“What’s wrong?” Sam asks, handing the computer back to me, finished entering all his data.
“What?” I say. “Nothing.”
“You’re frowning,” Sam says.
“Am I?”
At just that moment, Hannah steps out of the bathroom in a short green-silk slip dress. I remember Izzy wearing it once—to what dance, I can’t remember now, but she’d gotten her photo taken with John there. He’d worn a matching green tie, and in the picture, Izzy clings to him, both of them smiling too wide, which I thought made them look a little like puppets. But Izzy loves that photo. She has it encapsulated inside a tiny square piece of plastic, a souvenir key chain from whatever dance they went to, and she’d hung her car keys on it all senior year.
Hannah looks totally different in this dress than Izzy had. For one thing, she’s a little shorter than Izzy, so the dress hits right below her knees, not above. And for another, her hair is so red that it magnifies the green in a totally different way. She’s put her hair back in a band, and now I can see that the dress is the same exact sea-glass color as her eyes. “Perfect,” I say. “That dress is perfect for you.”
“You think?” She spins around, glancing in the mirror, a little unsure.
I nod. I’m usually terrible at judging this kind of thing, but the way the color matches her eyes almost exactly makes it so obvious she’s chosen the right dress, even to me.
“Hey, what about me, Emma?” Sam elbows me and grins. “Will you help me find something to wear?”
“My dad has a closet full of suits across the hall. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you borrowed one.” I say it completely straight-faced, though obviously I’m kidding. Sam is only an inch or so taller than my five-five, and Dad is six-two.
“I don’t think they’re my size.” He laughs, like he didn’t expect me to joke around with him, but he’s happy that I did. I like the way his surprised laughter sounds a little different than his regular laughter, the way it bubbles up from his throat, clear and pure and almost musical.
“Fair point,” I say, grinning. “And anyway, how about we match you to a date first? Then we’ll worry about what you’re wearing.”
“Okay,” he says. “Do it.”
I hesitate for a second. “Actually, it’s going to take a little while for the database to update.” I hear the words come out of my mouth, a blatant lie, and I feel my face turning hot, wondering if he can see right through me or if he knows enough to call me on it. I shut the lid to my laptop. “I’ll do it later and text you the results.” The truth is, I don’t want him looking over my shoulder when I run his match. Really, it’ll only take a few minutes. But I already feel this weird disappointment settling in my chest, and I’m worrying I’m not going to like whomever he matches with. I want to be alone to process the results.
Sam doesn’t question me, or seem to have any idea I’m not being truthful. He simply nods and says, “Okay, cool.”
Hannah walks out of the bathroom again, holding on to Izzy’s green dress on a hanger, and the three of us stare at each other for a minute, not saying anything. They both did what they came for, so... I can’t think of another reason for them to stay. Though I wouldn’t mind if they did. But maybe they’re ready to leave? “Do you want me to drive you guys home?” I finally ask.
“Actually, could you drop me off at the mall instead? I need shoes,” Hannah says. “Your sister’s are all size eights and I wear a seven.”
“I could go to the mall, too,” Sam says. “I really will need something to wear.” He turns to look at me. “Why don’t you come with us?”
“Oh, no, I can’t,” I say quickly.
“Yeah, come,” Hannah says. “You can help me pick out shoes. It’ll be fun.”
The mall is one of my least favorite places. There’s not much I hate more than the tedium of shopping, in crowds of strangers. And helping Hannah pick out shoes doesn’t exactly sound like it’s in my wheelhouse. Even Izzy knew better than to try and force me to come with her to shop. Whenever I would go, I’d complain I was ready to leave much sooner than Izzy ever was, and she would tell me how annoying I was being, and how I would ruin the whole experience for her. I definitely don’t want Hannah and Sam to get annoyed with me. “I promised my dad I’d get some things done around the house. I have a bunch of homework. And I should finish these matches...” None of these things are lies. I did tell Dad earlier I’d do the laundry and the dishes. I do have a lot of homework. I need to practice piano, and I would like to do the matches, alone. Still, I probably could go to the mall, if I really wanted to.
Sam’s eyes are still on my face. He shrugs and smiles at me, as if to say, No big deal, either way. Hannah hangs Izzy’s dress back up in her closet, and says she’ll come back for it next weekend. I want to tell Sam he should come back next weekend, too, but then I can’t think of a reason why he should, so I don’t say anything at all.
* * *
I’m just pulling back into my driveway from dropping them off at the mall when Sam texts me.
Look who we saw walking into the movie theater together...
A second later a picture pops in, a fuzzy, grainy close-up of a couple... I can’t tell who I’m looking at. I zoom in to make the picture bigger, and I think...is that Ms. Taylor? She’s dressed way more casually than she does at school, where she always wears a floral dress and heels, and in this picture she’s in jeans, flats and a black tee. But when I zoom closer in on her face I recognize her tortoiseshell glasses. It is her, and she’s holding hands with a guy who’s about her height with the same color hair and glasses and... Oh! It’s Mr. Weston!
This is good, right? I text back.
Yeah, E! You totally wrote the code for love.
E. I focus on the letter for a second. I hate nicknames, but for some reason, I don’t mind this one so much. Coming in a text from Sam it feels personal, special. No one else calls me that, and I like that now there is a piece of me that feels like it belongs only to him.
Chapter 8
Jason Richardson, Phillip’s cross-country friend, matches to a sophomore, Jenny Hampton, who I don’t know. But I don’t really know Jason, either, except vaguely. He was in my health class freshman year, and the teacher paired us up for one stupid project where we had to spend the week writing an antidrug PSA together. Jason didn’t have much to say on the topic, and was more than happy to put his head on the desk, sleep and let me do all the work, which was also fine by me, since I wanted the A+ on the project. When I refer back to the yearbook now, I see they’re both brown-haired and athletic, that Jenny does girls’ spring track, as well as soccer. I text Phillip about the results Monday morning before school, and ask him to let me know what happens with the match so I can keep track. He sends me back a thumbs-up emoji.