The Starter Boyfriend

by Tina Ferraro

  Flea did an eye-drill into mine. “He needs a date.”

  Saffron threw her hair and nodded at the same time. Sort of dizzy-making, still, effective. “I hear Jacy’s ripping people new ones over this, and threatening death and dismemberment to any girl in their crowd who goes to the dance with him.”

  “In their crowd,” Flea repeated. “Which of course, applies to none of us, right?”

  The girls gave me knowing looks and supportive shoulder pats before moving en masse down the hall.

  “Make us proud!” Saffron called back over her shoulder.

  Watching them disappear, their voices replayed in my head. I was sure they meant well. They wanted me to go to the dance, too, and it would only heighten the varsity softball team’s place in the S.B. statusphere if one of us went with a popular football player.

  I got that. Still, no way I was asking Randy—or any guy—to the dance.

  To be safe though, I made a mental note to avoid crossing paths with this Jacy girl. As soon as I figured out who she was.

  * * *

  I had a creepy feeling that morning that people were staring at me. And maybe they were. With astonishment that my hair was blown out and I was actually wearing mascara? With disapproval that I wasn’t wearing school spirit colors? Or maybe it was all the hot pink flyers sticking out of my backpack. I’d been tearing them down like apple pickers before a frost.

  Out on the crowded courtyard at lunch, heading towards the varsity softball table, I nodded hello at ex-Marine security guard, Betty Anne, but otherwise kept my head down. What I didn’t see didn’t have to be my reality, right?

  But no way I could miss the deep, husky voice calling out my name. Or ignore Randy suddenly dead in my path.

  “Courtney, right?”

  I nodded, tempted to remind him that we were past the stage where he pretended not to know my name. Then his face contorted like he was in some kind of pain, and I pitched those thoughts for some compassion. “You okay?”

  “I guess you’ve seen those flyers?”

  “Pretty crappy.”

  “Can you imagine if my mother found out? She’d probably take out a restraining order against Jacy.” He gazed down. “On top of that, apparently Jacy is threatening to kill any girl we know who goes to Homecoming with me.”

  “I heard.”

  He seemed to study his sneakers. “And I guess you told my mother you didn’t have a date?”

  I nodded, waiting for what I figured would be an invitation. Thinking that somewhere, in an alternate version of reality, his mother was grinning. Along with Flea, Saffron and Madison. Not to mention Jennifer.

  Out of nowhere, Adam popped into my brain. He’d asked Saffron to the dance to ensure her dad’s surfing sponsorship—a go big or go home move if I’d ever heard of one. Could my going with Randy, to make others happy, fall into that same category?

  It wasn’t like I had plans for the night, anyway. Still, I couldn’t exactly accept until he asked, and all he was doing was arching his brow and shuffling his feet.

  When enough time had passed for me to have filed, buffed and painted my nails to match the dress I’d mentally shopped for, I decided to take matters into my own hands. “Randy—”

  Only to have him finally speak up and over me. “So? What do you say?”

  That’s when I realized he thought he’d already asked. That somewhere, in his widened eyes, he’d popped the question. Making me wonder if he was completely full of himself, or so thoroughly whipped by the females in his life that he never had to really talk.

  “Will I go to Homecoming with you on Saturday night?”

  “Yeah.”

  Be still my heart. “I guess, okay.”

  An uneasy smile quivered at his mouth, then burst full-force. I was tempted to do a little finger wave to the gap between his front teeth. “Great. You’re helping me out here.”

  “And your mom will be pleased.”

  He pushed out a laugh. “Yeah.”

  We exchanged cell numbers, then went our separate ways. I didn’t get more than a foot closer to my lunch table when he called back to me.

  “Oh, and don’t worry about Jacy. She won’t go all postal on you. She doesn’t think you’re like, competition or anything.”

  I blinked. Did this guy have a way with the English language or what?

  Chapter 8

  I had expected my friends and Jennifer to be all “Yay!” over me going to Homecoming with Randy—I’ll admit that. But I figured Phillip’s reaction would run somewhere between could-care-less and mild annoyance that I’d need a little time off.

  Doing tux return inventories with him that afternoon (Jacket? Check. Vest? Check. Cuff links? Check.), I tried to make the date sound pretty no-big-deal.

  “What do you know,” I told him, lifting a purple tie toward the overhead light to inspect for hidden stains. “Looks like I’ve got a date to the Homecoming Dance after all.”

  When he didn’t respond, I snuck a look out of the corner of my eye. To see his face slowly lifting.

  “Surfer boy?”

  I felt a laugh rise inside me—Adam and me, right!—then lodge inside my throat. “No,” I managed. “Randy Schiff, that guy who came in with his mother.”

  “Oh, him. You like him?”

  I shrugged. Randy had a football player’s bod and that rapper smile. What got my blood racing was fitter, blonder looks. Not to mention a persona so chill you could almost forget he was in the room. Or in the window.

  “Could be fun, Courtney. As long as that mother keeps her distance.”

  “Amen to that.” I bit down on my lip. “You wouldn’t mind me taking Saturday afternoon off for—”

  “Take the whole day.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m sure it takes forever to make a helmet out of hair, and with those hard, springy curls hanging down.”

  I laughed. “Oh, a salon updo. Yeah, I’m not going that far. Really, I only need the afternoon.”

  He put up his hand in a STOP sign. Making me feel rather silly. Obviously, he’d run his shop long before I’d come along. “Now, what about a dress? What are you wearing?”

  Giving a bow tie the a-okay, I worked it back on its cardboard holder. “I’m not exactly there yet. Since Jennifer is taking time off right now to get ready for the wedding, I thought I’d tag along on a shopping adventure. Nothing too fancy, of course. Or expensive. It’s not like I’ll wear it again.”

  When I glanced back up, Phillip’s stool was empty. Then he lumbered out of the backroom, a long, closed garment bag in his hand.

  “Back in the old days, I rented formal wear to females, too.” He stopped to hang the bag on a display rack. “I got rid of the gowns because they weren’t serious money-makers, but my wife told me to save this. Then I think she forgot about it.” Stepping in front of the bag, he gave the zipper a tug. “I’m sure it needs a good dry cleaning, and we might have to alter it. If it works for you, you can have it for the night.”

  Everything inside me tightened. I was the first to admit that I bought what my friends bought and wore whatever happened to be clean, but still, styles were personal. What were the odds I’d do a face-plant for a dress his wife liked? Still, the last thing I wanted to do was offend him. Help!

  He moved away. When I saw the sparkles, I first thought my anxiety had gotten the best of me, that I was seeing stars. But soon my gaze fell upon the entire form: sky blue, strapless, gathered at the waist, with a tea-length swishy skirt. It was like Giselle from “Enchanted” meets Christina Aguilera.

  “Wow,” I heard myself murmur.

  He chuckled. “I take it that’s a I-need-to-try-this-on.”

  I hightailed it inside the dressing room, and traded my jeans and stretchy tee for The Big Time.

  The material felt silky and delicious, and fit like it was made for me. I floated out of the dressing room and up to the alteration pedestal. With Phillip closing the top back hook for me, and the sun streaming down
through the skylight, I took in my reflection in the full-length mirror.

  S-curves ran down my sides. Body parts bulged where they should. But no place else.

  Just for that one moment, I wasn’t simply Courtney Walsh, who had more questions about her life than answers, and who was simply stepping up to help some guy who needed a date. I was special. I was princess-y.

  “Niiiice,” Phillip told me.

  I just grinned.

  “Do you want to wear it?”

  “Yes, please!”

  A grin tipped the edges of his mouth. “And have you noticed how the dress is cut to swish when you move?”

  I rustled the skirt, feeling the silky material against my legs, then fake-waltzed down to the tiles in my bare feet. Gliding around the store like Maria in “The Sound of Music” in the grand ballroom, I caught sight of Tux, who was definitely “one of my favorite things.” I skipped up into the store window and danced toward him, pretending he was not only a little bit real, but that we were making eye contact.

  When Phillip appeared to fill the window’s entryway, reality knocked me on the head.

  “We’re the King and Queen of Homecoming!” I cried out quite ridiculously, doing a spin that landed me pressed up against Tux’s chest. “King and Queen of the World!”

  I drew a quick breath and glanced back at Phillip, hoping to see him laughing. Instead, he was posed rather rigidly, his hands crossed on his upper arms, his face solidly set. I didn’t know if his brain had rankled back to the make-believe softball game or if he was thinking me immature and stupid. In either case, my thoughts scrambled for a way to make this look better.

  “Can you grab my cell phone from the front pocket of my backpack, please, Phillip? You know, under the counter. I’d love you to take a picture of me right now.”

  Little lines shot out from his squinting eyes.

  “Of the mannequin and me,” I said, careful not to repeat the mistake I made with Adam and refer to Tux as him. “So I can show it to my dad. How the dress will look with my date.”

  That, and let’s be honest, wouldn’t a photo of Tux and me like this make to-die-for cell phone background?

  Phillip’s feet stayed planted in place. “Won’t your father be there when your date picks you up?”

  Yikes. Of course. Think, Courtney, think. “Did I say Dad? I meant my mom.”

  “Your mother?” His tongue seemed to stick to the roof of his mouth. “You’ve never mentioned her before.”

  There was a darn good reason for that, and there’d be a snowball fight in hell before I forwarded her this photo. “Yeah, probably because she lives in Detroit.”

  He stared down for a long moment, like there was something awful fascinating on the linoleum. “I hope this doesn’t upset you, but I’d thought, you know, well, that your mother had maybe passed away.”

  I mugged a grimace for his sake. “No, no, nothing like that. In fact, she called the other night and said she’s getting her life back together. I think she’d love a photo.”

  “Totally.” Color brightened his cheeks. “One picture coming up. Don’t move a muscle. Either one of you.”

  I laughed, shrill and hard, as he took off. Then I blew out a breath and wrapped my arms around Tux’s torso, putting my face against his, trying to tap into the calmness I seemed to get from him.

  I imagined him smiling, revealing a magnificent set of pearly choppers. His breath would smell like spearmint. His kiss would leave my lips warm and tingling like a thick application of beeswax lip balm. And suddenly, my shoulders went slack. Tux’s power was working.

  And how ironic was it that my make-believe boyfriend was both a source of my stress with my boss and the key to solving my problems in my life?

  Phillip reappeared in the entryway. “Okay, now,” he said, holding my phone in front of his face. “Say cheese!”

  * * *

  Saffron’s photo appeared on my cell phone display while I was wrestling with my algebra/trig homework on my bed later, taking the place of my new Tux ‘n Me background photo. She and I had called each other’s cells before, but always for specific reasons, not the I’m-just-bored, real friend stuff. Were we about to turn that page?

  “Hey, babycakes,” I said into the phone, plopping my head back on a pillow.

  “Hold on, Courtney,” Saffron said almost immediately. Then raised to voice to shout, “Yeah, yeah, Mom, be right there!” Which was either completely legit, or the oldest power play in the book. “Sorry,” she said, returning to me. “Not a lot of time, but I’m hoping you can help me.”

  So the jury on our friendship was still out. “Sure, what’s up?”

  “Here’s the thing: I want to give Adam some of what you’re giving Randy on Friday night.”

  My ceiling above me went wavy before my eyes. “And that would be...”

  “A free tux.”

  Okay, far better than what I thought she was implying, but still totally bogus. “Randy’s not getting his tux for free.”

  “That’s not what Jacy’s saying.”

  “Oh, like she would know?” I still didn’t even know who she was.

  “She’s telling everyone that the only reason she’s letting him go with you is a free tux. Since his dad’s between jobs and she feels sorry for him.”

  “Wow,” I said, barely knowing where to begin. I burrowed the back of my head deeper into my pillow. “Okay, the out-of-work thing sucks.” And it might explain why Mrs. Schiff had been totally manic about the coupon—or manic to begin with. “He’s just getting the standard school discount, nothing more. And then about Jacy letting him go with me—”

  “Oh, don’t get too heated up over that,” she said and let out a short laugh. “I might have heard that a little bit wrong.”

  It was my turn to go quiet.

  “I mean, she didn’t exactly say it. She is telling everyone he’s a big jerk and his family’s, like, poor now. And she’s not drinking Hatorade over the two of you going together, so it just figures it’s because you’re doing him a favor she approves of.”

  Another explanation still made more sense: that Jacy didn’t care about me because I basically didn’t exist..

  “And the thing is,” she went on, “I know money’s tight with Adam, too, saving for his competition and everything. I just know he’d look totally buffalicious in a tux.” She let out a noise that was combo exhale/feline growl. “How about we work out a deal where, like, I pay for it, and you just tell him it’s free?”

  My face went all lemon drop sour. “No way. My boss would never go for it.”

  “You wouldn’t have to tell him.”

  “Yeah, Saffron, I would. We keep records of everything.”

  “Okay,” she murmured, although I was pretty sure it wasn’t. “So, how’s this? You talk to Adam. About the tuxes, how I’d love it if he wore one, and that silly little discount coupon. And if you can talk him into renting one—it’s not really all that much, right?—I’ll match the full cost. To you, under the table.”

  Wait, what? I wasn’t desperate for money.

  Oh, yeah. I’d told Phillip I was saving for St. Ansgar’s, and of course, told Flea the same. Because I could hardly admit I worked at Tux Everlasting to avoid her and the rest of my friends’ drinking. And it was no secret that my teammates talked.

  This was one misunderstanding that could not be cleared up. I did what any self-respecting liar would do: I lied some more.

  “Sounds good, Saffron. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. Maybe even get him to go with one of the designer labels, with a microfiber dress shirt and fourteen carat gold cufflinks. The real pricey stuff. Since you’re matching his bill, of course. And I,” I said and swallowed hard, “need the money for college.”

  “Go crazy, babycakes. Just make sure the pants are real tight across his butt. Just not too tight or I won’t be able to get them off him after the dance.”

  A whole bunch of initials sprung to mind, like T.M.I. and O.M.G., but I covered them wi
th a laugh and a “T.T.Y.L.”

  After hanging up, I lay there on my bed, like dead weight. I knew I’d never try to collect with her on our so-called deal, but also that I’d be following through with Adam. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I almost couldn’t wait to let Adam know just how deep his girlfriend-to-be’s pockets were when it came to him, and the lengths she was willing to go to own him, body and soul.

  In fact, I suddenly had an idea about to take my performance up a notch, to “show” Saffron how I was trying my best, while rubbing Adam’s nose in what a total train wreck his date would be.

  I jumped off the bed, energized. Go big or go home.

  Chapter 9

  I spotted Adam shuffling into school that next morning, his hair damp and crinkly, his eyes narrowed as if in mind-melting thought. I suspected he was reliving his finest moments of the morning, when he’d pulled off some complicated surf maneuver or maintained balance in a perilous position—and was almost surprised his board wasn’t absent-mindedly dragging behind him by an ankle strap.

  Playing it safe, I did the standard I-don’t-see-you-either thing.

  Later, at lunch, a printed-out copy of the Tux ‘n Me picture folded and in my back pocket, I motored my chicken strips around the courtyard. The dance was at three days and counting, and if I was going to honor that so-called promise to Saffron, I couldn’t afford any more delays.

  Unfortunately, Adam wasn’t easy to find. Whereas a person could go to the bank on me having lunch at the varsity softball table, Adam could be any number of places with any number of people.

  It was with dogged determination and quite a few, “Hey, you seen Adam?” questions that I found him in a circle of poker players out behind the language labs.

  “You!” I charged, one hand arched in a finger-point, the other cupping my lunch.

  He looked up and widened his eyes with forced innocence. “Me?”