“I was kind of thinking of something leather,” I say.
“Leather? Excuse me. You girls have to start dressing your age and not like a desperate middle-aged postmenopausal mother of four,” Blanche says.
She whips a strapless pink lace corset dress off the rack. Pink so light that it’s practically washed out. Practically see-through. High-low bottom. To the floor. Open back.
“Darling. This dress was made for you. Take your hair out of that ponytail and put this on.” She pushes me toward the dressing room. Soft lighting. White velvet curtains.
Blanche isn’t wrong. The bodice fits me perfectly. I’ve never worn anything quite like this before. Chiffon peeks out from under the bottom of the dress and wisps against my legs. I shake my hair out. All these girls at the dance will be going to the mall for their dresses. And look at me. A fucking queen.
Oohs and ahhs as I walk out. Blanche shoves her assistant toward me. Another girl from the bag department enters. They guffaw. “You’re so lucky. No messy boobies to screw up the profile.”
“I’m anorexic just enough for the dress to fit, right?” I say.
Blanche doesn’t even blink.
“I’m kidding. I’m not anorexic.”
But Blanche doesn’t care. She just wants me to be the best teenage dream I can be. She shoves a pair of red strappy heels in my hands. Tells me that I will not be wearing any accessories. No necklace. No bracelets. A little rose blush. That’s all. I love how Blanche is taking care of me. It’s like she knows my mother can’t do it, so she’s taking charge. I stare in the mirror; it’s been so long since I felt this pretty, this soft. Not so harsh. I smile at my mother even. She was right. This is so much better than the mall.
And then I see him.
Well, I see his hair. That unmistakable, shoulder-length blond hair.
Like combing his fingers through silk. Sean. And his art collector grandmother with her white hair and oversize glasses and black caftan.
“Someone get mascara on me quick,” I say.
There are so many things I want to say to you.
I can’t take my eyes off him. How do you explain something like this? This draw to another person? But why now? Why now am I shaking? Why now that rush? Because of this dress? These red heels? He’s seen me in dresses before. Nothing like this, sure. But now it’s different. It’s the way he needs me.
Look at him standing there. With his grandmother! His stylish grandmother. Does anyone have a grandmother who looks like her? And there he is, between the gowns. Scanning the store for me. His eyes everywhere. He’s here. He came.
“Ooh, darling, she sees someone.” Blanche snaps two fingers at the makeup artist who pulls out black mascara and smears my cheeks with pink blush.
I’m staring at him hard in the mirror. Turn around and notice my reflection, Sean. Turn around, Sean. My heart races. Pounds. Look at me. My pink cheeks popping. My blue eyes screaming through this mascara. The dress, a soft porn, a Victorian dream. And I throw everything away that I know about Sean. Everything that everyone’s said. Donnie. Suki. Ali. Dev. Throw everything away that I’ve seen him do. Because it doesn’t make sense, even to me. I want him to see me in this dress, and not just see me. I want him to fall deep into me. I want to drown inside the way he’s been looking at me lately. I do. I want to drown in it. None of it makes sense.
“Toss me my phone, Mom,” I say, demanding.
“Where is it? What’s going on?”
“Just toss me my phone.”
She slides it across the floor.
I look in the mirror and see Sean’s reflection. He’s holding up hats for his grandmother. Modeling them like a court jester.
I text him: Turn around.
A text comes back. B? Where u at?
I text again: Just turn around.
“Sean Nessel?” my mother says. “Is this for real?” But I tune her out.
Sean turns to me from across the store. I lock eyes with him.
He sees me. My pale, bare shoulders. He sees the dress. The corset. The bodice. The everything. His face lights up. He smiles. Lifts his hands in slow motion above his head, then nervously down his face.
I close my eyes. Hand on hip. Swing my hair to the side because I don’t know what to do with myself. Drape my body across a gold-mirrored table? My fingers drip over my mouth. I smile, stick out my tongue. Twirl.
He whispers in his grandmother’s ear. Points over to me.
“Who is that, doll? Your boyfriend?” Blanche says.
“My daughter’s boyfriend wouldn’t know how to find New York City,” my mother says, and though it infuriates me that she’s pissing on Dev, she’s not altogether wrong. “That’s her boyfriend’s best friend.”
“Scandalous,” Blanche says.
I ignore them. Float over to Sean. Buzzing through the gowns. Past a table of pastel scarves. The pinks and blues and purples blending into each other.
He’s still staring through me. Right into me. I can’t say anything. I give him a push on his chest. He takes a step backward. Eyes light up. Saying nothing.
“What. What?”
“You.”
I look down at my dress. My whole body flushed. “Aww, it’s nothing. I got it out of the garbage dump.”
He smiles. Shakes his head, still staring. His face so intent.
It rushes in. That we’re somewhere else. A shine of light under a moving shadow somewhere.
He takes my hand and his hand feels sweaty and big in mine. And it feels perfectly normal. Yet I don’t think I’ve ever held Sean’s hand. And there we are, standing right in front of his nana.
“This is not a dress you wear to a school dance, my dear,” she says. Multi-colored bangles clink halfway up her
