“Huh?” Nina says.
“What?” Tanya exclaims.
“Oh, noooooo!” Kylie literally pulls at her hair. She picks up Nina’s, um, outfit and holds it out for inspection. “This is not what I ordered!”
“I think they’re adorable.” Randi smiles in approval.
If by “adorable,” she means “hot and sexy,” then yeah. Instead of white dresses, we have discovered something labeled “French-Maid Costumes.” White, ruffly, low-cut tops are paired with super-short black, flouncy skirts. The accompanying flyer suggests fishnet stockings and six-inch heels to complete “the look.”
“It’s too late to return them and get the dresses!” Kylie wails. She paces in a tight circle. “What’ll we do? What’ll we do?”
I hope that’s a rhetorical question, because all I’m hearing in response is the dull hum of the florescent lights.
“Okay, let me think.” Kylie presses her fingers to her forehead. “All right. So we have a slight change of plans. First. No fishnets. You’ll wear black pantyhose. That will help disguise the length of the skirts. And you’ll wear black ballet slippers. We can make this look … cute.”
I don’t think Kylie sounds completely convincing.
“Ah!” Kylie holds up one finger. “The necklines! I’ll get some inexpensive lacy handkerchiefs at the ninety-seven-cents store. You can stick them in the tops, so there won’t be any cleavage showing.”
I’m picturing us looking like black-stemmed daisies.
“I think this could work.” Nina holds the skirt in front of her and does a little plié. Anything where ballet slippers might be involved apparently works for her.
Randi holds up the ruffly top for inspection. I can picture her “accidentally” dropping the white-lace-cleavage-hiding handkerchief into a punch bowl first chance she gets.
“Actually,” Tanya says, “I think they’re kind of appropriate. I mean, Cotillion is a French word and these are French-Maid outfits.”
“That’s true,” Kylie says. From the thoughtful look on her face I get the feeling she’s warming up to the idea. “Maybe this was … was meant to be.”
I’m not sure she totally believes that, but she strikes me as someone who can adapt to most any situation. So that leaves me as the silently disgruntled one. I think the outfits are basically tacky, and I’m not sure even black tights and ballet slippers will improve the situation. Not that my opinion, even if I were to express it, would mean much anyway.
Kylie closes the blinds, then stands by the door to guard it. “Okay, time to try on your outfits.”
Ugh. I’ve never been big on changing clothes in public, even if the public is limited to four other girls. There are no lockers to hide behind either. I try to pretend I’m invisible as I shed my clothes and hurriedly change into the French-Maid outfit. One pleasant surprise is that it fits. At least I won’t have any safety-pin-alteration issues to worry about.
Everyone inspects everyone else. The lace handkerchief idea is a good one, especially for Tanya and Randi. At the moment I can easily imagine them hauling in huge tips at The Colonial Inn the way they look now.
“I’ll pull up the blinds,” Kylie says. “I think you’ll be able to get a pretty good look at your reflections in the windows.”
I check myself out. The lace handkerchief will be pretty much decorative on me, as there’s not that much to hide. I’m not wearing stockings, so my legs look stark white, especially next to the black miniskirt. I feel half-naked. I can only hope the black tights will help.
* * *
When I get home from school I remember Mom was taking off from work early, so she can audition Ray’s band. This gives me a chance to slip upstairs with my Cotillion outfit without her seeing it. I want to wait until after I buy some new black tights and find a cheap but decent pair of ballet slippers at the second-hand store. I’m hoping it will all work out okay, because Brent is going to be at the dance and there’s a part of me that still hopes somehow, some way, I can sneak a dance with him. I’m not, however, sure of “the look.”
I stuff the box in the back of my closet, head downstairs for a snack and a sneak peek at Ray’s band. They’re set up in the living room. Nick and Scott are on guitar. LaMichael plays trumpet. Interesting instrument for a rock band, but I guess when you’re eleven you go with what you’ve got.
I stay in the shadows out in the hall, because they look nervous enough with just Mom waiting for them to start. Finally, after a short warm-up, they play. Nothing original. Some old songs, some recent stuff, but all very familiar and tame enough. Probably a good thing, since they will be playing for a bunch of fourth-graders. I am once again impressed by Ray’s voice. Nick and Scott are pretty good on the guitar and as backup singers. LaMichael uses a mute on his trumpet except when he gets a brief solo. Then he practically tears the roof off the house, but in a good way, if you know what I mean.
All in all, not bad for a bunch of sixth-graders.
After everyone packs up and leaves, Ray sidles up to Mom. “So …?”
“So … I’m calling Mrs. Alphin right now to recommend you.”
Ray tries to stifle a huge smile, but he doesn’t quite succeed.
I tiptoe into the kitchen ahead of Mom and busy myself by slathering peanut butter on some crackers. Mom makes the call. I can tell by her smile what the response is. She tells Ray, who by now has drifted into the kitchen on his own pretense of inspecting the inside of the refrigerator.
“All right!” Ray pumps his fist, then apparently decides that was too demonstrative. He lowers his hand and runs his fingers through his hair. “I mean, thanks. I’ll put it on my calendar.”
* * *
A few days later, after I’ve bought black tights, found a pair of black ballet slippers at St. Vinnie’s and been provided with the lace handkerchief, I model my Cotillion outfit for Mom. She’d been bugging me for days to see my “dress.”
“Now remember,” I say to Mom through the door before I step out of my room to display myself, “this is not the ‘dress’ I originally told you about.”
“I remember!” Mom says. “Now let me see you!”
I slowly open the door and strike a tray-holding pose.
Mom’s eyes widen. Her mouth drops open. “Oh. My. “
Yikes! I must look worse than I thought. She’s going to lock me in my room and forbid me to go to the Cotillion! “I-I know …,” I say. “But remember, I didn’t—”
Mom clasps her hands together. A huge smile spreads across her face. “You. Look. Fabulous.”
Fabulous? Uh, wait a minute. This is my mother, “the wench,” speaking. Maybe her idea of fabulous is more like “wild.” But. I do have the black tights and the lacy handkerchief to protect my, um, modesty.
“You are so adorable.” Mom gives me a great big hug.
Okay. I’m fabulously … adorable? Or does Mom, like Randi, have a skewed idea of “adorable.” Either which way, she’s happy. I have no choice about what to wear anyway, so I guess it’s good she approves. The guys so are lucky. They get to wear tuxes. You can’t go wrong with a tux. “I better change out of this, so it stays, uh, fresh.”
I step back into my room and close the door behind me. I passed the Mom inspection. Kylie approves (or figures it’s too late to do anything now). I know I should just relax. Somehow, though, I keep picturing the moment we start serving at the Cotillion in our French-Maid outfits and the entire dance floor breaks into hoots of laughter.
* * *
The evening of the Cotillion Ray is still on cloud ninety-four after the reaction to his gig at Minda Alphin’s birthday party. The girls loved it so much they squealed through the whole thing. Word spread like floodwaters through the grade school. Bones, Inc. is super-cool!
The result is that Ray’s head is bigger than a backpack. The upside is that Dad and his band playing music “as old as dirt at some dumb dress-up dance” (as I overheard Ray telling someone on the phone), doesn’t faze him at all. The downside is that he is giving Dad some last-minute tips even as we are easing ourselves out the door.
Dad tugs on the lapels of his tux. Mom plucks at the skirt of the pale peach vintage prom dress with a stiff crinoline that she bought for the Cotillion. No push-up bra. I guess that wouldn’t fit in with her role as chaperone. I huddle in my overcoat, partly because it’s cold, mostly to hide my outfit. Between the thought of having my parents at the Cotillion (I mean, parents in general are embarrassing enough, but at a dance where I’m a glorified waitress?) and facing a room full of seniors and their dates in my French-Maid costume, I have butterflies doing somersaults in my stomach.
I pull the coat tighter, partly to make sure nothing shows, partly because I’m shivering. There’s a colder edge to the typical December showers. As I watch the rain in the streetlights on the way to the school, I think some of the drops look fat. On the car windows the raindrops turn to splats that cling before they spread and slide down. I realize there’s snow mixed in with the rain. Since it hardly ever snows in this part of Oregon, I feel as excited as a kid at Christmas. What could be better than snow for the Cotillion? Despite the chill, I start to feel a warm glow. Maybe the snow is a sign that something special is going to happen at the dance. Something wonderful and romantic.
I better keep thinking this way, or else I’ll never be able to take off my coat.
Dad lets me and Mom off at the front door of the school. It’s definitely snowing now, big, soft flakes that melt as soon as they hit the ground. As Mom and I enter the school we hear the oohs and ahhs and comments from a few early-arriving girls going through the doors with us.
“The snow is so beautiful.”
“It’s totally romantic.”
“Perfect!”
I hover at the door to the gym. I can’t believe how it’s been transformed into a winter wonderland. Strings of tiny white lights hang from the ceiling, mixed in with silver stars. More stars are scattered across the walls and windows. A tree in the corner glows with white lights and silver tinsel. Beneath its boughs are silver-wrapped packages. In another corner sits a silver sleigh piled high with more silvery packages. There are silvery stars sprinkled across each table and at the center of each are silvery numbers. I almost hyperventilate, trying to take it all in. The white dresses so would have been more appropriate for this setting than the French-Maid outfits.
“Shall I check your coat?”
I snap out of my silver-wrapped reverie. “Uh, no thanks, Dad. I can, uh, keep it in the kitchen.” Truth is, I don’t want to unveil myself all alone. There’s safety in numbers. At least I hope there is.
Dad heads for a corner where the guys in his band have set up. There are only the four of them and the drum set is small, so they don’t take up much room. The Radical Tires have a more prominent spot near the front of the room. They’re adjusting microphones, tuning their guitars and generally ignoring the fact that half the girls are drooling over them.
Mom heads for a table reserved for chaperones. Mr. Kinkaid sits there fiddling with a napkin. His face brightens when he sees Mom. He stands up to greet her. Mom is all animated, but I notice that she keeps glancing at the door. When she sees a tall woman in one of those little black dresses fashion magazines are always saying you must have, she waves her over to the table. I figure this must be the Ms. Poliak Mom wanted Mr. Kinkaid to meet. Sure enough, Mom is all smiles and full of little encouraging gestures as she introduces them.
I don’t see what happens after that, because Randi appears and grabs my arm. “Have you seen Justin? Is he here? Oooooh, isn’t the drummer for The Radical Tires just too gorgeous?” Randi has on a long coat, so she too is waiting on The Great Reveal. She probably just wants to make a dramatic entrance, though, while I’m too chicken to expose myself just yet.
“Um, no, I don’t know and yes, he’s totally gorgeous. Let’s get in the kitchen. We need to, uh, get things ready.” I haven’t seen Brent yet, but then he probably took Claire out to dinner first at the Sage House Inn. I grab Randi’s hand and drag her along as she scans the room for Justin while simultaneously gaping at the drummer for The Radical Tires, not an easy task, I’m sure.
“There you are!” Kylie says, her tone of voice almost adding and about time, even though we are not late. After she places the last few cookies on one of the trays, she takes off an apron to reveal a flouncy blue dress. Her neck is draped with heaps of pearls, and her hair is piled on top of her head in huge swirls intertwined with more strands of pearls. It sounds kind of too-much, but she is seriously stunning.
The guys are all here, looking completely magazine-cover great in their tuxes. They’re totally busy arranging cookies onto trays. Funny to see Colt looking so formal.
“Gentlemen.” Kylie raises an eyebrow. “The ladies’ coats?”
“Oh, yeah,” Kurt says as he and Colt approach me and Randi.
“Hi, Randi.” Kurt turns all red as he reaches to help her with her coat.
Randi waits until Kurt has her coat, then turns and coos, “Ooh, thank you, Kurt.”
She probably thinks it’s fun, tossing Kurt that crumb just to give him a thrill. Not that he minds. His face splits into a huge smile. I’m not sure if it’s because of Randi’s come-on tone of voice or the sight of her in the French-Maid outfit, or both. Whatever. His eyes are riveted on her.
“Hey, Becca,” Colt says as he helps me with my coat.
“Hi, Colt.” I know my unveiling is anticlimactic after Randi’s debut, but I still feel conspicuous. I stand very still, as if maybe by not moving I won’t be noticed.
Colt obviously knew what was coming outfit-wise, but his face gives nothing away. I can’t tell if he thinks I look sexy or ridiculous or what. He just looks … normal. I hope that’s the general reaction, or should I say non-reaction, when everyone out in the gym sees us.
“I put the cameras on that shelf.” Colt points. “That way they’re safe from punch spills and cookies crumbs.”
“Good thinking,” I say. I’d totally forgotten Claire asked us to get some shots of the Cotillion for the school paper. Good thing Colt has a better memory than I do.
Nina and Tanya arrive together. Marc and Todd attend to them right away, coat-wise.
“Ah, everyone’s here. Good,” Kylie says. She gives us the numbers for our table assignments and explains that in each pair the guys should serve the tables in reverse order of the girls, so we’re not bumping into each other. “In fifteen minutes, you can start with the refreshments. Remember, be professional!” With that, she swirls out of the kitchen.
The second Kylie is gone, Todd pulls Tanya into his arms. His hands explore the hollow of her back. He whispers into her hair. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but Tanya drops her chin on his chest with a sigh of pleasure. It looks as if Todd is following Tanya’s preferred routine, at least for now.
As Marc and Nina load their trays, I hear them practicing lines from MacBeth. The play hasn’t been cast yet, but I guess they’re hoping for the lead roles.
I start pouring punch into cups and placing them on a tray. Since we girls will be holding the trays in front of us at waist level with both hands and the guys will be holding trays above their shoulders with one hand, I can see why Kylie decided to have the girls serve punch and the guys serve cookies. Practicing in an empty classroom is one thing, balancing cups of punch in and around occupied tables and chairs is another.
“Kurt, you look totally handsome in your tux,” Randi says as she adjusts his bow tie, which doesn’t need adjusting.
“Th-th-thanks.” Kurt looks as if he’s just won the lottery. Poor guy. Little does he know that he’s on the bottom of the pile of guys currently on Randi’s radar and that she’s only using him for target practice.
Oh, well. Not my problem. Soon the trays are all loaded and the fifteen minutes are up.
“I guess it’s time,” Nina says.
No one moves.
Kylie must have had a feeling we’d need a nudge, because the kitchen door opens and in she comes. “Okay! Pick up your trays and line up like we rehearsed. Shortest to tallest!”
That puts Tanya and Randi ahead of me, and Colt next to me. There are ripples on the surface of the punch on my tray from my hands trembling. Colt leans over and whispers, “We’ll be fine.”
I catch a whiff of a woodsy after-shave. “I’m glad you’re so confident,” I whisper back.
A song has just ended and people are returning to their tables as Kylie holds the door open. She looks like a proud mother sending her little one off to the first day of Kindergarten. “Three, two, one, go!”
I take a deep breath and try to put myself on automatic. Much to my relief, there’s no outburst of laughter. I do hear one lone wolf-type whistle as we make our appearance, but that’s it, thank goodness. Colt and I separate. I quickly scan the room, but still don’t see Brent. At the first table I serve I find Justin and Madison. Justin is shredding one of the silver stars on the table. Madison scowls at him. Her face is red. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s ticked at Justin, can’t breathe because her slinky red dress is so tight that she seems to have been sewn into it, or both.
Great. I just love interjecting myself into the middle of pouting lovers. I remember that Kylie told us to have our voices go up when we offer the punch. I give it a try. “Punch, anyone?”
The way Madison glares at me I think for a second she takes that to be a suggestion, punch anyone, and that I am going to be slugged.
“We’ll have some punch,” a guy at the other side of the table says, much to my relief.
I leave Justin and Madison to their sulking and remember to smile as I serve from the right. The guy gives me a leering up-and-down glance. “Merci, Mademoiselle.”
I guess that was in honor of my outfit. If that’s the worst I get all evening, I can handle it. Some of my tables are out in the hall. The tables there are closer together because space is more limited, especially with the Trophy Case in the middle of everything. At one point I try to squeeze between a table and the Trophy Case. My tray hits the glass. Oh, great!
I try to check for damage even as I’m pretending nothing happened. There’s a teeny, tiny scratch. Maybe it was always there. If not, maybe no one will notice.
“I saw that,” someone in back of me whispers.
I bite my lip as I slowly turn around, expecting, I don’t know, to be led away in handcuffs or something. I find myself looking into Brent’s gorgeous blue eyes, which dance with a faint glint of humor. The chair next to him is empty. Claire must be off combing her hair or whatever.
An easy smile plays at the corners of Brent’s mouth. “For two cups of punch, my lips are sealed for ever.”
I try to throttle the dizzying current flowing through me as I imagine the fullness of Brent’s lips pressed against mine. Even when I’m nervous, my imagination works overtime. “Two lip—, uh, servings of punch it is,” I say as I place the cups on the table. I let my hand linger in front of Brent for just a millisecond longer than necessary. I mean, I might as well make the most of the moment.
“Hi, Becca!” Claire slides into the chair next to Brent. Her white, poufy, rhinestone-studded gown and radiant glow make her look like a bride. “Your outfit is so sweet!”
Sweet is not how I’d describe my French-maid costume, but somehow when Claire says it she sounds totally sincere and spot on. So as nicely as I can manage, I say, “Thank you.”
“Yeah,” Brent says, “sweet.” He doesn’t look lustful or anything, just sort of … appreciative.
Claire either doesn’t notice or she doesn’t mind, because she smiles at Brent. It’s weird, but I almost have the feeling she’s trying to encourage Brent to be interested in me. Probably that’s my own warped wishful thinking.
Whatever. As much as I’d like to, I can’t stand there drooling over Brent. I finish my rounds of tables and head back to the kitchen.
Colt is there loading his tray with more cookies. He looks up at me and nods. “Hey, Becca, how’d it go?”
“Great.” I sigh, still picturing my brief encounter with Brent, made somehow more romantic by the fact that we share the “secret” of my tray ever-so-slightly scratching the trophy case. I realize I’m standing there in a daze, so I clear my throat, fill some cups with punch and place them on my tray, all business-like.
Within a couple of minutes everyone else is back in the kitchen. Since we’re supposed to go out onto the dance floor only every half-hour or so, we’re left just standing around.
“We should’ve brought some video games or something,” Todd says.
“We’ll think of something to do.” Tanya nudges Todd toward a dark corner by the freezer. Next thing, they are into some heavy-duty lip smashing.
Nina and Marc, who are closest to them, turn away as if they hadn’t really seen anything and continue some discussion they’re having about memorizing dialogue and remembering stage directions.
“Maybe we could go out on the dance floor and, you know, mingle,” Randi says.
“We have to stay in the kitchen,” I say. “Remember?”
A dark cloud passes over Randi’s face, but not for long. “I have to go to the lavatory. That we can do!”
Whoosh, she’s gone
“Hey, we could prop the door open and at least hear the music,” Colt says. He grabs a mop and sticks it up so the door is open just a couple of inches. “How’s that?”
The music drifts in. The Radical Tires are playing something that sounds ever-so-vaguely like Home for the Holidays. Through the crack in the door I can see couples cling to each other as they float around the room. Brent and Claire glide by. I quickly conjure up a reason why Claire might suddenly not be there in Brent’s arms. She … she gets an emergency call from the Exchange-Student Program and she has to fly to France immediately to fill in for some girl from, um, Wyoming, who bailed because she was homesick.
Satisfied that I got Claire out of the picture for a perfectly acceptable, non-violent reason, I slip into a cozy vision of myself in Brent’s arms. His breath is hot against my face. His touch is firm and inviting. My body tingles from the contact.
“Hey, wanna dance?”
Dreamily, I say, “We already are—.” Wait. “What?”
It’s Colt. “You. Me. Dance?” He reaches for my hand.
What am I going to say? No? Let’s sit this one out? “Um. Sure.”
Colt takes my hand and slips his other arm around my waist. He holds me gently, not too close, as we sway to the music. “Good thing there’s not a lot of room in the kitchen,” Colt says. “This way I have an excuse for dancing as if I have two left feet.” He flashes a brief smile.
“That’s okay,” I say, trying to look serious. “I can take my dancing skills down a notch or two for you.” Why can’t I feel this comfortable when I’m with Brent?
“I have some moves.” Colt slowly twirls me around, neither of us messing up. “You are a good dancer,” he says with a leisurely smile.
“Was there ever any doubt?” I say, just as my heel brushes the table leg.
“Careful. Remember, this is not the world’s biggest dance floor.” Colt pulls me ever-so-slightly closer.
I don’t know why, but my heart does a little jump.