The first hurdle to getting to Jessup’s party is getting my parents to let me go to the party.
As expected, there is resistance.
“I don’t think this is such a good idea,” my mom says.
“I know this isn’t a good idea,” my dad says.
“Well, I think this is an excellent idea,” Misty says.
What’s going on? Since when is my little sister my biggest champion?
“You do?” my mom and dad and I all say to Misty at the same time.
“Of course,” Misty says, as though it must be obvious to one and all. “Lucius can’t spend his whole life in this house, can he?”
“I don’t know,” my dad says. “Can’t he?”
“Dad,” Misty says.
“Sorry.” My dad holds his hands up. “It was just a joke.”
“He does have the play,” my mom points out. “He gets out of the house for that. Plus the time he spends playing football in the morning with that security guard.”
“And that’s good,” Misty says, “but it’s not enough. Lucius needs to start living a normal life again. How can he ever be normal if he doesn’t?”
You would think my parents would have a whole list of arguments for this—and I myself, if it weren’t counterproductive to my goals, would just love to ask Misty to define normal or, better yet, tell us all why it is such a wonderful thing to be—but they surprise us, surprise even themselves, by caving to Misty’s greater wisdom on the subject of what kids need.
“Fine,” my dad relents. “But your mom will drop you off when the party starts, I’ll pick you up at eleven, and if I hear any reports of you misbehaving, this will be the last party you go to until you turn fifty.”
“Fine,” I agree to everything. Really, if they held a contract out to me right now, I would sign it.
But then, no sooner do I feel elation about going to the party—I, Lucius Wolfe, am going to a party!—than deflation sets in as I am faced with an unimaginable horror: What am I going to wear?
Ever since the explosion, my mom has gone out by herself to buy my clothes. And before that? Well, fashion wasn’t big on my mind back then—I was more into chemicals—so whatever I wore, Mom bought those things too. And it’s not like anything she’s ever bought has been really awful: no red plaid short-sleeved cotton shirts with one pocket at the chest, perfect for holding pocket protectors and a load of leaky pens; no polyester pants that hike up so high the belt fits under my neck, perfect for hanging myself because I look so geeky in the neck-high pants. But I know the clothes I wear are not quite the same as the clothes worn by the other guys at school, at least not the cool guys. Like I say, there’s nothing distinctly wrong about what I wear, but there’s nothing particularly right about it either. It’s like everything I own is just a little bit off.
So what do I do?
I go to the best fashion consultant I know.
“Misty?” I knock on my kid sister’s door Saturday morning.
Misty may be three years younger than I am, but I know she is already crushing on guys my age and that she pays a lot of attention to what everyone wears. She reads fashion magazines as though they were important books, and if there is a trend blowing in on the next wind, Misty will catch hold of it before any of her friends do. In fact, she’s reading a fashion magazine when I knock, lying on her stomach diagonally across her bed, headphones clapped down over her ears.
I approach the bed, hook one of the earphones away from her ear so I can say, “Misty?” again, louder this time.
She gives a little jump, flipping over on her side.
“Lucius.” She puts her hand to her chest. “You scared me.”
“Sorry,” I say, “but . . .” Man, this is suddenly awkward. “I need your help.” I shuffle my feet, stare down at them. Should I wash my sneakers? “I don’t know what to wear to the party next Friday.”
She stares at me in stunned silence. Then a look of mild disgust takes over her face. “God, you people are hopeless. How did I end up in such a family?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer as she rolls off the bed. “I’ll tell you one thing,” she says, “you’re not going to find whatever you need in that closet of yours.” She grabs on to one of my hooks, a thing she’s never done before. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s go find Mom.”
Oh, brother, I think.
We find Mom folding towels in the laundry room.
“Mom,” Misty says authoritatively, “Lucius and I need you to drive us to the mall. If Lucius is going to this party, he’s going to need some new clothes.”
My mom looks at me and then turns back to Misty. It’s as though I’m a character on TV they’re critiquing, as though they don’t realize I can hear them.
“What’s wrong with what he has on?” my mom asks.
“Are you kidding me?” Misty sounds disgusted.
I look down at what I’m wearing. So, okay. So maybe I’m not going to be asked to front for a boy band, and I know I already dissed my own wardrobe, but I don’t think I look that bad . . .
“Everything’s wrong with it,” Misty informs my mom. “That shirt? Those jeans? Those sneakers?” Misty looks like she’s getting a headache just thinking about it. “He can’t go to a party in clothes like that.”
“Well, I still don’t see—” Mom starts to object.
“No, he really can’t,” Misty cuts her off. “I know it doesn’t really matter what Lucius looks like. But some of my friends have older brothers and sisters in his school. And they all know he’s my brother. If he goes to that party looking like the . . . dork he usually does, it’ll get back to my friends, and then my reputation will be ruined!”
Misty’s doing a good job, I think. She should really be a lawyer like on TV. But does she have to lay it on so thick? I mean, dork???
“I see your point,” my mom admits.
“Good,” Misty says, arms folded across her chest.
“So I’ll take Lucius to the stores and help him pick something out just as soon as I’m done here.”
“No, Mom.” Misty shakes her head vehemently. “That’s not going to work.”
“What do you mean?” Mom stops folding mid-towel.
Misty gives me and my outfit a lingering once-over, then turns back to Mom. “Do you really think, Mom,” she says scathingly, one eyebrow cocked, “that you’ve been doing such a good job so far?”
I kind of feel sorry for Mom; she looks so wounded.
“Just drive us to the mall.” Misty sighs as though she’s the oldest person in the world or at least this house. “Then leave us there with the credit card. I’ll take care of all the rest.”
God, sometimes I wish I had my little sister’s self-confidence.