Cackle(56)

“All that sounds great,” I say. But we’re too full after dinner for hot chocolate. Instead, we split another bottle of wine and Sophie puts on Jaws, which surprises me.

“I heard everyone talking about it when it first came out, so I had to watch. Have you ever seen it?”

“Yeah, a few times. It’s one of my dad’s favorite movies.”

“I quite enjoy it,” she says. “But of course, I always root for the shark.”

I think she’s kidding, but at the end of the movie, when Brody blows up the shark, she sighs, shaking her head like she hoped for a different outcome despite knowing there wouldn’t be one.

We walk upstairs arm in arm, and she kisses me good night. A quick kiss on each cheek. One of the few things I remember about my mother is that she used to kiss my cheeks like that. Kiss, kiss. Then she’d say, Good night, mini muffin. I don’t know why she called me that, but she always did.

“What is it?” Sophie asks. “Are you afraid?”

“No,” I say. “Just had a random memory come up.”

“Mm,” Sophie says. “A good one, I hope.”

She winks and heads toward her room.

“Good night,” she says.

“Night.”

In my room, there are two new lamps and a giant box of chocolates on the nightstand. The extra light contributes to increased coziness. The fear I previously experienced in this space is gone.

I change into the pink silk pajamas that Sophie laid out for me. I eat the chocolates in bed while reading a book of collected poems. When I fall asleep, it’s deep and dreamless.



* * *



—

The next morning, over pancakes at the diner, I decide to come clean with Sophie about my most recent stupid decision. My upcoming blind date.

I’ve been nervous about her response, but she doesn’t have much of a reaction.

“Any step away from the past is a step in the right direction,” she says.

“I guess,” I say. “I’m just worried it’s going to be a shitty experience, and then I’ll feel worse about everything.”

“Why? Are you not happy as you are? With how things are?”

“I mean, kind of. Not really.”

She sighs. “You don’t need a boyfriend, darling. You need perspective.”

“Probably.”

“Does the coffee taste funny to you today? It tastes funny to me.” And with that, the subject is changed.

I don’t think about the date again until the next day, when Jill comes prancing into my classroom wearing a bat costume. Apparently, the staff was meant to dress up for Halloween—information I might have learned if I cared enough to pay attention to memos, which I don’t.

“What are you?” she asks me.

“Forgetful.”

She laughs. “You’re so funny. I told Pascal how funny you are.”

“No pressure.”

“You want a Mounds?” She offers me a fun-sized candy bar. I take it. It’s very warm. Molten inside its wrapper. “I have good news. You have plans Friday.”

“Cool.”

“With me! And my husband, Dan. And who knows? Maybe your future husband. Pascal!”

“Again, no pressure.”

“Seven work for you? Have you been to Rhineland?”

“No.”

“You’re going to love it. They have this cheese dip appetizer that might be my favorite thing ever. So seven?”

“Yep. See you there,” I say, instead of what I want to say, which is Kill me now.

“Great!” She hands me another Mounds before flapping out of my classroom.

As soon as she leaves, Madison enters. She’s always early.

“No costume?” she asks. She’s wearing Ouija board knee socks and a blouse patterned with skulls.

“No,” I say. I toss her the Mounds.

“Here,” I say flatly. “Happy Halloween.”

The rest of the week I spend every spare minute brainstorming viable excuses I could use to get out of dinner. A variety of illnesses. A head cold. A chest cold. The flu. Allergies. Strep throat. A stomach virus. Food poisoning. Pink eye. Ringworm. Or maybe the death of a relative? I have a lot of dead relatives. It wouldn’t be a lie to say that my grandpa died. It was six years ago, but he did die.

I wasn’t raised religious, but a common warning from my grandmother (still alive) is that you get out what you put into the universe. The ole “What goes around comes around.” Karma.

Since things already aren’t going so hot for me, I can’t risk any cosmic consequences.

By Thursday afternoon, I’ve resigned myself to going.

When I get home, I open my closet, readying myself for a long, frustrating solo fashion show in which I get to confront how terrible I look in everything I own, but instead I find a new dress hanging front and center. It’s a deep yellowy gold. Crushed velvet. V-neck, A-line.

I try it on. It’s a perfect fit. There’s never been a more flattering dress.

There’s a note tucked into the sleeve.

To what’s ahead. Have fun on your date. XO, Sophie

I’m so moved by the gesture I could cry.

The dress reframes the way I look at the date. It could be fun. That’s a possibility. Pascal could be really hot. He could be nice and smart and charming. We could hit it off. He could want the same things that I want. Maybe we’ll get married at the courthouse and have an intimate brunch after. Maybe we’ll honeymoon in Barcelona, hold hands and kiss in the streets, have strangers come up to us to tell us how in love we look. Maybe we’ll buy an old house with character, with good bones, and we’ll fix it up ourselves, then post pictures so people can marvel at the before and after.