thirty-nine

What Jude learned from their friends supports our hypothesis, while not adding much to it. Lennon has been sneaking around. He has been seeing someone. Their friends assumed he’d just met an unsuitable girl. One, though, has a different hypothesis.

“I saw him getting picked up last spring,” he’d told Jude. “After school, when he told us he was going home to study. Only it wasn’t your driver who picked him up. It was, uh, a guy.”

The friend didn’t see much, just that it was the kind of car he expected Lennon would get into—a luxury sedan. Tinted windows meant the friend didn’t get a good look at the driver, but he was dark-haired and definitely male.

The friend’s theory, then, was that the unsuitable lover was male, which explained the secrecy.

So we had that much. Confirmation Lennon has been meeting someone. Confirmation that person seems to be a man.

“You need to go home,” I say when Jude finishes. “See if you can find anything in his room.”

When he hesitates, I say, “Yes, that’s an invasion of his privacy. But under the circumstances…”

“Under the circumstances I don’t give a shit about his privacy. The problem is that I, uh…” He fusses, uncrossing and recrossing his legs. “I can’t go home. I’ve been barred. That’s how my mother is handling this. I left, so the household staff is under strict orders not to let me back in. Which doesn’t mean they won’t, but if they’re caught, it’ll cost them their job.”

“But you have an invitation.”

He looks up. “Hmm?”

“Your mother invited you home tonight.”

“Yeah, for a party. What she’s really asking, though, is for me to clean up and come home, the prodigal son bowing his head at the door and asking for forgiveness. Publicly.”

“Okay. I can see why you wouldn’t want to do that.”

“No, I would. For Lennon. I just…”

He inhales and he’s clenching his fists, like I was earlier at the trailer. Trying to control trembling hands. This is more than I feel like I was raised as a photo op. That’s a big deal—huge, I’m sure. But there is more to his decision to leave. I see that as I watch the turmoil in his face.

“Yes,” he blurts. “Okay. Yes. I’ll do this. We need to get into his room, and it’s just a party.”

“It’s more than that. To you,” I say, my voice low, and I expect him to balk. Before, he would have balked. Withdrawn. But now he gives a wan smile and says, “Yeah, but I’ll survive.”

“Do you want me to come along?” As soon as I say that, I flush, shaking my head. “No, that doesn’t help, does it? Sorry.”

“Actually, it would help. It’d be an excuse. Or it could be, if you don’t mind, uh, playing my date.”

“As long as you don’t call me babe again.”

He exhales in a whoosh, part relief, part laughter. “Deal. So I met a girl, and I want to take her home.” He shifts. “Which is partly true, I guess.”

“We’ll make the story as close to the truth as we can. And, yes, I know you don’t want work-arounds, but any dishonesty is for Lennon.”

“You won’t have to play a role. Not even ‘girlfriend.’ Just someone I met and I’m trying to get to know better, maybe even impress.”

“That’ll take some of the pressure off you, too. You’re there with me, not to socialize or hang with your parents. It also gives us an excuse to poke around the house.”

“Exactly.”

“I suppose wardrobe is a factor, though.”

“Hmm?” He seems lost in thought, his brain racing ahead.

“You said they expect you to clean up and come home. I’m guessing that means this is not proper party attire.” I wave at my jeans.

“Shit. Right.”

“I have Lennon’s money. We can hit a thrift shop in the city.”

“Good idea.” He rises. “Okay, then. Let’s go shopping.”

Jude texts his mother to say he’ll be there and he’s bringing someone. His mother replies with, “Don’t embarrass us,” and I’m not sure if she’s referring to how he’ll dress or how he’ll act or who he’ll bring. All three, I suspect.

By the time we finally get to Lexington and find a consignment store open on a Sunday, it’s five o’clock. The shop is just about to close, but Jude explains we have a party that night and it’s “kinda an emergency.” The shopkeeper takes pity and says she has work to do in the back and we have thirty minutes.

Jude finds two possible suits with a mere scan of the racks. Another five minutes to try them on and he’s done.

“How’s it going?” he says as he wanders over and sees me staring at the rack of cocktail dresses. He chuckles. “Yeah, it’s a whole lot easier for guys. Black jacket. White shirt. Tie. Can’t really go wrong. You girls…”

He trails off as he catches my expression. I have absolutely no idea where to even begin. I wouldn’t know if a dress is out of style. I wouldn’t know if it was appropriate for this type of party. I’m not even sure what size I wear.

He quickly says, “Way too many choices, huh? How about I butt in with some unwanted advice? Because that’s what I do.”

I nod wordlessly.

“Go with a dark color. Not black—everyone wears black. Dark blue, maybe? Or green? Above the knees, because you’re not seventy. Maybe not sleeveless, because it’s fall—or we can grab one of those little sweater things. And girls complain the sizes are always screwy, but you’re probably about here….”

He scans the rack and starts pulling off dresses, saying, “Reject all the ones that suck, which is probably most….”

I manage a smile. “No, choice is good. Thank you.”

I take an armful and try them on as fast as I can, though I’m so nervous I can barely get the zippers up. I narrow it down to two. I emerge, holding them, and he says, “What? No fashion show?” and I feel my cheeks go scarlet as I mumble something, realizing that’s probably how girls usually do this—wear the dress out and say “How does this look?” like I’ve seen in movies.

“I’m kidding,” he says quickly. “The only person you need to please is yourself. So which is the winner?”

“I…I couldn’t decide. I…guess I should try them on again and let you see….”

He takes them from my hand and holds them up in front of me, saying, “I have no idea what I’m doing, but this is what I see others do.” I laugh and he says, “Yep, still no clue.”

“Close your eyes and throw one at me.”

He smiles. “They aren’t candy bars.”

“Close enough. Just do it.”

He does. I take the dress.

We go out for dinner and then change and clean up in the restroom. I really regret missing that shower now. I bought hair clips and pins, though, and I have a brush, so with some water and careful work, I coax my hair into a style Cadence and I used to do for each other when there was some dress-worthy occasion. Then I apply makeup to my scrubbed face. And by makeup I mean the mascara and tinted lip gloss I picked up at Rite Aid. I also bought blush, but only put on a touch, terrified of looking like a ten-year-old who got into her mom’s makeup drawer.

Hair done. Makeup on. And then I realize that I really should have donned the dress first.

Dress on. Shoes next. They’re also from the consignment store, low heels because anything else would be a recipe for disaster. I stand in front of the mirror and tug and tweak the dress, having no idea what I’m actually doing, just trying to make it look more, well, normal.

I don’t feel magically transformed into a princess. I feel like the servant girl who stole a party dress from the clothesline. It does fit me. It just doesn’t…fit me. The image, that is, and as I stare in the mirror, I want to yank it off and tell Jude I can’t do this. Everyone will know I don’t belong at that party. They just will.

“You look very nice, dear.”

The voice startles me, and I turn to see an elderly woman. She catches my expression and says, “Young people don’t dress up as much these days, so it feels strange, doesn’t it?”

I nod. Then I blurt, “I think I’m missing something.”

She passes a critical eye over me. “Well, if you have a necklace or earrings…”

My face reddens. Jewelry. Of course.

“Frankly, I wouldn’t bother,” she says. “Leave the glitter for us old ladies.” She winks. “We need an advantage somewhere.” She pats my shoulder. “You look lovely. Now, I believe there’s a young man waiting outside for you.”