A Dangerous Dress (36 page)

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“All those titles I gave you? Those are real jobs,” Josh said. “If you’re going to do this, you really have to do it. A lot of it has to be done in California.” He looked around. “Not here.”

That is when I remembered Uncle John. And how I promised. “I can’t,” I said.

“B
ecause of your uncle?” Josh asked.

“How did you know that?” I hadn’t said anything to Josh about Uncle John.

“I read your book, remember?”

Oh, yeah. I could see that this business of writing about myself and actually telling the truth might be complicated. “They’ll still do the show without me, right?”

“They’ll do it if I want them to,” Josh said.

“And you want to, even if I can’t, right?”

“I don’t know.”

We reached the stairs in front of my parents’ house. It was three o’clock. Josh and I had walked and talked for two hours. Okay, maybe I kissed him a few more times, too. Okay, a lot.

“You’ll get produced. A pilot and six episodes. So you have to do it,” I said.

“I don’t know.”

I stomped up the steps. At the top, I turned around and glared down at him. “No! You cannot make me responsible. Not after what happened with the movie. Not again.”

He ran up the steps. And this time, he kissed me. Let me remind you, Josh is a very nice kisser. Better than that. The best. Ever. While he was kissing me, I sort of—how shall I say this?—melted. So, when we stopped kissing, I said, “Okay.”

His face lit up. “You’ll do it?”

“I don’t know.”

“But—”

“Okay I’ll think about it,” I said. “I’m not saying no.”

“You’re not saying yes,” he said.

“But I’m not saying no.”

“Okay.” Then he got shy, the way some guys get when they are about to ask you out. Which was quite the opposite of Reed. Although not even the tiniest thought of Reed came anywhere near my head at that moment. “Would you have dinner with me?” Josh finally asked.

“Of course,” I said.

“Tonight?”

My heart fell. I know that is a cliché, but that’s what it felt like.
Plop.
“I can’t.”

He looked like somebody hit him. “You have a date,” he said.

“No,” I said. “Are you kidding? I have a prom.”

He looked at me like I was a little bit nuts, so I explained to him about the whole Helen Klosek and cousin Mary thing. When I finished, he said, “Oh.” Then he said, “Can I come too?”

“Why would anybody in their right mind want to do that?” Perhaps that was not the very smartest thing for me to say, but it was what popped into my head, and out of my mouth.

“Because you’ll be there,” he said.

“Oh.” That was
so
the right answer. “Yes. Absolutely.” I had no authority to say that, but if I had to pass up an actual date, and if Josh was actually willing to help me stand guard over a bunch of hyper-hormoned high school seniors, you’d better believe I was going to let him.

“I know you have a dress to wear,” he said.

I almost said “What dress?”—but then I knew exactly what dress. “You’re kidding.”

“It’s perfect. Besides, how many occasions will you ever have to wear that dress?”

He had me there. “Okay.”

“Wow,” he said.

Can you imagine that? Josh Thomas asked if he could help me chaperone the Kirland high school prom, and if I would wear my Grandma’s dress, I said yes, and he said “Wow” like I’d just agreed to marry him or something.

Not that I was thinking any such thing.

“Pick you up at seven?” he asked.

“Sure.” I guess I might have come up with something more meaningful to say, but I was feeling fairly stunned. So I just gave him another little kiss and waved good-bye.

“Oh,” Josh said, “I almost forgot.” He reached in his pocket and dug out a small package, wrapped in pink paper and tied with a bow. He handed it to me.

“What’s this?”

“I don’t know. Françoise gave it to me like that. She said it came with the dress.”

I tore the paper open. Fortunately, I saw what was inside before Josh did. I immediately stuffed the package into my pocket.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said. But it was not nothing. It was my little teeny thong, which was in my mom’s suitcase when they took it away. I didn’t pack it together with Grandma’s dress, so don’t ask me what somebody was thinking when they sold Françoise the dress and the thong together. All I can say is, if you know who that person is, tell them thank you.

“You’re not going to show me?” asked Josh.

I thought carefully before I answered him. “Not right now,” I finally said.

“Fine,” he said, and smiled. “Seven o’clock.” He ran to his rental car and drove away.

When he was out of sight, I went back into the house. Where I immediately panicked. Because I had only three and a half hours to get ready for the prom.

T
hat may have been the most confusing and confused three and a half hours of my life. Which, if you take into account all I have been through, is saying quite a lot. Everything was running around and around in my head.

I wanted to be with Josh. Desperately.

I wanted to do the TV show.

I really thought a reality show would be more fun than a dramedy.

I couldn’t do the TV show.

I promised Uncle John.

All of which may not sound enormously confused or confusing. But you try to figure those things out while you have only three and a half hours to get ready for the prom.

Of course, I wasn’t actually
going
to the prom. I was still just
chaperoning
the prom. Except now I would be chaperoning with Josh. And wearing my Grandma’s dress. Which as you know is the most amazing dress I have ever seen. Only now it was even more amazing, because it was the dress that Josh Thomas searched the entire city of Paris to find for me. Grandma had been right in the dream: The dress
had
taken care of itself. And everything really
was
coming together.

All of which made it feel strangely like it was my prom. Not the uninspiring prom I went to, either. The best-night-of-your-life prom that everybody always talks about. Which made it quite a big deal.

Here is the first thing I panicked about: Yes I had a dress. But I didn’t know if it fit. Because I had never actually tried it on.

As you know, I have always thought of Grandma’s dress as some kind of holy artifact. And also as an incredible source of power—grown-up, sexual,
dangerous
power. Over the years, I think I was afraid that if I actually dared to put it on, I might just melt, like the bad guys at the end of the first
Indiana Jones
movie. And I certainly never felt like I had
earned
the right to wear such a special dress.

Now I felt different, though. Not about the dress. If anything, it felt even holier and more powerful than ever, given the miraculous way it had come back to me. But for the first time, I felt like I had earned it. All on my own. I deserved to wear Grandma’s dress.
My
dress.

And so what if a prom—and not even my own prom at that—was arguably a pretty frivolous occasion for wearing such a holy, powerful dress. The more I thought about it, the more it felt to me like the stars and the moon and the planets had all aligned perfectly, all for me, and it was as if they were spelling out a message for me in the sky, and it said WEAR THE DRESS.

So I showered, shaved all the relevant places, put on antiperspirant, plucked a couple of eyebrow hairs I didn’t like the look of, fixed my hair, fixed it again, spent too much time picking makeup, spent even more time picking shoes, brushed my teeth, flossed, mouthwashed, went to the bathroom about six times because I needed to be as skinny as possible, did thirty ab crunches okay twenty, and tried to do ten push-ups to give my arms and shoulders some definition but I’m sorry, push-ups are made for boys not girls. Then I went to the bathroom again, and put on perfume. Then I thought for two or three seconds about putting on panty hose, but no way. First, it was too hot and humid. Second, bare legs would be much more
dangerous,
especially under that skirt which you may remember is extremely sheer. Third and most important, I absolutely positively had to wear my thong, the one that fate had sent back with the dress.

Finally I couldn’t think of anything else to do. Nothing else to avoid the moment of truth, when either the dress would fit or it wouldn’t fit. I put it on.

It fit. Like it had been made for me. Perfectly.
Thank you Jesus.

Which was perhaps a little hypocritical of me, because I am not the most devout religious person, notwithstanding all the hard work by my grade school nuns. But thank you anyway.

I walked down the stairs to the living room. When I came into sight, my mom and dad gasped. So I kind of figured I was doing something right.

Just then there was a knock at the door. “Go back upstairs,” said my mom.

“Why?”

“Because you’re supposed to keep boys waiting,” she said. “Especially for a prom. It’s traditional.” She was quite right. It is traditional. You may even remember, when I had dinner with Reed at the Tribeca Grand, I kept him waiting.
Always keep men waiting,
I said.

“No,” I said. I guess
always
actually means
except when it feels right not to.
I walked to the door and opened it.

Josh gasped. So I definitely figured I was doing something right.

I did not gasp. But almost. He was gorgeous. I mean handsome, sophisticated, sexy. He was wearing the most perfect tuxedo you have ever seen. Black of course. Notch lapels. Three-button jacket. White shirt. Black bow tie—hand-tied, I might add—perfect and classic, and much better in my opinion than one of those trendy straight ties. He looked amazing. I don’t know if there is anything more perfect-looking than a man in a tuxedo. Okay Jude Law in a tuxedo. Maybe Josh Thomas was no Jude Law, but right now he was awfully close, let me tell you.

“You look . . . perfect,” he said. Which by the way is absolutely the right thing for a man to say to a woman under these circumstances. Or frankly under any circumstances.

“You’re wearing Armani,” I said. Which was not as good as what he said. But I knew precisely what clothes he was wearing. A month ago I was selling those exact same clothes.

“That’s right.”

“Why did you have your tuxedo with you?”

“I didn’t. I just bought it. In Chicago.”

“It fits perfectly,” I said. Which it did. Which made no sense. Because a tuxedo off the rack never fits perfectly. Not even an Armani tuxedo. It has to be altered.

“I had it altered,” he said.

“That’s impossible,” I said. Remember, I know how long it takes to do alterations.

“You got a passport in three hours,” he said.

“Less.”

“Exactly.” Then he shrugged. “Okay, I paid extra.” I bet he did.

Josh took something out from behind his back. It was a corsage. The wrist kind.

“You’re kidding,” I said.

“You can’t go to the prom without a corsage,” he said.

“It’s not my prom.” Maybe those were the words that came out of my mouth. But that was not how I felt. I felt like this was the most special, most important night of my life.

I almost started to cry. But I willed myself not to. I was not about to ruin my makeup.

He held out his arm. I slipped my hand under his elbow. We walked down the stairs and to the curb. Where he had a stretch waiting. Not a stretch limousine. Not exactly, anyway.

It was a white stretch Hummer.

“I
t’s a Hummer,” I said.

“All the regular limos are booked up. On account of this being prom season.”

“It’s a Hummer,” I said.

“It was the best I could do on short notice.”

The driver unfolded a chrome stepladder. Josh helped me step up into the long back seat. Then he climbed in after me. The driver folded the stepladder and closed the door.

“Besides,” Josh said, “they’re made in Indiana.”

That is when I kissed him. To hell with my makeup.

It is a very short drive from my parents’ house to Reinhardt’s restaurant. But for the entire length of the drive, we did not talk about Hummers. Or anything else, for that matter.

When we got to Reinhardt’s I did my best to fix my makeup. There was a mirror in the back seat. I don’t know if all stretch limos have a mirror, but the stretch Hummer did.

We climbed down the stepladder. The parking lot was full. There were a bunch of rented limousines, mostly black, several white, and one that was a hideous shade of pink. Then there were the usual Indiana high school cars, sagging old beater Trans Ams and Mustangs that senior boys had tried and failed to polish into presentable. But at least they had tried.

Josh offered me his arm again. “Shall we?”

“Wait,” I said. I had an idea. “Do TV shows have UPMs?” UPM is a unit production manager. You remember that.

“Sure,” he said. “I think so.”

“Do executive producers get to hire UPMs?”

“I guess,” he said. “Why?”

“Because,” I said. “We can hire Marty the UPM. He wants to be reborn as a Hoosier. He can move to Kirland. He can work half time on our TV show, and half time for Uncle John. That way I can do the show.”

Josh frowned. “It’s a crazy idea. I read your book, remember? You said Marty would be reborn as a Hoosier the day Nick Timko came home to Kirland. Meaning never.”

“It’s the only idea I’ve got.” I tried to smile. “It
might
work.”

“What about your uncle?”

“My uncle
might
like Marty.”