Calli (4 page)

I make sure the necklace stays hidden for now by sliding it back into place and twisting the candy wrapper.

I change out of my pj’s into jeans and a buttondown shirt for the Intervention before eating a healthy breakfast—a chocolate bar. I’ll have to ration my supply since I have only a couple left.

Studying French should be next on my agenda, especially after failing my last test. Instead of studying for it, I’d stayed up after midnight making Dub a card for our anniversary. “I’ve fallen for you,” I wrote. Using colored
pencils, I spent hours coloring the night sky pitch-black and making the stars seem as if they glowed, especially the shooting star.

Dub set the card on his dresser so he could see it when he fell asleep and when he woke up. I wonder if it’s still there.

Madame Mahoney has given me the option of visiting a site of French importance to earn extra credit. I should tell Mom about the dumb deal soon so I can get it over with. She’s offered to help me study, but the times she’s tried helping me in the past, all we did was argue.

I forget to tell Mom about the extra credit assignment when she checks on me an hour or so later. Mom smiles when she sees me with my French textbook open. Then she holds out a ten dollar bill for lunch. “You and Delia be safe at the mall, baby girl.” My mom has a busy day planned. She doesn’t even harp on food court nutrition facts.

“Thanks, Mom.”

Liz sticks her head in my room a few moments later to say good-bye, though Cherish fortunately doesn’t. My plan is to ignore her. To act like what she did to my locker isn’t a big deal.

When the house is empty, Sassy comes and joins me. Since Cherish moved in, it seems like I’ve been demoted to the bottom of our pack.

 

Sassy flies off my bed in guard dog mode when the doorbell rings. It’s half past nine. Is Dub stalking me? The muscles in my neck tense as I pry the blinds open. Sassy barks so loudly my ears ring.

My muscles relax when I see a minivan parked in the driveway.

I hold Sassy’s collar tightly before answering the door. “Shh, girl.” Delia is waiting on the front porch with her arms crossed.

She must see that I’m surprised because she says, “I tried calling like four hundred times to let you know my mom has to drop us off at the mall early. Since you never answered, we just came over.”

“Sorry, I disconnected the line after . . .” My voice trails off because I don’t want to talk about it. I wish I had a cell phone, but Mom said I can’t get one until I’m able to pay for it myself. “Just give me a minute.” I grab my purse, and before locking the door, I tell Sassy to be a good girl. She just keeps on barking.

Sassy’s hysteria seems to distract Delia as we make our way to the minivan. She doesn’t bother asking why I’d disconnected the phone. Her mom bobs her head and taps a rhythm on the steering wheel. “I can’t wait until we can drive,” Delia says.

“Is the mall even open yet?”

“By the time we get there, it will be.” Before Delia slides the minivan door open, she quietly tells me that we should check out guys later.

I sigh. I’m not up for checking out guys. Dub and I haven’t even broken up. Delia doesn’t seem to have a clue about what I’m going through. Delia and I’ve been friends for most of my life, but sometimes I wonder if she gets me or not.

Mrs. Jones continues tapping on the steering wheel to the beat of some nineties tune as we sit down and click our seatbelts into place. “Thanks for being flexible, Calli.”

“No problem, Mrs. Jones.” She insists I call her Katherine, but it doesn’t feel right. I’ve been reserved around her
mom ever since Delia told me how she’s asked all kinds of questions about my moms over the years. What are they like? What do they do? Have they said anything funny to you? Looked at you strangely? Made you feel weird at all? Brandi and Liz are lesbians—not criminals. Even the state of Louisiana recognizes this. I’m grateful Delia never had a problem with my moms.

Mrs. Jones lowers the volume on the radio and starts blabbing about the floral design she has to finish and deliver early this afternoon. “It’s going to be amazing. Imagine bright red roses and peacock feathers.”

Imagining this arrangement hurts. Dub gave me a single red rose last month after we’d had a conversation about what our names meant. Just because. “You’re my lovely flower, Calli,” he said, which was incredibly cheesy but absolutely adorable.

I dried the rose, set it on my desk, and ended up smashing it when I was looking for my missing iPod. I had to sweep the crusty petals into the trash.

I tune Mrs. Jones out and eye the oil refineries off in the distance with their pipes and smoky towers.

Mr. Hatley spent a whole science unit teaching us about refineries and the effects of toxic air pollution. It’s possible for refineries to ignite and explode, and I feel like it’s possible for me too.

WE HAD TO WAIT in the minivan several nineties songs before the mall opened, and now at 10:12 AM, we have JCPenney all to ourselves minus a few employees scurrying around.

Delia holds a clothes hanger high, dangling it from her finger. An emerald gown swishes back and forth. “You’re sure quiet for an Intervention.”

“I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“Well, the whole point of an Intervention is to keep each other from spiraling into deep depression and shooting up.”

I can’t help but laugh as I grab the hanger from Delia. She picks out a coffee-colored knee-length gown to try on.

Staring at the rich emerald fabric makes me think about things other than this horrible week—future dances, fancy parties, feeling beautiful.

Once I change into the dress and zip it up, I try to ignore the size: thirteen. Instead I twirl around. It’s loose,
and the satiny material slides against my skin. If I had $99.99 plus tax, I might buy it so I could try it on from time to time to escape. I’d have to hide it from Cherish. She’s too skinny to fill out the dress, but who knows what would happen to it.

When Cherish was depressed about the Maw-Maw situation, I invited her to try on dresses with me. To have our own Intervention.

“How stupid and immature,” Cherish said. “I’ll deal with things my own way.” She told me later that she hooked up with a senior to get her mind off things.

I wasn’t sure how to respond, and after a long pause Cherish asked, “What? Haven’t you and Dub ever fooled around?”

We had. A little. But I knew better than to tell her this if I wanted to keep my moms or the entire school from knowing. On the rare occasions Dub and I hung out alone, we’d make out until our bodies pressed into each other and our hands started exploring. That’s where we always stopped. I didn’t want to go too fast. Dub seemed to respect that, but maybe he didn’t really. Maybe that’s why he kissed Cherish—to get what he wasn’t getting from me.

Delia’s voice sounds muffled in the dressing room. “You ready for the reveal?”

We’re supposed to let our feelings out during an Intervention, but I keep mine to myself. I force a smile before leaning out of the stall.

Delia backs up. “Can you zip me?”

My fingers work the zipper up the coffee-beaded bodice, but it catches midway up her back. “Too tight.”
She’s wearing a size nine. Four numbers separate her dress and mine. Throughout the years, we’ve always been about the same size. I loved it when people mistook us for sisters.

“You should try on that mesh dress, Delia.” It’s a size eleven and would decrease our difference from four numbers to two.

I don’t want to change out of my gown, so I stand near the mirror while Delia changes. I cock my head to the side and put a hand on my hip.

I’d love for someone to walk by and notice me, to stop and say, “Wow, you look stunning. You should model prom dresses.”

And I’d smile and say, “Thank you.” I’d avoid speaking too much or smiling so wide that I’d reveal my braces.

“Are you going to dump Dub?” Delia asks, sashaying in her dress and snapping me back to the reality I so desperately want to escape from.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen.” It’s easy for her to dismiss Dub since she’s never really given him a chance. He’s tried to be her friend and ask her questions or invite her to hang out with us, but she blows him off.

Delia shakes her butt and the fabric catches the bright store lights. Even though I’m irritated with her, I tell her she looks nice.

She pops her gum. “Thanks.” Delia turns around so I’ll unzip her. She doesn’t even compliment my dress. Maybe nobody would’ve stopped and noticed me after all.

I turn my back to the mirror, and the emotions bubble up. “Things are such a mess because of Cherish.”

“Not everything is her fault,” Delia says.

“Okay, Mom and Liz.” I’ve had enough of these sorts of talks at home.

“Hey, I’m just saying that Cherish is a piece of work and you should ignore her so she’ll eventually quit messing with you. She does it because she can.”

“Easier said than done.”

“I’m not saying she doesn’t deserve some of this.” Delia flexes her arm while preventing the dress from falling down with her other hand. “Look, Rashell and I fought all of the time.”

“But she never stole your crap or sucked face with your boyfriend or vandalized your locker or trash-talked your mom.”

“No, but we fought.”

Their fights were about who hogged the bathroom the longest or polished off the milk.

Delia’s missing the point and it’s clear I can’t talk to her like I used to. She’d flip if she knew about the stolen necklace and the shredded essay.

Some Intervention.

“Check him out.” Delia points at a guy working the cash register at Chick-fil-A.

I trip on a chair in the food court trying to get a good look. The guy is built and his head is shaved. “He’s okay.”

“Better than okay!”

The guy smiles when he notices us gawking at him. It’s a warm, sexy smile that lights up his dark eyes. His smile makes me agree with Delia. Despite myself, I smile back.

“I vote Chick-fil-A for lunch.” Delia grins and heads to the counter before I have a chance to cast my vote. Not that I’d ever say no to fried chicken.

The guy continues smiling as we get closer. He looks sixteen, maybe seventeen. Only a couple years older than us. A woman behind the next cash register asks if she can take our order, but the guy interrupts her to say, “I’ll take care of ’em.”

Delia steps behind me and giggles. I manage to order our lunch without laughing.

When the guy passes me my lemonade, his hand bumps mine. The rush of warmth and the softness of his skin catch me by surprise.

“Come back soon,” the guy says when he delivers our lunch. He smiles again, and my grip on the tray wobbles. I regain my balance to keep our chicken sandwich meals and lemonades from flopping onto the floor.

Delia barely eats her lunch because she can’t stop talking about Hot Chick-fil-A Guy. “I think I’m in love, Calli!”

I sip my tart, sweet lemonade to fight the urge to roll my eyes. Being in love means you crave being with your special person. You can’t stand it when you’re away from each other. It’s a sort of euphoria I can’t expect her to understand. Delia’s never had a boyfriend, and she wasn’t even brave enough to say hello to this guy. “Why don’t you refill your lemonade or order something else so you can talk to him?”

“No way. I blew it when I started laughing.” She starts laughing all over again when she repeats, “He’s going to take care of us.”

I chuckle and help myself to her salty waffle fries.

CHERISH FRANTICALLY KNOCKS on my door before barging in.

“Shi—”

“Shiitake mushrooms,” I say, interrupting her rude greeting. Can’t she see I’m studying for a quiz?

“You’re so weird. Your whole family is weird. Even your dog.”