The Trouble With Quarterbacks(17)

“Okay, tell me again what this dress costs,” I insist.

“$2,200.”

“Right. But converted to British pounds, it’s less, right?”

Kat looks like she’s about to cry. “What does that matter?”

“I’m trying to find some silver lining! Now, Kat, you try the zipper again.”

“I can’t! My fingers have got blisters from the last time I tried!”

“Yasmine?”

She’s the calmest out of all of us, sitting down on the bench and scrolling through her mobile now. “That zipper isn’t budging. I’ve tried for ages already. Just tell the lady and see what she suggests we do. Surely, this sort of thing happens all the time.”

“Oh, I’m afraid that’s going to be a real issue. This never happens.” is what the sales associate tells me when I cave and finally bring her in on my crisis.

Somehow, I find that very hard to believe. I’m the first person in the history of fashion to try on a dress and get stuck inside of it?

“On the plus side, it looks absolutely stunning on you. Red is definitely your color.”

“That’s what I told her!” Yasmine agrees.

My anger grows horns. “Right, of course. I am very glad it looks so amazing. The thing is, I’ve got about three pennies and some lint in my purse right now, so I won’t be buying this dress. Please get it off me.”

She does a good bit of trying with the zipper too, using all her tricks of the trade. The dress stays on, and the color drains from my face.

“I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a pickle.” She laughs.

I do not laugh.

“What are my options then?”

“Well…if you walk out of the store wearing the dress, I’ll have to consider it shoplifting.”

A horrid mugshot of me comes to mind—all bug-eyed and slack-jawed—and I shiver at the thought. I will not go to prison over this!

“And if we cut it off you,” she continues, “you’ll still have to purchase it. You’re familiar with the ‘You break it, you buy it’ policy, I’m sure.”

Which leaves the third option.

Fifteen minutes later, I slide my credit card across the counter toward her, trying not to cry.

“I’m so happy you decided to purchase the dress. It really does look lovely on you.”

This is all my fault. This is what I get for not becoming some high-powered attorney or sugar baby or something. What about those girls whose sole job is to be “it”—y’know, just a girl who’s always in fashion, or in the know, or in the cool spots around town. She gets paid just to live. I really should have applied to that job after school.

Once we cross the threshold of the store, I forbid either of my mates from discussing the dress any further. We’re already late returning to our flat so we can get ready for the party. Normally, we’d walk, but I insist we spring for a cab instead since I can’t exactly shower when I get home. They agree without much convincing; I think they’re nervous I’m a hair’s breadth away from a real breakdown.

In the cab on the way home, I calculate all the overtime hours I’ll have to do at District to cover the cost of this dress. It makes me so queasy, I have to roll the window down and stick my head out. That really irks the driver. He’s worried I’m going to get decapitated by an oncoming car, so I groan and bring my head back in. Probably for the best. Don’t want to tempt the birds again.

I’m prepared to let my bad mood ruin the entire night when I feel my mobile vibrate on my lap.

I glance down to read the text, and my stomach flips upside down.

LOGAN: Hey C. What kind of chips do you like? I’m buying snacks for the party.





It’s a silly question, and I wonder—or hope, rather—if he’s only asking because he wants to ensure I’ll actually be there. He texted yesterday with the address and time, but it looked so generic, like maybe he sent the same text to all his mates, so I only sent back a thumbs-up emoji in reply.

But this text is personal, and it makes me smile. He’s called me C like we’re old pals! I take my lower lip between my teeth and text him back right away.

CANDACE: Salt and vinegar, please! And they’re called crisps, by the way. ;) Chips are what you get with a burger at a restaurant.





LOGAN: Seriously? Could you be more un-American?





CANDACE: Should I just don an American flag cape for the party? Maybe walk in with a twelve-pack of Bud Light on one shoulder and a bald eagle perched on the other?





LOGAN: Give me a second to regroup. That’s quite the image…





CANDACE: Ha ha. Too bad! Don’t go fantasizing. I’ve already got my dress on and it doesn’t have blue and white stripes. It’s red.





LOGAN: Red, huh?





CANDACE: I can practically see you salivating. You’ve got a bit of drool on your chin, I bet.





LOGAN: Can’t help it…red’s my favorite color.





The cab pulls up to our building then and we hustle up the flight of stairs to our flat. I don’t get the chance to text Logan back because I’m too busy morphing into the version of myself who belongs in this fancy red dress. Yasmine goes wild with my hair, curling it and teasing it and then combing through it so it’s this mass of blonde waves when all’s said and done. I take so long applying my makeup that they start shouting for me to hurry up.