If I'm Being Honest(27)

Paige pulls a newly reluctant Grant out of his chair. His eyes catch mine, and he blushes an unflattering pink. Paige steadies him with one hand and holds the lace up to the hip of his corset. I have no idea what’s going on.

But I find myself plugging in the sewing machine.

I watch Paige and her friends. Charlie and Abby have a comic book open between them, Charlie craning his neck to read while Abby thumbs the pages. Under Paige’s ministrations, Grant recovers a little of his confidence. “You guys,” he addresses Abby and Charlie, sashaying lightly as Paige pins the lace to the corset, “does this lace make my package look big?”

I look away, my discomfort increasing by the minute. The group laughs, and Paige pokes him in the hip with her pin. “Stop trying to get everyone to stare at your junk, Grant.”

“What’s one more wizard’s staff in a place like this?” Grant replies.

Paige and Charlie laugh. In the same moment, a girl walks out from the back. I recognize Hannah Warshaw, Grant’s ex. I understand Grant’s former infatuation with her. She’s pretty, if in an understated way, with round cheeks, straight dark hair, and a beauty mark under her eye.

Her eyes fall on Grant, and I watch her give his body a quick once-over. Her cheeks redden. Her voice, however, comes out cold. “You can’t wear that in here,” she calls to the group.

Grant pushes away Paige’s hands and steps closer to Hannah. “What do you think, though?” His expression becomes painfully eager. “I know I’m no Tim Curry, but the costume’s pretty good, right?”

“You need to change,” Hannah orders, unwavering. “Or Russell will kick you guys out. For good this time.” I’m guessing Russell is the owner of this place. Hannah retreats behind the register, where she starts sorting receipts, and while she doesn’t glance over at Grant again, I notice that the blush hasn’t fully faded from her neck.

Grant wilts. He grabs his sweatshirt and jeans and walks dejectedly toward the bathroom in the back.

Paige drops into the green armchair. “Thanks, Bright,” she says.

I nod, remaining undecided whether I’m going to follow my initial instinct to get out of here.

“In return for your labor,” Paige offers expansively, “I can pay you in”—she looks around and picks up some sort of trading card off the table—“this sexy alien card.”

I try not to look, but I catch a glimpse of tentacles and boobs. “I’m good,” I say.

“Good call.” Paige frowns, examining the card.

She punches the sewing machine’s on switch. Ignoring me, she slides fabric under the needle. I understand it’s probably my cue to leave, not unaware that Charlie and Abby are continuing to eye me disdainfully.

If I leave, I have to go home. I have to confront my mom—or confront the ugly, quiet non-confrontation that could occupy home for days.

“What, um . . .” I begin. “What’s going on here? Why’s Grant dressed in . . . whatever that is?”

Paige laughs—a genuine laugh, not the scornful sound I’ve come to expect. “Rocky Horror,” she says, like those two words clarify everything.

“Is that . . . the school musical this year?” I know Grant played trumpet in orchestra, but I don’t remember him doing musical theater. Besides, I thought I overheard Jason crowing the other day about playing Tony in West Side Story.

Hannah comes out from behind the register. She walks past Paige and picks up the three Dune books I placed on the floor. With an accusatory glance in my direction, she pointedly puts them on a shelf. Paige continues sewing, unperturbed. “No, just the movie.”

“You need a costume for a movie?”

Paige’s eyes flit up to mine. “Wait, have you never been to Rocky Horror in a theater?” She sounds scandalized, like I’m the one who was just strutting her stuff in a bookstore wearing only a corset and fishnets.

“In a theater? Isn’t the movie kind of old?” I shoot back. “And, like, bad?”

Paige’s gaze is withering. “It’s called camp. Even though the movie’s old, theaters and drive-ins and conventions and other places play it every weekend, and audiences dress up and participate and everything. It’s this whole thing. I can’t believe you’ve never done it.” She deftly snips a thread with a pair of bright pink scissors. “Hannah got us into it. We’re going to a screening for Halloween this year.”

Just like that, everything fits into place in my head. Grant’s costume, his eagerness toward Hannah, her blush, his disappointment when she distinctly didn’t care. “I know what’s happening here. Grant’s trying to win Hannah back by thoroughly embarrassing himself for a night while doing Hannah’s favorite thing.”

Paige falters in mid-stitch. She eyes me doubtfully. “What? No,” she scoffs. “Grant wouldn’t try to get back together with Hannah. Because of, you know, you.” I’m about to point out that when Grant and I were together, he was obviously still hung up on Hannah, when Paige continues. “Even if he did try, there’s no way Hannah would consider it. It took her forever just to let him hang out with us.”

I nod, unconvinced.

“What are you doing here?” Paige interrupts my train of thought.

“What?” I give her an incredulous glance. “You forced me in here, remember?”