I laugh. “Dad. Stop.”
“Really—his name was Arthur.”
“His name was not Arthur.”
“We called him Arty. Honest to God.”
Blythe texts me again.
Answer, bitch. I’m coming to your house in 5 and flicking on my brights twice. Bat signal.
I get up from the table. The chair squeaks on the floor. “I finished all my homework. Blythe is going to pick me up in five minutes. You can tell me about Arty another time.”
“It’s eight o’clock at night.”
“I’ll be back in, like, forty-five minutes.”
I walk into the front hall and slip on my Converse. I don’t even get permission. He just allows it. I hope we’re not going to anyone’s house. My hair is in a high bun. I’m wearing a ratty sweatshirt. No bra.
“I promise, Dad,” I say. “We’ll talk when I get back.”
I also know that’ll never happen.
* * *
* * *
I get in the car with Blythe, and she zooms down my block. The dry leaves on the street kick up behind her.
“So, Ali. Are you going to the dance?”
This seems to come out of nowhere. Not once have I heard her talking about the dance. The gym, dark and shadowy. Lights flashing. Everyone sweating, jumping up and down. The music blaring. It’s the last thing I want to think about right now.
“Is this why we’re driving around? For you to ask me about the dance?”
“Did I tell you I’m going dress shopping with my mom?”
“No. I didn’t know you spent any time with her.”
“She used to be a fashion designer, so it’s the one thing we can talk about. Clothes is our thing. We shop together. Plus, we don’t have to have a real discussion if it’s around fashion. Isn’t that nice?” she says, irritated. “Such bullshit.”
I don’t say anything.
“I’m also on the dance committee,” she says. “You probably didn’t know that either.”
“You? I can’t imagine you on a committee of anything.”
“Basically I get to add ‘dance committee chair’ as an extracurricular for doing nothing. Except show up. And I have to bring people,” she says. “I know it sounds obnoxious, but if people are like, ‘Oh, Blythe Jensen is the chair,’ then more people go.”
“So it’s like a paid gig? And you’re the out-of-work reality star who shows up at the club?”
“Exactly,” she smiles, so much excitement in her eyes. “So you have to go.”
“Why do you want me to go?”
“Because you’re my new bitch.” She smirks.
But there’s more to this. I know it. “Just say it—it has to do with Sean Nessel.”
“Not everything has to do with him, Ali. Haven’t we gotten past that already in our friendship?”
Our friendship.
I forget that I’m here with Blythe, aimlessly driving down neighborhood roads, because we’re friends. Because she’s choosing to be with me over Donnie, Cate, or Suki. Or Devon. It’s also possible they were busy. But no one is busy for Blythe. People make time.
“Cate’s mother is going to have a party beforehand. The whole night will be like one big dance party. Think of it like that. What’s more innocent than a dance party in a school gym? I kind of love how kitschy it is.”
I sink into the seat. Open my window. My hand zips lifelessly through the air.
“Will Sean be there?” she says. “Yes. But who cares? Though I will tell you. He wants to make things up to you, Ali. He doesn’t want it to be weird between the two of you.”
I know this is going to sound sick. And I hate myself for thinking this.
Part of me wants to go, wear something amazing. I want Sean Nessel to think I look hot.
Why do I want that?
I don’t want him near me. I just want him to want me. To follow me with his eyes.
That way I can dream of what it feels like to say: You can’t have this. This is mine.
“Sure, I’ll go,” I say. The houses on the street sailing past. My eyes glazing over the streetlights.
I’m not going to Cate’s house beforehand, I tell her. I’ll meet her at the gym. With Raj and Sammi. On my terms.
21
BLYTHE
Today is the day I’m taking my mom dress shopping with me. I watch her in the bathroom as she takes her meds. My parents’ bathroom looks like a pharmacy. My mother has boxes of samples of all different kinds of medication from her doctor. For her anxiety. For managing her bipolar. For her asthma. For her blood pressure. For when she can’t sleep at night. For when she needs a muscle relaxer for her back.
She can’t drive on all these medications, obviously. I’m supposed to understand this and be empathetic, this sacrifice of hers. That she takes her meds because she’s committed to our family. To me. But I hate her for it. That slur she gets in the car. I cringe.
“I’m really glad you invited me to go with you, Blythe.”
“Are you? I’m surprised to hear this.”
“Well, I know you like my input on clothes. I can at least give you that.” She pushes her sunglasses above her head. Her hair is beautiful in the sunlight. Her thin arms. Her black camisole with her long wide-legged linen pants. She looks like a movie star. “I want you to talk to me, Blythe. I want you to talk to me like you used to. Remember when you were in fourth grade and you had that whole drama with all those cliquey girls and how we’d talk every night about how you would handle it? You don’t tell me about your friends anymore.”
Rarely is my mother apologetic. I throw her a bone. “I’ve made a new friend. Her name is Ali.”
“And how did Ali come into the picture? You have such a tight group.”
“She came by way of Sean.”
“She’s a girlfriend of Sean’s? I thought he goes from girl to girl.”
“He does.”
“Oh, I see. So he brought you in to do a cleanup job.”
“What? No. I’m just being a good friend.”
“Hmm. I suppose you learned that from me. Cleaning up after emotional messes,” she says. “So what does your therapist say about all this?”