The Mystery of Hollow Places(41)
“Right, yeah, I’ll definitely check with her. Thanks for your time.”
Chad nods his thanks, and we leave his porch as the door shuts tight, the bumblebee rattling in the window.
“So.” He blows into his cupped hands.
We stand on the front walk under a tent of thick gray clouds, without anywhere in particular to go. It’s not even eleven now. That’s a lot of time to be alone with Chad Price.
“I guess we could sit somewhere, get coffee or something?” I offer. There must be a coffee place or two in Fitchburg. A Starbucks at least. With my petty cash, I can even afford to put whipped cream in mine.
Chad taps a finger against his chin. “Or we could find you a prom dress.”
I stare at him.
“Isn’t that your alibi?”
“It wasn’t an alibi so much as a lie.”
“So what’ll you tell Lindy when you come home with no dress?”
“I’ll—”
“And what will you do when prom comes? Tell her you’re going, then run and hide in the attic?” He pokes my shoulder, though I can’t really feel it through the down in my coat. “You’ve lied yourself into a corner, Imogene, and that is the corner of the Sugarbrook gymnasium on prom night. What do you think the theme will be? Ours was ‘This Recession Has Really Killed Our Prom Budget.’”
I remember Chad’s prom night. I saw it happening from the window in my living room, having elbowed aside the old plaid drapes. My fingers were chalked orange from the supersize tub of Cheez Doodles wedged between newlyweds Dad and Lindy on the sofa. They were settling in to watch The Thin Man. It was Dad’s 111th viewing and Lindy’s first. As the opening credits ran, I spied on Chad and his date, Beth Holmes, posing for pictures in the Prices’ driveway. From a block away they were only specks, him black and white in his suit, her glittering in blue, a diamond that’d caught the sun. Beth was not only the girls’ tennis team captain, she was president of Key Club, the collection of mostly popular girls who rang bells for the Salvation Army around the holidays, organized G-rated car washes for the local animal shelters in the spring, stuff like that. Though I couldn’t see the details from that distance, I could imagine them. Her tennis arms, her petal-pink lipstick, her signature fruity perfume smell. And not cheap-fruity, like girls who bought spritzers in plastic spray bottles at Walmart. Expensive, designer-fruity. Pomegranate with hints of saffron and ancient redwood, or something.
I watched their shiny, shell-white limo glide by, knowing Jessa and Jeremy were in there too, behind the black windows. Jessa was the only sophomore at prom that year, and in her gold dress and with her flat-ironed red-gold hair, she looked like a living Oscar statuette. She looked fantastic in every picture I saw of her afterward, and I saw so many.
When May rolls around she’ll go with Jeremy again, I’m sure. I was planning on staying home and watching Ace in the Hole with Dad. Or maybe going for our traditional Spicy Italian on flatbread and Chicken and Bacon Ranch Melt in our booth by the door, for old time’s sake.
But Chad’s right. I have lied myself into a corner, unless the school gym burns down.
Could I burn the school gym down?
I could not.
I flail around for a reasonable excuse, landing on “If I spend all my cash on a prom dress, I won’t have any money for gas. I’ll be right back where I started.”
He taps his chin again as he thinks. “So, get a cheap dress.”
I give him the side-eye.
“Oh, come on. You could find something at Home Depot and it’d look better on you than all the girls who shopped on Newbury.”
“Untrue.” To hide my blush, I fiddle with the strap on my bag. “And I don’t think Home Depot sells prom dresses.”
“There’s a thrift store in town. Not thrift . . . consignment? We always stopped at the Olive Garden to eat after Fitchburg games, and there’s a place next to it. It has tons of girlie dresses in the window. Little Mermaid–style and everything. Jessa said they were ‘like, cute for secondhand.’”
“This doesn’t seem like a productive use of our time.” A Lindy-ism, if ever I’ve repeated one.
He shrugs. “It’s your choice. But you’re stuck, and you need to find something, unless you can weave a gown out of lies.”
I’m hoping we won’t find the store. Unfortunately, Chad has a fantastic memory. Once we backtrack to the Calvinistic Congregational parking lot and pick up my car, it doesn’t take him long to find the Olive Garden and the thrift store—sorry, consignment shop—next to it. The bells above the door jingle as we slip into Suzanne’s Dress for Less. A salesgirl waves at us and asks if we need any help, but I can’t stop staring at the height of her fancy heels, like bamboo stilts.
I wade cautiously toward the rack of dresses along the back wall, while Chad plunges in. He pulls one out and holds it up at arm’s length. It’s scaly and slightly iridescent, a kind of mystery fabric that flashes olive green and copper and gold at certain angles. “Reptilian,” he comments. “Very cool.”
I trail my fingertips across silk and sequins and a lot of Frankenstein-style polyester blends. There’s a knee-length pink thing that looks like an iced cupcake, and a long yellow gown shaped like a partially peeled banana. I find a shimmering silver dress and start to pick it up, but when I think of the one Jessa lent me, crumpled at the bottom of my hamper and smelling of rum and misery, I sour on the idea and shove it back.