“You change what you want to change and you keep what works for you. The way you are isn’t some condition you’ve been afflicted with. You decided a long time ago to stay outside the norm. So make the outside match the inside. You’re meant to stand out, be seen, be different. If you wanted to conform, you’d have done that in high school.”
“Been there, done that,” I remarked.
“Exactly,” he said. “And you broke free and returned to the same Roni we knew and loved way back when. Trust me, if you go to that reunion, the people that would love you would do so no matter what you look like. It’s not about a dress or a number on a scale. It’s about who are you are.”
I sighed. Who I was. Now that was the question.
I was still mulling it over when Meghan came home Sunday night. She was in a particularly nasty mood, though she’d never tell me why. She slammed into her room and blasted Pink as loud as she could get it without the neighbors banging on the wall.
She came out about two hours later to dump her laundry in the hamper by the washing machine. She spotted remnants of my fast food weekend, with a pizza box and some Chinese takeout cartons stuffed under diet cola cans.
“Don’t you care about our planet?” she snapped as she scooped up the aluminum cans and put them in the recycling bin. “I guess that’s a stupid question. Anyone who doesn’t care about their body clearly doesn’t care about anything else.”
I took a deep breath and counted to ten. These were Wade’s words, not hers. She was angry and I was a convenient target. Nothing would be gained by my rising to the bait. When the storm had blown over, we’d discuss issues like respect, and why I deserved it even if she didn’t think that I did.
She slammed back into her room and I didn’t see her by the time I left for work the next morning. It was probably for the best, given I wasn’t in that hot of a mood myself. I made the mistake of stepping on the dusty scale in my private bathroom. I was now at the heaviest I’d ever been.
There was no fucking way I’d go to the reunion now.
When I got to the office, I told my assistant to hold all calls and refuse all visitors, especially one Dylan Fenn.
7: Obsession
December 13, 1985
I couldn’t help but wonder what sadist had scheduled the first official dance of high school on Friday the 13th. Granted, it was the last day before our Christmas break, but honestly it didn’t bode well for those of us who were forced to go for extra credit toward our P.E. grade. After a semester with Coach Marcus, I knew I needed all the help I could get, so even though I knew no one would be asking me to go, I had to go hold up a wall somewhere anyway.
The optimistically titled “White Dance” was supposed to be a fairy tale setting complete with fake snow to simulate the winter wonderland we SoCal kids were normally denied. As a special bonus, I got to work on the party planning committee to set up the decorations, which kept me after class. Thankfully Bryan had volunteered just because he loved to create, so at least we were able to eke some fun out of it and I didn’t have to bus it home. Charlie joined us, of course, because she was failing Coach Marcus’s class as hard as I was, and we managed to convince Olive to join in as well.
The Leftover Club was alive and well by December of 1985.
That was why every single one of us was stunned when Dylan joined the committee just two weeks prior to the dance. I had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the head of our esteemed committee, Amber O’Reilly.
Amber was a joiner. She filled her schedule with cheerleading practice, choir, tennis, the debate team, and the math club. She was vice president of the student council, no doubt practicing for the day she would involve herself in politics as an adult. She was smart and driven and, where it counted for Dylan, I’m sure, beautiful. She was every inch the California girl from her natural tan, her big brown eyes and that flaxen hair that curled gently down her back like it took no effort at all.
I would have hated her guts had she not been so damn sweet. A lot of girls who looked like Amber were superficial and vapid, caring only which band they liked that week or which boy was worth dating. Amber was kind, often the driving force behind any of the school’s philanthropic projects. She had organized several food and clothing drives for the locally needy, as well as raising awareness for famine relief in Africa. She began a monthly campaign to clean up our local beaches, organizing (and leading) teams as well as fundraisers. These efforts featured her on the evening news, making her somewhat of a celebrity on campus.
But she wasn’t sanctimonious or pious at all. She had an easy smile for everyone, even the Leftover Club.
As a senior, she ran in different social circles than us lowly sophomores. I figured this was the perfect opportunity for Dylan to ‘rank up’ as it were. While she appreciated his help, I saw no added interest like junior or sophomore girls. Amber’s attention was already focused on college, and the people she would meet there. In that sense, the age difference between 16 and 18 felt like ten years, instead of the measly two that separated them.
Plus Amber’s schedule didn’t necessarily have room for a boyfriend. Her focus was a career in law, which meant she had no time for teen shenanigans. Her sights were set a lot higher, as were her standards regarding the company she kept. She didn’t care about superficial trends. To her, character and merit trumped appearance and status. She could hang out with anyone, from a computer nerd to the most popular player on our esteemed football team.
Suffice it to say, Amber was my first official girl crush. Just being around her made me feel better about myself.
It wasn’t long before I came to resent the way Dylan would sidle up to her and turn up the charm. Not because she might take him away, but because he might drive her away.
It had happened before. I lost count of the perfectly good friends I lost, all of whom had made the mistake of falling for the uncatchable Dylan Fenn. Once he broke their hearts, it forced them to break ties with anything and anyone that reminded them of him.
More times than not, I was at the top of that list.
I didn’t want that to happen with Amber, so I found myself playing interference out of necessity. Surprisingly, Dylan seemed okay with this. “Dylan, could you help me with this?” or “Dylan, check this out,” would always make him abandon his plan to seduce the most popular girl in school in favor of helping the ordinary daughter of his mother’s housemate.
That’s what we were, really. Not friends, not family. Just two kids who happened to live in the same house.
And, for two weeks in December, we were an integral part of the White Dance planning committee. He even took over chauffeur services, leaving Bryan to run Charlie or Olive around.
We talked more in those brief car rides than we had in years. He introduced me to his favorite band (Iron Maiden) and we talked about his favorite show (Miami Vice.) He even convinced me to catch a matinee (Spies Like Us.) He split his popcorn and we shared a big frozen drink that gave us brain freeze headaches within the first sip. But we laughed all the way through and even sneaked into a second movie without paying.
I had to convince the Leftovers daily that nothing was going on. It wasn’t like that with Dylan and me. We were comfortable companions of convenience, and really always had been.
I was sure that he didn’t remember my favorite band (Journey) or my favorite show (a three-way tie between Moonlighting, Night Court and The Golden Girls.) He was driving the car both literally and metaphorically. I was simply along for the ride.
That Friday the 13th, most of my crew had decided to race home after class. We were all dateless wonders who had decided to go together as a group so that none of us felt like a wallflower. So we wanted to dress early and arrive early, and … with any luck at all… leave early.
I was headed out to Bryan’s car when Dylan trotted up behind me. “Where are you going?”
“Home. I figured I’d get ready.”
“I’ll take you,” he off
ered easily. “I’m heading there anyway.”
I shrugged. Either, or, didn’t matter to me. Bryan shrugged too, but I could see him assess the information thoughtfully before he slid into his cute little two-seater.
I climbed into Dylan’s IROC-Z, a present from his ever-absent father. Personally I thought it was a shitty substitute for the man I hadn’t met in the ten years I’d known Dylan. But Dylan wasn’t about to turn down the bright yellow sports car. I guessed that the girls it attracted more than made up for his father’s lack of affection.
The radio blasted from our open windows as we sped toward the house. “I’ll get ready first,” I said. “That way Bryan can come get me and you’ll be free to get ready for your date.”
“I don’t have a date,” Dylan announced easily.
I did a double take. “What?”
“What?” he repeated, like his announcement wasn’t noteworthy. “Figured I’d go stag. It’s no big deal.”
That’s when it hit me: Amber. I already knew she wasn’t going to have a date either, so likely Dylan figured he’d go stag to maximize his chances of winning her heart before the dance was done. We had reached a critical hour; we’d all go our separate ways after the weekend. It was now or never.
“So I can drive you to the dance,” he supplied.
I shrugged. “If you want.” Bryan could take me home if (and when) Dylan got lucky with Amber. I personally didn’t want to stay that late anyway.
When we got to the house, I went straight to my room. I decided to do my makeup and hair first, since those took the most time. I grabbed my robe and my accoutrements as I scurried quickly to the bathroom. I could hear Dylan’s heavy metal music thumping away from the other side of the wall as I stood under the hot spray of our shower. I smiled at first, patting myself on the back that I could recognize the song by the beat. Then it dawned on me that Dylan himself was on the other side of that wall. That was a heady thought to consider when one was completely naked.
What a joke, I dismissed at once. I was no Amber O’Reilly.
I rinsed my long hair and then turned off the water, stepping out onto the bath mat around the time the music silenced. I heard Dylan’s door open and close, before footfalls against the hardwood floor of our hallway heralded his approach towards the bathroom. My breath caught as he knocked, and I wiggled into my robe quickly as though he could see through the door with some kind of Hot Teenage Boy X-Ray Vision. “Almost out,” I hollered as I cinched my robe together with one hand.
I opened the door, where he stood shirtless in his jeans. His eyes swept over my wet hair and my damp robe, which clung to my body. He opened his mouth to say something but I ducked my head and scurried toward my bedroom, slamming the door quickly behind me. I leaned against it, trying to catch my breath.
There was only one thing worse than pining over a boy like Dylan Fenn, and that was living in the same house for years, confronted on a daily basis with the fact you’ll never get him. I thought about calling Bryan for a ride anyway, but it seemed silly. Instead I walked to my vanity table and began my futile transformation ritual. I dropped my robe and patted myself with body powder, before stepping into my undies. With every layer I put between my body and the world, I felt more and more in control. I sat to dry and style my hair, leaving my makeup for last. My mother had splurged on a burgundy taffeta dress with black velvet trim, so I opted for pink tones above my eyes. That had always worked with my particular shade of green.
Since my eyes were my best feature, I took special time and consideration getting it just so.
This would make up for the dress falling short of transforming me into a teen dream. It was the largest size offered by the department store, and I had forfeited real food for a week in order to fit into it. It still felt too snug, like it was hugging all the wrong curves in all the wrong places.
I was quick to learn that taffeta was an unforgiving fabric.
When I reached behind my back to zip it up, I realized that I hadn’t thought this part of the process through. I couldn’t reach the zipper where it stalled halfway up my back. “Are you freaking kidding me?” I muttered to myself. I tried to contort myself in every conceivable position, but it was becoming clearer by the second that this was a two-person job.
I was going to have to ask Dylan for help.
I opened my door by a sliver and peeked down the deserted hallway, craning to hear any music or the shower, but it was quiet in the house. With a sigh I inched through the door and headed toward the bathroom. The door was closed. I tried the knob, and it was open, but steam spilled from the cracked door and I realized Dylan was standing in front of the mirror in only a towel.
“I’m sorry,” I said as I slammed the door. He quickly opened it.
“No problem.” He leaned against the door frame. “What’s the problem?”
“I… uh…can’t get my zipper up,” I stammered.
“Sure, I’ll help,” he offered. “Light here is awful,” he pointed out, referring to the hallway. He started to pull me into the steamy bathroom, but I knew that would do a serious number on my perfectly coiffed hair.
“Hair!” I squeaked immediately.
“A thousand pardons,” he said as he suppressed his chuckle.
He compromised and allowed me into his bedroom for the first time in almost four years.
It was a typical boy cave. There were music posters all over the walls, interspersed nicely with pictures of sexy models in skimpy bikinis. A massive stereo system lined the wall opposite his double bed, which was covered in dark blue sheets and red pillows. Magazines and books sat in a pile next to the bed, and his dresser was covered with a collection of cologne and various boy accessories like watches, silver rings and leather cuffs, along with an assortment of button pins with various band logos and slogans. He usually wore those for concerts and dates. The only thing he wore every day was a shell and shark tooth necklace around his neck, and that’s what I focused on when I turned to face him.
He was naked, save for a towel and that necklace. I couldn’t look him in the eye. Yet I felt those dark eyes locked onto my ever-reddening face. I stammered until he reached to turn me around, and I swallowed my gasp as his warm hand made contact with my cool skin.
He tugged at the zipper, but it was stuck. He had to unzip it in order to get it back on track, and it hit me in a moment of sheer panic that Dylan Fenn was actually unzipping my dress, in his bedroom, when he was already unclothed. In that one second I wanted to abandon the whole fiasco entirely. This was insanity!
Before I could bolt from the room, the zipper eased back up all the way to the top. His voice was soft as he said near my ear, “There you go. All fixed.”
I nodded but couldn’t say a word. We stood staring at each other through his mirror on the opposite wall. His hand landed on my bared shoulder. “You look nice,” he murmured.
“You do, too,” I said before I could stop myself. He grinned and I stumbled all over myself. “I mean, usually.”
“Good to know,” he teased.
He stood between me and the door, so I wasn’t sure how to delicately disengage. I opened my mouth but he quickly interrupted.
“Oh hey, I have something for you.” He walked to his stereo and sorted through the scattered cassettes before he snagged one. It was a cassette he had recorded, with music from his vast album collection. He labeled it, ‘The Education of Roni.’ I laughed when I read it. “You laugh. But there will be a test,” he added, which made me laugh more. He shrugged. “Nah, I just figured since I probably won’t be driving you home anymore, that was no reason to slack on your music education. I even put some slow crap on there, since I know you like it the best.”
“Thanks,” I offered. “I should probably…,” I started, motioning for the door.
“Yeah, I should probably…,” he said, motioning to the closet.
I went back to my bedroom and put the tape into my tape deck. The first song was, indeed, a slow one, “Still Lo
ving You” by the Scorpions. That was Dylan’s definition of slow – power ballads by his favorite rock bands. I suspected he had configured his stereo to scramble and eject anything by the pop icons I normally listened to, even as he pulled me ever so grudgingly toward the harder stuff. I still listened to Wham and Lionel Richie, but I had to admit, there was something raw and powerful about harder rock and even classic rock, like the forlorn ballad that now blasted from my stereo.
It spoke of unrequited love, and I certainly was an expert in that.
I sat in front of my vanity table to finish my look for the dance. I fastened a tiny gold heart around my neck and reached for large dangling earrings that brushed my shoulders. I touched up my makeup but it was useless. I knew no matter how heavily I plastered cosmetics onto my face, I’d never look like that image of myself in my head.
I sighed, rose from the chair, turned off my stereo and went into the living room to wait for Dylan.
We arrived about an hour early for the dance. Amber was already there, hard at work even in her mauve silk dress. It was strapless and fit her body perfectly. She didn’t even need to add any accessories, her beauty accentuated it enough, which made my carefully applied cosmetics appear like even more of a mask than normal. Before I could beat myself up about it, however, our eyes locked and her face brightened with a broad smile when she saw us approach.
“Roni, I’m so glad you’re here.”
I had become Amber’s right-hand woman over the past few weeks, so much so that she even called me several times a week to brainstorm over her newest creative inspiration. Dylan was forgotten as she linked her arm with mine and we put all the finishing touches on our pet project, which transformed the otherwise torturous gym into a Winter Wonderland. We didn’t stop fine-tuning everything until other students starting filling the gymnasium at quarter to seven that evening.
The Leftover Club Page 6
