All Adults Here(90)
“This could be your job,” Cecelia said to August. “Making things.”
August rolled his eyes. “That sounds lucrative. But thank you.”
Ms. Skolnick shooed them all together. Megan and James, so moved by their work, had their tongues halfway down each other’s throats, and their hands shoved into each other’s back pockets, cupping and squeezing to their heart’s content. “Please, guys,” Ms. Skolnick said, lowering her camera. “This is PG.” They all smiled and squished together. For the first time, Cecelia could see Clapham—big Clapham—in her future. She and August going to the prom together in complementary gowns, Porter’s baby learning how to walk toward Cecelia’s encouraging hands. It wouldn’t be so bad. It could even be nice. It was like the Thanksgiving balloons, only smaller. The high school had a float, and so did the fire department, and the Elks Lodge, whatever that was. They were all lined up in a row, a tiny armada. Ms. Skolnick handed out branches—real branches with large, watercolored leaves—for the crew members to wave along the route, which sounded both like wholesome fun and complete and total humiliation, depending on your perspective.
“Reporting for duty,” someone said, and Cecelia spun around to look.
Sidney stood with her arms crossed, a small beige Band-Aid stretched across the bridge of her nose. Cecelia didn’t think that there was an accompanying bruise, but even if there had been, Sidney was wearing enough makeup to cover it and then some: Her eyelids sparkled gold, her lips were magenta, and the rest of her skin had been shellacked into a solid peach mask. No matter that it was high fall, and everyone in front of Spiro’s was wearing a fleece zip-up—Sidney was wearing a strapless party dress that flared out at her knees. Her bare arms and legs were already pimpled with goose bumps.
“Oh, great,” Ms. Skolnick said. “Right this way, all aboard.” She kicked a small stepladder over to the side of the float and held up her arm for balance. Sidney teetered up, her ankles wobbling in heels. When she got to the platform, she lightly rested a finger on the top of the gazebo, which came up to her waist. “Cute.” She made a face that neither confirmed nor denied that she was speaking earnestly. Sidney rubbed her arms and bounced on her toes. “Everyone else should be here soon.”
She meant the rest of the Clapham Junior High Harvest Festival Court, of which she was the queen. There had been no surprises in the listing of the names: Sidney, Liesel, Bailey. No one had any imagination. But that wasn’t what Cecelia was thinking about. She and August walked around to the opposite side of the float and stood behind the model of Shear Beauty. Cecelia peered inside, as if expecting to find tiny models of Birdie and her gammy.
“Hey!” Cecelia said. “Are you sure about this?”
August held up a tote bag. “As ready as I’m going to be. Come back and change with me?”
Cecelia nodded. “Hey, Ms. Skolnick, we’ll be right back, okay? We’re just running to the bathroom.”
Ms. Skolnick looked at her phone. “We’ve got ten minutes. Go fast, okay?”
Cecelia and August hurried down the block and into the municipal hall, which had the nicest public bathrooms. They went into the single stall together.
“I’m really nervous,” Cecelia said. “Not for me, but for you. Are you sure you want to do this? I know I already asked you that, but I just don’t want anyone to be mean to you. Are you doing this because I hit Sidney?”
August set a tote bag down on a chair and pulled a long dress out of it. Cecelia recognized the dress from Secondhand News—it had been on a mannequin in the window. It was pale yellow, from the 1970s, made of polyester, with floaty sleeves, a dress made for dancing. “Cecelia,” she said. “This isn’t about you.”
“I know,” Cecelia said. “I know it’s not. I just don’t want to be responsible for pushing you to do this before you’re ready.”
August smoothed out the dress and held it against her body. “I promise,” she said. “I wouldn’t do this if I wasn’t ready.” Then she pulled her T-shirt over her head. She was wearing a padded bra—Cecelia had the same one, and her heart fluttered a little bit, realizing how much more she and August had in common than she thought, how many things there would be for them to talk about, always. She took the dress out of August’s hands and unzipped it, holding out the wide opening for her friend. August rested one hand lightly on Cecelia’s shoulder and stepped into the dress before sliding her jeans off her hips. Cecelia tied the string around her neck and then, together, they looked in the mirror. And then there she was. She’d taken her costume off.
“Okay, Robin,” Cecelia said.
Robin looked at her in the mirror. They were two girls standing side by side. Robin pulled her hair out of its bun, and it tumbled down past her shoulders. Cecelia could see it all: Robin as an adult being so proud of everything she’d done, of herself, and wishing that she had taken more than one minute to do her hair. Cecelia could see further too: some future Clapham High School reunion, the first one that Cecelia could convince Robin to come to—Cecelia could see Sidney Fogelman sheepishly approach her at the punch bowl, and Robin be as gracious as possible, while patiently waiting to talk to someone she had actually liked in school. She would apologize, Sidney, and that would make the conversation tolerable, until she’d awkwardly try to follow Robin into the bathroom to keep catching up.