Fancy White Trash (20 page)

She sways and it looks like she might heave again. Then she swallows hard and says, “Can you call the agency for me? Tell them I'll be late. Again.”

“No prob,” I say, since this has pretty much been my job all week. “Angie and Bob said yesterday that they hope you feel better soon and not to worry about coming in late. Angie's got your back.”

Mom smiles, but it doesn't erase the gray tinge from her skin or the dark bags that have taken up permanent residence under her light-blue eyes. “Thanks, Abby. You're a wonder.”

I am? It's so unusual for her to outright compliment me— unless it's to note how I look like her—that I'm momentarily stunned. Man, those pregnancy hormones can totally whack you. “I'm glad someone finally noticed,” I say, and she laughs.

I almost tell her that Angie's planning a baby shower, but although it's still a few months away, I decide Mom's probably not in much of a party mood right now. It seems unfair that a baby you can only tell is there if you look really hard can cause such havoc. I wave, and Mom closes the bathroom door. When I slip into the backseat of Jackson's car, Cody hands over his cell phone without my even having to ask.

“Was Kait this sick?” Cody asks when I've relayed Mom's message to Angie and assured her that no, Mom has no idea about the shower and yes, I can keep it a secret until January.

“Nope, not at all,” I say. It was lucky for her since she hid her pregnancy until the second trimester.

We ride along in silence until Jackson turns on the radio, loud. It's some news show, so we listen to reports of traffic for places where we aren't, until at last, he pulls into the school drop-off zone. Cody hops out first.

“Abby,” Jackson says after turning down the radio. “Wait a sec.”

“What?” Since
that
night, he hasn't initiated a conversation with me.

He gives me an envelope. “This is for you.”

Well, obviously. It has my name in his sloppy handwriting on the outside. I start to break it open, but he says, “No, for later.”

So I get out of the car, but as soon as the Corolla's out of sight, I rip open the letter.

Rumi. He copied one of my favorite passages, about how love delights even in distance and disagreement.

It's unfair to use Rumi against me. I can't stop thinking about the words, what he might mean by giving them to me. What does he want? It doesn't matter, I tell myself. I have a date with Andre on Saturday, and no Rumi-quoting possible father of my niece is going to get in the way of my One True Love Plan finally going into effect.

Cody and I eat lunch outside whenever we can. The weather's generally accommodating, so we have a favorite spot under one of the many cottonwood trees that line the greenway behind the cafeteria. We sit on the half wall that separates the grass from the sidewalk and balance our lunch trays on our laps. I shove Jackson's note at Cody before he even has a chance to take a bite of grilled cheese.

“My brother?” Cody asks when he's done reading. “Jackson's actually quoting poetry?”

“It's not fair, is it? He used to be a stupid jock.” I reread the note for about the thousandth time today.

“And it's your favorite poet.” Cody sneaks a bite of sandwich.

“I
know
.”

A couple guys, baseball hats turned backwards, pass by and take seats a few feet down the wall from us. A brown-and-white woodpecker hammers away at our tree.

Cody chews. Sips his apple juice. “What do you want me to say?”

My grip tightens on the edges of my tray. “Tell me what to do.”

“Don't you have a date with Andre this weekend?”

I nod.

“Do that.”

Hmm, that's not what I wanted Cody to say. That poem is seriously messing with my head. Maybe I don't have time to wait for True Love. Maybe I need to apply Rule #5 to myself and Get Out of Town before I screw up my life just like my sisters did.

“Cody.” I set my tray aside and lean my head against his arm. “We could still go to New York. Do you want to go? Now?”

“My driver's-license test is tomorrow. I'm not going anywhere until then.” He finishes off his sandwich and moves on to the container of fries.

“Silly, I don't mean right this minute.” I pat his thigh. “We could go Friday.”

“We've only got enough money to get as far as Illinois. Do you really want to end up there?” He levers a fry into my mouth and says in the self-helpy way that Kait quotes Dr. Patty, “Abby, I think we have to figure stuff out here, or else nothing will be different when we finally do get out of this place.”

“Did you get that off your tea bag this morning?” I ask. Barbara buys those herbal teas with the inspirational sayings dangling off the end of every string.

He reddens. “I told you, Brian and I have been talking. Think about it, Abby. How will running away make things better?”

I have a list all ready for him. “No one will know my family. I won't have to worry that guys are only into me because they think I'll put out like my sisters. I won't have to share a room with my own father.” I could go on, but he stops me.

“Okay, you have some points. But what about your Rules? I thought you were so set on making them work.”

“Won't they work in New York?”

Cody drops his tray to the ground and slides an arm around my waist. “New York with no money would be a disaster. Let's stick to our plans, Abby. We just have to be patient.”

Too bad I really suck at being patient, but I rest against Cody and let him convince me that things are looking up.

Chapter
18

Cody's not going to find the perfect dress for me. He's sixteen, licensed to drive for three whole hours now, and clearly longs for his own line of prostitutes to command.

“Too slutty,” I say for what must be the tenth time. Does he not understand that just because I
have
it doesn't mean I want to
show
it? At this rate, we'll spend the remaining two weeks before homecoming right here at the Nordstrom outlet store.

“How will you know unless you try it on?” He shoves an armload of dresses at me, pastels and primaries, tulle and sparkles, all mixed together.

“If it needs a special bra, I'm not wearing it.” I peel off the first two dresses from the pile—both strapless—and a gown from the middle that has only one strap and hand them back.

Cody shoves some blond hair out of his eyes. “You're being difficult.”

“It's homecoming, not a Dress to Get Laid Party.” I discard another dress from the pile. Too . . . pink. Then I wander away, toward the back and the signs proclaiming a BIG SALE is under way. Toward other like-minded shoppers, picking their way through the 70 percent off rack. Maybe I should try choosing something for myself. I hold a black dress with a flowy skirt in front of me. Not bad.

“It's homecoming, not a funeral.” He yanks the dress out of my hands. “Did we or did we not agree that I'm to have total control today? It's not much of a birthday present if you're going to argue with me about every little thing.”

“Fine,” I say. “But I'm trying this one on, too.” I snatch back the black dress. “If I buy this one, we can pocket the extra money for the New York Fund. Isn't that worth considering?”

Cody closes his eyes like he's in pain. “I'm telling you,
that
is hideous. Don't you remember the First Day Freshman Year Debacle? I warned you against fuchsia, but would you listen?”

Even worse, pictures of me in that hideous outfit littered the yearbook. I'd been so in love with it, I wore it every other week. If only I'd seen how big it made my hips, how small my chest!

“But this is black,” I say half-heartedly, knowing I've lost. “Isn't black slimming?”

“You don't need slimming!” he all but shouts, then runs a hand through his hair and calms down. “Now come here. You're trying on the strapless green one and that's an order.”

I shuffle along behind him. Isn't shopping supposed to be fun? Besides, we have almost two whole weeks until the dance. It's not like this is an emergency. Cody picks gowns off racks as we pass them until he has a new armful. He leads me to a changing room, hangs the dresses on the one hook, and says, “I want to see them all.”

Huffing out a breath, I slide the heavy burgundy drape across the opening and shimmy out of my tank top. I'm struggling to zip up an aqua-sparkly number—why are zippers on the back?—when I hear voices outside my curtain.

“What do you think, Kent? I don't look fat, do I?”

I peak my head out, and there's Becca Waters, turning circles in front of the three-panel mirror outside the changing rooms. Her gown is pink—unrelentingly pink—with a full skirt and cap sleeves. Kind of like a princess dress, if you're seven years old.

“You look great,” Kent says, his eyes on her cleavage where it peaks out above the scalloped neckline.

Becca turns and tries to see her back in the mirror. There is a huge pink bow right over her butt.

“It's not too much?” she asks, straining her neck for the rear view.

Kent stands and walks to her. He puts his hands on her hips and their eyes meet in the mirror. “You look beautiful,” he says.

Cody's snort is so loud, I worry he will accidentally let some brain fly.

Becca spins. “What? Is something wrong?” She pats down the bow in the back.

“Something?” Cody echoes. “No, something's not wrong.”

“Oh, good. I just love this color.” Becca smiles at him.

Cody looks like he has just tasted something foul and can't decide whether to swallow it or hurl it back up.

“It's not that
some
thing's wrong with that . . .” Cody seems at a loss for words, then recovers. “. . . monstrosity. Everything's wrong. The color is horrible, that bow makes your butt look three sizes bigger. And Becca, really, cap sleeves with your upper arms?”

Becca's eyes fill with tears.

“Hey, man,” Kent says. “That's not cool.”

“Are you saying I'm f-f-fat?” Becca's tears brim over. “I j-just lost five pounds, you know. It's not like I'm not trying!”

“Oh, God,” Cody groans, finally coming out of fashion-nazi mode. “That's not what I meant at all.”

I step out of my room, still half unzipped. “Cody, go find her something good.” I shoo him back to the racks and go to Becca's side.

“Will you zip me?” I ask her. She gulps back tears and yanks up the zipper. My breasts are squished against the unforgiving fabric.

I turn in a circle, even though there's no way I'm wearing a dress that makes me feel like a stuffed sausage. “What do you think?”

Becca blinks. “It's nice,” she says hesitantly.

“Aha!” I say. “You're one of those. A changing-room liar.”

She looks confused. Kent comes to her side and holds her hand.

“Don't lie to me. I'm about to pop out of this thing.” I take a deep breath and the zipper actually slips down about half an inch. “See? And when Cody comes back, he'll point out how it looks like I've got a roll of fat right here.” I point to the spot above the tight waistline where there is a slight bulge. “But it's not me—it's the dress. So I'll keep trying on whatever he picks out until we find the one, the
perfect
one. And then he'll make me get some uncomfortable shoes and tell me how to do my hair. That's just his way. He's got strong opinions.”

“I guess,” Becca says. “But I really liked this dress.”

“Well, you can't wear it now, can you?” I turn so she can unzip me. “You'll keep thinking about what Cody said and you'll feel terrible. I think that's why he's like that. If he's nice about it, you might buy the dress anyway.”

“Stop talking about me,” Cody complains. He hands me two more dresses and then gives Becca a selection of five to choose from. None of them are pink.

“I like pink,” she says.

Cody visibly tamps down his response. “Pink is too obvious for you. With your coloring, all that blonde hair, those gorgeous blue eyes, you can do something sophisticated. Hollywood glamorous, instead of so, so . . . Barbie.”

Kent laughs and Becca whacks him on the arm. “Okay,” she says. “I'll give it a try.” She disappears behind the burgundy curtain, and Kent takes his place back at the boyfriend bench. She's on dress four when we hear a squeal from her changing room.

“Becca, you okay in there?” Kent asks.

“Look!” Becca emerges, no longer a high-school sophomore with chunky arms but a 1940s movie star about to walk the red carpet. The dress is a deep blue that pools around her feet with an elegant swish as she walks. The neckline plunges sharply, drawing the eye down, with a cinched waist that shaves off ten pounds. “I love it!”

“Obviously,” Cody says. He walks around her and approves the low-cut back. “Amazing. Now, let's talk hair. It's the details that are gonna make or break this look.”

A discussion of up-dos follows, along with Cody's advice about jewelry: “Keep it simple. That dress is all the decoration you need.”

Becca admires herself in the mirrors while I try on another dress that turns out to be as chest-flattening at the last one. I'm feeling a little jealous of Becca and her super fashion find, so I'm relieved when she changes back into her jeans and pink peasant blouse.

“Thank you, Cody,” Becca says after hearing a mini-lecture about where and how to find the perfect shoes. “I never would've picked that color blue for myself, but it's absolutely perfect.”