Goodbye, Rebel Blue Hardcover (29 page)

“You guys go ahead and go in,” I tell the Cupcakes as we pile out of the car. “I need to fix this hair-clip thingy.”

“You sure?” Sandy asks. “It might be awkward to walk in by yourself. We can wait.”

Three other Cupcakes nod. Even Pen gives me a quick dip.

“Go ahead,” I insist. “I’ll only be a minute.”

Pen shuts the car door but doesn’t leave my side. “You okay?”

I slide my fingers into the hair shellacked to the side of my head and try to tug loose a few hairs.

“No.”

“Do you want to go home?”

“No, I need to do this.” Or I will regret with every cell in my body not trying to patch things up with Nate. I want him to know I’m willing to do this. For him.

“Then stop messing with your hair. You’re going to ruin your look.” Penelope untangles my fingers and tugs a lock from the updo. “There, that’s better.”

The skin at my temples is less tight, and my head no longer throbs. Pen holds a compact mirror.

A long blue streak spirals down one side of my face. Much better. I steady my hands on the sides of my gown. I have nothing to lose tonight. Nate’s already not talking to me, and I don’t give a crap about embarrassing myself in front of Del Rey School luminaries. I can do this.

A pathway of crisscrossing bricks leads to the entrance of the preserve’s event center. My step grows steady and quickens. When Pen and I reach the entryway, I lift my foot to the first step, but I can’t move. I give my foot a tug and stumble forward. Pen grabs me before my carefully made-up face slams into the sandstone patio.

“I told Gabby I can’t walk in heels,” I say.

Pen helps me stand upright, but I fall again. I look at my foot and see half a shoe. The stiletto heel is wedged between two bricks. I reach down and snatch the broken heel from the ground and slip out of the shoes.

Pen gasps. “You are not walking in there barefoot, are you?”

“I don’t have much of a choice,” I say on a hiss.

Pen rubs her knuckle across her chin. “I guess you’re right. Everyone takes their shoes off after pictures anyway.”

I breathe in her words. Right here, right now, bare feet are right. The sandstone is gritty but still warm from the sun. My mom didn’t sign me up for soccer or dance lessons, and she was a horrible math teacher, but she taught me how to be confident in bare feet. Anyway, Nate likes my toes, and according to his ten-year-old sister, he
like
likes me.

With the wounded pair of shoes dangling from my fingertips, I walk into prom with Pen. The sign on the easel at the door announces
Welcome to Bella Notte.

Before me stretches an Italian courtyard. Roman columns guard the entryway. Trellises with grapevines line the walls. Twinkle lights hang from potted trees. At the photo station sits a gondola against the backdrop of a faded Venetian palazzo.

Ride in a gondola in Venice, Italy, with the love of my life.

I get dizzy, and Pen jumps back. “Do not throw up on my dress,” she says.

I release the breath I’d been holding. “I’m good. It’s all good.” Because this is no longer about Kennedy’s list. The list is gone, and she stopped talking to me days ago. This is about me. And Nate.

Assured that I’m not going to make a fool of either one of us, Cousin Pen heads off toward a group of Cupcakes. The large room, aglow with only twinkle lights and candles, holds at least a thousand students. An entire wall of glass overlooks the ocean, and somewhere on that ocean is a twenty-five-foot boat with a teak deck and dolphin bobblehead, and when Nate takes that boat out next summer, I want to be on it.

Shoeless, I walk the perimeter, squinting through the semi-darkness for dark hair and dimples. I picture Nate in his proper and perfect prom attire: black tuxedo, shiny black shoes, and raven-wing hair, every bit of him oozing charm and confidence.

Hundreds of students crowd the dance floor, and I zigzag through the dancers, tapping shoulders and nudging people out of the way in my search for Nate. On my second swing around the floor, the emcee announces the senior prom court. The queen is a girl with orange-red hair and red platform shoes with laces and a tassel, like something out of a 1940s movie. The guy wears a cute scarf.

Nate is nowhere to be seen. I rush outside and search the patio and fire pit area. I try the rooftop lookout. I even scour the parking lot, searching for his dad’s truck. No Nate. But he has to be here, because he’s a prom kind of guy.

Back inside the ballroom, I go on another Nate hunt, and when I don’t find him, I head for the only place I haven’t looked. On the way to the men’s bathroom I spot a familiar buzz cut atop no neck near one of the food and beverage stations. I run to Bronson and grab his arm. “Where’s Nate?”

Bronson, who holds a plate of mini meatballs and mozzarella sticks, looks at me and squints.

“Rebel?”

I smooth my hand along the sea-glass hair clip. “Yep, I clean up pretty good. Now where’s Nate?”

Bronson pops a meatball into his mouth. “He’s not coming.”

“What? He’s supposed to be here with a girl from his calculus class.”

“Something came up with her family, and she had to cancel.”

“And he didn’t ask anyone else?”

“No.”

“Isn’t he coming alone?”

“He sold his ticket.”

“That makes no sense.” I clutch his arm. “Prom is important to him. He should be here.” My words are loud and panicky.

Bronson leans in. “Have you been drinking?”

“No.” I nudge him away. “Nor am I doing drugs.” I tap the broken shoes against my thigh. What now? I didn’t come for the mozzarella sticks. I don’t want to dance and stand in circles chatting about summer plans. I want Nate.

I spin around—and smack into a bronze brick wall.

“Where have you been?” Nate’s words are snappish and breathy, as if he’s been running. But he’s not dressed for running. Nor is he dressed for prom. He wears shorts, a white tank, and flip-flops. A sloppy wing of hair hangs over his forehead, and I have a crazy urge to run my fingers through it.

“Gabby said you were supposed to be with Penelope and her friends.”

“I’ve been running around looking for
you
,” I say. “Where have you been?”

“Running around looking for you.” He grabs my arm and pulls me toward the door. “Mission accomplished. Now we need to get going.”

I dig my heels in. “Wait, what are you doing?”

“Getting you out of here.”

“Why? This is prom.”

He pushes his hair off his forehead, but it falls back. “You don’t belong here.”

The panic swirls in my chest. No. He’s wrong. This conversation is wrong. “Listen, Nate. I’m trying. Don’t you see I’m trying?” I raise my hands in a pleading gesture, and the broken heel falls to the floor. I grab it and tuck the wounded shoes behind my back. “I can do this. I can be a normal girl at a normal dance. For you.”

“No, Reb. I’m serious. You don’t belong
here
.” I open my mouth, but he presses a finger to my lips. “And neither do I.” For the first time tonight, Nate’s dimples appear, and all of a sudden things seem very, very right.

Heads spin as Nate hustles me out the door. It’s a good thing I’ve been working out with the track team for weeks, or I’d be struggling to match his pace as we hurry along the boardwalk. I don’t ask where we’re going, because Nate, as usual, has everything under control, or, at least, I hope he does.

There’s something different about him tonight, something a little less buttoned-up.

Tonight the moon hangs full and low, the sky glowing with false twilight that illuminates Nate’s face. His hint of a smile grows to a full-fledged grin by the time we reach the marina. He waves to the guard at the security booth and leads me along the crisscrossing docks lined with boats of every shape and size. I picture Nate’s face the day he told me about the twenty-five-foot Hunter sailboat with teak deck and bobblehead dolphin. I saw joy mingled with longing and a dash of adventure. He wears the same look now, but to the tenth power.

Midway down a dock, he turns me toward the water and motions to a boat with a grand sweep of his arm. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

“She’s …” I press my lips together, trying to keep a straight face. “She’s something, all right.” I know very little about boats, but this tiny sailboat is no sleek, twenty-five-foot Hunter with a teak deck that will make it all the way to the Baja.

“She’s a twelve-footer, a 1974 Montgomery, and she’s mine.”

“You bought this boat?”

“Technically, I’m still buying it.” He takes the shoes from my hand and flings them into the bottom of the boat. “I took the money that I would have spent on prom—money for a tux, dinner, flowers, the tickets—and used it to put a down payment on this. The former owner is going to let me make payments every week, and, come the end of summer, she’ll be paid off and all mine.”

“I’m happy for you Nate. I really am.” He’s listening to his heart and honoring his true self, and I can see it on his face.

He squeezes my hand. “Me, too.” Then he lets out a quick breath. “Now it’s time.”

“For what?”

His dimples deepen. “The anti-prom.”

I laugh. “The what?”

“You’ll see.” He puts one foot into the boat and reaches for my hand. I lift my skirt to climb in, but he shouts, “Wait!” He drops my hand and leaps into the boat without a sound, all strength and agility and grace. Still a sporto at heart. He fumbles with a box at the front end, and seconds later, soft violin music floats on the air. Then he reaches into his pocket, takes out a book of matches, and lights a tiny candle with some saintly guy’s picture on it.

I picture his sister playing the music and his little saintly brother offering one of his candles, and a lump rises in my throat. “It’s beautiful.”

He reaches for my hand but then smacks his head. “No! Not yet. Man, I’m screwing this up.”

With an intense seriousness, he reaches into his pocket and takes out a white bow tie and slips it around his neck. Finally, he takes my hand and escorts me onto his sailboat. On one of the bench seats sits a tray with two sandwiches, a single apple, and two bobbing mounds of flan with a shiny brown sauce.

“Mateo said you really need to try flan with caramel sauce. It’s traditional and his best.”

I can’t speak.

Nate’s fingers worry the right side of his hair. “I know it’s not normal and—”

“No!” I hold up a hand and add more softly, “No, it’s perfect.” Like Nate. Like everything about this strange and wonderful night. I have flowers from Uncle Bob, a barrette from Aunt Evelyn, Cousin Pen’s broken shoes, cover-up from Macey, and Percy’s penny. My life is far from perfect, and it will never be perfect, but right now, being here at this moment, surrounded by these things, is the right choice.

I’ve made choices, and I am exactly where I need to be, when I need to be there. With a giddy laugh, I sit on the middle bench, and Nate moves to the back of the boat and starts the engine.

He unhooks the tether and pushes off from the dock. “Time for the ol’
Rebel Girl
to sail.”

“Rebel Girl?”
I dip my head in a not-so-humble bow. “I’m flattered that you’re naming your boat after me.”

Nate aims the boat toward the open ocean. “Nope. She had the name long before me.”

“Come on, Nate.”

Nate points to the back of the boat. “Take a look.”

I bunch my wispy skirt in my hands and walk to the back of the boat on bare feet. Written across the back in faded letters are the words
Rebel Girl
.

Yes, this is where I belong. I sink back onto the seat, my skirt fanning out like a silvery cloud. I turn my face to the midnight sky, to the stars, to whatever is beyond. Tonight, it all feels right and good.

It’s destiny, I say.

Every inch of my skin prickles, and I grab the sides of the boat. It’s too dark to see, but I can’t help but search for a perky blond ponytail.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This story was born in the aftermath of three deaths that profoundly changed my life and the lives of people I love. To the three who died, thank you for making this world a better place. Joy and peace on your respective journeys.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Young adult author Shelley Coriell writes stories about teens on the edge of love, life-changing moments, and a little bit of crazy. Her debut,
Welcome, Caller, This Is Chloe
, was a 2012 Indie Next Pick, and
Publishers Weekly
praised Coriell for her “sparkling wit and great skill in creating complex characters with memorable personalities.” You can find Shelley at
shelleycoriell.com
and on Twitter
@ShelleyCoriell.

Welcome, Caller, This Is Chloe