On Sunday, Sean makes his long-promised visit to come help me with my dance steps. Now that the possibility of romance is zip, zilch, zero, nothing, nada, I would have thought I wouldn’t be as excited about having Sean over. But it’s really weird because I am excited. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that our performance is in two weeks and there’s still the constant threat of having to sing on the side of the stage like a defective. Or maybe I just love being with Sean that much, even if I can’t love-love him.
Mom has an open house that actually (yessss!) does happen. We practice our duet, then go over dance steps about fifteen times. We even get out the camera that Mom uses to make “digital tours” of the homes she’s listed. I film Sean dancing. “I promise to watch it every day.”
“You’d better,” he says. “You can do it.”
“I will, I will.” I actually think I can.
Then, since it’s still an hour before Mom gets home, we order a pizza, and film each other singing. We’re making up an opera about school. I play Ms. Wolfe, and Sean does a hilarious Miss Lorraine Davis, staggering on tiptoe, singing, “Art is suffering, my children! Suffer for art!” in a falsetto voice.
Later, while we’re eating pizza, Sean says, “Caitlin, you may be the perfect girl.”
A week ago, when I was thinking of Sean as the possible Man of My Dreams, this would have caused my stomach to lurch like I’m on the Tower of Terror ride at Disney, where you don’t know if you’re up or down. I may have actually been unable to speak. Now I smile and say, “Why?” Like a normal person.
“Well, you’re not only beautiful and talented. You are also the only girl on the planet—maybe the only human being—who likes pepperoni and olive pizza like I do.”
I laugh. “You’re right. Usually, if people like pepperoni, they aren’t into olives, and if they like olives, they want a veggie and think the pepperoni is too fatty.”
“Not us, huh? We’re naturally skinny.”
I stare at him like, Are you blind, boy? “Not me. I was fat for years.”
“Really?”
“I was hideous.”
“I doubt that.”
I reach across him to the end table where Mom keeps our old photos. A week ago, I wouldn’t have done this either, but I find my freshman class picture. “See?”
He takes it. I expect him to recoil in horror. No! No! This swamp thing can’t possibly be you! Instead, he grins. “You look so cute with pigtails.”
I stare at him. “Right.”
“Yeah.” He looks at the photo again. “I mean, maybe you’re not a model type like now. What do you weigh, a hundred pounds? But you were so cute. Look.”
He shows me the photo. I stare at it, at me, trying to look like Lizzie McGuire in braids, grinning like crazy. It’s like I’ve never seen the photo before, or that person. Sean’s right. I was cute. I weighed over twenty pounds more than now—thirty-five pounds more than my thinnest—which is not that big. I wasn’t a beast. I was cute. I say, “You really think I look like a model?”
He nods and hands back the photo. “You’re beautiful.”
That’s when the door flies open and my mother does a happy dance across the living room. “Someone made a full-price offer, Caitlin! We get to eat this month!”
Which is, of course, an exaggeration. We eat every month. Dad pays.
She sees Sean. “Oh, you have company.” She walks closer. “And pizza … oh, but you got pepperoni. I’ll have to pick that off. Too fatty.”
I see Sean stifle a laugh, then wink at me. Of course, that’s exactly what we said everyone does. I wink back, and it feels good to be with him, good and warm and comfortable.
“What?” Mom says. “What?”
“Nothing, Mom. Get a plate. There’s a slice here with hardly any pepperoni. We should’ve gotten a veggie.”
As soon as she walks out, Sean and I burst into silent giggles.