Don't Kiss Him Good-Bye (10 page)

Lord, I want to play a song that will honor You. One that I really like and can play with feeling. Please help me pick a good one.

My thoughts went from the April Fools show to the May Day Ball, which honestly was never far from my mind.

It’s okay if I don’t go
, I said to myself.

But I really want to, and that’s okay too,
I said back.

But who could I go with?
I replied.

I felt like such a hypocrite for giving such a breezy, know-it-all answer to the girl who’d written in the paper. I watched as the lights shut off in each of the neighborhood houses till only one house was still lit.
Only one choice left, as far as I can see.

I sat on the floor and searched through the Taylor Swift music again. There was no escaping the fact that certain titles caught my eye more than others. “Love Story.” “Baby, Don’t Break My Heart.” “Sparks Fly.”

One song called to me, and as I picked up the music, I knew two things for sure:

1. The Lord had answered my prayer and showed me the song to play.
Thank You, Lord.

2. The song had a
double entendre
, one of the words in my French homework that night. It meant “a word or expression used in a given context so that it can be understood in two ways.”

Chapter 20

Friday, glorious Friday, when I could wear whatever I wanted to school, when an entire weekend stretched ahead, with sleeping in on Saturday, followed by waffles and scrambled eggs whipped up by my dad. I had homework, of course. And I needed to practice my song for April Fools. Plus, I’d promised Natalie I’d do a bit more research for her. But it was still Friday!

“Love the boots, Savvy,” Ashley said as I sat down at the lunch table. The entire table went quiet. Had Ashley just complimented me? I felt her crown of approval on my head. Others must have noticed because I felt a distinct thaw in the attitude toward me at the table. Penny beamed like a proud mum. I felt pretty glad too. I had been myself, had remained true to myself, and that was good enough to be noticed.

“Thank you, Ashley. I love your new bag. Yellow patent leather is very in.” I returned her compliment in kind. It was true—she did have a great bag. Then Penny and I got down to business: nibbling the protein bars she’d brought and the bag of veggies I’d brought. I looked at the clock.

Four more hours till I can get to the chippie for my real meal!

“Hey, what are you doing after school?” I asked Penny. “Want to shop in the village with me? I was thinking of checking out Be@titude and then heading to Fishcoteque.”

“Brilliant, Savvy, but tonight’s the night a bunch of us—” she nodded in the direction of the other Aristocats—“are taking the bus and the Tube to London to shop for dresses. I’m sorry.”

“Is Chloe going with you?” I asked, trying to seem as if I didn’t really care. Casual. Chill. You know.

“Yes . . . why?”

I shook my head. “No reason; just wondering.”

I could see her little-white-lie detector go off, but she was loyal enough not to ask me anything in front of the rest of the group. Instead, she squeezed my hand and then wrote
Monday!
on my hand in Sharpie. “We’re still getting together at my house on Monday, right? And my mum would like you to stay for supper.”

“Okay. Have a good time,” I said, meaning it. I hadn’t told her this, but I was definitely, absolutely going to feature her and Oliver as one of the couples in the paper.

After school I dropped off most of my gear at home and headed to the village square with only my purse and my WA
Times
notebook. The daffodils labored to push their heads through the ground, and some of them had successfully burst through in a ground-level shot of sunshine.

I arrived at a tidy brick shop with wide, clean windows and the word
Be@titude
scrawled across the top. The clothes in the window ranged from chic and fresh to fairly modern—nothing stodgy here. I opened the shop door, and the chimes twinkled merrily as I stepped in.

“Hullo, there. How can I help you, then?” a stylish young woman asked.

“My name is Savannah Smith,” I said, holding out my hand in the most professional, grown-up manner I could. “I’m a reporter for the Wexburg Academy
Times
. I saw your ad in last week’s paper, and I was hoping to do a little write-up on your store for the May Day Ball.”

“Ah, that.” She looked a bit sad. “Haven’t had much business for the ball, I’m sorry to say. I suspect most girls are keen to take the Tube into London and shop at Miss Selfridge, Topshop, and Harrods. Can’t say as I blame them. I know it’s not as glamorous to shop in town.”

She draped a tape measure around her neck, a centimetered boa, and set a box of pumps on the glass counter. “I’m Becky, by the way, the store owner. Come on back and I’ll show you the room we use for the ministry.”

I was right! This
was
a Christian charity. She used the word
ministry.

“Back here are the clothes we buy with a percentage of the profits; these go to single mums. Normally they have a hard time making ends meet, right? So it’s difficult for them to find enough money to set aside for business clothes and such. But they need them to successfully interview for jobs.”

I scribbled furiously, trying to get everything down.

“My idea was to take a bit of the money we make from women and girls who
do
have money for fun clothes, ball gowns, extra fashionable wardrobes, and such, and supply these struggling women with good work clothes.”

“How many people have you been able to help?” I asked.

“So far, ten,” she said. I could hear the pride in her voice. “We could help dozens more if we had the funds.” The front door chimed, and she excused herself to go up front. I looked at the prim but stylish business skirts, slimly elegant and encased in dry cleaner’s plastic. Becky had partnered each one with a little bag of accessories.

It would be extremely cool if I could help somehow
, I mentioned to the Lord in my head.

“I was hungry, and you fed me. I was thirsty, and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger, and you invited me into your home. I was naked, and you gave me clothing.”
The response was so clear I turned around to see if some guy had snuck in and actually spoken aloud to me. But I was alone still, in the back room.

“Well, then,” Becky said as she returned. “Let me show you the rest of the store and talk about the event we’re holding in the beginning of July.” As we wandered through the forest of mannequins and wheels of clothing, she shared her heart about building up as many funds as possible and then having a kickoff near Emmeline Pankhurst Day.

“I’d like to help however I can,” I offered after jotting down
Emmeline Pankhurst??
in my notebook. “I’m hoping that by putting this in the paper, I can drum up some support for this ministry. . . .” My voice trailed off as I came upon the most wonderful ball gown I’d ever seen.
“Ohhhh . . .”

Becky laughed. “I can see why you’d like that one. It’s called Faeries—it’s a new design by a young woman starting out in Kent. The tea green would look just right with your light coloring.”

I reached out and gently touched the fabric. Becky held the dress up to me, and we walked together to the three-way mirror. It had a close-fitted halter top with thick straps—modest but lovely. The fabric shimmered under a lace overlay of the same color and finally cascaded into a close, conservative waterfall of froth that halted midcalf.

“With tiny peridot green earrings,” I said to no one in particular. “And an updo.”

“You’re a fashionista besides a journalist,” Becky said. She laughed and I reluctantly allowed her to hang the dress back up. “You’ve got style, anyway. Bought your dress yet?” she asked hopefully.

I shook my head and tried to keep my voice peppy. “Not going—well, just going on assignment, that is.” I tapped my journalist’s notebook.

“Ah,” she said. We locked eyes for a moment and felt the bond of sisterhood between two Christians who had hopes and dreams that seemed to have stalled right over the Bermuda Triangle. Another customer came into her shop, and rather than distract her from people with actual cash to spend, I snapped my notebook shut and headed out.

“I’ll let you know when the article appears,” I said.

“Thank you, Miss Smith.”

“Savvy!” I said, feeling like my own upbeat self again for the first time in a long while.

“Savvy, then.” She laughed. “I’m sure we’ll get on well.” She turned her attention to the two girls who had come into the store looking for ball dresses. I hoped they hated green.