Afterparty(64)

I push out of the water and out of his half embrace, his other arm still around Siobhan. And I shout, “Stop! I have a boyfriend.”

Siobhan says, “Sure you do.”





CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE


MIDNIGHT.

I am on the floor of my closet, doing the arithmetic of poor choices. I’m in the negative numbers column, not even counting the things that I refuse to guilt myself about but maybe I should, starting with every second I’ve spent with Dylan. Not to mention every lie I’ve told to get every one of those seconds with him.

And then there’s every second I want to erase.

It isn’t that hard to differentiate.

Me: How could you blindside me like that?

Siobhan: Give it up. He tried, you left. Big f*cking deal.

Me: You might have warned me it was him.

Siobhan: Like u’d have come?

Me: That’s the point!!!!! Where did you dig him up?

Siobhan: Beach club. Thought we could get another taste.

Me: I didn’t want another taste.

Me: What am I supposed to say to Dylan? I so suck.

Siobhan: Check mark for killing labradoodle. Time to bail.

Me: I’m not bailing. I’m going to tell him. Obviously. I got in a Jacuzzi with your latest whatever and he tried to kiss me and I left. It’s not that big a deal.

Siobhan: Obviously.

Me: He’ll understand.

Siobhan: Sure he will. Are u and labradoodle coming to Sunset tomorrow with me or what?

Me: You’re delusional. You did that to mess with me. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?

Siobhan: Nobody f*cks with me grasshopper. Even u.





CHAPTER FORTY-SIX


THE GENERAL UN-FUNNESS OF NOT getting ready with a best friend is getting to me. Siobhan is as incommunicado as you can be when you’re in most of the same classes and capable of communicating volumes with a single scowl. Given that I want to punch her, this is not entirely a bad thing. Clearly, the combing of the hair and the shellacking of the nails, the admiration of each other’s exquisite taste in hot dresses, won’t be happening

I ask my dad if I can go down to Sunset Plaza to Blushington to get the infinitesimal, minute amount of makeup I plan to wear applied by a professional and get my hair blown out in Hollywood at Je Jeune. I’m not sure if it’s that he’s so in love with the idea of completely invisible makeup, or if he feels sorry for me, if it’s my motherless-girl-in-need-of-arcane-female-knowledge mojo, but he says yes in less than a second.

And even though, thanks to professional help, I finally achieve something as close to gorgeousness as I will ever hover—glossy hair, perfectly made-up eyes, the to-die-for vintage scarlet dress—I keep thinking about getting ready for parties with a mother, and whether she ever contemplated dyeing her eyelashes.

I am tangled up in small, intimate details I will never know.

Even the compass feels sorry for me. It goes, Buck up. For once, you’re in a dress that’s not obscene, and you’re so depressed, there’s a good chance that you’ll behave yourself out of sheer listlessness. Yay!

My dad says, “Just remember –”

“I’ll only get soft drinks directly from the bartender, and I won’t drink anything that’s left my hand, and I won’t let anyone who’s drunk anything but pop drive me, and if I see drugs or weapons or gang warfare, I’ll walk away. And there’s enough money in my handbag to fly back to Canada if California has an armed insurrection between now and two a.m.”

“This is serious, Ems.”

“Dad! I know that you’re concerned about me and I appreciate it so much and I’m so happy you’re letting me go and thank you. But seriously, I’m not going to get drunk or pregnant or kidnapped or shot. The guy’s parents are going to be there.”

My dad looks dubious. He says, “How did you get me to agree to this again?”

“Don’t I look nice and respectable? This dress comes from the nineteen-fifties.”

My dad says, “You look stunning. That’s what worries me.”

But he hugs me, and then he opens the front door, and I walk out in my extravagantly high-heeled red shoes as quickly as a person in such slender heels can walk, before he changes his mind.

I just want to get to Dylan’s, and for Dylan to look up and say something like “wow,” if not the actual word “wow.” Then I want to finally meet his parents, who can admire the vintage dress as well as marveling at Dylan’s good taste in girlfriends.

But apparently going to a party with Dylan’s parents doesn’t mean actually going to a party with Dylan’s parents. When I drive up to his house, they’ve already left for a different party they’re going to first. Dylan is sitting outside in the dark, lit by the dim porch light, slouched on a wooden lawn chair, bare feet in Lulu’s fur.

I say, “Did something happen?”

“My family happened. My fault, of course.” He shrugs. “Aiden stormed off for parts unknown, which is, again, my fault. No one is very happy with me.”

“We should go cheer you up with some partying immediately.”

Dylan looks at me in the red dress. He does not say “wow.” “Probably you’re overdressed for Mel’s Drive-In. Which was my plan B.”