Top Ten Uses for an Unworn Prom Dress

by Tina Ferraro

  “Totally.”

  “Okay, then.”

  He gazed my way, and I swear, I saw a sparkle. And it made something fizzy happen inside me.

  “Okay.” I knew I should grab the door handle. That we were done. Friends again. But I couldn't get myself to go.

  I let the air between us hang heavy—silent—hoping my trick of saying nothing would prompt him to say something. Or do something …

  His fingers made a drumming noise on the steering wheel. I got the message, loud and clear.

  Hiding any signs of disappointment, I grabbed the door handle. “Thanks for the ride, Jared.”

  “That's what friends are for.”

  •

  Mom stood up from a dining room chair when she saw me. A hand rigidly attached to her hip. I gave halfhearted thought to what incredibly delicious meal she was making for her one-in-a-million daughter tonight, and was vaguely disappointed when my deep inhale only came up with the piney aroma of furniture polish.

  “What's for dinner?” I said, falling into a chair.

  She jerked a neon sheet of paper in the air. The same color as the flyers Jared, Alison, and I had made.

  I would have smiled had her mouth not been an angry red slash. “A prospective client brought this into the office today, Nicolette. Asking for ‘Thurman Oaks' top-selling realtor.’”

  Uh-oh. So that wasn't such a brilliant idea?

  “Since that title happens to belong to a man from another firm on the other side of town, Nicolette, the receptionist called my boss over.”

  I swallowed hard, the enormity of my “good deed” settling over me.

  “Who nearly popped blood vessels. Then called me over for an explanation. Which, of course, I couldn't give. Until I remembered the stack of hot pink papers on the grass last weekend. That you said had something to do with your homework?”

  I cringed.

  “Was it your assignment to commit false advertising? Or to see if you could get your mother fired?”

  Shock waves formed before my eyes. “You—you got fired?”

  “Not yet. But I'm on suspension, pending an investigation.”

  I pulled my knees up to my chin, wanting to hide inside myself. But even a thick turtle shell wouldn't have been good enough to hide me from my own stupidity. I'd wanted to help Mom so badly that I hadn't stopped to connect the dots … that, oh yeah, someone probably was the area's top realtor.

  “It was supposed to be a surprise,” I said miserably. “A good surprise. A helpful one. Like paying the mortgage, you know?”

  (Okay, I admit the mention of the mortgage was to try to douse her flames.)

  “That's what's so shocking about this,” Mom said, her face all blotchy. “You were so thoughtful about the mortgage. And yet so thoughtless about this. Explain that to me, will you?”

  Thanks, but I'd prefer Door #2, which I was sure was “crawl into a hole and die.” I knew this was a line-in-the-sand moment, where I either barfed out the whole truth … or I could no longer live with myself.

  “Mom,” I began, looking at her through squinted eyes. “About the mortgage …”

  •

  Minutes later, I sat perched on the kitchen stool with the telephone pressed against my ear, listening to Mom go off on Dad. She was on the cordless in the living room, and Dad was in Ventura, although it seemed to me my mother's screeches could have been heard quite clearly without instrumentation in any part of Southern California.

  “How dare you conspire behind my back!” she bellowed.

  “Lynn,” my dad said, trying to be heard from his end. “I didn't give her the money because I was teaming up against you. I gave it to her because she was right when she said I'd shirked my responsibility with the two of you. I should have paid you alimony longer, helped out until you were solidly on your feet.”

  “So now you're calling me a failure!” my mom wailed.

  Oh, God. Just kill me now.

  After a time, Mom told Dad she'd be paying him back. Every red cent. Then she hung up and stormed toward the back of the house.

  I sat on the stool, my limbs quaking, just Dad and me on the line.

  He spoke my name. My full name, I might add, although right then I would have answered to Nicki. Or Bonehead. Or any old thing he wanted.

  “There's something I wanted to clear up with you,” he continued. “I'ev been thinking that my decision to stay home with Autumn might be rubbing you the wrong way, since I missed so much of your childhood.”

  Whoa—a two-pronged acknowledgment: that I might feel sensitive, and that he'd missed my childhood. If my guilt hadn't been weighing me so low to the ground, I might have floated.

  “What happened is that right before she was born, the company downsized. I got laid off. It made the decision a whole lot easier.”

  He paused and so did I. For a crazy moment, I thought I could hear his heart pounding.

  “The money I gave you was Cathleen's. That's why I postdated the check. I had to make sure she was okay with it.”

  “Was she?” I asked, my voice sounding scratchy and like it belonged to someone else, someone who was kinder and more accepting of her parents' problems.

  “Not really, but she allowed the check to clear.”

  “Well, you can tell her she's getting paid back.” My words tumbled out. “Somehow.” If not by Mom, then by me. I'd get a job if I had to.

  “I should have told you this earlier. But the truth is, it turned out I liked being a stay-at-home dad, and practically had myself convinced that I'd chosen it.”

  I read something past tense into his tone. “Liked? As in, it's over?”

  He made a mmm sound of agreement. “I also wanted you to know that I'm putting Autumn in day care and going back to work,” he said in a weary tone.

  “Things … aren't great between Cathleen and me. Another income, another perspective might help smooth things out.”

  I didn't know much about marriages—especially considering that the only one I'd ever seen up close and personal had sunk like the Titanic—but it seemed that he'd be adding stress rather than taking it away.

  “I started sending out résumés,” Dad said, filling the dead air. “I should be working again soon. So if you and your mom need anything, I can be there for you.”

  I managed to thank him, to get off the phone before saying anything else I'd live to regret. Then I shuffled out into the living room, knowing I needed to go see Mom (and grovel).

  All this parent stuff (and the confusion and guilt) made me feel like a little kid again. Or at least made me wish I still was one. Made me wish for a quick fix like a hug from a grown-up, made me wish for a security blanket.

  Cuddle material; insert thumb in mouth, and do your best Linus impression until you can feel and act your age again.

  I got up fifteen minutes early the next morning and padded to the kitchen. Instead of grabbing my usual yogurt spoon, I pulled out a spatula and fry pan. Not for myself, but for my mom. I owed her big-time. Waaay more than bacon and scrambled eggs, but at the moment, a breakfast tray and an “I love you” were all I had to offer.

  She smiled when I presented the tray to her in bed, and gave me a quick kiss. I suppose it made me feel a teeny bit better.

  It wasn't long, though, before my emotions were back on high. When I got to school and saw Alison at her locker, I marched up and asked, point-blank, about the digital photo of me on the beach.

  “I told you,” she said, turning toward me, defensive. “I deleted it.”

  “Well, apparently not soon enough. The Queen Bee has a copy.”

  “Not possible.” Something obviously crossed her mind, because suddenly the lines in her forehead relaxed. “She's bluffing.”

  “How would she even know to bluff?” The bell rang, meaning we had five minutes to get to class. But I wanted to know now. I took a step closer. “What am I not getting here?”

  “Look, Nic,” she said, and bit on her lip. “It's true I took that pict
ure on purpose. Thinking, well, I'd give you a hard time about showing it to Luther if you started acting all stupid over”—she threw a look around the crowded hallway—“you know who when we got back here.”

  I studied her scrunched-up face. “You would have done that?”

  “Probably not. But at that moment, it seemed like something to try. A tough-love approach.” She shrugged. “I mean, it's not like your mom's Top Ten list was working to remind you what a jerk he is.”

  I sighed, not a happy camper. But it did make sense. Alison hated Rascal for what he'd done to me. And she was there for me, in good times and bad. “Okay, so how did she get it?”

  Alison shook her head. “You got me. I realized it was stupid and deleted it from the camera while we were still at the beach house.”

  She closed her locker. It drowned out the sound of my voice as I asked, “Then who did it?” But it didn't matter, anyway. There was only one other person who would have access to the camera. Who had been angry at me about Canadian Guy. Who clearly wanted to mess with me and my life.

  And for the second time that week, I wanted to track Jared down—and wring his neck.

  An hour later, out on a bathroom pass, I spotted Rascal on the Senior Bench.

  I knew I'd promised Kylie I'd keep my distance. But I had a score to settle with him, too. And she'd never know, anyway.

  I grabbed hold of his T-shirt sleeve and pulled him into an empty stairwell.

  “Whoa,” he said, shuffling beside me, letting his dimples run free. “You must want me bad.”

  I rolled my eyes and dropped my hand.

  He pressed the back of his head and one foot against the wall. His nose was returning to normal color, and his smile was widening. “I knew you'd come around, Nicolette. I just didn't think it would be at school.”

  “Get over yourself. I want to talk about yesterday. About Jared's windows.”

  His foot came down hard on the linoleum. “That wasn't me.”

  “Oh, just stop.” I glared at him, stunned that he'd think me so born yesterday.

  But two could play at his game, so I took a Mother-May-I step to the other side of the Truth Planet. With silent thanks to the tennis mom who'd supplied the info, I described their appearances and outfits, and then laid it on the line. “You drop this thing with Jared, and I'll keep my mouth shut.”

  I was pretty sure I had his back against the wall. (More than literally.) Just as Kylie had my neck in a wringer.

  Rascal gave me a cocky tilt of his head. “Say, just say, I admit it. And agree to back off. What happens if Jared comes after me? I can't fight back?”

  “He won't.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Because Jared was too smart to keep escalating this insanity. Because he'd let those things slip to Kylie, and he already thought he'd taken the last shot. But I wasn't letting on to that. “Because he told me,” I simply said. “And he's a man of his word.”

  “And I'm not?”

  The world before me went hazy. All I could think was, if my life was a sitcom, the studio audience would be howling with laughter. But I had to keep my focus. This conversation was about calling a cease-fire. Not about me or my dashed dreams (which didn't seem so dashed anymore, anyway).

  “Rascal, just tell me you'll leave Jared alone.”

  His mouth puckered like he'd tasted something sour. But then he nodded.

  I offered a hand. “Okay, then. And I'll promise not to go to the principal or the police. Shake on it?”

  “I'd rather we kiss.”

  I rolled my eyes. The thought was not even tempting.

  I half expected a James Bond-esque response like “Never say never again,” but instead he took my hand and shook. “Fine,” he said. “Besides, I need to try to smooth things over with Kylie, especially with homecoming coming up.”

  I assumed he didn't catch the irony in that statement. I just looked his way and said, “Yeah, I hear she's got a killer dress,” and turned toward my classroom.

  •

  I went to Alison's locker after my last class, but again, she was a no-show.

  Heading toward the gym, I spotted Jared in passing. I stopped him with a tug on his backpack, exhaled, and let rip. I told him exactly what I thought of him downloading the photo and sending it to friends back here in Thurman Oaks. (I was betting the Three Musketeers were involved.)

  But he wouldn't give an inch. He stubbornly, thoroughly, and convincingly denied all knowledge or participation. Then walked off, leaving me with my fingernail in my mouth and my tail between my legs.

  I didn't know what to think.

  Zoe welcomed me with a big smile when I traipsed into the locker room later. Her full focus felt terrific, momentarily filling the little hole in my best-friend heart.

  “Ask me what's new,” she bubbled.

  “Okay. What's new?”

  “Ben Snyder asked me to the homecoming dance!”

  I wasn't quite sure who he was or if she even liked him. But I held up my hand for a high five.

  Luther's voice suddenly filled the air, painstakingly reminding us that we'd lost our last two games and that she was not coaching a team of losers. So we'd better win today's!

  Her warning still rang in my head as I crossed into the gym. The house lights were on, the nets erected, and a sprinkling of onlookers gathered on the court and bleachers.

  The starters fell into position and passed the ball around. I couldn't help thinking that the ball was a sort of symbol for how I'd been feeling lately. Slamming back and forth between Jared and Rascal, between Mom and Dad, with occasional setups from Alison and Kylie …

  Some time later, I spotted my mother climbing the bleachers. While her loud cheering sometimes embarrassed me, it warmed my heart to see her today. She still loved me, even though I'd been screwing up her life. I waited until she caught my eye, waved, and mouthed “Hello.” I only hoped Alison would roll in, too.

  The referee blew the first whistle, and we did a pregame handshake with the other starters, followed by our respective cheers. The next whistle sounded and the ball went into play.

  As setter, I could set any hitter with the ball, and unlike some other setters I'd watched, I did not play favorites. To me, a good game was all about stamina and teamwork. Whoever was on top of her game got the most sets. Trouble was, that day, no one was playing well.

  But the worst of all?

  Oh, that would be me. My setting was off, over the net, into the block.

  In the third game, the ball was coming down right at me, so my arms automatically went over my head. The ball fell into my hands. Piece of cake. Like it had a gazillion times in practices and games. I went to launch it back up to my team. But the stiff fingers I relied on betrayed me. The ball continued falling. Right through my hands. Until it landed (ka-thunk!) on the hardwood.

  The ref blew his whistle and signaled a point for the other team.

  Ugh! Missing the ball was bad enough. But dropping? What was I, five years old?

  A couple of girls on the other team smirked; one was biting back a laugh. Complete humiliation. Waaay worse than losing the point. Or the browbeating I'd get from the coach later.

  Zoe gave me this I'm sorry look. And a couple of minutes later, probably still trying to cheer me up, she pointed up to a bleacher area. “You've got a fan.”

  I looked up, dizzied, distracted, and set my eyes on a big, waving piece of cardboard with black-painted strokes:

  GO NICOLETTE!

  Beneath the cardboard extended a pair of jeaned legs. Alison had been wearing jeans earlier. My blood warmed. Everything was just fine. Once again, I was making too much out of things.

  But the cardboard eased lower, and the face that appeared above it wasn't hers. Or even a girl's. It belonged to a too-handsome, dark-haired guy. With eyes the color of root beer and a crooked smile that I knew could light up his eyes. Who did things to my insides I was only now just beginning to understand.

  Omigod,
Jared.

  “Antonovich!” barked an irate coachlike voice from the sideline.

  I knew not to follow the voice, but to swivel my head back toward the net—and just in time, too, to take a serve with the center of my face.

  My hands rushing up to cup my nose, I couldn't decide which would be worse: having it spurt like a red geyser in front of all these people who already thought I was a dork. Or simply having it swell purple until I looked like Rascal's ugly twin.

  After I'd sat out the last game of the set under an ice bag, it looked like my nose would retain its color. And its blood.

  I got home to be greeted by Mom on the phone, retelling my volleyball/nose story. Not in a concerned motherly way, but light and friendly. I knew she had to be talking to Alison, so when she met my eye, I pointed at the phone. She nodded and said into the receiver, “Here, talk to her yourself,” and handed it over.

  “Hey,” I said, then winced at the pain that came from an automatic smile.

  “Glad you're okay,” came the deep reply, the voice of my childhood.

  Dad? Wait—Mom was talking to Dad? In a non-lethal, I-don't-want-to-rip-you-a-new-one way?

  This was ginormously weird!

  “Yeah,” I managed to say into the receiver.

  He asked a few questions about the game, but once I'd given him satisfactory answers, I turned the tables on him. Inquiring minds wanted to know! “Did you just happen to call tonight?”

  “No, your mom called me.”

  “Why?”

  “We had some business to discuss.”

  “Business? But last night you two …” My voice trailed off as I tried to find the politically correct term to recap Mom's rage and his attempts to calm her down.

  “Yeah, well, she and I talked a few times today about refinancing the mortgage. Seems to make the most sense right now.”

  Relief overshadowed my shock. “Great,” I said— and meant it. While I'd been totally ready to step up with the mortgage thing, I was more than happy to “be the kid again” and hand this responsibility to Dad. Besides, he'd be likely to make things better, unlike moi.