Love and Other Secrets

by Christina Mandelski

  “Yes.” It’s light blue, but not an ugly, baby blue. It looks cool, like a long, silk icicle. It’s simple, fitted, with little gathers where the skirt meets the bodice, and thin straps at the shoulders. He brings it to me and drapes it over the arm I’m holding out.

  The label inside says Christian Dior. Oh my God. The fabric is so slippery that it’s hard to hold onto. When I step into it, I feel like a goddess. Oh, please let it fit.

  Once I’ve pulled it up, I call for Alex again. “Help?”

  “Yeah.” He steps forward and zips up the back, even slower than the last time. Why is he going so slow? I fight the urge to lean back against him like Audrey Hepburn would definitely do, and then he’d wrap his arms around me and—

  I am so screwed. I turn around and wait for him to say something. I see him swallow hard, but he says nothing, so I walk to the mirror and gasp.

  “I love it,” I breathe. “This is the one. Don’t you think?”

  His eyes narrow.

  “What? You do like it, right?” I frown, starting to panic. “I’m in love with it, so please don’t say you don’t like it.”

  He shrugs. “It’s okay. But can you dance in it?”

  I stare at my reflection. “What are you talking about?”

  He moves closer to me, his fingers picking at the skirt. “Like, is it too restricting? Can you lift your arms? You know, can you bust a move?”

  I hadn’t thought about that. I look at him, worried. “Bust a move? I don’t know. Probably?”

  He’s beside me, staring at me in the mirror while I stare back at him.

  “What?” I say.

  “We need to test it,” he says.

  I raise an eyebrow. He wants to dance? I don’t think that’s a great idea given my current mental state. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

  “Look, I don’t want you stuck at prom unable to dance.”

  Okay, this is getting weird. He’s acting weird. “Alex. I can dance.”

  “You don’t know that.” He pushes back his hair. “Come on. Let a friend help a friend.”

  He holds out a hand. After weighing my ability to handle this like a responsible, self-aware woman, I take it, and he pulls me close, closer to him than I’ve ever been, then he sweeps me into his arms, like we’re on Dancing with the Stars. We spin around and around, and by the time he stops mid-spin, I’m laughing like crazy and sort of dizzy.

  “Oh my God, did the dress pass?” I yelp.

  “It’s all right,” he says. “But slow dancing is the real test.” He doesn’t give me a chance to speak. He pulls me close again. Even closer this time.

  I chuckle, still dizzy and knowing that this is not a smart move, at least on my end. “Alex, come on. What are you doing?”

  I should pull away, insist that the dress is fine, but he’s holding my hand and his arm is around my back and I don’t want to let go.

  “I’m dancing with you.” He says this like it’s no big deal, which to him, it’s probably not.

  I straighten my spine and fight to come to my senses. Think of something funny to say, Bailey. It’s up to you. “There’s no music, genius.”

  That was good.

  He lets go of my hand and wraps his arms around my waist. “No worries,” he says. “I got it.” He leans back a little, and our eyes lock. “Come on, slacker, arms up over my shoulders. This is a serious test.”

  I do what he says, clasping my hands behind his neck. Then he pulls me closer, and I feel his hands on my back, sinking low and settling.

  “That seems okay,” he says quietly. “Lean in, see if it’s comfortable.”

  This isn’t real. I’m dreaming, and I know I should wake up, but at this moment, I cannot think of one reason why I would want to do that. “Alex?”

  “No. It’s important,” he insists. “Pretend I’m Tex.”

  I say nothing, but I let my head rest in the space between his chin and shoulder. It fits there perfectly. He rests his cheek on the top of my head.

  “It’s the end of the world as we know it…” he sings. “It’s the end of the world as we know it…”

  I lift my head and seriously start to giggle. I’m losing it—can’t handle this. His mouth is near my ear, and each word he sings sends shivers through my body. He pulls me closer. Or is it me doing the pulling? I can’t tell.

  “It’s the end of the world as we know it…” His singing isn’t really singing now. More like a spoken whisper, just for me. “…and I…feel…fine.”

  He stops singing, but we stay together, bodies close. I feel his shoulders, tight beneath my arms. The heat coming off of him is like a bonfire on a cold winter night. I think it’s melted me to him, because I can’t seem to let go. This is a level of contact that I didn’t expect to ever have with Alex Koviak, and now I don’t want it to end. He doesn’t seem to want to move, either. Is he thinking the same thing?

  I imagine lifting my head off of his shoulder. Imagine my lips finding his. How would that end?

  It’s a dangerous, dangerous thought.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Alex

  It was the dumbest idea ever, but I hadn’t been able stop myself. I saw her in that dress, with her long dark wavy hair spilling over her shoulders and those icy gray eyes full of nervousness, and I wanted her in my arms. Needed her there.

  “Slow dance test” was all my idiot brain could come up with on the fly.

  Now I’m holding her. No, we’re holding each other. I think I sang in her ear, and it’s really obvious that the dress is working out fine, but I can’t let go.

  Tex is gonna drop dead when he sees her in this. He’ll be able to hold her and kiss her and all the other things that make me want to punch him, even though he hasn’t actually done any of them yet.

  There’s a buzzing noise behind the changing screen.

  “My phone.” She pulls slowly out of my arms. Her bright eyes are wide, wider than I’ve ever seen them. She’s not smiling. “Probably my mother.” She hurries off behind the screen, and I let out a breath from my toes and beyond.

  She pops her head out. “Missed her.” She’s smiling again, and like that, we’re back to being Alex and Bailey: Just Friends? Not that we ever weren’t, except in my demented brain. “Hey Mom,” she says into her phone. “No. Watching a movie. Yeah, I’ll be home soon.” She doesn’t mention the dress or me—but why would she?

  “You need any help with the zipper?” I ask when she hangs up. I admit, it’s a desperate attempt to be close to her again.

  “No, it’s fine, I got it.”

  And.

  Denied.

  I shove my hands in my pockets. “You definitely need to take that dress.”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I’m not trying to be a pain in the ass, but this dress is worth more than my car.” She laughs. “Actually, it’s probably worth more than everything I own. I don’t think I should wear it.”

  I knew she was going to fight this. “Whatever you want.” I’m not arguing with her. She’ll slay everyone who sees her in that at prom. It’s the right dress, but if she’s not going with me, do I even care? It might actually make me feel better about the whole situation if she’s wearing some thrift store dress with cooties.

  A few minutes later, she emerges, fully dressed, that confident smile back on display, the dress back on its hanger. She fluffs out her hair. “I’ll think about it. It’s a big deal, you know. If I spill something on that, I would definitely have to kill myself.”

  I lift a shoulder as she hangs the dress on a hook, then backs up to look at it again. She loves it; that’s easy to see.

  “Miriam always says there’s no stain that she can’t get out,” I say, “so it would be okay. But whatever. Do what you want to do.”

  She turns around once, taking in the room again. “This closet is amazing, you know. Your mom could sell these dresses and make a ton of money.”

  “Hmm. Maybe.” Of course, my mom doesn’t need a ton of money. She doe
sn’t need anything. Hell, she doesn’t even need me.

  The next day is Tuesday, three days to promposal. I didn’t see her in school today, which is probably good, because all I can think of is holding her in the blue room. That one dance has driven me to the edge of a giant cliff, and I need to come back. But when we’re scrimmaging during practice, I drive right over that edge, and it’s Tex who pays the price.

  I’m playing defense, and Tex is on the opposing team. He gets the ball and is about to make a play when I give him a good hard thwack on the leg. He crumples to the ground; Coach blows the whistle and waves me over. Coach doesn’t go for shit like that. Neither do I, to be honest, but I was having serious flashbacks to Bails in that dress. Bails in my arms.

  “Damn, Kov.” Tex rolls over onto his back, holding his leg, his eyes squeezed shut. “What was that?”

  Coach blows the whistle again, and I hear him bark my name. I whip off my helmet and hold out a hand to help Caleb up. “Sorry. It was an accident.” That’s bullshit, of course, but I’m usually an excellent liar. The way Tex side-eyes me, though, I know he knows I did it on purpose. He just doesn’t know why, and I can’t tell him because I don’t even understand myself.

  When I run to the sidelines, Coach tells me to go home. If I’m going to go after my teammates, he doesn’t need me on the field. “Coach,” I say. I can’t miss practice; the game this weekend is too important. “Look, I’m sorry.”

  “Good. Go home and think about it.”

  I go to the locker room and shower off, but I wait in my car until practice ends, spending the time convincing myself that I can’t have Bailey, that I need to help Bailey and let that be the end of it.

  I step out of the Jeep as Caleb walks by. “Hey, man. Can I talk to you?”

  I swear to God I’ve never seen him mad, but he is now.

  “What the fuck, Alex?”

  I’ve also never heard him swear. He’s a decent guy, almost too nice, good manners and all that. I guess that’s only until someone smacks the hell out of his shin.

  I throw up my hands. “Dude, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I was somewhere else.” That sentence is 100 percent true.

  “Yeah, you weren’t thinking.” He glares like he wants to deck me. “You could’ve injured me, asshole.”

  I stare at the pavement. I deserve this, all of it. When he’s done, I apologize again. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “Good.”

  I start to walk away, eyes still to the ground, when he slaps my shoulder. I look back, ready to dodge a punch, but he sticks out his hand for me to shake, which I do.

  “No hard feelings,” he declares, his eyebrows pulled together all serious.

  “Thanks, man,” I say. As I walk back to the Jeep, it’s all of a sudden crystal clear what a dick I really am and how Bailey deserves a guy like that, not like me.

  I like the ladies, have douchebag tendencies, and lots of issues. So many issues.

  She’s better off with him, for sure, although none of these truths make me want her less.

  When I get home, I step into the kitchen to hit the fridge and see a cookie bouquet on the counter. It’s a big bouquet with “Good Luck” and “We’re Proud of You” written on the cookies. I know what it is without even seeing the card. They will definitely not be home for Senior Night.

  “A guilt offering,” I say to no one, then grab a Gatorade and suck it down. This is a new low, even for my parents.

  There’s a note beside the cookies, from Miriam, in which she tells me that there’s a pot pie in the oven and that I should return my mother’s texts.

  “Pot pie? That’s almost worth them missing the game right there.” I’m talking to myself. They don’t call it going off the deep end for nothing.

  I stretch out on the sofa. I’m probably gonna play some Call of Duty and also definitely hit that pot pie, but right now, I can’t move. My parents have always sworn they’d be home for the important things, like Senior Night. I didn’t believe them for a second, and sure enough, I’d been right not to. When I was a kid, I used to travel with them during breaks and summer vacations. We went all over the world. I loved that, but then they got so busy, and so did I, and then all of a sudden it’s time for me to graduate and leave. It bothers me, mostly because it doesn’t seem to bother them at all.

  They just send cookies, in bouquet form.

  I wish Bailey was here. She’s the only person who could cheer me up right now. Last night was intense, yeah, but she was acting normal when she left. The vibe I felt last night in Grandma’s room when my arms were wrapped around her in a definitely non-friend way was probably all in my head.

  It doesn’t matter. What matters is that she’s asking Tex to the prom, then who knows what will happen. Probably love, awesome sex, a wedding, babies, an Oscar or two for Bails, and who knows what he wants. Whatever it is, he’ll probably get it.

  Good for them. Huzzah and all that shit.

  Bottom line is I want to see her. That’s what matters. Plus she needs the posters and props; they’re still here.

  Before I can think too much, I whip out my phone and send her a text. She’s at the grocery store, I think, and she’ll be closing, which means she won’t get here ’til closer to midnight. She might not want to come over. I need to prepare myself for that reality, but she can’t say no. Please, Bailey, don’t say no.

  Come over?

  That’s all I say, until I decide to sweeten the deal.

  Pot pie. Guilt cookies.

  There, that’ll get her. Unless she’s too tired.

  Please? I add.

  I stop there. I know I’m the most pathetic d-bag ever, and I don’t even care. We’re running out of time. I’m like a convicted criminal about to be sent to the chair. This is like my last meal, these are my last words, and this is my last request before life, as I know it, is over.

  I want another night with Bailey.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Bailey

  There’s a lull in the express lane when the text comes through. I don’t check it immediately because of my extreme work ethic. Whenever I start to think I’m overdoing it, I remember that drive and dedication is exactly what I need to win an Oscar by the time I’m thirty. I want to get it for Best Director, or Cinematographer, or even Best Original Screenplay, though Director would be a dream.

  No, not a dream. Dreams happen. You go to sleep and pow, there they are. This is a goal, and goals are achievable with hard work. So I wipe down the scanner and the conveyor belt and prepare the next round of plastic bags so I can fill them in express fashion. Only when all that is done do I allow myself to fish my phone out of my pocket and see what’s up.

  Alex wants me to come over tonight.

  Crap. I wipe my suddenly sweaty hands on the front of my bright green smock. I barely slept last night thinking of that “dance” in the closet. It was awful and amazing. It was excruciating. Not kissing him was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Now I’m so glad I resisted the urge.

  It would have been a disaster. He might have gone along with it, maybe things could have happened in that closet that would shock people—but then what? I know myself. I would have wanted more. Alex will never truly want more, even if he convinces himself he could. So we’d probably pretend that it was a one-time thing, then it would be awkward between us, and then I’d ask Caleb to the prom, and then it’s very likely that Alex and I would just…end.

  The thought makes my stomach churn.

  I quickly text Alex back.

  Can come for a bit. Get off at 11, see you.

  I look across the store and sigh. It’s not very busy this afternoon, which is good and bad. I’m thinking too much about things I shouldn’t. It takes more effort than I expect, but I’m finally able to turn my thoughts to my short film. It’s coming together really well. I caught wind of a promposal that was going to happen at school today and got it on camera. The guy, Sam, asked this girl, Lily, by spell
ing out the word “PROM?” in pizza boxes across the entire gym floor. There were like a hundred of them. Her friends blindfolded her and led her to the top of the bleachers. She started crying and nodding, and he ran up the steps in true romantic hero fashion, swept her up in a kiss that resulted in many people cheering and shouting, “Get a room!” Then everyone went nuts because there were actual pizzas in all those pizza boxes.

  On my break later, I interview Edna, who works the customer service desk. She’s old, in her seventies, and I thought it would be an interesting angle to hear about what things were like in her day. She went to the prom in 1963. She’s usually very cranky, so I’m a little wary going in. The interview goes something like this:

  Me: Do you know what a promposal is?

  Edna: (glaring at me over her reading glasses) “If that’s what I think it is, it’s just another thing you kids have ruined. Making a fuss over asking a girl to a dance? Like it’s an actual proposal?” She leans closer to me. “News flash, it’s only a dance.”

  I purposely don’t comment on what she says.

  “How were you asked to the prom?”

  I can see she’s fighting a smile that’s trying to turn up her wrinkly lips. “Eddie—that was my boyfriend at the time—he asked me after a movie. Just asked me, with words,” she snarls. “And I said yes.” There it is, a smile. I move the camera closer in to her face. Somewhere under there, for a brief moment, I swear I can see teenaged Edna. And then she’s frowning again. “That was it. No big deal.”

  I pan out again with the camera.

  “Do you remember what movie you saw?”

  One corner of her mouth quirks upward, and her eyes are literally sparkling. “As if we watched the movie.” A wink, and a few more grumbles about kids these days, and the interview (and my break) is over.

  That’s the magic of film right there. Making a cranky almost-eighty year old remember sexy times in the movie theater with her prom date, Eddie. That ought to pack a punch with the NYU admissions board. Now I need Caleb to say yes so I can bring the film full-circle.

  I’m trying not to think of the alternative. If that happens, if he says no, I’ll probably need to run away and live like a hermit in the woods. Except I’d take my cameras and a laptop to edit my films on.