Undecided(25)

“Too prim,” Nate says when I hold up a retro blue dress with a Peter Pan collar. “It’s a date with Kellan McVey, not an Amish man.”

“Hold onto that one, though,” Marcela adds, “in case you do get a date with an Amish man.”

I put it on a hanger and return it to the closet. “Here’s hoping.”

My next option is a strapless white dress with black leather straps crisscrossing the waist and black trim at the hem, which stops a good six inches above my knees.

“No,” we all say at the same time. Is it sexy as hell? Yes. Is it appropriate? Absolutely not. Am I a little bit mortified that I once—maybe seven times—wore it out in public? Er, yeah.

They quickly veto my four remaining dresses, calling them dowdy, boring, scandalous and offensive, respectively. My all or nothing problem summed up in one piddly wardrobe.

“So I’ve got heels and nothing else.” I slump on the bed beside them.

“On the bright side,” Marcela says, “that might be all you need.”

“Get him to buy you dinner first,” Nate interjects. “At least pretend to play hard to get by putting on clothes.”

I laugh. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Okay, fine,” Marcela says. “I thought it might come to this, so I brought something for you.”

She had her backpack with her when she came, but I assumed it was full of books. Now, however, she digs around until she comes out with a little black dress with tasteful lace cutouts. I know from last year’s clothing swaps that we’re the same size, so at her urging I take the dress into the bathroom, try it on, and return for their perusal.

“Yes,” Marcela announces.

“Try it with the red shoes,” Nate urges.

I do, pirouetting in front of them so quickly I have to grab the wall before I fall down.

“Gorgeous,” they say. “Perfect.”

And, looking in the full-length mirror—propped against the desk, since I can’t be bothered to hang it—I have to agree. The dress is sleeveless and stops just above my knees, so it shows plenty of skin but not so much as to be inappropriate for an upscale French restaurant. The red heels make it youthful, and when Marcela comes up and twists my hair into a loose bun, it looks pretty and romantic.

“I love it,” I say.

Nate glances at his watch, then rises. “Text us and tell us how it goes. We have to get out of here.”

“Spoilsport.” Marcela tucks another piece of hair behind my ear and nods, satisfied. “Do everything I would do,” she orders.

I grin. “Promise.”

No panties, she mouths as Nate drags her out of the room.

“Oh my God,” Nate groans. “Wear panties, Nora.”

I laugh and wave goodbye, then study my reflection some more once they’re gone. Kellan has class until seven, leaving me with a few hours to kill before our eight o’clock reservation. The dress doesn’t have a zipper so it has to come up over my head, and since I don’t want to ruin my hair, I decide to leave the dress on while I wait. I kick off the heels and grab my anthropology textbook to get in some reading.

I doze off a bit when anthropology is no more exciting than I thought it would be, and wake up slouched on the couch. I check the time: ten after seven. Kellan’s class will be wrapping up, then he’ll walk home, which takes about twenty minutes. I hurry to the bathroom to wipe up my smudged mascara, then add another coat. A swipe of red lipstick and I’m doing my best approximation of effortlessly glamorous.

I consider pouring myself a glass of wine while we wait, thinking I’ll look sexy and sophisticated if I’m sitting at the breakfast bar in my dress and heels, but we don’t have any wine and it’s hard to boost myself onto the stool in this dress.

My hesitation from yesterday is nowhere to be found. All I needed was a little time to let the whole “Kellan McVey just asked me out!” news to sink in, and now that it has, I’m excited. Tiny butterflies flit about my stomach, and I pace around the living room, trying to calm myself.

I didn’t exactly go on a lot of dates last year. I went out a lot, but always with Marcela. Parties, bars, raves—I never said no. And in my effort to make up for my lonely high school years, I said yes to a lot of things I shouldn’t have. Maybe that’s why tonight feels special—I’ve said no so long, saying yes actually means something.

Saying yes to Kellan McVey—technically not my first time, but the first time he’ll remember—means something.

I check the time. Ten to eight. He should be here any minute. I drop back onto the couch and switch on the TV, watching a bit of the news. We don’t see each other a lot at home so I’m really not sure what we’ll talk about. Maybe an update on current events is in order.

When the news wraps up at the top of the hour, Kellan still isn’t home.

No big deal. He has a car and it’s a ten-minute trip to the restaurant—who cares if we’re a few minutes late?

Fifteen minutes later, I’m definitely starting to care. And I’m really hungry. My stomach is growling its displeasure, and finally I give in and eat a cracker. I don’t want to spoil my appetite.

By 8:40 p.m. it’s dread and disappointment that have my stomach twisting, not hunger. He wouldn’t stand me up, would he? I mean, I could text him, but what’s the point? If he was held up somewhere—or remembered at all—he would have texted me. Or called. Or made some effort to tell me I hadn’t been forgotten. Again.