Just Like the Movies (19 page)

“I can't believe I didn't find
anything
I liked on Saturday,” I complain, flipping through a magazine of prom dresses. “What did you say this store was called again?”

“CoCo's,” my mom says, turning right onto the highway. “Apparently it only buys one of every dress so that no girl will have the same thing on. Pretty cool, right?”

I nod, looking out the passenger-side window. It was nice that Mom let me play hooky this morning—it's not something she normally does, especially when the excuse is shopping.

“Why are you going in late to work again?” I ask her. She shrugs.

“You didn't find a dress this weekend and prom's coming up soon. I figured it would be nice for the two of us to do this.”

I watch her face as we pull into the parking lot of CoCo's Boutique. There's something wrong—I can just tell by her tone of voice and the little frown at the corner of her lips.

But it doesn't take long for me to forget about my mom's facial expressions in favor of the sequins and satin of the dresses inside CoCo's. A woman named Veronica helps me pull dress after dress from the racks, then follows me to the dressing room.

“Ooh, this champagne chiffon will look divine against your skin,” she drawled. I grin and turn to Mom for her opinion, but she's staring at the screen of her phone, shaking her head.

“Mom?” I ask hesitantly. She looks up quickly, then back at her phone again.

“Sorry, honey—I've got to take this call. Just let me know when you find something and we can buy it, okay?”

“Uh, okay . . .”

So much for a mother-daughter shopping trip.

I finally decide on a pale-blue dress—the fabric has a sort of shiny look, like glitter's been woven through it. It sweeps over one shoulder and molds to my body, then falls in a soft skirt to the floor. I feel like Cinderella—literally, the Disney version who has that blue gown that the birds and mice make for her. Or is it the one the fairy godmother makes appear with her magic wand? Either way, I love it.
From the window outside, Mom gives me a thumbs-up—I guess that means she likes it too.

When Mom drops me at school before lunch, she takes off her sunglasses and bites her lip.

“Are you coming straight home after school?” she asks me.

“I have practice again this week, remember? But I'll be home after practice.”

“Good.” She nods, then puts her sunglasses back on. “Call if you need a ride, okay?”

“Sure.” I grab my backpack. “Mom, is something wrong? You just seem . . . weird.”

She shakes her head, looking forward. “We'll talk when you get home.”

Great.
I can only imagine what that means. I'm sure it's got something to do with the college acceptance letters I've been dutifully ignoring for the last month and a half. I'll have to start preparing myself for the responsibility lecture again.

After school, I find Tommy sitting outside the cafeteria at a picnic table, guffawing at something Jimmy is saying.

“Right, man,” Tommy replies. “That's what you gotta do—leave them always wanting more.”

Jimmy is laughing too, but his face sobers a bit when he sees me standing there.

“Hey Marijke.”

I cock an eyebrow as Tommy turns around. When he sees that it's me, his face breaks into a huge grin.

“Hey baby! Long time, no see. Did you find a dress this morning?”

I cross my arms. “Maybe. Will I have a reason to wear it or will you just be leaving me wanting more?”

Tommy's smile downgrades a bit. “I wasn't talking about you and me. I was talking about Jimmy and the chick he met at Skinners last week.”

I glance over at Tommy's friend, who is turning a vibrant shade of tomato.

“You snag yourself a girlfriend, Jimmy?”

He grins, then shrugs. “Maybe. Hopefully she'll be there this weekend when we play again.”

“This weekend?” I turn to Tommy. “You're playing Skinners again this weekend?”

“Yeah—didn't I tell you that?”

“Uh, no . . .”

He shrugs. “It's not a big deal.”

“What day?”

“Saturday.”

I just stare at him for a second. “You do remember what Saturday is, right?”

Tommy runs a hand up my arm and back down. The goose bumps set up shop on my shoulder and travel all the way to my wrist.

“Of course I remember what Saturday is. This won't interfere at all with the state meet. We don't play until nine. States will be over long before that.”

I nod warily. “Okay. Just remember that Salverton is at least an hour away.”

Tommy waves a hand. “It's not a problem. Trust me.”

Trust.

I think I'm starting to hate that word.

Jimmie's is a roadside stand that's known for hot-dog-eating contests and the best chocolate shakes around. Joe didn't even have to ask what flavor I wanted when we got there—the chocolate malted is the only kind of milk shake Jimmie's makes. And yes, they're
that
good.

“To great ideas,” Joe says, bumping his Styrofoam cup against mine. I grin over at him as we pull out of the drive-through lane and back out onto the road.

“And to the prom,” I add. “Without it, there's no way you would have raised so much for Bikes for Tykes.”

“We—
we
raised so much money.”

“Okay,
we
,” I agree.

He nods and takes a long sip through his straw.

“They're just such a pain in the ass. God, I know how I felt about it—I couldn't
wait
until I got mine out of the way.”

“Your
what
out of the way?” I ask, confused.

“My prom proposal. I felt like a total douche the entire time. At least she said yes, or I'd be really up the creek.”

I open my mouth, then close it. The chill from the surface of my cup begins to transfer down my arm and I hold it hard enough that my fingers begin to dent the white foam.

Joe has a date for the prom.

Well, of course he does, moron. Prom's in two freaking weeks.

“I—uh—I didn't hear about that one,” I stutter, fiddling with my straw. “Who did you ask?”

Joe stretches a long arm over the bench seat and leans back a bit. The brim of his cap is shading his eyes, so I can't really see his expression.

“Barbara Marconi. My proposal was
totally
lame too. I did a scavenger hunt thing in the park—she had to follow hints I wrote in chalk on the paths. Then she found me at the end holding a sign.”

He shrugs.

“Not my most creative idea, but it worked out in the end.”

Blinking, I put the straw of my drink to my lips, but I don't take another sip. The milk shake that was once so delicious suddenly tastes just like liquid chalk.

“That sounds nice,” I say finally, because it
does
sound nice. To have Joe go out of his way to do anything like that for me sounds more than nice. It also sounds impossible.

“So, are you and Barbara dating?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

He cracks a grin. “Nah, I'm buddies with her brother, Matt. He told me she had a crush on me and she didn't have a date for prom. Their family just moved here last year and I know she doesn't know a lot of people. I felt like it was the right thing to do, you know?”

I consider my options. I could let this all go with a smile and not say anything. Or I could grow some balls and say how I feel. I try to consider my options.

What would Josie Geller do?

What would Olive Penderghast do?

What would sarcastic, witty, turned-over-a-new-leaf-and-wearing-skirts Lily Spencer do?

As Joe pulls into the school parking lot, I suck in a deep breath and then shift in my seat. Suddenly, it's like someone flips a switch in me. Or, more accurately, like someone presses play. I know I have to do this now, or I'll never do it at all. Especially now that I know that his prom date is just a favor to a friend.

“So, listen,” I begin, already talking way too fast, “I was wondering if you wanted to go out sometime.”

Joe glances over at me, eyebrows high on his forehead. “Out? You mean, like, on a date?”

I shrug, but I force myself to meet his gaze.

“Yeah. Like a date. Or something.”

“Wow, Lily,” he begins. “I—uh—I don't know what to say.”

He blinks a few times, then shakes his head. “You know you are totally great. I've had a blast hanging out with you over the last week. But—”

But.

But.

Who knew a word could actually cause physical pain? Out of self-preservation, I grab the handle and heave the heavy truck door open.

“Never mind. Just forget it,” I manage to mumble. I start to slide out when Joe grabs my arm gently.

“No, wait. Seriously, I think you are totally awesome and you've been such a great help and everything . . .”

He trails off and I feel an inexplicable shot of fury blaze through me. I don't know who I'm angry at. Probably myself.

Joe scrubs a hand over his face, the other hand still on my wrist. He pulls his hat off and his dark hair is a little matted. Still, I swear he could model razors or deodorant or something equally as masculine.

“I just feel like—I mean, there's so much going on right now,” Joe is saying, “what with Bikes for Tykes and prom and graduation . . .”

He trails off again, and I swallow hard.

“I'm just not looking to start anything serious,” he says,
his voice low. “You are an amazing girl and any guy would be lucky to be with you . . .”

And I hear it—right away, I hear it. It's a tone impossible to mistake for anything but what it is.

It's pity.

He feels sorry for me.

I don't say anything else. I don't look at him. Instead, I grab my bag from the floor of the cab and slide back to the door.

“Wait,” Joe says.

But I can't. I can't sit here and wait any longer.

“I gotta go,” I mutter as I push open the door, then slam it shut behind me. I glance back at him like a reflex, but I can't see him through the glass. All I can see is my reflection. Just me, standing alone.

Somehow, it seems totally appropriate.

As I pick up the broken pieces of my hand-built vase from the bottom of the kiln, I shoot Mr. Chastain, my art teacher, a guilty look. How is it that I'm always the one with projects that turn the kiln into a hazmat zone?

“I'm really sorry that this happened,” I say for the fifteenth time. Mr. Chastain shakes his head.

“It's all right, Marijke. Just remember—you gotta wedge the clay really well before you start rolling it out.”

I nod. I do know better, really. Rules of Clay 101 includes avoiding the air bubbles that can make your work blow up in the kiln. And since stuff only gets fired when the kiln is full, that means that my experiment in pyrotechnics ruined other people's hard work too. I wince at the shattered bowl Becca Prince made on the potter's wheel last week. It's bad enough when you screw up something of your own—but
when you ruin something that doesn't even belong to you? Well, then you feel like Jerk of the Year.

I've just finished sweeping out the last of my vase's shattered bits when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I glance at the clock on the wall. I really need to head down to the track. Two-a-days start tomorrow and they'll continue up until Friday—the day before states. Four long days of double practices and high-protein meals. It's days like this where the word “jock” hits a little too close to home, kicking me right in my self-conscious butt.

I don't even bother looking at the phone's screen when I answer the call.

“I know, I know, I'm on my way,” I say into the receiver.

“I never should have done this.”

I blink then pull the phone back to look at the caller ID.

“Lily?” I ask, pressing the phone back to my ear. She doesn't say anything. I listen closely, covering my other ear. Then I hear a sniffle.