The Secrets of Attraction (9 page)

“The bigger question is can you handle him handling your edgy side? Because I think he'd handle it fine.”

“Hmm, exactly what I was going for,” she said, pivoting one last time, a sly grin crossing her face.

“Okay, how about this one,” Jazz said, slinking out of the dressing room in a red cocktail dress with an A-line skirt.

“Jasmine Ka-Day-am—that is . . .”

“Stunning,” Wren finished.

“No, come on, better than the white one?”

She stood before the mirror, lifting out the skirt a bit and then letting it swish back into place. The color complimented her bronze skin and dark hair in a way that made her look lit-up. Not sure how she pulled it off, but she looked sexy and modest at the same time.

“The other one was nice, but this is, wow,” I said, stepping back to take in the dress again.

“That's just it, I think it might be too special,” she said, turning to the side. “It's not like it's prom or anything. Just a dance with someone I barely know.”

“No, this is the dress that Logan is going to see you in and forget why he's there with Darby,” Wren said.

“Are you bummed that you're going with Kyle?” I asked.

She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. “No, I'm happy I'm going with him, I guess. He's cute, nice, can carry on a conversation, but he's, well, I already know I don't want to like, hook up with him, and shouldn't that be part of a dance? Shouldn't you want to kiss your date? I mean if it happens, great, but I'm thinking more about Logan. It doesn't feel right.”

“You're putting too much importance on what things
should
be like,” I said, popping back into my dressing room to try on my next choice—a strapless black-and-white brocade dress with a high/low illusion hemline. I fumbled with the zipper for a moment, then went back out to the mirror.

Wren clapped. “Now that is you.”

“Absolutely.” Jazz grinned.

“Yep, I think this is it,” I said, twirling. The dress showed off my legs, which were seriously toned from months of crescent lunges and downward dogs. I pulled both Wren and Jazz next to me and we struck a vampy pose. The saleslady breezed in to collect the clothes off the reject rack.

“How are you girls— Ooh, so pretty,” she said. “What's the occasion?”

We stepped away from each other, giggling.

“Oh, um—Sadie Hawkins Dance,” I said.

“Fun. I have to say that red dress is lovely. Didn't seem like much on the hanger, but on you it's really -- smashing. Let me know if you girls need anything else.” She darted out of the dressing room with clothes draped over her arm.

“See?” I said. “Even the saleslady thinks you look
smashing
.”

“She's not exactly impartial.” Jazz checked out the price tag near her armpit. “And hey, look, all of my birthday money and a month's worth of working for my mom just for what's pretty much a practice date.”

“Okay, you've got to stop this—so what if you're not in love with this guy? We all can't be Wren and Gray.”

They both gave me quizzical looks.

“Aren't you in love with Zach?” Jazz asked.

I laughed, but when neither of them joined in, I stopped.

“No, I'm not,” I said. It felt strange to be declaring it out loud in front of a three-way mirror—endless images of me saying the same thing. “I mean, I like him a lot— we have fun and all, but do I think this is love? Hell-to-the-no, but I'm not hung up on it. Neither is he.”

My little speech was met with an uncomfortable silence. Was it really so awful that I felt that way? Wren checked her butt out in the mirror again. Jazz looked at the floor.

“I just don't know if I can do that. Be all casual,” she said.

“Omigod—lighten up. Consider it an experiment. You didn't ask the guy to marry you, it's a freakin' dance in a high school gym. You're not going to wreck your love life with one awkward date. There are worse ways to spend a Friday night.”

“She's right, Jazz. Kyle's hot and you guys seemed to hit it off that night at the movies. I like the experiment idea.”

“Buy the dress. Kiss the wrong boy. Flirt your butt off.”

Jazz face-palmed, but laughed. “Guys . . . ugh . . . okay. Yes. You're right.”

“Success,” Wren said, waving her hand in the air as she returned to her dressing room.

After our purchases, we wandered over to the food court to meet Mom in front of Jamba Juice. My stomach growled. A berry smoothie would not cut it. What I really wanted was a honking plate of nachos from the Tex-Mex food stand.

“Hey, you guys want to split nach—”

The words stopped as my eyes landed on my mother.

Sitting in front of Jamba Juice.

“Is that Leif? With your mother?” Wren asked.

“Yes.”

Was it him? He looked different in jeans, although I guess it was ridiculous to think he'd be roaming the mall in yoga pants and his mat strapped to his back. He had a life outside the yoga studio, of course. Damn, he wore it just as well. I could not for the life of me understand how my mother could compartmentalize Leif into yoga-information guy. There was a stack of books between them. My mother spoke using gestures that made her look like she was swirling the air around her.

“That's Hot Yogi?” Jazz asked.

“Are they on a date?”

“Nah,” I said. “My mom's thinking of becoming a yoga teacher—Leif is, like, her young hot mentor.”

Mom spotted us and waved us over. She was glowing—no, really—like the space around her was charged. Leif sat with one leg loosely crossed over the other, as if hanging with my mom was the way he spent every Saturday at the mall.

“Am I allowed to see the dress now?” she asked as we got closer.

“Hey,” I said, folding the dress bag over the back of the chair. Wren and Jazz deposited their things next to mine. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Leif laughed. “We bumped into each other in the bookstore.”

“Yes, I was desperately lost in the self-help section when I realized the books I needed were somewhere else. He sort of saved me.”

“Nice.”

“Any change from the dress?” she asked.

“About forty. Oh, um, we were going to get some nachos, is that okay? We've got time, right?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“Want anything?” I looked between them.

“No, I'm on my way out,” Leif said, but he still sat there, sipping his drink.

Wren, Jazz, and I walked over toward the food stands.

“That's cool your mom is going to be an instructor,” Wren said.

“You think?”

“Yes—she's amazing in class. Didn't you see her doing mermaid last week? She just sits there, in the pose; I can't even get my foot to stay in the crook of my elbow that long, I'm always wobbling and she's there totally chill, like she could sit that way for hours.”

“No, I didn't notice,” I said, looking back at them as we waited on line.

Leif finally got up and gave my mother's shoulder a pat before walking away. Nothing sexy about that—except the smile on my mother's face was . . . well, it was obvious that seeing him made her happy. She opened one of the books. He came toward us, looking more college student than guru with his messy hair and messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

“See you next week,” he said as he walked by us.

“Bye,” Wren said, as our heads turned to follow his exit. There was a slight scent that followed him—some citrusy, spicy cologne that enveloped us as he passed.

“I need to get to one of those classes,” Jazz said. “He even smells good.”

“I think that's just the nachos,” Wren said. “I'm seriously starved, can we get the deluxe? You can have my share of the jalapeños.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” I said, looking back at Mom.

She was still smiling.

Once at home, Mom insisted I model my purchase for her and Paul. I tottered down the stairs, holding the bottom part of the dress up so I wouldn't trip to my death.

“Ready?” I called.

“Yep,” my mother said.

“Okay, I'm turning the corner, now.” I reached the landing and pivoted toward the dining room where my mother and Paul sat. Paul had his hands over his eyes. My mother gasped.

“Mads . . . that's gorgeous,” she said, getting up from her seat. Paul uncovered his eyes.

“Va-va-voom,” he said, grinning. I shook my head at the corny compliment, but it did feel kind of good. It was a great dress. And I happened to rock it pretty hard.

My mom grabbed my hands and held them out to the side to get a better view. “You sure Sister Teresa is going to let you get away with so much skin?”

“It's not that bad, is it?”

“I'm just teasing. You look lovely.” She put her hands on each cheek, played with the ends of my hair, pulling some strands toward my face. I knew my hair was in desperate need of serious shaping. It was starting to look shaggy instead of pixie.

“We should lighten up the color around your face before next Friday. Were you thinking of going a little spiky and edgy or kind of soft?”

“I can't decide—maybe softer, but messy? And I was thinking big earrings, but keeping the rest bare, no necklace or anything. Lighter makeup—bright-red lip, maybe?”

“I love it,” she said.

“You two are speaking a different language,” Paul said, standing next to Mom. He did a quick once-over and shook his head. “Our little Mads all grown up.”

My mother looked at him, and a faint smile crossed her face, then she took my cheeks in her hands again, tilted her head to the side.

“My beautiful girl,” she said. “You guys are stopping here for pictures, right?”

“I guess,” I said, pulling away. For some reason the moment was overwhelming—the way my mom looked at me. What Paul said. I liked it, the little rush of happiness I felt when he said
Our little Mads
but I wasn't sure why. It all felt familiar. And comforting.

“I'm gonna get changed. Are we ordering from the Indian place for dinner?”

“Order out? No way, shrimp scampi is on the menu tonight—will you be joining us?” Paul asked.

“Sounds good,” I said, heading back up to my room.

It was nice having Paul in the house. My mother seemed lighter, mellower around him. And I certainly appreciated the home-cooked meals, even liked hearing him whistle Springsteen songs as he worked in the kitchen. But why didn't my mother smile at him the way she smiled at Leif this afternoon? Was Paul too boxed up in the friend compartment for her to ever consider he could be more? It was hard to believe that in all the years they'd been friends, they never once . . . looked at each other that way. I mean, Paul was kind of dashing, for an older guy.

My wheels turned.

If I didn't join them for dinner, they'd be alone.

And if they were alone . . . shrimp scampi, bottle of wine . . .

What if the reason Paul wanted to call New Jersey home was Mom. Maybe that was the bigger reason he was here—even if he didn't know it yet. They could use a nudge in the right direction.

I called Wren. She picked up on the third ring.

“Hey, can I still come over tonight?”

“Yes, please, I only have to put a bazillion mint lentils into these little starfish-shaped boxes for Brooke's shower. Want to help?”

I wasn't sure what a mint lentil was, but if it got me out of the house for a while . . .

“Can we order a pizza?”

She laughed. “Yeah.”

“I'm in, see you soon.” I hung up. I grabbed my coat and went down to the kitchen. Mom sat at the café table, a glass of wine in front of her as she helped Paul devein the shrimp. They were laughing about something as I walked in.

“Hey, you know what, I forgot I told Wren I was going to help her with something, so I'm going to have to bail on the shrimp. Is that okay?”

“Yes—do you need a ride?” Mom asked, probably desperate to stop working with shrimp guts. My mom, knives, and the kitchen were not a happy combination. The fact that she was even doing this with Paul . . . well, spoke volumes. At least I thought so.

“No, I should walk off those nachos from before.”

“You don't know what you're missing,” Paul said as I went out the front door.

Funny . . . I could say the same thing.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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TANNER AND I LURKED IN FRONT OF SACRED
Heart, watching as groups of couples walked up the steps into the building. For such a small school, it fit an endless mass of people. All dressed up. As in, not in jeans, like us. Every so often we'd get a look that made me feel like I should be holding out a donation cup or something.

“This doesn't look like the sort of dance you can just show up to, T,” I said.