Going Vintage (30 page)

I’m one of the only juniors taking the school bus down to the parade. This is what I wanted, a little solitude before the onslaught of spirit. The homecoming parade is a huge tradition in Orange. The Circle and most of Chapman Street are barricaded off, and the elementary schools and junior highs are let out early so kids can come watch. Not only does every class have a float, as do the larger clubs, but there’s the band, and cheerleaders, and a local Cadillac dealer drives the school administration. Now that I’ve started to take stock of things that are my “things,” I’m going to say parades have not previously been on the list.

And probably won’t be added to the list.

Everything certainly
looks
perfect. The seniors are the clear winners with their anime float, and one of the vintage stores made a float for the homecoming court that also has alumni from 1993 waving along. It’s another clear California day, the kind that seems like it can never end and never should. And even though I’ve only been in a school organization for a little over a week, I feel like I belong to this big picture in a way I
never did before. I have a piece of ownership in this school, instead of just feeling owned by one person. And I’m wearing my vintage letterman sweater. Forget the dirt smell I couldn’t get rid of after three washings, I look fabulous.

The problem isn’t the atmosphere; it’s the number of people pushing past me, too many names and stories and situations. Normally I would be in the crowd with Jeremy, watching, not actively participating. This crush of involved students is overwhelming. There are girls who have T-shirts about their class, about their cliques, and there are boys in bejeweled Burger King crowns. I’m so isolated in my
O
sweater spirit, but it’s my duty as pep club secretary to be here. And, like so many other things in my life lately, I want to do this to see if I can, even though being apart in a large group is the worst kind of lonely.

My Jeremy radar, which has yet to deactivate, signifies that he’s near the JV cheerleaders’ float, talking to Isaac Stevens and his sophomore girlfriend. The weird thing is, we’re in the same general area and I’m not thinking about how good he smells or what a good kisser he was. Is. I’m not torturing myself with bittersweet memories and could-have-beens. Seeing him still isn’t easy, but maybe I’m past the part where it’s painfully hard. I rub the string on my finger. Oliver was right—you can remember to forget.

Oliver. I scan the crowd and find him leaning against our float, one leg up with a grip of pom-poms under his arm. Vance is next to him and they’re scanning the crowd, looking for … me.

I push through the masses, sweat prickling underneath my sweater. “Hey! Bessie looks great!”

Oliver’s in his George Jetson costume, a futuristic white shirt, blue pants, and a slick orange wig. Glasses are off. He’s the hottest cartoon I’ve ever seen. “Seriously? I’m wearing this costume and
Bessie
gets the compliments?”

“You look great too.” I clear my throat. “Or your costume does.”

“Yeah, well, not me.” Vance folds his arms over his furry gray chest. His mom makes the costumes and he still gets stuck with Astro the dog. “I wish we’d done some cool karate cartoon instead.”

Oliver sticks the pom-poms into Vance’s hand. “Karate cartoon over
The Jetsons
? Vance, no. Trust me, this is the best idea ever.”

“It’s your idea.”

“Why, yes, it is. Now go find Judy and Jane. The parade is going to start soon.”

Vance trudges away, his tail between his legs.

Oliver readjusts his wig. “Your costume is in the truck bed. Are you ready for this?”

“You might be the president, but don’t forget that I was the originator of pep. I was born ready.”

Oliver opens the door to the truck, courtesy of Vance’s family. The kid ended up being a more vital pep club member than anticipated. Inside is a refrigerator-size box painted blue with a little white apron attached. A headband antenna and maid hat lie on top. “Here you go, Ruby the maid.”

“Oh wow. This … this is asking a lot.”

“Just get in.”

My sweater comes off, so I’m just in my gray T-shirt and jeans. I squat down, and Oliver sticks the box over my head. My arms go through the slightly uneven armholes, and I tug my head through the top. Oliver completes the look by adding the hat and antenna. He smooths down my hair (which doesn’t give me goose bumps—nope, not one bit).

We analyze each other for a moment, both in our ridiculous cartoon replicas. Then Oliver scratches his ear and says, “Look, Mallory. About yesterday.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I am.” His forehead wrinkles. “I want to make something clear.”

There’s a buzz in the crowd, a frenzy of movement. Cars are starting, groups converging. The two of us stand still.

“What I wanted to say is … look. I’m … I’m
not
sorry.”

“You’re not sorry?” My voice comes out small and contained, like how my body feels in this huge box.

“Right.” Oliver levels his gaze. Those eyes. “I’m not.”

He’s not.

Someone grabs my arm and whirls me around. It’s Ginnie, in the Jane costume, looking futuristically frazzled. “Would you guys hurry? The trailers are starting to move.”

It’s pandemonium everywhere, with cheerleaders bouncing into a line and cartoon characters scrambling onto floats. But Oliver’s still in front of me, waiting for some response I can’t give.

He’s not apologizing for the costume here, right? No, I’m buzzing down to my toes, and toes do not lie. Maybe that kiss wasn’t the stupidest thing he’s ever done after all. I break into a smile and look down.

Ginnie pushes me onto the float and I figure the moment is done, that Oliver and I can talk about this later, although I have no idea how
that
conversation will go down. But when I look back … when I look back, Oliver is still staring. The band starts up, the crowd stands and cheers, the cheerleaders erupt into a pom-pom frenzy, but Oliver doesn’t budge.

“President Oliver, stop staring at my sister and get on the float before I assassinate your butt!” Ginnie yells.

Vance’s dad starts the truck. Finally, that smile tugs on the right side of Oliver’s mouth. He hops onto the float with effortless grace, and I wish I were Jane Jetson instead of the boxy robot. Then we’d be married, at least in an animated way.

And it would be so much better if we were going to the dance together. And how lame is it that I don’t have a date …

Mallory. You don’t need a date
.

I turn around to see if that was Ginnie who just said that. But she’s on the hitch side of the trailer, laughing with Cardin. No one else is near me, and I realize that the voice was in my head.

I don’t need a date. A date wouldn’t solve anything. The List is all I need for a boyfriend right now. Oliver might not be sorry that kiss happened, but I’m still not sure. About any of this.

Oliver shakes his pom-pom, and everyone else cheers and
jumps. And I am alone, in this crowd, on this float. I don’t look at the passing faces. I don’t find Jeremy, I don’t look back at Oliver.

I close my eyes. Although there isn’t an actual sunrise, I can feel something awakening in me, and so I drown out the sound and focus on finding a Rumination that isn’t boy-centered.

I don’t come up with anything. But at least I try.

Chapter 23

Menu for dinner soiree, compiled by Ginnie after meticulous early 1960s era research in cookbooks (hard core!) and the Internet (I’ll forgive her):

1. Shrimp cocktail
.

2. Cheese fondue with bread and green apples. (We’ve set up a little bar table for this, since you have to stay close to the cheese. Good rule for life, actually. STAY CLOSE TO THE CHEESE.)

3. Pigs in a blanket. Little cocktail weenies wrapped in Pillsbury crescent rolls. They’re delish, but the name makes it
sound like I’m slaughtering a sleeping pig just so I can get my snack on. Which … might be the case
.

4. Jell-O heaven. Pink Jell-O mixed with
Cool Whip and topped with maraschino cherries, served in little cups
.

5. Ritz crackers with sliced ham and a cheese ball
.

6. Cream cheese in celery. That’s it. I’m not making this stuff up
.

7. Deviled eggs
.

8. Stuffed mushrooms. Don’t let the mushroom make you think we went all healthy. Sausage. Cream cheese. Combine. Stuff
.

9. Rice Krispies treats. I didn’t know that Rice Krispies existed back then, but I’m so glad we’ll have something decent to erase the gross celery
.

10. Sherbet punch
.

Our team loses the football game that night. I don’t know the rules of football, so I can’t say how close the game was. They did have great Kettle Korn at the snack bar, though. Our family goes to Ginnie’s soccer game Saturday morning, she scores two goals, and we’re home by two to start soiree preparations. The good thing about early sixties cocktail food—there really isn’t much cooking involved. It seems that the food item was
deemed fancy as long as it was served on a frilly toothpick. Which really just proves I was born in the wrong era if there was ever a time when mini sausages equaled class.

Ginnie and I don’t talk about any of the things I know we should talk about. I’m planning a huge information unload on Sunday, after the dinner and dance. There’s no reason for her to worry about her long-lost aunt, blogging Mom, and her first date all in one day. Maybe I’ll wait until I’m back in the technology world and text her the information. Like Yvonne said, it’s less awkward that way.

Ginnie scowls at the mini sausages. “Next time you want to connect to another time, can you go with prerevolutionary France? Or can we do some hippie commune so there’s food I can actually eat?”

“No one is stopping you from eating this,” I say.

“The documentary I saw on the ingredients in a hot dog is stopping me.” She wrinkles her nose. “But I guess Bennett loves meat, so he’ll be happy.”

“He’ll be happy when you make out with him tonight.”

“We’ll see,” Ginnie says mysteriously.

Today should be the day I finish The List. I’ve accomplished three out of five, and once Ginnie and Bennett cozy up tonight, the steady item will be done. I just need to figure out living dangerously, which might involve eating the cream cheese and sausage mixture Ginnie is presently concocting.

The doorbell rings a little after four. Ginnie is wrist-deep in trans fat, so I scoot down the hallway, whistling an old Beach Boys song. I stop midwhistle when I see who it is.

There is Grandma, holding a large hatbox that I assume contains my dress. It would be a glorious moment, the changing of the guards, were it not for my long-lost aunt standing next to Grandma. The aunt I have yet to tell Ginnie exists.

I should hide the frilly toothpicks now so they’re not used as weapons.

“Oh, you’re here! I thought you’d be out doing things for homecoming. I was just going to drop this off, maybe see if your parents were around?”

“They’re out running some last-minute errands for the soiree. Ginnie is here, though.”

Grandma shakes her head. “No, she’s stressed. She doesn’t need”—she glances at Candace—“to worry about us just now, before the dance. You understand.”

Candace leans her hand on the doorframe, gingerly, like she needs the support but doesn’t want to intrude. This is her brother’s house, and she was about to meet him. But we aren’t going to talk about that, or the fact that Grandma has always been involved in Dad’s life, the child she kept. I still don’t know if Candace is married and if she has kids and if those kids know that she is here meeting a grandma they don’t know at all, and if Candace has anything in common with her birth mom besides sewing skills. She might not even like my grandma.

I don’t want Ginnie to get upset by this, either, so I step out onto the porch and close the door behind me. Grandma opens the box and it’s all poof and satin and glory. She shakes the dress, holding it out at arm’s length. “Don’t be mad, but I added some black underlay with embellishment around the
waist. Candace had to help me. It’s how I wanted the dress to look when I made it the first time.”

I take the dress from her outstretched hand. Black crystal beads rain down the bodice, and she’s added black tulle to the white poof. It’s still true to period, but it’s old-style glamour now instead of sugary sweet.

Candace holds out a pair of long black gloves to me too. “And we went ahead and found these too, since your grandma said you were going for sixties vintage.”

They stand there, on the front porch, waiting for me to do or say something. But I’m at a total loss for words, because …

1. The dress is just that beautiful, and I’m going to wear it tonight, on my date with myself.