  “I can’t afford them today. But I’ll be back,” I promised.

  I was halfway out of the door when I paused. “Hey, Loretta? All the clothes here are” — I searched for a way to say it politely — “pretty bling.”

  “My ladies like a little sparkle.”

  “Did you ever think of stocking clothes that are less glamorous? Just normal, pretty, stylish clothes, you know, that tall women could wear to work or the market?”

  “Honey, they don’t make those clothes — not in the sizes my clientele would need. I’d think a big girl like you would know that already.”

  “Loretta,” I said, stepping back inside and letting the door close behind me, “have I got a business proposition for you.”

  ~ 50 ~

  Three weeks before prom, Chloe and Greg started dating.

  “No! No squeeing,” Chloe told me. “It’s not lurrrvvve or anything. He’s a nice guy, and I like him. I’m having a bit of fun. And at least now we both have a date for the big night.”

  Two weeks before prom, Chloe announced, “He’s a very nice guy, and I really like him. I’m having serious fun.”

  “Permission to squee?” I asked.

  “Granted.”

  “I’m so happy for you!” I squealed, and hugged her until she called time.

  One and a half weeks before prom, Chloe called and told me to come over to her house. “I’ve got news, and it’s serious.”

  Her face, when she answered the door, was worried. “In the kitchen. I’ve already put the kettle on to boil, and I’ve made up a special brew: chamomile, lavender and lemon balm today, because they’re good for shock.”

  Uh-oh.

  While Chloe poured boiling water into a large glass teapot and stirred in her concoction of dried leaves and flowers, I sat on a stool at the central island. The DiCaprios’ kitchen was warm and sunny. And spotlessly clean.

  “So what’s up?” I asked. “Is it Greg?”

  She nodded.

  “Oh, Chloe, I’m so sorry!”

  “No, not that.” She flapped a hand at me. “It’s something he told me today.”

  “He’s gay?” I guessed.

  Greg was Rob’s crush, had to be. They’d planned a double-date with Chloe and me, so they could hook up behind the bushes at prom.

  “No, he’s not gay!” Chloe eyed me as though I was crazy. “What made you think that?”

  “I …” I hadn’t broken my promise to Rob and wouldn’t now. “I dunno.”

  “He’s not gay,” she repeated firmly. And then, with a naughty smile, added, “Trust me, I’d know.”

  “Tell me!” I demanded. “Besties and breasties and ovaries, remember?”

  “Later. Right now, I want to tell you what he said about his cousin.”

  “Jay?” My mouth was suddenly dry. “Tell me.”

  “I think we might need borage flowers, too.” Chloe sprinkled a small handful of dried blue petals into the tea and stirred again.

  “What’s the borage for?” I asked.

  “Courage.” She poured me a cup of the infusion.

  “Exactly what are you about to tell me?”

  “So, Greg and I got to chatting about Jay today …”

  “And?”

  “And he said Jay was seriously cut up when you two split up. Said he was really depressed and bitter — ‘unpla
yable’, he said.”

  Interesting. “And?”

  “And I told him that you were pretty much the same.”

  “And?” This was all fascinating, and I was gratified to hear that Jay had suffered, too, but it was hardly the sort of news that would make me feel shocked, or in need of borage-courage.

  “And then I told him how hard Boobgate was for you. I laid it on thick, hoping it would get back to Jay and make him feel bad.”

  “Good.”

  “But then Greg said you were lucky.”

  “Lucky?”

  “He said it could have been much worse, that photos and videos of you could’ve been all over the school, all over the net, if …” Infuriatingly, Chloe paused and took a big sip of her tea.

  “If what?”

  “If Jay hadn’t stormed into the lighting box as soon as the curtain fell, wiped Sanjay’s video recording, checked his phone, confiscated all memory devices, and threatened him with a slow and painful death if a single image ever emerged.”

  I gaped at Chloe in shock.

  “It was Jay who saved you, Peyton. Jay — not a teacher.”

  So that’s where he’d run off to straight after our curtain call. He hadn’t been desperate to escape me, he’d been in a mad rush to protect me. Even though he’d been so angry with me about the bet and the report, he’d still wanted to save me as much pain and humiliation as he could. Almost as if he still cared for me.

  My face must have revealed my train of thoughts, because Chloe nodded knowingly and said, “Eh-yup, just what I was thinking.”

  “I’m going to need more borage flowers,” I said.

  When Jay arrived at school the next morning, he looked surprised to see me waiting at his locker.

  “Hi,” I said. “Have you got a minute? I’d like to talk.”

  “Now?” he said, checking his watch. It was ten minutes before the first bell.

  “Yeah.” I wanted to get this over with. “It won’t take long.”

  “Okay.”

  “There’s a sort-of private spot outside Grundy’s lab, can we go there?”

  He walked beside me to the alcove where the reeled fire hose hung on the wall.

  “I wanted to thank you,” I said. His expression said oh yeah? Or maybe, could’ve fooled me. I hurried on. “Yesterday, I heard from Chloe, who heard from Greg, that you were the one who stopped the pictures of … of me from getting out. I didn’t know it was you — I just assumed it was a teacher — else I would have said something. But I know now, so thank you. I’m very grateful.”

  Jay said nothing, merely studied me intently. I’d forgotten how green his eyes were.

  “And I’m sorry about the rest of it too,” I said quickly. “I should have told you about the bet, and that damned report. I wanted to, I planned to, but I was ashamed and scared, so I procrastinated. And then it was too late.”

  He merely nodded. What did that mean? Was I forgiven?

  “And I also just want to set the record straight about the trade with Tim. I gave him a history paper, not … not anything else.” I could feel my cheeks flaming and my throat constricting. “So, that’s all, I guess. See you around.”

  I’d already begun walking away when he called me back.

  “I’m sorry too. I know it’s been rough for you with all the flack you got.”

  I risked looking up at him and giving him a small smile. “In a funny way, it was kind of liberating. Very little embarrasses me these days.”

  “So, you’re seeing Robert Scott now?” he asked, his fingers fiddling with the nozzle on the fire hose.

  My smile vanished. I made a movement — half-nod, half-shrug.

  “Good. He’s tall enough for you to win the bet, yeah?”

  “Jay, that’s not why I dated you. You have to believe me.”

  “I was on your list of tall boys.”

  “Yeah, you were. But that was before I got to know you. And then you asked me out and we clicked, and it wasn’t about the bet. I didn’t even log our dates with Tori, like I was supposed to. You can check with her.”

  “When I found out, I figured it was all just a setup.” He bent the wire around the end of the hose, twisting it over and around into a tight knot. “That you were just stringing it — us — out until prom, so you could get the money. That you’d researched me so you’d know what would appeal to me.”

  “No. Jay. No.”

  “I thought —” His voice choked on the words. He paused, took a deep breath and tried again. “I thought that what you said and did with me, how we were together — that it was all an act.”

  The only thing that wasn’t an act was how I felt about you, how I was when I was with you. Could I say that? No. Not without bursting into tears.

  “None of that was an act,” I managed.

  “We’re both fools,” he said, pinning me with an unfathomable look.

  “Yeah.”

  The bell rang.

  “We’d better go,” I said.

  He walked beside me for a minute then asked, “So are you going to the prom with him?”

  “What?” I said, startled out of my what-if’s and if-only’s.

  “Robert Scott. Are you going to the prom with him?”

  “Yeah.” My voice betrayed my lack of enthusiasm.

  “Pity,” he said, with a quick look sideways at me. “I still don’t have a date.”

  I stopped in my tracks, staring at him. How could this be happening? How unlucky could one person possibly be? I wanted to tell Jay that I wasn’t dating Robert — not really, that we had an arrangement of convenience, that neither of us was even attracted to the other. That I still had feelings for him, Jay. But I couldn’t explain fully without betraying Rob’s trust. And he’d gone public at home and school about me being his prom date — what kind of a bitch would I be to drop him now?

  “I’m sorry. I told Rob I’d go with him, I can’t …”

  “Hey, it’s cool, no worries.” Jay seemed completely unconcerned.

  I, on the other hand, was miserable, and I was sure it showed. This was the worst luck, the worst possible timing. Here I was again, protecting someone else’s secret at the expense of my own happiness. Was doing the kind thing always guaranteed to leave me trapped and miserable? Would I never get to do what I wanted?

  “You okay?” Jay asked me when we started walking again.

  “Look, I’m sure you won’t have a problem getting a date, but do me a favor, will you? Please don’t break The Law of Tall Girls. Again.”

  “The law of who?”

  “Don’t take a short girl, okay? Just don’t,” I said, then I turned down a side hall and headed for Mme Dumas’ classroom, wondering what the French was for FML.

  ~ 51 ~

  Three days before prom, I set the last stitch in my prom dress and immediately tried it on.

  It was awesome — far and away the best thing I had designed and sewed so far. It was floor-length, made entirely of tightly-fitting black velvet, with a skirt that flared out, mermaid-style, from just above my knees. The front had a modest, rounded neckline, but the rear neckline was deeply scooped, leaving my back bare almost to the base of my spine. The dress was sleeveless, but from each shoulder, three glittering strands of black and clear crystals draped in loops over my upper arms, their curving arcs reminding me of the smile lines at the corners of Jay’s eyes.

  It fit perfectly, more perfectly than any item of clothing I’d ever worn. With the high heels on, the hem just brushed the floor. Even without makeup or my hair done, I looked undeniably sensational. Beautiful, even.

  My mother knocked on my bedroom door. “Peyton, you’ve got mail!”

  Huh?

  I unlocked and opened for her, wanting to find out how she could possibly be in possession of mail for me, and she stepped in, holding up a narrow envelope.

  “Oh, Peyton, is that your prom dress? You look beautiful — you are beautiful!” She beamed at me, made me rotate on the spot so that she
could admire me from every angle. “You look like a princess!”

  “Not a princess,” I said. “A queen.”

  I looked, and felt, like the queen of the world.

  “Very regal, indeed. But every queen needs some crown jewels. You need a little classy sparkle to set that off, and I’ve got the very thing. Wait right there, I’ll be back in a minute.”

  She dashed out of the room, stuffing the envelope into her pocket. The envelope! I’d been so busy bathing in her praise that I’d momentarily forgotten about the letter.

  “Wait, Mom, where’d you get that letter?” How’d you get that letter? Surely she hadn’t actually left the house to walk to the mailbox?

  I was about to follow her into the hall when my phone rang, and grabbing it, I saw Rob’s name highlighted on the screen.

  “Hey!” I said. “At this very moment, I’m wearing my prom dress, and I feel the need to warn you that I look so brilliant you might need to wear shades on Saturday night.”

  There was no answer, not even a laugh. And that was strange because I’d discovered over our three dates that Rob, unlike Mark, did have a sense of humor.

  “Rob?”

  “Look, Peyton. I don’t know how to break this to you gently, so I’m just going to tell you straight. I’m sorry, but I can’t take you to the prom.”

  “What? It sounded like you said you can’t take me to the prom?”

  “Yeah. I’m really, really sorry to do this to you.”

  “Why are you doing it then?” My voice sounded high and unsteady.

  “Because I’ve decided I’m coming out. I mean, I’m coming out as gay at the prom.”

  “So? Can’t we still go together?”

  “The guy I like, the one I told you about, he’s also coming out. We’ve decided to do it together, by going as a couple.”

  “Oh.”

  “And I know the prom was important to you, because of the bet and stuff, but to you it’s just a dance, just money. For me, it’s my life, you know?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And I promise I’ll pay you back every cent of the money for the bet. Only problem is it might take me a while, because even if my father doesn’t cut my throat, he’s sure to cut my allowance.”