Where We Belong (27 page)

After much analyzing, vetoing, encouraging, and admiring, we each come down to our top choice, and stand before my mom and Shelly in the huge, three-way mirror for a final decision.

“Oh, girls! You look gorgeous! I could
cry,
” my mother says.

“You
are
crying,” I say.

“Mom!” Charlotte says with uncharacteristic scorn. She casts her eyes around the store, then whispers, “Stop that. It’s so embarrassing! I mean,
really,
it’s not our wedding gowns!”

Then Charlotte turns to me, her posture perfect, and adds under her breath, “Although I’m
so
going to marry Noah one day.”

“I can’t help it. My little girls are all grown-up. I remember when the three of you were in diapers, running around at the pool with your little orange water wings. And now look at you,” my mom says, so nostalgic that she seems to forget all her gripes with Belinda. And me for that matter.

“Okay, let’s start with Lottie,” Belinda says, examining my sister in her long chiffon gown.

“Turn around,” I say.

She spins as Belinda and I murmur our approval. Unlike Belinda and me, Charlotte has looked good in just about everything, but this one is the clear winner, from the salmon color that complements her hair and tanned skin to the strapless style that showcases her cut swimmer’s arms, shoulders, and back. The dress looks trendy, but still fairy-tale sweet, pleasing both generations in the room, and Belinda and I tell her that she is done, this is the
one,
there is no need to try on anything else. It is clear that Charlotte agrees because she sashays around the dressing area on tiptoes, admiring herself from every angle, even making sultry, come-hither stares into the mirror that my mom should find more disconcerting than the color black.

“How much is it?” my mom whispers to Shelly, although she knows we can all hear. She looks worried even after Shelly chirps that it’s very reasonable.

“How reasonable?” my mom asks.

“It’s three hundred—”

My mother gasps until Shelly finishes her sentence: “—but you’re in luck, it’s fifty percent off!” She leans over her large solar calculator, punching the numbers as Charlotte and I exchange an amused glance; even
I
can do that math in my head.

“One hundred fifty plus tax,” Shelly says.

“Perfect,” my mom says as we shift our attention to Belinda’s top choice—a long turquoise gown made of raw silk with one shoulder and a fishtail, rhinestone-encrusted train that makes her look like a sexy mermaid. Belinda calls it a miracle gown because it hides her hips and belly while flattering her perfect, round butt (which she proudly calls her “ghetto booty”) and big boobs.

“I love it,” I say.

“Me, too,” Charlotte says.

“Is it too racy?” my mom says.

“No, Mom,” I say, as Charlotte points out that it doesn’t even show much cleavage. Of course Belinda takes this as a cue to hoist up her “girls,” as she calls them, but my mother doesn’t say another word, probably figuring that Belinda’s a lost cause.

“Now, I must tell you, my dear,” Shelly says after a bit more raving, “this is one of our most expensive dresses.”

“I know,” Belinda says. “I saw the price tag.”

“How much?” I ask.

“It’s four hundred,” Shelly says with a grimace.

“Is it on sale?” Belinda asks.

“I’m afraid not,” Shelly says. “But you get what you pay for. That train is exquisite.”

“Call your mom. Or your dad,” I say. “Maybe they’ll each pay half and let you splurge.”

“Not a chance,” Belinda says, but still steps inside her dressing room to make the call and begin the negotiating. I can hear her ask her mom if her dad has sent them any checks lately, and I can tell by Belinda’s reply that the answer is no, as usual.

She emerges seconds later, changed back into her faded red polo and tight khaki skirt, looking gloomy. “Your turn, Kirb,” she says.

Feeling sorry for her, I nod and gaze down at my black flapper dress, deciding that I definitely love it. It is flattering
enough,
sophisticated not just for the color, but the overall style, with extra points for originality. Nobody will have a dress like this one. And it shimmies when I walk in the most satisfying way; I can’t even imagine how cool it would look if I were dancing.

“It’s so
you,
” Belinda says, sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Very cool.”

My mom and Charlotte agree that it looks great on me, and I ask my sister to take a photo with her phone. I strike a pose with my hand on my hip, one leg forward, the way celebrities stand in magazines. I must be doing something wrong because I feel awkward—and look totally stupid in the picture. So I ask Charlotte to retake it, standing normally the second time.

“Are you sending Marian the photo?” my mom guesses. She tries to sound casual, but I can tell the idea makes her sad—which makes me feel simultaneously sorry for her and annoyed with her.

“No. Mom,” I say. Although maybe, deep down somewhere, it had crossed my mind to show Marian my prom dress. Sort of as my way of telling her, once again, that there are no hard feelings about the clothes I sent back. And also because I just
know
she’d like it.

“Yeah! You totally should!” Charlotte says. “You can get her advice on shoes and bags and jewelry.”

“Who-ah! Shoes and bags and jewelry?” my mother says. “I’m not so sure that’s in the budget. You can borrow something of mine.”

“Or better yet,” Charlotte says, “maybe Marian will let you borrow some of her stuff! I bet she has some
sick
jewelry and shoes … What size does she wear?”

“My size,” I say. “Seven.”

My mother, who wears a nine, purses her lips, then says, “Well, I’m sure Marian will love your dress. And she’ll probably approve of black, too.”

I nod, positive that she will like it, and hoping that Philip will, too.

We determine the cost, just slightly more than Charlotte’s but also on sale, and I look to my mother who nods her permission.

“I’ll take it,” I tell Shelly as I undo the side zipper, step out of the dress, and give my mother a grateful smile. “Thank you,” I mouth, handing it to her.

“You’re welcome,” she whispers back, then takes both dresses to the front of the store to pay.

As I change back into my uniform, Belinda follows me into my dressing room, looking dejected.

I give her a sympathetic look and say, “Was there
nothing
else you liked?”

“Not compared to that one,” she says.

“Okay. Well. How much do you have saved?” I ask, knowing the answer before she holds up her hand in a big goose egg.

“Well. I’d loan you some,” I say. “But I spent it all going to New York. And besides—
four hundred
dollars! Belinda, that’s just stupid money for a dress you’ll wear once.”

“Unless you’re Marian,” she says. “I bet it’s chump change for her. You’re so lucky to have a rich relative.”

It is the first time anyone has referred to Marian as a “relative,” rich or otherwise, and although I like the way it sounds, I think of the clothes I sent back and remind Belinda that it’s not my money.

Belinda sighs, then heads to her dressing room to retrieve her big, fake Gucci tote.

Moments later, we are back in my mother’s car, Charlotte in the front seat, Belinda and I in the back. I check my phone and see a new text from Philip, my third thrilling one of the day:
Any luck?

He is referring to my dress, of course, so I type back:
Yep. Found a good one
.

He replies almost instantaneously:
Your dress or your date? LOL.

Both,
I write, feeling so flirty and bold that I then type a semicolon and a closed parenthesis, forming my first
ever
winking emoticon, something I always vowed never to do.

“Are you talkin’ to Philip?” Belinda asks.

I smile and nod. “Have you heard from Jake today?” I ask.

“Lemme check,” she says, reaching down into her tote to retrieve her iPhone, along with a pack of cinnamon Dentyne gum. She takes a piece for herself, then offers me one. I take the pack, punch out two red squares, then lean down to toss it back in her bag.

And that’s when something catches my eye: a swatch of unmistakably bright turquoise silk buried deep in the bottom of her bag. I glance at Belinda, my eyebrows raised, as she looks up from her phone with an expression of guilt and embarrassment and defiance, a combination I haven’t seen on her face since the fourth grade when I caught her in a lie about a sleepover with Amy Bunce. The two had invited me, then at the last second uninvited me with some story about Amy’s mother having a migraine. I never confronted her about it, even to this day, but it hurt my feelings for ages, and I still don’t understand how she could do that to me.

I have the same feeling of betrayal and confusion now, although I’m not sure why. Belinda has stolen things, right in front of me, like a pack of cigarettes or cheap costume jewelry. Once she even lifted a pair of leggings that she put on under her jeans. And although I never came right out and condoned it, and often mentioned that the goods weren’t worth the risk of getting caught, I always sort of laughed it off. But this time feels different. For one, she didn’t tell me what she was doing. For another, the dress is four hundred dollars. Shit—it could be a felony for all we know. I try to make eye contact with her, but she refuses to look back at me, and instead buries herself in her phone, texting like crazy. I think of what my parents would do if they knew—I’d
never
be allowed to spend time with her again. But for some reason, I find myself thinking of Marian, too. What her reaction would be. What she would think of Belinda. And what she would think of me for looking out the window and pretending there isn’t a four-hundred-dollar stolen prom gown at my feet.

20

marian

A
few
nights after my mom returns to Chicago, I’m watching
Mad Men
and wondering how much the execs at my network would screw up that show if they could, when the phone rings. I glance down at it, my heart speeding up when I see Kirby’s name.

“Hey!” I say, answering quickly.

“Hi. Did I interrupt anything?” she says, sounding sad. I wonder if she’s still upset about the clothing—or if her voice just has this innate quality—the way some girls always sound bubbly and others perpetually sarcastic.

“No. I was just watching television … What’s up?” I ask, hoping that everything is all right in her world, and suddenly craving a conversation with her. About
anything.
Even Conrad.

“Well … I’m going to prom.” She delivers the news shyly but proudly, as if this is something of a coup for her.

“That’s great. Very exciting!” I say. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

“His name’s Philip Chang,” she says. “He goes to another school but my friend Belinda introduced us. She’s going with his best friend. The four of us.”

“Do you like him?” I say. “Or are you going just as friends?”

She hesitates and then says, “I don’t know. He’s nice and really smart. And we have a lot in common. He’s just … different than the boys at my school. So yeah—I guess I kinda like him.”

There is an excited, eager lilt in her voice that makes my heart ache with nostalgia and memories of Conrad, how connected I felt to him during our brief relationship, how much I loved that he wasn’t like anyone else I knew. I wonder if he still has this quality or if the years have changed him into something more ordinary; somehow, I just can’t picture him as a suburban dad with a couple of kids, a minivan, and an office job he hates. I push him out of my mind and tell Kirby I’m happy for her.

“Yeah. Thanks. It’s no big deal, really … But I did find a dress,” she says.

I ask her to describe it, and she says it is black in a flapper style. “I’ll send you a picture,” she says.

“Yeah, I want to see it … I want to see
all
your prom pictures. Take lots.”

“For sure,” she says, and then asks whether I went to my prom.

I tell her I missed it my junior year due to a raging case of mono, but went my senior year.

“With Conrad?” she asks.

“No,” I say, tensing. “I went with my boyfriend at the time. Todd Peterson.”

“Was it fun?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say halfheartedly, then laugh. “Well, no, not really, actually. We spent most of the night in a fight.”

“About what?”

I tuck my phone between my ear and shoulder and tighten the tie of my terry-cloth robe. “He was very immature. And his friends were worse—just awful. I couldn’t stand most of them and resented how they turned the whole night into a booze fest.”

“And you wanted a little … romance?” Kirby asks.

“I wanted to at least
dance.
Heck, I would have settled for some face time
at
the actual dance. Instead I spent the whole night watching him booze it up in a dark, smoke-filled room at the DoubleTree. It was depressing.”

“That sucks,” she says.

“I’m not saying prom has to be the most important night of your life. But try to make it a
little
special, you know? At least try to stay sober enough so that you can
remember
it. Instead of passing out before nine o’clock.”

“Is that why you broke up with him?” she asks, as I find myself wondering what would have happened if Todd
hadn’t
been so immature. What if we had continued to date that summer? Would I have eventually had sex with him? What if he had gotten me pregnant? Would I have told him? Would I have kept the baby?

“Yeah. Pretty much, I guess. Although I don’t think I ever really liked him very much. In any event, we broke up the next day at Great America in line to ride the Iron Wolf. He was showing off, bragging about how hungover he was—as if that is some kind of badge of honor. I just couldn’t stand him another
second
 … so I got out of line and went to get cotton candy alone.” I laugh and say, “He ended up puking on some kid on the second loop, so it was a good decision.”