Impossibility of Tomorrow (26 page)

The three of them drift away to another display, and I trail behind, lost in thought.

“How about this one for you, Maddy?” Rebecca holds up a short, silver tunic with a high neck and bell sleeves.

Madison shrugs her shoulders. “Sure, if you say so. I don’t know what looks good on me.”

“I
am
your date, after all,” Rebecca smiles. “You should trust me.”

Echo raises her eyebrows. “You guys are going together? That’s cool, I didn’t realize . . .”

Madison throws her head back and laughs. “We’re not
dating
,” she explains. “We’re just going together since we’re both date
less
. We’re basically going to be working the entire night.”

Rebecca blushes and looks down at the floor. I wonder if there’s more to this exchange—if Rebecca really does want to date Madison. She’s certainly got a gigantic girl-crush on her. But Madison likes guys—that much was clear from the way she flirted with Noah.

“What about you, Rebecca?” asks Echo. “We need to
find you a dress, and you’ve been so busy helping the rest of us.”

“Oh, I have one already,” Rebecca says. “It’s vintage Dior.” Of course it is. “Silver satin.” She throws an arm around Madison’s shoulder. “I’ll match with Maddy. We’ll look great in pictures, especially with Echo’s mural as the backdrop.”

“Mmm-hmm” is Madison’s reply. She sounds bored.

“I guess that just leaves me,” I say with a sigh, approaching the racks of dresses.

“Commence Operation Find Kailey a Dress,” Echo declares. She and Rebecca begin to dig through the racks while Madison and I follow.

Echo holds up a turquoise-blue shift. “How about this?”

I nod, taking it from her. “I’ll try it.”

“Or this?” she says, handing me a lacy black strapless dress. “I bet black looks good with your blond hair. Plus, you’re a goddess of war
and
an international woman of mystery.”

“I am neither international nor mysterious,” I lie, arching my eyebrow.

“Put those down,” Rebecca pronounces somberly. “This is the one.” I smile—I can tell she’s enjoying this. At least she’s using her powers of fashion for good.

I catch my breath when I see the dress she’s holding. It’s
a deep, emerald green, with pin-tucked cap sleeves and a low, square neckline. Gathered panels of raw silk fall from the high waist. It’s beautiful, but that’s not why I gasp. Everything about it reminds me of Charlotte. It’s exactly the color she would pick—she loved to wear green, the dramatic contrast it made against her fiery red hair, her milky skin. This dress is short, but if it were floor-length, I’d swear it was a replica of a gown I’ve seen Charlotte wearing before. I can picture it sweeping the cobblestones in 1880s Manhattan as we hurried through the streets together, Charlotte always turning back to make sure I was following.

I miss her. I miss her so much.

“You’re right,” says Echo, watching me. “Look at Kailey’s face. She loves it.”

“I do,” I admit, reaching out to touch the dress. It’s just as soft as I knew it would be.

“You should try it on,” Echo says gently, putting her hand on my arm.

I nod and follow her to the dressing room, blinking back tears. Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with memories of Charlotte: the two of us eating ice cream on San Francisco rooftops, scouring the flea markets in Paris, running through the streets of Morocco.

I slide the dress over my head, the silk cool against my skin. It feels light as air. And suddenly, I do too. There’s
no reason for me to be sad—nothing is keeping me from Charlotte anymore. Worrying about Cyrus has become so ingrained in me, I need to learn how to stop.

When I get home, I hang the green dress in my armoire, sit at the desk, and flip open the laptop. Then I do what I haven’t dared since I became Kailey Morgan: I log on to Gmail with my own e-mail address. The inbox is full to bursting, message after message from Cyrus, concerned and angry and threatening. I’ll delete them later. But for now I just click the
COMPOSE
button and enter Charlotte’s address in the
TO
field. I hold my hands over the keys, take a deep breath, and type.

THIRTY-EIGHT

“Eureka!” Echo emerges from my armoire, where’s she’s been digging around for the perfect pair of shoes to match my dress.

Leyla nods, satisfied with the sparkly burgundy platform pumps Echo’s selected. “Perfect. Red shoes, green dress, like a Christmas tree. Put ’em on, Cinderella.”

I laugh, sitting on the bed to unzip the boots I was wearing earlier, more out of habit than anything else. “More like Dorothy Gale than Cinderella, no? They’re ruby, not glass.” Luna tries to climb into my lap as soon as I sit.

“There’s no place like home,” Echo agrees. “Just don’t
click them together three times and disappear.”

“But this
is
my home,” I protest. “I wouldn’t go anywhere.”

“You never know,” says Leyla. “You might end up in Oz. Don’t risk it.”

“Noted,” I say, slipping the ruby pumps on my feet and standing up, ignoring Luna’s meows of protest at the loss of a warm lap. I approach the mirror again and smile—Echo did my hair, fluttering around me like an ethereal fairy godmother, and I love the result.

My hair is gathered at the crown of my head, secured with a generous handful of light gold bobby pins that Echo expertly tucked away, leaving just a few tendrils to fall around my face. She added a few tiny braids at each of my temples that are swept up with the rest of my hair. The only jewelry I’m wearing is the birdcage necklace that Noah gave me.

“Thank you both, so much,” I say softly, feeling suddenly wistful and overwhelmed at how lucky I am to have such good friends. But it’s bittersweet, because getting ready for the dance with them makes me think of Charlotte. She hasn’t responded to my e-mail yet, and I’m starting to worry. Then again, she was never one for checking her e-mail very often. I tell myself she just hasn’t gotten around to reading it yet.

There’s a soft knock at the door. “Come in,” I call, and Mrs. Morgan’s face appears.

“You girls look beautiful,” she says. “Although in Leyla’s case, perhaps I should say you look beautifully carnivorous.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Morgan,” says Leyla, smiling radiantly. “That’s what I was going for.” She’s wearing red fishnet stockings underneath her bacon dress, and dangly earrings in the shape of T-bone steaks. When I told her how impressed I was that she found the meat earrings between our shopping trip and tonight, she scoffed. “These aren’t
new
, Kailey. I’ve had them for a while—I just never had anything to wear them with.”

She never fails to crack me up.

“And Echo, you are quite the moon goddess,” Mrs. Morgan tells her.

“Thank you,” Echo replies. “I take goddess references very seriously.” We all laugh, and I have to admire Mrs. Morgan’s choice of words. Echo’s hair is woven with silver ribbon and pulled up in twin high buns. A silver rose is pinned at each temple, giving her glittery, space-age outfit an art nouveau flavor. Opal earrings drip from her ears (“Reed’s birthstone,” she informed me), and she’s wearing a necklace that she made herself: a cross-section of a large blue geode, strung on a midnight-blue ribbon that matches her sparkly sapphire dress. Its hem floats several inches
above her knees, revealing, as Rebecca promised, her mile-long legs.

“Anyway, I thought you girls should know that Reed and Noah are here. They’re in the living room being cross-examined by my dear husband. So you might want to come out and rescue them.” Mrs. Morgan delivers this news with a wink.

Bryan appears behind Mrs. Morgan. “I don’t mean to crash this girl-power party,” he says, “but, Ley? I think I need help with this tie.” He holds out the aforementioned tie, a gift from Leyla. Of course its design is a single wide strip of bacon.

“There’s my hunk of beef,” she says fondly. “Come here, I’ll do it.”

“My little filet mignon,” he replies, plopping heavily down on the bed as she approaches. Luna leaps up and scampers through the open door, apparently offended by Bryan’s invasion of her space. “Did you know ‘mignon’ means cute? In French? I googled it.” He smiles proudly.

“Truly, your research capabilities are stunning,” Leyla replies, making short work of the tie. “There,” she says. “Are we ready?”

In the living room, Reed and Noah are seated on the sofa, Mr. Morgan looming over them. “I’m only going to ask this once. There aren’t any plans for after-parties in hotel rooms, right? No staying out all night?”

I clear my throat. “Dad, no. I’ll be sleeping in my own bed, safe and sound.”

He whirls around, catches his breath. “Kailey, you look beautiful. So much like your mother when she was in college.”

Noah rises. “I’ll second that,” he says. “I mean—not the part about Mrs. Morgan. I wasn’t born yet. But you look gorgeous, Kailey.” He grins.

Mr. Morgan grabs the camera that’s resting on the coffee table. “Photos! Gather around the fireplace.”

He starts snapping away, Mrs. Morgan standing behind him with a wide smile on her face. He takes picture after picture: group shots, couple shots, individual portraits. He only pauses once, briefly, when Noah suggests a different setting for the camera’s flash.

“Just one more,” Mr. Morgan says.

Bryan adjusts his meat tie. “Dad? We’re not getting married. I think you’ve got enough.”

“Seconded,” I add. “We should be going.”

Noah leans over me, whispers in my ear. “Let him have his fun. You’re lucky that your dad cares.”

“Or, keep taking photos if you want,” I tell Mr. Morgan, but he shakes his head.

“I’m good. You kids have fun tonight.” He sets the camera on the table.

Mrs. Morgan hugs me tightly. “I’m so glad you decided to go,” she whispers. “Have the best time ever.”

“I will,” I promise.

Luna darts out from behind the couch and plants herself in front of the front door, holding her ground even as our large, noisy group approaches. I kneel in front of her. She meows, plaintively, like she doesn’t want me to leave.

“I’ll be home before you know it, little kitty,” I say, stroking her fur and noting happily how much she’s filled out in the last few days. I couldn’t save Kailey, and I couldn’t save Taryn. But at least I saved Luna.

THIRTY-NINE

Noah’s hand closes tightly around mine as we approach the entrance to the Claremont hotel. “Madison’s really outdone herself,” he observes.

“She’ll go down in winter dance committee history, which I guess was the point,” I agree, taking in the spectacle that lies before us.

Bryan and Leyla’s grilled-cheese truck is parked on the circular drive, a long line of formally dressed Berkeley High students extending from its service window, all in search of melted cheesy fare. Fire breathers roam the area, and
a troupe of acrobats wearing crowns of holly handspring around the lawn.

Noah places his hand on my lower back to guide me forward into the ballroom. I can’t believe that only last weekend that we were both here setting up the decorations, so far apart from each other, on opposite sides of the vast gulf that Cyrus created.

The ballroom has been utterly transformed. I had a part in it, but I’m still impressed at how everything came together. The ceiling drips with thousands of tiny white lights among the glittering snowflakes. In the center of the room is a spinning globe in place of a disco ball, casting a soft, feathery glow on the dancing couples below. Flanking the dance floor are buffet tables laden with tiered trays of cupcakes and tacos, punctuated by blue bowls of punch.

A hand falls on my shoulder, and I whirl around to see Madison and Rebecca, each wearing a silver dress. Rebecca’s is more muted compared to Madison’s highly reflective material, making them look like a lopsided star system.

“Well, don’t you two make a lovely couple,” says Madison, her tone sounding just the smallest bit insincere.

“Any loveliness is because of Kailey,” Noah grins. “I take no responsibility.”

“I agree,” says Madison with a wink. “Kailey, you
are
beautiful tonight. That dress is perfect for you.”

“Actually, I bought it because it reminds me of an old friend. She has a dress just like this.”

“Who?” asks Madison. “Anyone I know?”

I shake my head. “She doesn’t live here. Her name’s Char—” I pause. “Charlene.” I clap my mouth shut, momentarily horrified that I almost just blurted out Charlotte’s name.

It doesn’t matter anymore. When will you stop acting like prey? When are you going to get used to Cyrus being gone?

“I can’t imagine anyone else wearing that dress as well.” She smiles. “You’re very lucky,” she adds, turning to Noah.

“Thanks?” I say, not quite sure if I should take her at face value. The way she interacts with Noah feels fake, an act she’s putting on for my benefit to show she’s not attracted to him anymore. And if she ever did like him, the way he looks tonight would make her weak in the knees.

He’s wearing a dark suit with no tie and a charcoal dress shirt that clings to his chest. His hair, as usual, is haphazardly parted in the middle and hanging to his chin in tangled black waves. I love the combination of his messy hair falling around his crisp collar, tousled above his immaculate suit.

None of us speaks, and the moment stretches out, edging into awkward silence. I wish Leyla were here. She’d have some witty quip to make us laugh. But no—I crane my neck
and see that she and Bryan are already on the dance floor. And I’d have to be color-blind to miss Nicole shimmying through the crowd, dressed to kill in a skin-tight cherry-red sheath dress that earns her appreciative glances from more than a few male students.

Madison follows my gaze. “Well,” she says haltingly, “don’t let me stop you two from dancing. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? You don’t want to lose your chance.”

I frown at her strange phrasing, glancing at her face. Her mascara is smudged, and even in the dim light I can see her eyes are red.
She’s probably exhausted,
I think.
Planning this party has taken a lot out of her.