Gimme Everything You Got - Iva-Marie Palmer Page 0,55

not now. I have to go.” She leaned in to kiss my cheek. “That one’s nice, but see if they have something with a simpler bodice.”

She pushed out the glass door and walked down the street, looking like someone I didn’t recognize.

Dawn’s manager was talking to Polly about how long it would take to alter a wedding gown. Dawn, who’d been pulling more dresses from one of the racks along the wall, took down an empire-waist gown with spaghetti straps. “That must be awkward,” Dawn said. “Having your mom and stepmom be friends like that.”

“They’re not friends,” I said. “They just, like, get along.” Could they be friends, though? I pictured coming home one day to Polly and Mom at the kitchen table, having coffee and talking. Talking about me, maybe. It wasn’t normal, but it was abnormal in a way I couldn’t exactly be mad at. It was infuriating, my parents being so reasonable. The only response they’d left me was to be agreeable, to flatten any rough edges and slip smoothly into my new role as everyone’s daughter, to be dressed up and lied to and posed happily in photos. Had anyone even asked me how I felt about all this? Dad got a new wife, Mom and Polly got new friends, and I got passed around among them.

Everyone got something out of the divorce but me.

Dawn handed me the dress she was carrying. “This is pink,” I said.

“It comes in dusty peach,” she said, and walked me to the mirror, where I held it up against myself. “I thought the straight line would be more flattering for you, and your arms are skinny, so they’ll look good in the spaghetti straps.”

I tried it on, and Dawn was right. It was still a bridesmaid dress, but I looked taller because of the way the column of fabric flowed over my body.

“Thanks,” I said to Dawn. “This one’s actually okay.”

“That’s what teammates are for,” Dawn said.

I sat down on the velvety cream couch in front of the mirror and picked up one of the magazines to flip through. It was Brides, and it was boring.

“I have a favorite, but I’ll have to show my mother. She’s picky,” Polly was saying to the manager, then turned to me. “Susan, I saw a really pretty dress with a sweetheart neck that might be nice.”

“I like this one. It comes in dusty peach,” I told her, not standing up. I kept my voice flat. My pity for her was gone. Was my mom somewhere in her bridal wish book? Maybe they could go get their nails done together, so Mom would have another way to be too busy for me. I didn’t have to pretend every second that everything was easy, even if my parents and Polly thought it was. At that moment, I wanted to be annoyed, and to leave. “And I have to go.”

Polly must have seen the look in my eyes, or registered my irritation. “You know, you’re right,” she said. “Simple is best.”

Fifteen

Joe lived in a two-story yellow house with red trim. It was one of the smaller ones on that block of Lynwood, but it stood out for how neat it was, with a lawn that was fading but still green even in October. It was the second time I’d thought of something of Joe’s as not matching his punk persona. Though I guess the house really belonged to his parents, and I doubted they were punks.

I knocked, and a girl, maybe twelve, with Joe’s same dark hair flung the door open instantly. “Joe!” she yelled, before I even introduced myself.

I heard footsteps clattering down stairs I couldn’t see from the entry, and then Joe emerged from a small hallway that led to a living room with new-looking furniture and a long bookcase. “Hey, come in,” he said with a wave. He had on his usual soccer clothes. “Well, come through. We’re going out back.”

The girl, his sister, I guessed, cleared her throat loudly. She had her hands on her hips, and though the gesture was one of annoyance with him, I could tell instantly that she liked her brother.

“Oh, this is Rachel. Rachel, this is Susan. She’s a soccer player.”

“Hi,” I said, as Rachel made no attempt to hide that she was looking me up and down.

“Thanks for acknowledging my existence,” she said in a dry but pleasant enough way. “Your shoe’s untied.”

“She’s got to put on her cleats anyway,” Joe said. He pointed at Rachel.