Alterations

by Stephanie Scott

  My chest flared with a sensation I hated to name. I grit my teeth. It should be me out there.

  Which of course was ridiculous. Obviously I couldn’t be Ethan’s prom date. Partly because I’d been bedridden days earlier, but mostly because Ethan had no idea how I felt about him. Being around Ethan turned my insides to goo and my mouth forgot basic vocabulary. In my daydreams, Ethan and I, we were perfect together. Destined for prom. Destined for each other.

  The other hitch: my family worked for his. Mami and Abuelita were the ones employed by the Laurentis for cleaning and cooking, but technically, I lumped right in with them. I was “the help,” too. A little fact my daydreams glossed over.

  A new wave of jealousy left sticky imprints on my skin, and I couldn’t shake them off. If Ethan’s friends were meeting here, they would take group pictures. Honestly, I couldn’t not peek in on Ethan’s date, I was too dang curious. I could check her out, and then die a million deaths comparing myself to her while marathoning the Your Move: Season Four reality dance competition.

  I headed to the main house, using the back entrance into the staff kitchen.

  Abuelita paused from stirring a sauce on the stove. “Mila! Stay away from the food.” She fluttered a hand in the air. “Your flu.”

  Oh, right; now she considered my sickness legit.

  “Since you’re here, por favor, can you find the navy-blue linens for the table? Not the royal blue, but the navy blue. We moved them to the closet near Mr. Laurenti’s office.”

  I tended to tread lightly near Mr. Laurenti’s office, where he often yelled about stocks and market rates via speakerphone. He was some sort of investment guru—I never totally understood what he did, but he had a good enough career to have attracted the super-rich Gigi Laurenti, heir to some other fortune I also didn’t fully understand. The family owned not one yacht but two, because, hey? Why not own two yachts? If I had millions of dollars I’d buy as many yachts as possible and throw parties all the time.

  Plus, finding the table linens gave me an excuse to check out the prom pictures.

  I trekked through the back hall to the closets by the first-floor laundry. I found the table linens and matching cloth napkins. Bundling them up, I turned and froze.

  Ethan Laurenti himself was walking toward me.

  “Oh!” I took a step back. Holy Moses. He wore an ink-black tuxedo, no tie yet, and his collar a little askew. I resisted an acute urge to straighten it.

  “Hey, Amelia.” Ethan was the type of guy who addressed people by name, and always with a smile. Usually a hint of mischief hooked into that smile, as if he’d just gotten away with something. He tugged at his jacket sleeve. “I feel overdressed.”

  I glanced down at my sunshine-yellow tunic. This was probably the last item in my closet I would have chosen for an up-close with Ethan. It was just so yellow. Whatever. Ethan was right here in front of me in an empty hall. I forced myself to speak. “You look great. I mean, with prom you kind of have to go all out.”

  He noted the linens in my arms. “Ah, Dad’s business dinner. My mom freaked that he planned it the same night as prom, but,” he shrugged, “these dances are all kind of the same after a while.”

  I knew for a fact Ethan attended prom as a freshman, having gone with a junior girl who’d asked him. Sophomore year, too. Lucky guy—he’d have four years of proms, including next year.

  Next year with me?

  “I’m sure prom will be amazing. Take lots of pictures.” I internally cringed. Why was I giving Ethan advice?

  “Totally.” Ethan said, as if my suggestion was not only necessary but helpful. Ethan’s phone chirped. “I’ve gotta take this. See you around, Amelia.”

  I watched Ethan walk toward the stairs, imagining myself beside him at next year’s prom. I’d wear red, or burgundy. All of my favorite designers’ gowns were red or burgundy. The accessories would depend on the prom’s theme. Since proms tended to repeat common themes (based on my research), I’d already put together several accessory boards on Pinterest for future reference.

  I returned the linens to the formal dining room, which happened to be the perfect spot to watch over where Ethan’s friends gathered in the foyer.

  “Oh my God, you look awe-sooome!” a girl’s voice rang out, followed by heels clicking and swishing skirts. The telltale sounds of prom wear.

  A very tan, very blond girl wearing an emerald-green gown worthy of the Oscars talked animatedly to the other girl I’d seen exit the sedan dressed in floor-length pink. A third girl wore a skintight coral minidress, her skirt length barely reaching what Abuelita would deem respectable. All very different, but very in looks. The girls stood talking to a very bored Liam Laurenti.

  Seeing Liam was like looking at the inverse of Ethan. While both brothers were of similar height and weight, whereas Ethan had purpose to his laid-back style—casually swept aside hair and shirtsleeves rolled up—Liam’s entire look appeared to be an afterthought. Hair thirsty for products and cut short with no style, as if he walked into the salon and asked for “the Regular.” Baggy, shapeless Tshirts and ratty sports sandals paired with anything and everything.

  He was wearing them now. Shoes that flopped against the marble floors like dead plastic fish. “Uh, my brother should be down soon,” Liam said to the girls. He shifted his weight, his body dwarfed by a too-big polo shirt that for all I knew could have belonged to his father.

  “Leee-um!” Emerald Dress tugged at his arm. “Why aren’t you coming to prom?”

  “It’s one of those memories you just can’t replace,” Coral Minidress said, to which I agreed, silently in my shadowed doorway.

  “Actually, I’m hosting a chat tonight on content strategy. The online forum I belong to invited a Web developer—” He stopped, realizing the girls’ attention had been replaced by vacant stares.

  Whatever Liam said after that became lost by a cacophony of shrieks. More girls rushed through the door, followed by guys in tuxes. One of the girls’ dresses I recognized from Teen Vogue’s prom issue. The dress just listed one of those descriptors with a phone number and “inquire prices here.” I’d called one of those once, just to see what would happen. No one answered, like they already knew I wouldn’t qualify.

  Emerald Dress gasped. “Ohmigod, my dress!” She clutched her side, as if speared by something. The girls crowded around.

  I raised up on tiptoes, still partly shielded by the door frame. It was hard to see now that the hired photographer and her assistant joined them in the foyer.

  “What am I going to do?” the girl squealed. “It’s ripped! My dress is ripped!”

  Ripped? With moments to spare? I raced into the foyer like an ambulance summoned by 911. “Everybody clear! I can sew.” The girls parted to give me room.

  Emerald Dress clamped her hand beneath her arm. “I’ve never worn strapless that wasn’t stretchy, you know? So I tugged up the dress and then—” Her chest rose and fell rapidly.

  “Stay calm. Let me take a look.” The seam gaped where previous (clearly shoddy) tailoring had unraveled. You’d think a dress this pricey would be made well, but no time to dwell. “Give me four minutes and I’ll have this fixed.”

  I ushered her to the library off the foyer and retrieved a sewing kit from a nearby closet. After a few quick stitches, I had the seam back in shape. I handed her a couple safety pins. “Just in case.”

  She stood and flattened the bodice, not bothering to examine my tiny, even stitches. “Thank you! You are a lifesaver.”

  I smiled, relieved I could help. “No problem.”

  I followed her out, and my breath caught. Ethan strode down the main staircase, adjusting his cuffs and shrugging against the immaculate fit of his jacket. An easy grin slid across his lips like melting sugar. He tipped his head to brush aside his dark brown hair, which fell longish and flopped across his forehead. His look was cared-for but never overly styled.

  Just then, Wombat, the Laurenti’s chocolate-colored Labrador, who still
thought himself a puppy, trotted in, barking and circling the girls. Liam, in a surprisingly smooth move, used the dog as an excuse to back himself out of the room.

  I stood aside as the photographer grouped the girls around Ethan and his friends for a photo that would probably be blown up poster size and cemented in their memory forever. Or maybe that was just me.

  Emerald Dress clung to Ethan’s arm. “Ethan, hiring a seamstress for tonight was such a good idea. She literally saved my night.”

  Seamstress? Oh, right.

  Ethan looked over to me. “You mean Amelia?”

  His lips parted, like he was about to explain who I was, but he smiled instead and gave me a chin nod. A chin nod like we were in on the joke, just he and I.

  We shared an in-joke. An in-joke!

  “Yeah, she’s great,” Ethan added, still grinning.

  That grin liquefied my joints. I finger combed my hair flat against my neck, hoping to cover the blush creeping up.

  “Shall we head outside?” the photographer asked in an English accent (of course she had an English accent). The electric connection between Ethan and me severed.

  The clicking and swishing prom wear clicked and swished through the front doors. Emerald Dress stopped at the door. She turned and held up her clutch purse. “Can you do me a huge favor? Could you fetch me some bobby pins?” She shoved the clutch into my hands. “And maybe some of that double-sided tape celebrities use.” She tilted her head in a half shrug. “Thanksies!”

  I stood on the doorstep, openmouthed. She wanted me to fetch things for her?

  Ethan had already walked ahead with the others, so at least he hadn’t seen the Fetch This transaction. The girl fluttered her fingers my way, which I could only interpret as shoo. As in, “away with you!” Like waving off a housefly.

  I ducked back inside before anyone noticed my five-alarm cheek flame and retreated to the staff kitchen. Who forgot their prom survival kit, anyway? All the teen fashion sites ran top ten checklists of everything you’d need.

  Bobby pins were easy enough to find, but the fashion tape was a lost cause. “No fetch-y for you,” I grumbled to the empty kitchen. Thankfully, Abuelita was off somewhere else. I didn’t feel like explaining.

  I paused at the sight of an envelope with my name on it faceup on the counter. Probably a birthday card. Gigi Laurenti was an expert at details. The envelope was skinny and pink. I slid it into the pocket of my skirt.

  Having mostly accomplished my mission, I walked out to the front of the house. Rays from the late afternoon sun cast a soft glow over Ethan and his friends. Perfect lighting for the photographer, according to the photo tutorials I’d read. Natural light was so key.

  “My, my ladies, you are just the prettiest things Ah’ve ever seen!” Gigi Laurenti’s thick southern drawl carried over as she watched over the group. (Gigi was Italian by marriage, she’d say, and Georgian by birth.)

  Ethan hammed it up for the photographer and struck James Bond–like poses. The girls gathered in close, elongating necks and smiling with their eyes. They were good. Everyone looked amazing and gorgeous, but none of those girls was me. I was the girl holding someone’s purse.

  The photographer’s assistant bumped me and I sidestepped to stay clear. He turned, swinging a bulky shoulder bag in my direction. I edged farther away but still near enough to let Emerald Dress see I’d returned with her clutch.

  The third time I was bonked with the assistant’s bag, he looked back at me. “You’re going to need to move.”

  I shifted aside but found myself backed against a prickly bush edging the front walk. Sidestepping again, I tried moving around the assistant. My toe butted against a rock jutting from the landscaping and no, no, no! I nosedived into the bush, throwing up my hands to save my face from prickers. Harsh bark scraped across my arms and arrowed into my torso. I kept my head down and hoped for the best, landing somehow halfway in the bush with the purse held up like a shield. Crackling branches called out, ruining any attempt to fall silently.

  “What’s going on back there?” the photographer barked.

  Thankfully, the assistant was a big guy, so maybe no one could see me on the other side of him facedown in a pricker bush. I pushed up with my legs to right myself, only the prickers latched onto my hair. I couldn’t stand. My hair! I was stuck!

  “What on earth are you doing, Kitty Cat?”

  No. Please no. Frisco, the groundskeeper (from San Francisco, hence the name) called over using the Kitty Cat nickname he’d granted me with when I was four. I’d pretended to be a kitten for six months straight, so who could blame him. But now? It was a nickname that survived nine lives too many.

  “I’m a little stuck,” I whisper-shouted in his general direction. All I could see was my own thick hair wrapped around evil, evil branches.

  “They’re taking pictures,” Frisco responded, as if this was a revelation. “You need to stay out of the way.”

  Whatever was happening behind me I had to ignore to focus on not needing a future trip to the wig district. Frisco assisted my detangling with dirt-stained fingers. Finally, after most of my hair was free, I yanked myself up, only losing a few hundred strands. Hey, how about that for thinning out my thick hair in a totally organic way.

  I stood, slightly dizzy, still firmly clasping the clutch.

  And there she was, Emerald Dress girl, standing in front of me, waiting for her purse. Her facial expression—pure disgust.

  She snatched the clutch. “There’s dirt on this. And”—she pulled a stray twig poking from the side—“what even is this? Why are you so dirty?”

  I glanced down in horror at branch dust striped across my tunic, and worse, blood. My blood. My arms were bloodied in three places. “I’m so sorry.”

  Beyond her, the group was dispersing. I spied Ethan heading our way. Before he could make eye contact with any part of me, I turned and dashed back inside.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I retreated to the Laurenti house purseless, promless, hopeless.

  Also bleeding. It wasn’t like I was a clumsy person. I didn’t regularly trip face-first into shrubbery. I would never willingly subject a purse or any accessory to trauma (horticultural or otherwise). My cuts would heal, but would the clutch remain permanently scarred? I’d never know.

  I washed myself up in the bathroom by the staff kitchen, blinking away the image of Emerald Dress Girl’s disgust. No way was I going back outside until every trace of prom-goer vanished.

  After a few minutes (who wanted to kill time in a tiny bathroom?), I made my way to the library, the nearest room with windows facing the front of the house. The coast was not clear. The photographer and Gigi Laurenti stood in the front walk chatting, while Ethan and his friends gathered around an SUV limousine now parked in the circle drive. The group probably had reservations at a really cool restaurant downtown before going to their prom destination.

  “Oh great; you, too?” a grumbling voice behind me asked.

  I jumped and backed away from the window. Liam.

  “Everyone’s got prom fever,” he droned, and threw out a sad example of jazz hands. He didn’t look surprised to see me. Didn’t even ask why I stared after his brother and friends like a creeper version of Jane Eyre’s Mrs. Rochester.

  “Well, it’s only the most exciting moment in high school life,” I said, and immediately wished I hadn’t.

  Liam scoffed. “Really? I mean, seriously, really?”

  I folded my arms and shifted position so the bandages on my wrists and forearms were less obvious. “You get to dress up. You can be anybody you want at prom. It’s not quite as magical as a birthday, but it’s still a defining moment.” Yes, I’d just used the word magical. Yes, it was in a nonironic way. I shut my eyes against my rambling and wished for Liam to just leave me alone.

  I opened them in time to see him looking at me like I was a code to decipher. “I always figured you were smarter.”

  My shoulders went rigid. “Who’s to say that
liking prom means you’re not smart? Sometimes you just want to have a”—what the heck—“magical experience. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  Liam stuffed his hands in the pockets of his wrinkled, pleated khakis. His rapid blinking picked up. “I don’t get why you care. It’s not like you’ll ever be like those girls.”

  My chest wrung tight. I looked through the glass at the perfect dresses disappearing into the stretch Escalade, then down to my dirt and blood-smeared tunic, and then back to Liam, in his khaki pants and boring haircut, who would never, ever understand.

  A look of realization crossed Liam’s face. His hands flew up. “Hey, that came out wrong. I didn’t mean, it’s not—”

  “Maybe I already know I’m never going to be like those girls,” I said through a thick throat. No prep school or atmosphere-busting-limit credit card for this girl. “Maybe I don’t need the reminder.”

  He blinked a bunch of times. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just don’t get why, I mean, why you follow him around like that.”

  Follow him. Followed Ethan. I focused on my feet, which were squishing down the thick-pile rug that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. “I don’t follow him.”

  “You watch him. You always have.”

  Well, this was mortifying. If Liam noticed me watching Ethan, maybe Ethan noticed, too. My defenses bubbled up, but I hinged my mouth shut. Liam was not my friend. He was the son of my family’s employer.

  Except, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “Who ditches prom for a school project? It’s prom. PROM.”

  Liam’s hand moved to the side of his face as if to adjust his glasses, only he wasn’t wearing any. Contacts maybe? His hand trailed back to his side. “It’s not a school project. It’s personal. It’s a personal, entrepreneurial venture.”

  Well, all righty then. “You know, Bill Gates might be a gajillionaire, but I bet he wishes he spent a little less time in the computer lab and a little more time creating once-in-a-lifetime memories.”

  “I have plenty of fun,” he said with a shade of defensiveness. “I play games all the time.”