The Pretty One(7)

“So tell him no.”

“It’s so awkward,” Lucy groans melodramatically. “And what do I say: No, I don’t have a date but I’m holding out, hoping someone better might ask?”

“Tell him it’s nothing personal but you only date directors.” I flop down on my bed, cross my arms across my chest, close my eyes, and brace myself for Lucy’s reaction.

But she doesn’t get mad. “What’s wrong?” she asks softly.

“I don’t understand what’s so awful.” I cover my face with my hands even though my eyes are still shut. “A really cute guy asked you to the dance and you don’t want to go with him because another really cute guy will ask you the minute he finds out you want to go with him.”


I can hear Lucy start typing her response. For some reason, I’m finding her seeming nonchalance about this whole thing extremely annoying. I open my eyes and swing my legs off the bed as I perch myself on the edge. “I hope you’re telling the poor guy no so he can ask someone else. Do you know how many girls out there would love to go with Andy? Who would kill just to have someone, anyone at all, ask them to the dance? Huh? Huh?”

Lucy spins around in her chair so she’s facing me. She gives me a gentle smile. “You know, you could go to a dance, too. You’ve just never wanted to.”

I roll my eyes in disagreement as I begin to nibble on my thumb cuticle, fighting back a tsunami-sized wave of self-pity.

“What about Simon?” Lucy asks.

“He doesn’t want to go. He hates these things.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know that it’s important to you.”

Be brave, I tell myself. “It’s not a big deal.”

“And so what if he doesn’t want to go? You’ll go with someone else.”

“Yeah, right,” I say sarcastically. Just to demonstrate that the conversation is truly over, I walk to the closet and open the door. But before I can pull out my pajamas, Lucy’s dollhouse falls out and lands on my foot.

The tears swell in my eyes and the tsunami hits the shore. “Ouch!”

“Are you all right?” Lucy asks, jumping up and rushing to my aid.

“You need to get rid of that!” I angrily kick the dollhouse. It lands in front of the full-length mirror on the inside of the closet door. “It’s not like you’re ever going to play with it again.”

“I’ll figure out a way to fit it in there so it doesn’t keep falling out,” Lucy says, as she hurries inside the closet and begins rearranging her shoe boxes.

My sister loves that silly old dollhouse. My grandfather made it for her, and since he died before I was born it is a one-of-a-kind original. Lucy was the first and long-awaited grandchild, so my grandfather went all out, sparing no expense. It has porcelain sinks, is wired for electricity, and has built-in tables, beds, and chairs. Unfortunately, we had kept it in the basement of our old house, and when the basement flooded, the dollhouse did, too.

Now it looked like it had been hit by a hurricane, complete with mildew stains, peeling paint, and warped floors. My parents wanted Lucy to get rid of it when we moved, but it was agreed that as long as we kept it in our closet and out of the way, she could keep it. Because there is no room whatsoever in the house and our closet is stuffed with Lucy’s clothes, every time we open the door we have to keep the house steady with one foot so it doesn’t fall out. For the past two years I have been a good sport about it, but my patience is wearing thin.

Lucy is inside the closet, shoving boxes around in a desperate effort to appease me. I glance at my reflection in the mirror on the inside of the closet door. I look from my bulbous nose down to the roll of fat peeking out under my gray hoodie and flopping lazily over the top of my brown cords that, until now, I actually thought looked okay on me. I step away from the mirror. It’s not the dollhouse or my foot that has upset me. Nor is it my sister. It’s my lousy life. “It’s okay,” I say. “Just stick it back in there. I should’ve remembered to put my foot up.”

Lucy smiles at me appreciatively. “You know what,” she says, stepping over the dollhouse and taking my hand. “I’m thinking this whole going to the dance with a guy thing is pretty stupid. Friends go with friends, right? Why not sisters? Let’s just you and me go together.”

Lucy and me? Of course!

I imagine myself entering the dance, basking in the warm and bright glow of my sister’s magnificent aura. And then I imagine my sister looking at me with the same tight, miserable smile she had when Mom made her take me to the eighteen-and-under club. And who can blame her? Friends only went with friends and big sisters only took their little sisters when their little sisters were too loser-ish to be asked by anyone else. And as tempted as I might be to drag my big sister down to my level, can I really do that to her?

Why yes! Yes, I can!

Lucy’s phone rings. She looks at the caller ID and mouths, “Tommy.”

Oh crap.

“Tell him yes,” I say, as gently as I can.

“You sure?” she asks, wrinkling her nose in a cute, little girl sort of way.

“I’m sure.” I wrap my beefy arms around her size-two body and give her a quick squeeze before she answers her phone. And then I sit on the bed and chew on my thumbnail as I listen to her accept Tommy’s invitation to the fall festival.