For tonight’s party we were doing a taco bar. Mom had been smoking a pork roast all day, and its heavenly smell wafted in through our open windows. The corn was shucked and ready to grill, the salsa sitting on the counter in a pottery bowl so the flavors could blend. I had taken the flourless chocolate torte out of the oven earlier in the day and Mom had piped ganache on top once it cooled. She’d offered to let me try, but I knew she’d do a perfect job.
And I kind of wanted her to shine.
I heard Jack’s knock at the front door and called for him to come on in. He was fresh from a shower, wearing a T-shirt I hadn’t seen before, his damp black hair falling in his eyes. While someone else might have picked out something special for the occasion, Jack’s shirt looked like it had been at the bottom of his dresser drawer since the last time he ran out of clean laundry—creased and gray and threadbare, with “Boise State” in faded script. I wondered if it had been his dad’s—for sure, there was a story there. Maybe someday he’d tell me.
Jack wrapped his arms around me and almost lifted me off the floor with the force of his hug. He had greeted me like this ever since that day, when we’d left the Grangers’ and driven up to the overlook, where we spent the afternoon watching the sailboats on the ocean. He’d promised to destroy the jacket for me so I would never have to see or touch it again. And I’d cried as Jack held me on the bench seat of his old truck.
I liked that he was protective of me. But I felt strong.
“Nice outfit,” Jack said, raising an eyebrow.
“Thanks.” I smiled, twirling for him, the skirt of my vintage sundress swirling around my legs. It was from the fifties, and there had been a few moth holes on the bodice, but I’d appliquéd several large poppies in orange and red over the damaged areas, adding rows of orange rickrack to the skirt. Josie’s button hung from a silver chain around my neck. I’d dyed the ends of my hair a bright reddish-magenta the week before and I was wearing a white vinyl headband that looked either punk or retro, I couldn’t decide which.
Nana was next to arrive. She was wearing a tank top that revealed a lot more of her saggy freckled cleavage than most old ladies would probably be comfortable showing. But since I was the person who’d stitched the rainbow paillettes along the neckline, I could hardly criticize. She had on one of her long flowing skirts and there were bits of leaves and grass stuck to the bottom, so I knew she hadn’t been able to resist doing a little gardening on the way out of the house.
She handed Mom a big bunch of camellias tied with red and green ribbon that looked suspiciously Christmasy. “Here, Susie,” she said hesitantly, her voice wobbling.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” my mom said, setting the flowers on the counter and hugging her.
I turned away to give them some privacy, smiling to myself. The other guests were due any minute. Jack was out at the grill, so I joined him there while Mom showed Nana the table settings, the mismatched collection of dishes and silver and glassware.
Smoke billowed around us as Jack poked at the delicious-smelling slab of charred meat.
“Your mom did this?” he said. “Scary.”
“What do you mean?”
“The women in your family are not to be messed with. There must be twenty pounds of pig here. Did she kill it with her bare hands too?”
I laughed. I loved that Jack thought my mom and grandmother and I were badasses, a conclusion he’d reached when I’d taken him to meet Nana and we’d found her on the roof, fixing a shingle with a hammer and a mouthful of nails.
Jack and I went to sit on the front porch to wait for the other guests. Out over the water, the sun was starting to splinter into bands of orange and pink and gold. It was going to be a beautiful sunset. Jack put his arm around my shoulders and I leaned in, breathing in his laundry and soap scent. No animal-cage smells today, that was for sure.
I knew things would change soon. New school, new friends, new classes, all kinds of challenges and distractions. I was a little nervous—okay, I was a lot nervous—but I knew I would be all right.
“We sold the last of my designs yesterday,” I told him. “NewToYou is closed until next summer.”
“You going to miss it?”
“Well, I think I’m going to be pretty busy with school, so any extra time I have I’m just going to work on my own stuff.”
“But you still want to be a designer, right?”
“Yeah, I just thought I might …” I could feel myself blushing. “Uh, Mom said she’d take me up to San Jose next weekend. There’s a store there, they import fabric from all over the world. Yard goods, but they have bolt ends at great discounts.”
“So, you’re going to keep making clothes?”
“Yes. No more hand-me-downs at the moment.”
I didn’t consider my gift a bad thing. I didn’t feel cursed, and I was sure the day would come when I was ready to explore the visions again. But for now, I had a few designs in mind that I wanted to try making from scratch, creating the patterns and cutting out the pieces, tailoring them to my exact measurements. They’d be mine … truly mine, originals that no one else in the world would own. The thought filled me with pride.
“So, do they have, like, fancy fabric? At that store?”
“Um, fancy?”
“You know. Silky stuff. Like for dresses. Like … maybe for the homecoming dance.”
“There’s a homecoming dance?” I asked innocently. But I already knew the answer. Rachel had told me all about it. According to her it was kind of lame, but she was still planning to go, with Ky, if Ky was still in the picture by then. Otherwise, she was kind of interested in Miles Baldridge, who had just gotten back from spending the summer on the East Coast with his cousins.
“Yes. There is. And you’re going with me.”
Oh. I felt my smile getting bigger. Yes … I could come up with something good. Something spectacular, even.
Inside, I heard my mother’s and grandmother’s voices joined in laughter. A gentle wind had picked up, and far down the hill, waves broke in white swells along the shore. Soon it would be chilly enough to get a sweater, but for now I was happy right here where I was meant to be, with a boy I was starting to fall for. My skin touched the soft, much-washed cotton of his shirt, but I sensed no emotions but my own happiness and heard no thoughts except my own.
About the Author
Sophie Littlefield is the Edgar Award–nominated author of mysteries, thrillers, and horror fiction for adults. She lives with her family in Northern California. Visit her online at sophielittlefield.com.
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