“It’s not our country club. She’ll be a…guest.”
“Gotcha.” We did another about-face and headed back in the direction we’d come from.
“What do you think Great-Grandma Reed would have worn?” I asked Mom.
“Battle fatigues, I imagine, from the photos you and Magda have been finding.”
I started to ask where the camouflage section was, but I resisted. I was hoping to see sunlight again at some point today.
“What’s your favorite color, Cassidy?” Ms. Evans asked me.
“Don’t say—”
“Black. What? Mom, you know I’m always in mourning when I have to wear a dress.”
“She likes blue,” my mom said. “It brings out her eyes.”
“Mmm.” Ms. Evans flicked through dresses on the racks, holding one out every now and then to consider it. You’d think she was going to the lunch at the country club.
I pretended to be looking, too, but really, I was backing away. Before they imprisoned me in a dressing room, I was hoping for a few turns on the escalator.
“It’s a hard age to buy for,” Ms. Evans was saying to Mom. “Not a little girl, but not yet a young lady, either.”
“You can say that again.”
I left juniors and got lost in misses. Who knew there were so many ways to look like a flower? Over the top of a rack of dresses, I saw Bree. Or I thought, just for a minute, that I saw Bree. It was only a mannequin; still, from the back it looked a lot like her. Same hair, same headband! And a dress she’d probably wear on her first day of high school. I went closer. The skirt felt like tissue paper—only stiff—and there were flowers on the sleeves. I got a vision of two floats colliding at the May Day parade. Disgusting.
I ran to my mom and pulled her back to the dummy. “I want this one,” I said.
“You can’t be serious.”
“It is beautiful,” Ms. Evans clucked. “So feminine. Funny, I hadn’t pegged you for a girly-girl.”
“Oh, I’m as girly as they get, Ms. Evans.” To cement the deal, I winked at her.
“Cassidy?” Mom was squeezing my arm.
“Have you and Ms. Evans discussed this fine weather we’re having?” I asked Mom. “Because if not, I’d like to get in on that. Personally, I favor clouds…just one or two, for variety.”
“What are you playing at, young lady?” Mom whispered as Ms. Evans dove deep into the rack to find a dress my size.
Drawing my shoulders back for dining posture, I raised my nose up an inch and sniffed. “Mrs. Corcoran. I don’t want to play at being a young lady. I want to be one.” I unlatched Mom’s fingers from my arm and took the dress. “Thank you, Ms. Evans.”
In the dressing room, I wondered, Do you need a map to get into this thing? First there were buttons, then a zipper, then these little thingies that looked like baby fishhooks.
“It’d be easier to crack a safe,” I mumbled, yanking it over my head with my eyes closed. Once I had it over my head, I groped my way to the mirror, eyes still squeezed shut. When I finally opened them, I threw my hands up to protect me from the girl staring back at me.
“Disaster” was too kind a word. I sat down on the little bench they put in every dressing room to give myself a pep talk.
You can do this, Cassidy. Create your own reality!
I stood in front of the mirror again. Maybe if I pulled my hair out of the collar and mussed it up like I’ve seen girls do on TV.
Funny, that’s how my hair usually looked, especially if I managed to escape Mom and her long-toothed comb of doom. There was no doubt about it. I looked like one of those missing kids whose photos they put on the back of milk cartons.
What would Livvy think if she saw me now?
Then I remembered I didn’t care what Livvy thought. Livvy only got an opinion when I received a letter filled with candy canes and kites and balloons. It’s what Jack thought that mattered. Even though he’d lost his marbles, I still wanted him to be my best friend.
Plastering a smile on my face, I left the dressing room. “Perfect,” I said, twirling around like a runway model.
“This is the dress you choose to wear to the luncheon?”
I nodded, keeping my smile in place.
“I’m going to make you sign an agreement to that effect before we cut off the tags.”
“That would be lovely, Mrs. Corcoran.” I scooted back into the dressing room to remove the monstrosity.
At the cash register, I pretended to look over the scarves while Mom and Ms. Evans had more polite conversation.
“How old is Cassidy?” Ms. Evans asked.
“Eleven.”
“Girls change at this age…their interests change. I see it all the time.”
“Trust me. She’s up to something.”
Moving over to the sunglasses, I tried on a pair. The best thing about sunglasses is that when you’re wearing them, no one can tell if you’re fibbing.
“One summer they’re being dragged in here in dungarees; the next year they’re asking to try on the perfume.”
“Can I try on the perfume?” I asked Ms. Evans. “What are dungarees?”
“Blue jeans,” Mom said. “And no you may not.”
—
“Tell me you didn’t cut the tags off,” Magda said when Mom showed her the dress. She and Bree were up in Magda’s room working on some DIY project for Bree that involved loads of pink fabric and a staple gun.
“Of course I didn’t. She’s up to something. I thought I’d give you first crack at breaking her.”
Bree took the safety pins out of her mouth. “Never judge a dress until it’s on.”
“You want me to put it on again? Isn’t it enough that I put it on in the store?”
“I thought you loved it,” Mom said. “You told the saleslady that it made you feel like a pretty pink flower.”
Magda pressed her hand to my forehead. “She’s young to be exhibiting signs of delusional disorder.”
“That was just polite conversation,” I said, in my defense.
“Well, go try it on, then.” Magda handed her wad of fabric to Bree. “Maybe on your body it will undergo some alchemical transformation.”
“It’s so feminine,” Mom said, shoving the dress at me. “Take it to the bathroom, Cassidy. And when you have it on, picture yourself at Cousin Laurel’s wedding in August, too. Maybe even the first day of middle school.”
I went into the bathroom, but instead of trying on the dress, I pressed my ear to the door.
“Mom, she is not wearing that dress. If you think Cassidy—”
“Maybe she’s trying to catch the eye of a certain someone, Magda? A certain someone who is trying to catch the eye of a certain someone who loves…pink?”
I almost came charging back out, but then Bree said, “Well, bravo for Cassidy for fighting for what she wants. I say, let’s help her.”
I couldn’t hear any more because I proceeded to try to commit suicide by suffocating myself in a wad of gauzy fabric. The smile was a little harder to make stick than it had been in the store. Looking in the mirror, all I could think about was the time I dropped a perfectly good billow of rainbow cotton candy on the ground at the Michigan State Fair.
“I’m not sure I can handle the sight of this twice in one day,” I heard Mom say. “I’ll leave you girls to it.”
“Oh, Cassidy.” Magda adjusted her glasses like she was trying to focus me. “You look like a wedding cake.”
“Your instincts were correct, Magda.” Bree reached out and touched the sleeve of the dress. “Don’t cut the tags off.”
“Bree! Are you up there? I got the curtain rod you wanted from Ace Hardware.” Jack came bounding up the stairs. “It wasn’t so easy riding up Fulton Street with it bungeed to the back of my bike, but that’s where years of walking the top of the fence—”
I put my hands in front of my face again, shielding me from Jack’s expression.
“Cassidy? Is that you? Why are you dressed li
ke a fairy?”
“Excuse me?” Getting huffy is a proven defense when you are caught doing something extremely stupid. “Are you saying you don’t like this dress, Jack?”
“Why would I like it? It’s…pink…and flowers. If you tried to climb out the window in that, you’d probably get strangled on the way down. Not to mention if you jumped onto a speeding train—”
“Fine. I get it.”
Bree took hold of my shoulders. “It’s not the dress, Cassidy—”
“It’s definitely the dress,” Magda said.
For the first time ever, I saw an unhappy look cross Bree’s face. “It’s not the dress. It’s you in the dress. What I mean is, the dress is not you.”
“It’s like me wearing a bow tie,” Jack said, handing the rod to Magda. “It doesn’t work.”
“Well, what should I wear?” I tried to sit on the edge of the bed, but all the layers of the dress made it so I just kinda leaned on it. “I can’t go naked to the luncheon. I can’t wear dungarees.”
“What are dungarees?” Jack sat next to me. Like he’d been invited to this conversation.
Bree put her arms around me, which I didn’t mind so much because it blocked the view of my hideous dress from Jack Taylor. “Believe it or not, Cassidy, there are dresses for girls like you. Let me go next door and get my fashion magazine.”
“Delton said I should wear jersey,” I mumbled.
“I thought jersey was a cow,” Jack said.
“Thanks, Jack!” I ran into the bathroom and slammed the door, hard enough to make my teeth rattle.
“No, wait.” Bree stayed on the other side, talking to me. “I don’t know who Delton is, but that’s brilliant. Jersey is a fabric that was first used by Coco Chanel. Do you know who Coco Chanel is, Cassidy?”
“No, and with a name like that, I don’t want to.”
“She was a fashion designer in the olden days. She got women out of corsets—you know those tight things around their waists—and into dresses where they could move freely. And she used jersey to do it. Before that, jersey was only used for men’s underwear.”
“So I’d be wearing men’s underwear to the luncheon?” At least this sounded more interesting.
“You better take this seriously.” Magda had joined Bree at the door. “I can tell you right now, Cassidy. That dress goes above and beyond calamity into catastrophe territory.”
“Magda, hand me your iPad. Come out, Cassidy, and I’ll show you.”
I stuffed the dress in the dirty laundry and put my shorts and T-shirt back on.
“She’s not so bad,” Jack said, looking at the screen Bree was holding up. “I like the cigarette holder.”
“So I get to wear men’s underwear and wave a cigarette holder?” I leaned over. It was still an old-fashioned dress, but it wasn’t as bad as the one I’d just stuffed down the laundry chute.
“It says here on Wiki that Coco Chanel’s qualities included “…genius…lethal wit, sarcasm and [a] maniacal destructiveness, which intrigued and appalled everyone.”
“Let me see that.” I took the iPad from Bree. “Do they have a store for her?”
“No, but she’s still influencing dressmakers. We’ll help you find something, Cass. Mama and I love to shop.”
“Hi, Mrs. Bean.”
“Come in, Cassidy. We’ve been expecting you.” Mrs. Bean stood back and gestured for me to walk through the door. She moved her arm exactly the same way Miss Melton-Mowry did when she taught us how to greet people.
“Will I meet the third Bean tonight?” I asked, trying to erase from my brain the image of Delton teaching his mom everything we learned in etiquette class.
“Oh, you must mean Dr. Bean. Yes, I’m sure he’ll pop in to say hello.” Standing in the Beans’ hallway, all I could see was a lot of windows, some houseplants with very good posture, and white carpeting in the hall and the living room. White carpeting would never fly in the Corcoran household; according to my dad, the way I tore through the house, and with the chemicals Magda spilled, we should buy stock in OxiClean.
“I’m not sure it’s proper that you go see Delton in his room, but if you’re comfortable with that…” Mrs. Bean looked up the stairs, as if she wished she was the one being invited into Delton’s room.
“I’m okay with it. I’m guessing…?” I pointed at the stairs.
She nodded.
“Well, it’s been really enjoyable chatting with you; let’s do this again soon, Mrs. Bean. Maybe a spot o’ tea.” I thought about showing off my Irish brogue, but decided I’d better get down to business.
Mrs. Bean covered her mouth to hide a mom-giggle. “Oh, Cassidy.”
I bounded up the stairs, taking two at a time (my politeness muscle only lasts for so long and then I have to change locations). Stopping in front of a door with the name plaque DELTON BEAN on it, I noticed another sign hanging from the doorknob. It was like one you’d see on the door of a shop with the word OPEN on one side. Before I knocked, I flipped it over, and yes, it said CLOSED.
“Cassidy? Is that you?” Delton opened his door.
“What—could you hear me breathing?”
“I heard you stomping.” Delton straightened the sign that read CLOSED. “Good. You flipped it over.” He pulled me inside.
“So how come you’re ‘closed’ now?”
“I had to work that out with my mother; ‘closed’ means that she is not to interrupt me. My therapist said a sign would help me articulate my boundaries.”
“Your therapist?”
“Yes, I see Mrs. Dennon on a regular basis to work through my social anxiety and to help with my individuation.”
I pinched myself. Was I really standing in Delton Bean’s bedroom? It looked like I imagined a mental ward would—one of those places where they take everything out so you can’t commit suicide. The walls were painted white, the carpet was—surprise!—white and the bedspread was white.
“You’re noticing the minimalist appearance of my room, aren’t you?” he asked me.
I quick-checked Delton’s feet to see if he was wearing shoelaces—far and away the top choice for stringing yourself up in solitary confinement.
He was in slippers!
“My mom thinks a blank canvas inspires creativity. But…it’s not as bad as it first appears.” Delton walked over to some folding doors and pushed them open. There was a desk with a computer, some model airplanes on shelves and Delton’s clothes folded neatly in stacks.
“Look,” he said, pointing to a pile of shoes on the floor. “It’s today’s act of rebellion.”
“You rebel with shoes?” I landed with a bounce on Delton’s bed, creating at least a hundred wrinkles.
“They belong here.” Delton got on his tiptoes to point out the spot on the shelf where his shoes belonged. “I piled them on top of each other for added effect.”
“Well, Delton…” Rolling onto my stomach, I let my head hang over the side. “You are something. I’m not sure what, but…can we get down to business now?”
“Just one question…about the shoes. If you were my mom, would this make you angry?”
“That’s the only square foot in this room that looks normal, Delton. You’re a kid! I’d see it as a sign of hope. Now, where are you hiding all those bugs? Bring ’em on. I’ve mastered the deep-breathing stuff.”
To demonstrate my mastery, I puffed out my belly and blew.
Delton sat down at his computer and typed in his password. “Go slower…more controlled. When I use the biofeedback machine in Mrs. Dennon’s office, I get the best reading when I breathe slowly.”
“Slow. Got it.” I huffed slower. “My knees are great right now. Very relaxed.” Half closing my eyes, I checked in with a few other places. “There’s some tension in my fishing arm, but that’s because I ought to be on the dock at Riverside Park instead of lying with my head over the side of your bed.”
“The PowerPoint’s ready.” Delton swiveled around in his chair to face me. “
But just to clarify about the shoes—”
“Delton, if you want me to teach you how to annoy your parents, I can do that. I practically have an advanced degree in Annoyance and Obfuscation. But earlier today you promised to cure me. I. Go. First.”
My brain was pulsing with blood. I flopped on the floor to redistribute.
“Delton? Is everything okay?” Delton’s mom was knocking on the door.
“Tell her you’re giving yourself a tattoo,” I whispered. Then, to be polite, I gestured. “Down there.”
“I…I’m giving myself a tattoo. Just in erasable ink, but it’s…down there.”
“Down where? Delton? You have a lady present.”
I drew my finger across my throat. Silence would be the best way to send Mrs. Bean to the moon without a spaceship. But of course Delton wouldn’t cooperate.
“Cassidy’s not looking…she’s…meditating.”
“I knew your room was an inappropriate place for the two of you to study. I told Arthur that and he didn’t believe me. Arthur? Arthur?”
“I assume Arthur’s your dad,” I said after her voice disappeared down the hall.
Delton nodded. “Wow. You are…really good at that.”
Polishing my knuckles on my shirt, I responded, “Yes, I am, Mr. Bean. I might be a little better at that than you are at sucking up to Miss Melton-Mowry. If only we got graded for driving parents crazy. Sigh. Okay, I’m ready to work.”
“Here.” Delton rolled a stool out of his closet and had me sit on it. “We’ll start with pleasant associations.”
The first picture that came up was of a big field and, at the top of a hill, a Frisbee-golf basket. “Is that a Mach Ten?”
“Not sure, but check in with your body. Is your heart beating a little faster?”
I leaned in closer. “Sure it is. I would love to play that course.”
“It’s important to understand that adrenaline works both ways. It can be generated because you are afraid and you want to run away or because you are excited. Let’s bring you back to home base. Breathe.”
“Home base. Cool. I like the sports metaphors.” I took a deep breath and looked at the screen one more time. “Sorry. This just makes me wanna cut class and go play Frisbee, Delton.”
The next slide was a picture of a pill bug, all curled up. I took a few loud breaths to show Delton I was still mellow. Without all those waving legs, it wasn’t hard to look at. So of course the next picture was a pill bug on its back with all those waving legs. Latching onto Delton’s shoulder, I squeezed hard.
Cassidy's Guide to Everyday Etiquette (and Obfuscation) Page 19
