Going Vintage (23 page)

And I have to get going on my Industrial Revolution project. I only have one page done and three days to write the other four. Books need a search engine. This is fact.

Grandma told me to stop by sometime after school, so I borrow Dad’s car and book it to Newport. Grandma wants to make sure the dress pattern she found works and has set out some basic tasks for me. I hope
basic
means “BASIC.” I haven’t told her yet about the epically failed sewing class. She’s elderly. Why worry her?

Since Grandma finally added the family to the Special Person List, I don’t have to give my social security number or firstborn child to get into the building. I had hoped security would take a while, so I could watch the flat-screen in the lobby “by accident.”

At Grandma’s condo, I knock two times and ring the doorbell once. Her mind is sharp, but her hearing not so much, so I turn the doorknob. It’s locked.

Without my cell, I can’t call Grandma and tell her I’m
here. I pound on the door this time. “Grandma? It’s Mallory,” Pound, pound, pound. “Grandma?”

I’ll have to go back to the lobby and see if they can page her. What a pain. I’ve just turned to leave when the door clicks open. Grandma blinks in the sunlight. She’s wearing a cardigan set and dressy slacks, totally different from her usual bohemian style. Her hair is blown straight, but her eyes are bloodshot and she looks pale underneath the excessive makeup. “Oh, I forgot you were coming. I was just freshening up. Come in.”

Grandma’s apartment is dark, and she doesn’t do much to fix that. I want to pull the curtains back, but this is her house, so I wait for my eyes to adjust in the dim light.

Her living room is on the messy side—dishes left out, newspaper scattered on the coffee table. Nothing big, but certainly nothing Grandma. Keys and change are on the counter, along with her monthly calendar, filled with the swanky comings and goings of hip senior living. Today has the name Candace circled with a phone number. I wonder if Candace is her new tennis partner or some lady from the Slot Group.

“Have a seat,” Grandma says. “No sense standing around.”

Her sewing center is an explosion of chiffon. I pull out a chair at the table. “So, it, uh, looks like you already got to work.”

Grandma perches her reading glasses on her nose and paws through the stack of patterns. “Just figuring things out. I’m going to need to take your measurements since dress sizing was different then.” She finds the pattern she’s looking for and holds it out to me. “What do you think about this?”

The illustrated girls on the browned envelope are just what I want. Poised, cute cupcakes of poofy perfection. I’ll do my hair in a chignon, find some white gloves. Um, find a date?

“I love it, Grandma. Yes, yes, yes. Let’s do this one! Where did you find it?”

“Online pattern store.”

“Oh, online.” Uh … I’ll pretend that I didn’t hear that.

Grandma grabs a measuring tape and starts wrapping it around my waist. “So I’ll just get your measurements and then you can go.”

“Go?” I look around the room. I have a lot of things I need to do, but this item is at the top of my list. Well, figuratively. And I have Grandma all to myself. Sewing a dress takes a long time, especially for someone who doesn’t know how to sew. I know it’s not going to be easy, that the dress might not turn out perfectly, but I’m here to try. And … I was kind of hoping we actually could bake cookies and even talk about the breakup. That’s what grandmothers are supposed to do, be all grandmotherly. “I’m not in a rush. I want to help. Don’t delegate; participate, remember?”

Grandma writes down my waist size on the pattern envelope and sticks the tape around my chest. “Sewing’s not something you learn overnight. I think it’s best if I do this dress myself. Don’t worry, it’s simple enough. It’s sort of like the dress I made when I was your age.”

A window. “I saw that. Your junior princess dress? It’s beautiful.”

“Still have it.” Grandma chews at the end of her pen, considering my bust size.

“Really? I didn’t see it when I cleaned out your house.”

She waves vaguely to her bedroom. “It’s in my hope chest.”

“What’s a hope chest?” And where can I get one of these? A box that holds hope sounds essential.

“Are you kidding?” Grandma pulls the pen out of her mouth and points it to me. “Your mother will get you one, when you graduate, I’m sure. You put all your important keepsakes in there. I have my wedding dress, some quilts my granny made, pictures—”

I clap my hands together. “Can I see it, Grandma? I want to know about everything in there—”

“Can we cut the trip-down-memory-lane crap?” Grandma’s voice is harsh yet tired. “I told you I’ll make this dress, and I will, but I really have to get going. I’m meeting someone.”

Candace with the circle and the number. Some stranger who is apparently more important than me. Grandma looks so corporate, maybe it’s business. “Can’t you reschedule?”

She snorts softly. “Don’t I wish.”

I’m starting to understand Ginnie’s issues. It’s true. Grandma doesn’t have time for us anymore. What’s so big in this new life of hers that she needs to push the rest of us out? “I was just … Look, Grandma. This isn’t only about a dress.”

“I know. You broke up with your boyfriend and you want him to eat his heart out. Don’t worry, he will.” She rubs her
eyebrow. “We can spend time together later, after this week, okay?”

Her tone is kinder, but I still need her to know how important this all is. She’s the reason I started all these goals. Grandma wrote The List; if anyone can understand my need for a better, simpler life, it’s her.

I step back from her hurried measurements and let out a deep breath. “I found this list, when Dad and I were cleaning your house. You wrote it when you were sixteen. One of the items was to sew your homecoming dress. Do you remember?”

Grandma’s expression is blank. “A list?”

“Yeah, of what you wanted to have happen during junior year. Find a steady, become pep club secretary. You did it, Grandma, and I can tell when I look in your yearbook how happy you were. The things that mattered back then aren’t the same things that matter now.”

“Mallory. I don’t remember a list. I’ve blocked out a lot from high school. It’s kept me sane.” She glances at the clock above her sewing center. “And I really do have to go. Come by Thursday, and we’ll do final alterations then. Maybe talk a bit, if I have time?”

If she has time? Doesn’t she get what I’m telling her? I don’t care about homecoming or even pep club. How can she not remember, how can she not see how important this is? Ginnie’s right, she has changed, and not for the better. I know she’s still dealing with the loss of Grandpa, but we’re all dealing with something, and she should be more aware of that. More aware of
me
.

What I’m getting: a begrudged seamstress.

What I want: my grandma back.

Seriously, I’m going to work on my paper tonight, but first I need to
not
work on the paper. Maybe that’s one of my things—not working on tasks I said I would: My dress. My homework. My life.

I have a date in my bedroom with a block of cheddar cheese and some Ritz crackers. It’s going rather well when my rotary phone rings. I pick up and mumble, “Hello?”

“Hello. This is Oliver Kimball. Is Mallory home?”

“Oliver. Your formality gives me hives.”

“Hey, it earned me a merit badge.” He pauses. “What else should I say, ‘Yo yo yo, I needs to get my talk on with Mall-Dawg’?”

I swallow my Ritz. “No. Never. Ever ever ever. Wow, aren’t there some hipster police that are going to come after you now?”

“What are you doing?”

I consider my half block of cheese that was a full block when the evening began. “Homework. History.”

“Oh, sorry. Do you need me to let you go?”

“No, I need a break.” I stick the cheese in a plastic bag and roll up the tube of Ritz. “So, what’s up? Did you want to discuss pep strategy? Go over float blueprints?”

“I hope it’s okay, but I already designed everything. I’m in pep overdrive lately. So I thought Wednesday we could
order pizza and have everyone come over. Does that sound good?”

Nope. Wednesday is the worst. I have a paper due Thursday. “Works for me.” There’s another pause. “Is that it?”

“Actually, I was just kind of calling … I was just calling to talk,” Oliver says. “If you have time.”

This is weird. No one just calls to talk. My friends and I don’t even talk on the phone much anymore, not unless it’s something that can’t be addressed by text.

“So who do you have for history?” Oliver asks. I think it’s his way to start an official conversation. I wonder if his etiquette merit badge included a list of twenty conversation starters.

“Mr. Hanover. Our Industrial Revolution projects are due Thursday.”

“I wanted him last year but didn’t get him. I’m taking AP this year—if I take the test early, I can test out of the class and get college credit.”

“Oh. Wow.” I feel like we should be leading up to something here, an item of business. Boys don’t just call on the phone unless they have a motive. Homework help, for example. Or if they want to ask you out.

Oh, criminy. Is he going to ask me out? Is this about homecoming? It can’t be about homecoming. Too soon, too soon. Avoid the question.

“Are you going to homecoming?” I ask. Or, you know, just ask the question first.

“Yeah, I am. With Carmen Berg? Do you know her?”

I don’t know Carmen, but I know
of
her. Pixie blond hair,
nose ring—plays in a mediocre rock band, but she’s smart like Oliver. They’re a nice fit. So … good for him. Oliver deserves a deserving girl. I’m totally happy for them and not jealous at all because less than two weeks ago I had a date, and I can’t expect the universe to realign just to suit my personal needs. I can hope for it, but not expect. Besides, I’m not even sure what my needs are. “Kind of. She seems like a great girl.”

Great girl?
Sounds like I’m a parent patting Oliver on the back. Of course he has a date. Why wouldn’t he have a date? He’s Oliver Kimball—I’m sure lots of girls have a crush on him. So naturally he has a date with an actual person and not a bubble gum brand. Good for him. Really.

“She
is
a great girl,” Oliver says. “We made a deal freshman year that if we both were single when we were seniors, we’d go to homecoming together. So it’ll be fun.”

“Oh, I bet.”

“No stressing about hooking up,” Oliver adds.

“Well, cool.” I pause. Why did he add that detail? “I’m going too.”

“Yeah? Who with?”

“Myself.” I thought that would sound lame, but it doesn’t. There’s nothing wrong with being alone. I’ve been alone for, what, ten days? And I’ve learned more about myself than in months with Jeremy.

“That’s great, Mallory. Save me a dance, okay?”

“Sure.” I could save him every dance. It wouldn’t be hard. Well, I’ll probably have to go to the bathroom at some point.
“So what else should we discuss? This talking on the phone without a set topic is kind of new to me.”

“I don’t know. I don’t talk much to people on the phone or in real life. I was just sitting here in my room, listening to music, and this song came on that, don’t laugh, kind of reminded me of you. So I called.”

My stomach dips. And it’s not dipping because a certain someone shared a similar moment with a certain other girl. This is a genuine, girly moment all by myself. Oliver was thinking of me. Song-on-the-radio thinking of me. “What song?”

“It’s called ‘Like She’ll Always Be.’ Have you heard it?”

“No, who sings it?”

“Great band called Jimmy Eat World. They broke out in the late nineties, now they’re a little more under-the-radar. Look them up on your iPod.”

“I don’t have an iPod.”

“Dude, no phone, no computer. Are you a Luddite?”