Going Vintage (32 page)

Grandma’s dress is much tighter as I shimmy into the poof, pinching my shoulder blades together so I can do the zipper. Once I’m in place, I peek over my shoulder at the full-length mirror behind my door. The girl looking at me, with the freckled back, slim arms and mysterious eyes, could be out of a
Seventeen
magazine fifty years ago, it’s that authentic. The look is finished off with some red drugstore lipstick that I’ll never wear again.

“Mallory!” Ginnie yells. “Hurry! Your surprise is here!”

I could borrow Mom’s pearls, but I opt to keep on Grandma’s necklace. It’s become a symbol of The List, even if The List technically doesn’t represent whatever I thought it did. Maybe I’ll see the real benefits from the other side. Or maybe I’ll feel like a loser all night long and remind myself to not be so nosy next time I go through Grandma’s stuff.

The odds are in my favor that Ginnie will get her steady, and it doesn’t take much thought to do something dangerous, so I dig my cell phone out of a shoe in my closet. Ginnie didn’t find it during her tech sweep, and I’d been hiding it there so I’d have it when I complete The List.

I find my family outside, staring at a white limo parked in front of our house. Dad has his hands behind his head; Mom is giggling like crazy.

“Did Bennett get you that?” I ask.

My family turns around. Mom gasps, Dad dissolves into
more
tears, and Ginnie beams. “There’s the vintage queen.”

“You look beautiful,” Dad gets out.

“Hurry, let me get a picture of the sisters,” Mom says.

Even though I know this picture is going online, I pose and smile. I can get into it with Mom tomorrow. I’m nervous enough about this dance, and there’s only so much my heavy-duty deodorant can combat.

“Where’s Bennett?” I ask.

“He forgot to gas up his car. He’ll be right back.”

“Why does he need gas when you guys got a limo?”

“The limo isn’t for me. It’s for you,” Ginnie says.

“What?”

Dad slings his arm around our shoulders. “Ginnie surprised your mom and me with a special date. We’re dropping you off, then hitting the town.”

I shoot a look at Ginnie. She shrugs. “I reserved it for Bennett and me, but the more I thought about it, the more I figured we didn’t need it. Mom and Dad will get more use out of it.”

This is another part of her save-our-parents marriage scheme. An extreme part. I’m going to have to tell her the truth tonight, before she rents out a wedding chapel for their vow renewals.

The driver steps out and opens the car door. I thought there wasn’t anything lamer than going to a formal dance alone, but I was wrong. My parents are taking me in a limo.

Thanks, Ginnie.

Chapter 24

Things I would rather do than go to this dance:

1. Scrub toilets
.

2. Eat storage-unit cockroaches
.

3. This list could get long if I let it
.

I am in a limo, on my way to a school dance, watching my parents snuggle on the bench opposite me. I have already placed the champagne bucket nearby in case I need to vomit.

They’ve changed into “going out” clothes—Dad in a bow tie, short-sleeved button-down shirt and faded jeans, an ensemble that matches his tattoos but maybe not his age. Mom’s in a low-cut black number, and they’re giggling like teenagers,
wrapped in their luxury vehicle cocoon. Which is exactly what Ginnie wanted, and I should be glad that my parents are getting along, but everything my mom does bothers me since I found out about her blog.

I stare out the tinted window. “Can’t you two unstick from each other for five minutes?”

“It’s good for our relationship. Cuddles count,” Mom says.

“That sounds like a good blog-post title,” I say under my breath.

“Mallory.” She sighs. “Honey. Now isn’t the time to bring that up.”

“Oh, why, does Dad not know?” I sit up in my seat. I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t get heated, that I would save this until later, but I can’t control myself in this confined space. I hate how … how happy they look, like they’re the perfect couple, when they fight in front of us all the time and have no idea what Ginnie really thinks or what I saw online. “Dad, do you read Mom’s blog?”

“Well.” Dad shoots Mom a look. “I know she has one. I don’t usually—”

“It’s okay, Kevin. I know you don’t read it.” Mom shrugs.

“Well, maybe you should,” I say, angry at my dad now for being so clueless. “Then you’d know she wrote a post about my breakup and said I have low self-esteem.”

Mom twists her hands in her lap. “You’re taking it out of context. I wrote that post because I was worried about you.”

“Then talk to your best friend about it. Don’t tell thousands of Internet strangers about me.” I shake my head. “Did
you know I gave up all modern technology for the last two weeks because of what happened with Jeremy? Because everyone was online talking about my personal business? And then I have a moment of weakness and get on your computer, only to find out that you’re talking about me online too, only worse. You had no right doing that.”

“Why were you blogging about Mallory on a coupon blog?” Dad asks.

Mom turns to Dad, then to me, unsure what issue to address first. She finally casts me a desperate look. “Mallory, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. I think of my readers as friends, and I did want advice. That blog … it’s something else besides being a mom or a wife or Dad’s job. It’s my thing, you know?”

I rub my lips together, remembering too late I’m wearing lipstick. Should my mom have blogged about my relationship without consulting me? Absolutely not, and we’ll have to set some online boundaries about what I feel comfortable with her discussing. Is she entitled to have “a thing,” something to grow and connect and expand? Absolutely, and I can’t believe this is the point that ties me to her, makes me understand. Being online is something real for her, something valuable. “Yeah, okay.”

“Sometimes I forget how big the blog is now, forget that I have … an audience.”

Dad shakes his head. “How big are we talking?”

Big enough that she can lie about selling those cuff links
, I think. I wonder if Mom will bring that up, since Dad clearly has no concept just how successful
Totally Hot! Totally Thrifty!
is.

“I mostly blog about coupons, but I also have deals of the week from your antiques business,” she says. “Your cuff links were actually last week’s deal.”

“You sold antique cuff links on your blog for fourteen thousand dollars?” Dad asks.

“Maybe for less than I told you.”

“How much less?” Dad asks.

“I don’t know.” Mom pauses. “Minus seven or eight thousand.”

Dad’s jaw hardens. “I see why Mallory got so upset. You’ve been lying to this family.”

“Kevin, I—”

“I already spent that money you said we made on advertising.” Dad’s voice is rising. They’re headed to that awkward fighting place, and there’s no out from the car. “I bought that trailer on credit, thinking we had the money, extended my booth size—”

“Dad,” I cut in, unsure why I’m coming to my mom’s defense. Maybe because I understand wanting a “thing,” maybe because I realize her intent wasn’t malicious. Her post was a mom asking for help. Help from whoever happens to do an Internet search on coupons, but help nonetheless. “I’m sure Mom still has the money.”

She nods. “I added sponsors to my blog a few months ago, and I make an income on that now. Please don’t be mad. I know you like to be the breadwinner, and you are, but I saw a chance to make extra money and—”

“I would think that I’m secure enough in my manhood
that you would realize that doesn’t matter. You don’t need to lie about how much I make financially to cover up how successful you are,” Dad says, dazed. “I don’t know if I should yell at you or kiss you.”

“Please neither,” I say.

“You’ve been working so hard on your business,” Mom says. “I didn’t want to take away from that.”

“The only reason this business is
in
business is because of you,” Dad says.

She nuzzles into his shoulder.

I interrupt before they can pull another one eighty and sap out on each other. “There’s something else,” I say. “Do you guys know why Ginnie got a limo?”

“So you won’t feel bad about going to the dance by yourself, sweetheart,” Dad says.

“No. First she thought you were having an affair, Mom, because of all your computer sneakiness.”

“Why would she—” Mom starts.

I hold up a hand. “Doesn’t matter. She also thinks you two are headed to a divorce because of how much you fight.”

“We don’t fight that much,” Dad says.

The limo slows into the school parking lot. I unroll the tinted window, letting in some brisk air. A group of kids in formal wear run in front of us, their laughter cutting the tension.

“Honey, we’re fine,” Mom says. “Better than fine. We just express our emotions very openly—”

“I’m not the daughter you should be having this talk with.” I slide out of the limo and poke my head into the open
door. “Ginnie’s the one who rented the limo. But obviously something is going on that made her worried. So maybe spend the ride figuring that out.”

Mom sighs. “You sound like the parent here.”

“Ah.” I smile. “Make
that
your next blog post.” I slam the door and turn to the large high school gymnasium looming before me. The limo starts to drive away, and Mom and Dad pop out of the sunroof, yelling things like “We love you!” and “You make us so proud!” but their voices are soon lost in the wind.

I’m glad I rode with them. Their relationship isn’t perfect in a lot of ways, but it’s something real. And real should probably be the goal, not perfection. Every relationship is flawed; you just have to figure out how to make it work. Keep trying. That viewpoint might have saved things between Jeremy and me. Could
still
save things with Oliver. If I want that. Does he want that?

I square my shoulders and shake out the poof of my dress. Going to a dance all by myself, without even latching on to a group or walking in with friends,
seemed
like a good way to prove how strong and independent I am. Just like I’m sure twelve-hour child workdays
seemed
like a good idea during the Industrial Revolution. Wow, a real-life curriculum application. I should ask Mr. Hanover to give me extra credit.

The only warmth I have is a black cardigan, so I scurry into the dance and thrust my ticket into the hands of two ASB underclassmen.

“Just you?” one girl asks, totally matter-of-fact, but the question still cuts.

“Yep.”

“All right.” She flashes a smile. “Have fun!”

Fun? This isn’t about fun. I spend the next five minutes in that hallway, literally talking myself into going inside, and I don’t care that the ASB girls are staring at me. They’re selling tickets at a table outside of the dance, so who are they to judge?

I can’t believe I’m doing this, showing up at a dance by myself after all the Jeremy shenanigans. This isn’t just stupid, it’s … dangerous. Socially, that is. And wasn’t this whole list a social experiment anyway? I should count this as doing something dangerous. No, seriously, I
will
count it. Mallory Bradshaw, woman of danger and … datelessness.

I am so close now, just final steady confirmation from my sister, and I’ve actually started and
finished
something important for the first time in my life. It is that shot of confidence that finally pushes me through the open gym doors.

They’ve made a white-and-silver balloon arch, and tiaras and stars hang from the gym ceiling. The decorations committee carried over the cartoon theme well with a nod to Disney princesses. Living so close to Disneyland, someone must have had a hookup, because I recognized the thrones for queen and king from the Disney parade last summer.

One more beat, another deep breath, and my legs are moving, my heart is hammering and … that’s it, really. I’m here. The music doesn’t stop to signify my arrival. I’m at my junior homecoming dance alone.

Alone.

Stag.

By myself.

And the most surprising part?

It’s okay.

No one is watching me or judging me or even thinking about me. It’s like this is my very own moment. If I were here with a date, I’d be worried if he was having a good time, I would be thinking about what he thinks about me, if he likes my dress.
I
like my dress. That’s more than enough.

Alone looks good on me.

But of course, there’s my sister, sitting at a table, stirring a water cup with her finger. Bennett is nowhere in sight. She grunts when she sees me, which isn’t the warm sisterly welcome I would have hoped for.