Leah on the Offbeat (Creekwood #2)(30)

Mom tilts her head to the side.

“Eh,” she says finally. “I don’t like it.”

I deflate. “Oh.”

“I think it overpowers you. It’s just kind of loud.”

“Wow. Okay. I actually liked this one.”

“Really?” Mom’s brow wrinkles. “I mean, it’s not bad, but I don’t think it’s the one, Lee.”

“Of course you don’t.” My chest feels squeezy-tight.

She looks stricken. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I full-force glare at her, trying not to cry. I don’t even have an answer for that. I don’t know what I mean. I just know I feel like shit, and I hate everyone in the entire world.

I shake my head. “I’m over this.”

“Leah, come on. Where’s this coming from?”

I laugh without smiling. I didn’t even know that was possible. “I’m just done. And this is stupid.” I push back into the dressing room, leaving Mom gaping outside the door.

She sighs loudly. “Seriously?”

I unzip the dress and step out of it, draping it over the hook on the wall. I swear to God, it’s staring at me. I tug my jeans up quickly.

Meanwhile, my mom’s still trying to talk to me. “Leah, if you love that one, let’s get it. I love it, too.”

I crack the door open and stare her down. “No you don’t.”

“Yes I do. It’s really pretty. And you know, I actually think it will look perfect once we style your hair. I’m serious.”

“It’s whatever.”

“Can I see it again?”

“I’m already dressed.”

“Okay. Then let’s just get it. I’ll pay for it right now.”

And as soon as she says that, I realize I have no idea how much the dress costs. I never thought to look—which really isn’t like me. I peek at the tag, heat rising in my cheeks. “It’s two hundred and fifty dollars.”

Mom pauses. “Don’t worry about it.”

“What?” I inhale sharply. “We can’t afford that.”

“It’s fine, sweetie. It’s not a problem.”

“What, are you going to rob a bank or something? Or are we using Wells’s money?” My stomach coils tightly at the thought.

“Leah, don’t you dare give me that look.”

“I’m just saying—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” she snaps. It seems to echo off the ceiling.

There’s this pit in my stomach. Neither of us speaks.

“You don’t even like the dress,” I say finally.

“Leah, I do like the dress.” She closes her eyes briefly. “And this is something I’d like to do for you. This doesn’t have to be complicated.”

“Are you serious?”

“You know, I’m curious, Leah. What was your plan for paying for a prom dress? Enlighten me.”

I don’t even know what to say. Obviously, I have no clue. I can’t afford a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar dress. I can’t afford a fifty-dollar dress. And maybe I could have found something secondhand, but those places never have bigger than size two. Which is just about big enough for one of my legs.

For one excruciating minute, no one speaks. Even Jenna and her friend next door have gone silent.

“I don’t care about the dress,” I say softly.

Mom rubs her forehead. “Leah.”

“I just want to go home.”

“Fine.”

All the way to the car, we’re silent, but my mind’s tumbling in every direction. This doesn’t have to be complicated. Right. Imagine if it weren’t. Imagine if I were Jenna—omg my arms look fat Jenna. Girls like Jenna step out of dressing rooms, and people gasp and applaud. I’m sure she carries her parents’ credit card—her parents, who are married and forty-five and not dating random dudes with plural names.

“Sweetie, I’m sorry.” Mom pulls into our driveway, setting the car in park. “I really like the dress. I had no idea you loved it so much.”

“I don’t.” It comes out shaky.

Mom pauses. “Okay.”

“I don’t even want to go to prom.”

“Leah.” Mom shakes her head. “You’ve got to stop doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Burning everything to the ground whenever something goes wrong.”

For a minute, it hangs there. I don’t know what to say. I don’t do that. I don’t think I do that.

“You know what I want for you?” Mom says finally. She smiles, almost wistfully. “I want you to let things be imperfect.”

“Okay.” I frown. “But I do.”

“No you don’t. You know? You have a sucky time dress shopping, and you’re ready to call off prom. You wouldn’t try out for the play because you’re not the best actress in the universe.”

“I’m the worst actress in the universe.”

Mom laughs. “But you’re not! Not at all. You just want to be the best. And you have to let that go. Embrace the suck. Let your guts hang out a little.”

Yeah, that’s a fucking joke. Let your guts hang out. I don’t even get that. Why would anyone want to live like that? Like it isn’t bad enough I’m always one breath away from falling apart. I’m supposed to fall apart under a spotlight?