The Hundred Lies of Lizzie Lovett(61)

“He’s taking the bus here. Then I’ll drive us to the dance.”

“Chivalrous,” Rush said. He said it dryly, obviously as an insult. But I actually thought it was kind of a nice gesture. Usually, I picked Enzo up. He couldn’t drive me to the dance, but he was meeting me at my house. He was doing his best.

“Be nice to your sister,” my dad said, but he frowned a little, and I knew he was secretly on Rush’s side.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” I said. “This isn’t a date. We’re just going to the dance.”

No one believed me though, and I sort of didn’t mind.

“Can you guys, like, give me some space? I swear I’ll let you know when Enzo’s here.”

I made my way over to the porch swing to wait for Enzo. My mom wanted to sit with me, but my dad dragged her inside, which I appreciated. Having my family around while I was getting ready was one thing, but when Enzo arrived, I wanted the moment all to myself.

? ? ?

I waited a long time. Then I waited some more.

I tried to look straight ahead or down at my feet or anywhere that could distract me. The goal was not to look down the street in the direction of the closest bus stop, the direction that Enzo would be coming from. I didn’t want him to find me like that, hunched over on the front porch, eagerly waiting for his slouchy, shuffling arrival at my house.

So instead, I attempted to focus on other things, because it wasn’t so much like I was waiting for him that way. I was just looking at where the porch railing was scratched or how the poppies in the flowerbed were starting to die or the way our mailbox tilted very slightly to the left. I told myself to concentrate on those details, and eventually, I would glance casually up the street only to find Enzo, standing on the edge of the lawn, a sheepish look on his face and some story about how the bus had broken down or the homeless man who always rides in the back row pulled out a machete and held everyone hostage or something. Anything.

But every time I glanced up, I was still alone, and eventually, I stopped pretending and just watched the road. What did it matter if Enzo saw me sitting patiently, desperately waiting for him to arrive?

More time passed, and I became positive that looking for Enzo really didn’t matter. I could watch the road or run out into the middle of it if I wanted. I could kneel down on the front lawn and scream at the sky. I could cry and rage and do whatever I wanted without worrying about Enzo finding me that way, because Enzo was not going to show up.

It was getting dark when my mom opened the door and poked her head out.

“Everything OK?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you should give him a call?”

“Maybe later.”

“All right,” my mom said, though I knew she was hesitant to leave me sitting by myself without first bestowing hippie wisdom about how we all need space to uncover our true emotions or something. “Just let me know if you need anything, OK?”

What I needed was someone to shake me and tell me I should have expected this. Enzo was unreliable. Enzo didn’t care about a high school dance. Enzo didn’t really care about me, not the way he cared about Lizzie. What did I think was going to happen? He was going to wander off the bus, still smelling like diesel fumes, and whisk me away to a magical homecoming event? Enzo, with his cigarettes and messy hair and ratty sweaters, was going to suddenly turn into some 1950s superjock stereotype, and I would be pretty in pink, and we’d go to the dance, and all the other kids there would somehow forget that they’d spent the last four years hating me? More likely, I would have ended up covered in pig’s blood.

I watched the neighborhood get dark. Crickets chirped. Lightning bugs came out. A few miles away, there was a dance just getting into full swing. It would be just like the movies, with kids laughing and dancing and judging what other kids were wearing and who they’d shown up with. Chaperones would pretend not to see alcohol being passed around. There would be talk about who was having the best after-party and who would be getting laid that night and, of course, who the homecoming queen and king would be. No one would notice that I wasn’t there.

The next time the front door opened, it was Rush. He ventured out and sat next to me on the swing.

“Did Mom tell you to check on me?”

“No. I just thought you could use some company while you waited.”

“I’m not waiting,” I said.

“What are you doing then?”

“Nothing. Just sitting. He’s not going to show.” I tried to play it off like it didn’t matter, like I hadn’t spent half the day preparing for the dance.

“Maybe he’s just running really late. He could have fallen asleep or something. You should call,” Rush said.

“I appreciate the optimism, but he’s not coming.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

It would have been easier if he mocked me or said, “I told you so.” Rush’s concern made me feel like crying, which would be especially unfortunate, considering the mascara I’d put on.

“Just give me some space?” I asked. “And let Mom know I’m OK so she stops peeking out the window every two minutes?”

“Sure thing.” Rush squeezed my shoulder as he stood up, just a simple gesture to let me know he loved me, and my eyes stung, and my lips trembled. I took a deep breath. I was not going to cry.