Imagining elsewhere, p.19
Imagining Elsewhere, page 19
“Like, you should, like, mind your business,” Astrid snapped back. Lori’s face fell and Astrid immediately regretted lashing out.
Candi, however, laughed. “Lori is super annoying, isn’t she? You’re not allowed to say ‘like’ anymore, Lori.” Before Astrid had time to protest, Candi had turned her attention back to her. “And you’re going to get your hair cut, Astrid. Gina, get the scissors.”
And thus began the project of setting up the kitchen, reviewing the image, and finding the scissors. Astrid sat on a kitchen stool while Gina snipped away, and Chrissy and Lori endlessly analyzed the merits of the boys from school, always concluding that Vince was the absolute cutest, coolest, and hunkiest and that he was simply wild about Candi, could obviously never take his eyes off her. Lori also remarked that she’d noticed another boy, Will Chambers—the boy who Astrid had sat with once, briefly, in the cafeteria—watching Candi and speculated that he was jealous of Vince. Lori was clearly playing Candi’s tune because Candi lapped it up, asking, “Do you really think Will is into me?” as though any answer but the affirmative was possible.
And then, with a sly look, Candi turned to Astrid. “What’s going on with you and Jason?”
“Eww,” Astrid said, genuinely repulsed. “What are you even talking about?”
“He teases you because he likes you,” Candi said.
“What is this, third grade?”
“It can be really surprising,” Candi said, talking over Astrid, “who people sometimes end up with.” She smiled wolfishly.
Astrid opened her mouth to respond, but everyone was distracted—their heads swiveling like a flock of timid birds—by the sound of thumping footsteps in the hall and the entry of Sheriff Toomey. He was tall and lean, with a mustache that was last popular in the early ’80s.1
“Daddy!” Candi cried. She beamed at him.
The other girls murmured salutations and Sheriff Toomey turned to Astrid.
“I don’t know that we’ve met yet,” he said, nodding at her, his hands resting on his belt. There was something in his gaze—coldly assessing—that made Astrid shiver.
“This is Astrid, Daddy,” Candi said. “The new girl.”
“Uh huh,” Sheriff Toomey said. “Welcome. It’s a good sign if you’ve been here a few months and you haven’t had any occasion to meet me,” he remarked dryly.
Astrid forced a closed-lipped smile. She nodded with false amiability.
“You girls better not have too much fun tonight,” Sheriff Toomey warned. He looked at Astrid a little too long—Astrid was reminded of how she’d felt being leered at on the subway—and turned up the side of one lip in a smirk. “Without me,” he said, before turning and leaving the room.
Astrid looked around at the other girls to see if they’d noticed the sheriff’s creepo behavior, but they all seemed absorbed in the magazine again. Only Gina, in between some final snips, caught her eye and frowned, before looking away quickly.
The girls ooh-ed and ahh-ed as Astrid beheld her new ’do in a mirror. Gina had done a masterful job and the cut was just like the one in the magazine, but Astrid didn’t really like it. As she ran her fingers along her bristly scalp and then through the shorter side of her hair, Astrid felt strange and a little sad. She looked cool, she thought, but different. The pastel polka dot nightgown she was wearing didn’t help, of course, and definitely clashed with the hairstyle. Looking in the mirror, she tried to console herself that it was jarring because none of it—the clothes or hairstyle—was to her own taste. But then she couldn’t help but wonder if she even had her own taste anymore.
Lori said, “The cut really,” and paused. She tried again. “The cut really frames your face,” she said. “It is a . . .” She cleared her throat. Poor girl, Astrid realized. It was so hard for her to talk without saying “like.” “It is a rad cut,” she said at last.
“Thanks,” Astrid said, smiling and trying to be kind.
“Just in time for homecoming,” Candi said, clapping. “Astrid, who are you going with?”
Astrid, who under the best of circumstance would have been uncomfortable with this line of questioning, was profoundly ill at ease. “I wasn’t planning on going with anyone,” she hedged. She shifted on her kitchen stool.
“That’s ridiculous,” Candi said, as Gina swept the towel off Astrid’s shoulders and began cleaning up. “What about Jason?”
“As if. Again, gag me with a spoon.”
“Then who do you like?”
“I don’t like anyone,” Astrid tried.
“You have to like someone,” Chrissy persisted, smirking. “There has to be someone.”
“Not really,” Astrid said, trying to act casual. “I’m still getting to know everyone.”
“Don’t lie,” Chrissy cooed. Astrid felt an urge to slap her again, this time of her own volition.
“Tell us who you like,” Candi said, and Astrid realized, with a sinking stomach, what was happening.
She resisted, her mind racing. She had no idea what would happen if she said she liked Vince. Would Candi do something to her? Would she do something to Vince?
“Tell us which boy you like the best,” Candi repeated.
“Milo,” Astrid burst out, surprising even herself. “Milo is the guy I like.”
Candi squirmed with delight.
“Milo?” Chrissy asked archly, as though Astrid was lying.
“Milo’s great,” Astrid said weakly.
“He’s a weirdo,” Chrissy declared. “And an Evers.” She made a face as if she’d just sucked a lemon.
“You should ask him to the dance,” Lori said.
Candi squealed with approval.
“Yes,” Candi said, nodding her head. “Let’s call him now.”
“I’m not even sure I’m going.”
“Of course you are.” Candi looked at Astrid as though she’d said she was unsure if the sun would rise the next day. “You hang out with me now, Astrid. You are a shoe-in for the homecoming court. It’s not optional, silly.”
“No,” Astrid protested. “Please, I . . .”
“He’s only a junior,” Chrissy put in, snottily. “You’re totally robbing the cradle, Astrid.”
“He would be lucky to be with you,” Candi said, so sweetly that it actually made Astrid feel reassured. “I pity the fool who would turn you down,” she added, doing a Mr. T voice. Then, she said, “Astrid, call Milo and ask him to homecoming.”
“I don’t even know his number.”
“Gina, get Milo Evers’s number.”
Gina moved wordlessly from the room.
“Candi,” Astrid tried to reason, although she found herself standing and walking toward the kitchen phone. “This isn’t how I want to do this.”
“You just need encouragement,” Candi assured her. “I’m so excited for you.”
“What if he says no?” Chrissy asked. Astrid was amazed at Chrissy’s capacity to always say the most annoying thing.
But what if he did say no? Especially now, after she’d so abruptly ended their kiss? And after she’d admitted to the others and, no less importantly, herself, that she liked him? How humiliating.
Gina returned with the number and, with a small smile, went ahead and dialed before handing Astrid the receiver. The line on the other end rang interminably; Astrid became momentarily hopeful that no one would answer, but then she heard Milo’s voice.
“Hello?”
“Hey, sorry to be calling so late,” Astrid said. “It’s Astrid.”
“Oh, hey,” Milo said. He sounded as though he’d been sleeping. “No problem. Is everything okay? Is Marcel okay?”
Astrid turned her back to the other girls and cupped her hand around the phone.
“Yeah, yeah. Everything’s . . . fine. I just needed to ask you something.”
“What’s up?”
“I um, I need to ask . . . ugh, this is so awkward.”
Milo waited a beat and then offered, “Yes. I can’t stop thinking about kissing you. Is that what you wanted to know?”
Astrid smiled. “Thanks. That makes this easier, I guess. But, um, would you go to the dance with me? The, whatever, homecoming dance?”
“Oh. Wow. Sure. That would be so rad. But . . . So, are you at Candi’s right now?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you asking me because you want to ask me or because you have to ask me?”
Astrid paused. She tried to curl into herself, to keep the others from hearing, which was basically impossible. “You’re pretty sharp,” she said. “Both, I guess. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t have asked you on my own, but now that I have, I’m happy about it?”
Milo laughed and the sound was a relief. “I would love to go with you, Astrid.”
At this, Astrid allowed herself to look at the assembled group, who were all smiling in anticipation. “I’m really glad you said yes,” Astrid said, and the girls whooped.
Milo quoted the Smiths—at least that’s what Astrid thought it was, something about pleasure and privilege—and they hung up.
Astrid couldn’t help but smile, although she tried to be restrained, especially because of Marcel. She wondered how Marcel felt about it all, if she minded that Astrid liked Milo. She wished she could ask.
Astrid didn’t have time to continue considering Marcel’s feelings because the sleepover activities were unrelenting. She was struck again by how much of Candi’s life seemed to be based on what she saw teenagers doing in movies; Astrid wasn’t even entirely convinced that Candi herself enjoyed the endless rinse-and-repeat of snack foods, girl talk, makeovers. And yet they all soldiered on, pretending that things that were low stakes were high stakes (would Vince like Candi’s homecoming dress?) and that the things that were high stakes were low stakes (would Marcel survive the night?). It was exhausting.
Next, at Mayor Clifton’s prompting, the girls adjourned upstairs to try on Candi’s dresses—Candi insisted that Astrid “shop her closet” for a homecoming outfit and said that Gina could make any necessary alterations. Astrid modeled various absurd ensembles—most of them puffy and pink and all of them too big, as Candi was at least three inches taller than Astrid.
“I like black,” Astrid said at last. “Do you have anything in black?”
“You’re so New York,” Candi said, both impatiently and admiringly. She entered her walk-in closet and emerged with a pretty standard LBD.2 “Something like this?”
“Yeah,” Astrid said. “Exactly.”
Astrid tried on the dress and, like the others, it was roomy, but it did have the look that she was after.
“Go get Gina,” Candi said. “Have her come up and do the pins now, while you’re wearing it.” As instructed, Astrid turned and left the room, padding down the grand front stairs to the kitchen.
She crossed the front hall and was about to enter the kitchen when she heard a voice behind her.
“Lost?” a man asked.
Astrid turned to see Candi’s stepfather, now in blue jeans and a button-down, holding a beer.
“Just going to get Gina,” Astrid said. She felt awkward walking around barefoot and in an ill-fitting formal dress, like a child who’d raided her mother’s closet.
“Want a beer?” Sheriff Toomey asked.
“Oh,” Astrid said, startled. “No thanks.”
“Good answer,” he said, smiling with only one side of his mouth. “That was just a test. We don’t let underage kids drink in Elsewhere.”
“Yeah,” Astrid said. “Of course.”
Sheriff Toomey took a swig of his beer and stepped closer to Astrid. “I might make an exception for you,” he said, winking. “Especially since you got all dressed up for me.”
This remark, coupled with the way he was looking at her, left no doubt in Astrid’s mind anymore—Candi’s father was coming on to her. Astrid’s skin crawled and she took a step backwards toward the kitchen.
“I’m looking for Gina,” Astrid said loudly. “Is she in the kitchen? Gina?” she called. Astrid took another step backward, but the man stepped closer and put his hand on her shoulder.
“What’s the rush?” he asked.
“Hey,” a voice interjected. “Oh, good. There you are, Astrid. Come on in here.”
Gina’s head was poking through the doorway.
The sheriff removed his hand.
“Come on, then,” Gina said, smiling and acting as though she hadn’t seen anything.
Sheriff Toomey scowled as Astrid drew back and slid into the kitchen.
“You okay?” Gina whispered. She put an arm around Astrid’s shoulder.
Astrid nodded. “I think he was . . . It was just . . .”
“I know,” Gina said. “I’m glad I got there in time.”
“Thank you,” Astrid said, looking into Gina’s, frowning, concerned face.
Gina leaned in closer and whispered into Astrid’s ear. “You have to watch out for him,” she said. “I’ll walk you upstairs.”
Gina kept a hand on Astrid’s upper arm and wordlessly guided her back to Candi’s room, where Astrid then stood on an ottoman, heart still pounding, while Gina pinned the hem of the dress. The other girls continued to flip through magazines, as they conferred about possible homecoming themes.
“The dance is really soon, you know,” Candi reminded everyone. “And I definitely want the gym to look amazing.”
Astrid noticed that the other girls’ eyes skittered around the room. She didn’t know what she was missing.
“Who’s in charge?” Astrid asked at last. “Is there a committee?”
Candi looked at Astrid levelly. “It’s supposed to be Marcel’s job,” she said.
“Oh,” Astrid said. At a gentle touch from Gina, she lowered her arms.
“I think I’m all done here,” Gina said softly. “If you want to go ahead and get changed.”
“I’m just saying,” Candi said, as though Gina had not spoken at all. “I don’t care who does it. The only thing I care about is that gym being transformed. And if it isn’t, there will be hell to pay.”
Astrid cleared her throat. Gina quietly exited the room.
Astrid stood awkwardly, facing the others who were sprawled on the floor and on Candi’s bed, unable to sit because of the pins in the dress. “I have an idea,” she said. “Maybe I could head the committee to decorate the gym. Maybe you could make Marcel . . .” Astrid searched for the words. She had an idea, but she had to say it just right. “Like, if Marcel could work for me? Be my . . . helper?”
Candi smiled crookedly over her. “Your maid?” She cackled. “Astrid, your face is priceless. But yeah, that works.” Candi laughed wickedly. “Marcel, you work for Astrid now.”
“It would be a lot easier if I could talk to her,” Astrid said. “Actually, if we could all talk to her. It would make things easier to organize.”
Candi rolled her eyes dramatically. “You are like a broken record with this, Astrid,” Candi said.3 “But fine,” she groaned, throwing a pillow in Astrid’s direction. “You can talk to Marcel again. Everybody can talk to Marcel again. Are you happy now, Astrid?”
Astrid, who hadn’t realized she was holding her breath, exhaled. She stepped down off the ottoman, ready to make a break for the bathroom. “I am,” she said. “It’ll be rad. Homecoming and all that.”
Astrid was so careful for the rest of the sleepover. During the mani-pedis, while they watched the movie (Purple Rain, which was awesome), and during the requisite “pillow fight” (during which Chrissy was way too aggressive and which ended with Lori in tears), Astrid only spoke to Marcel to give her orders. “Hand me the pink polish” and “refill my popcorn” and “not this pillow, that one.” She didn’t want to be mean and she felt like she might be overdoing it a bit, but Candi seemed happy and, more importantly, convinced. She apparently believed that Astrid was finally coming into her own, coming back to being a bully.
Astrid worried that Marcel might believe it too. But, as she lay awake in Candi’s king-sized-castle bed, reviewing yet again the day’s horrors, she felt something, a little squeeze of her big toe. It was Marcel, who had to sleep on the floor at the foot of the bed. It was Marcel, letting her know she understood.
1 See: Tom Selleck, Burt Reynolds, Freddie Mercury.
2 Little Black Dress
3 Another record metaphor! A record with a scratch on it would repeat the same section over and over.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Naturally, there were pancakes with whipped cream and strawberries in the morning, and Marcel’s position had changed overnight. Now that they were permitted to speak to her, she became everybody’s errand girl. When she wasn’t buzzing around the kitchen, picking up dropped forks and re-filling juices, she lurked silently in the corner.
The breakfast was delicious, of course. “Thanks so much, Mayor Clifton,” Astrid said, as Candi’s mother slipped another stack—made by Gina, but served by Mayor Clifton—onto her plate.
“Are they good?” Mayor Clifton asked, wistfully. The phone rang and Gina answered it. Astrid watched as she wrote information on a notepad on the counter. “They look good.”
“You should have some,” Astrid said, confused.
“Oh, I can’t,” Mayor Clifton said. “I sure am tempted though.” She cut a look at Candi. “Maybe I should break my diet?” she asked.
“No, mother,” Candi replied. She looked at Astrid. “She’s not allowed to eat.” Astrid, apparently, was not as in control of her face as she would have liked, because Candi said defensively, “She asked me to do it! She literally said, ‘tell me not to eat.’”
Mayor Clifton shrugged bashfully. “It’s true. But I’m so hungry, honey.”
“Did you weigh yourself today?” Candi asked.
“I’m down seven pounds,” her mother said.
“So you have three more to go,” Candi said with finality. “I’ll let you have a salad tonight.”
Astrid tried to look sympathetically at Mayor Clifton, but the woman was on the move again. “Vince is here!” she called and all eyes turned to the kitchen entrance in time to see Vince walking in.
Candi leapt from her stool at the kitchen island and jumped into his arms, straddling him. They made out for what felt, to Astrid, like a really stupid amount of time.
Candi, however, laughed. “Lori is super annoying, isn’t she? You’re not allowed to say ‘like’ anymore, Lori.” Before Astrid had time to protest, Candi had turned her attention back to her. “And you’re going to get your hair cut, Astrid. Gina, get the scissors.”
And thus began the project of setting up the kitchen, reviewing the image, and finding the scissors. Astrid sat on a kitchen stool while Gina snipped away, and Chrissy and Lori endlessly analyzed the merits of the boys from school, always concluding that Vince was the absolute cutest, coolest, and hunkiest and that he was simply wild about Candi, could obviously never take his eyes off her. Lori also remarked that she’d noticed another boy, Will Chambers—the boy who Astrid had sat with once, briefly, in the cafeteria—watching Candi and speculated that he was jealous of Vince. Lori was clearly playing Candi’s tune because Candi lapped it up, asking, “Do you really think Will is into me?” as though any answer but the affirmative was possible.
And then, with a sly look, Candi turned to Astrid. “What’s going on with you and Jason?”
“Eww,” Astrid said, genuinely repulsed. “What are you even talking about?”
“He teases you because he likes you,” Candi said.
“What is this, third grade?”
“It can be really surprising,” Candi said, talking over Astrid, “who people sometimes end up with.” She smiled wolfishly.
Astrid opened her mouth to respond, but everyone was distracted—their heads swiveling like a flock of timid birds—by the sound of thumping footsteps in the hall and the entry of Sheriff Toomey. He was tall and lean, with a mustache that was last popular in the early ’80s.1
“Daddy!” Candi cried. She beamed at him.
The other girls murmured salutations and Sheriff Toomey turned to Astrid.
“I don’t know that we’ve met yet,” he said, nodding at her, his hands resting on his belt. There was something in his gaze—coldly assessing—that made Astrid shiver.
“This is Astrid, Daddy,” Candi said. “The new girl.”
“Uh huh,” Sheriff Toomey said. “Welcome. It’s a good sign if you’ve been here a few months and you haven’t had any occasion to meet me,” he remarked dryly.
Astrid forced a closed-lipped smile. She nodded with false amiability.
“You girls better not have too much fun tonight,” Sheriff Toomey warned. He looked at Astrid a little too long—Astrid was reminded of how she’d felt being leered at on the subway—and turned up the side of one lip in a smirk. “Without me,” he said, before turning and leaving the room.
Astrid looked around at the other girls to see if they’d noticed the sheriff’s creepo behavior, but they all seemed absorbed in the magazine again. Only Gina, in between some final snips, caught her eye and frowned, before looking away quickly.
The girls ooh-ed and ahh-ed as Astrid beheld her new ’do in a mirror. Gina had done a masterful job and the cut was just like the one in the magazine, but Astrid didn’t really like it. As she ran her fingers along her bristly scalp and then through the shorter side of her hair, Astrid felt strange and a little sad. She looked cool, she thought, but different. The pastel polka dot nightgown she was wearing didn’t help, of course, and definitely clashed with the hairstyle. Looking in the mirror, she tried to console herself that it was jarring because none of it—the clothes or hairstyle—was to her own taste. But then she couldn’t help but wonder if she even had her own taste anymore.
Lori said, “The cut really,” and paused. She tried again. “The cut really frames your face,” she said. “It is a . . .” She cleared her throat. Poor girl, Astrid realized. It was so hard for her to talk without saying “like.” “It is a rad cut,” she said at last.
“Thanks,” Astrid said, smiling and trying to be kind.
“Just in time for homecoming,” Candi said, clapping. “Astrid, who are you going with?”
Astrid, who under the best of circumstance would have been uncomfortable with this line of questioning, was profoundly ill at ease. “I wasn’t planning on going with anyone,” she hedged. She shifted on her kitchen stool.
“That’s ridiculous,” Candi said, as Gina swept the towel off Astrid’s shoulders and began cleaning up. “What about Jason?”
“As if. Again, gag me with a spoon.”
“Then who do you like?”
“I don’t like anyone,” Astrid tried.
“You have to like someone,” Chrissy persisted, smirking. “There has to be someone.”
“Not really,” Astrid said, trying to act casual. “I’m still getting to know everyone.”
“Don’t lie,” Chrissy cooed. Astrid felt an urge to slap her again, this time of her own volition.
“Tell us who you like,” Candi said, and Astrid realized, with a sinking stomach, what was happening.
She resisted, her mind racing. She had no idea what would happen if she said she liked Vince. Would Candi do something to her? Would she do something to Vince?
“Tell us which boy you like the best,” Candi repeated.
“Milo,” Astrid burst out, surprising even herself. “Milo is the guy I like.”
Candi squirmed with delight.
“Milo?” Chrissy asked archly, as though Astrid was lying.
“Milo’s great,” Astrid said weakly.
“He’s a weirdo,” Chrissy declared. “And an Evers.” She made a face as if she’d just sucked a lemon.
“You should ask him to the dance,” Lori said.
Candi squealed with approval.
“Yes,” Candi said, nodding her head. “Let’s call him now.”
“I’m not even sure I’m going.”
“Of course you are.” Candi looked at Astrid as though she’d said she was unsure if the sun would rise the next day. “You hang out with me now, Astrid. You are a shoe-in for the homecoming court. It’s not optional, silly.”
“No,” Astrid protested. “Please, I . . .”
“He’s only a junior,” Chrissy put in, snottily. “You’re totally robbing the cradle, Astrid.”
“He would be lucky to be with you,” Candi said, so sweetly that it actually made Astrid feel reassured. “I pity the fool who would turn you down,” she added, doing a Mr. T voice. Then, she said, “Astrid, call Milo and ask him to homecoming.”
“I don’t even know his number.”
“Gina, get Milo Evers’s number.”
Gina moved wordlessly from the room.
“Candi,” Astrid tried to reason, although she found herself standing and walking toward the kitchen phone. “This isn’t how I want to do this.”
“You just need encouragement,” Candi assured her. “I’m so excited for you.”
“What if he says no?” Chrissy asked. Astrid was amazed at Chrissy’s capacity to always say the most annoying thing.
But what if he did say no? Especially now, after she’d so abruptly ended their kiss? And after she’d admitted to the others and, no less importantly, herself, that she liked him? How humiliating.
Gina returned with the number and, with a small smile, went ahead and dialed before handing Astrid the receiver. The line on the other end rang interminably; Astrid became momentarily hopeful that no one would answer, but then she heard Milo’s voice.
“Hello?”
“Hey, sorry to be calling so late,” Astrid said. “It’s Astrid.”
“Oh, hey,” Milo said. He sounded as though he’d been sleeping. “No problem. Is everything okay? Is Marcel okay?”
Astrid turned her back to the other girls and cupped her hand around the phone.
“Yeah, yeah. Everything’s . . . fine. I just needed to ask you something.”
“What’s up?”
“I um, I need to ask . . . ugh, this is so awkward.”
Milo waited a beat and then offered, “Yes. I can’t stop thinking about kissing you. Is that what you wanted to know?”
Astrid smiled. “Thanks. That makes this easier, I guess. But, um, would you go to the dance with me? The, whatever, homecoming dance?”
“Oh. Wow. Sure. That would be so rad. But . . . So, are you at Candi’s right now?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you asking me because you want to ask me or because you have to ask me?”
Astrid paused. She tried to curl into herself, to keep the others from hearing, which was basically impossible. “You’re pretty sharp,” she said. “Both, I guess. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t have asked you on my own, but now that I have, I’m happy about it?”
Milo laughed and the sound was a relief. “I would love to go with you, Astrid.”
At this, Astrid allowed herself to look at the assembled group, who were all smiling in anticipation. “I’m really glad you said yes,” Astrid said, and the girls whooped.
Milo quoted the Smiths—at least that’s what Astrid thought it was, something about pleasure and privilege—and they hung up.
Astrid couldn’t help but smile, although she tried to be restrained, especially because of Marcel. She wondered how Marcel felt about it all, if she minded that Astrid liked Milo. She wished she could ask.
Astrid didn’t have time to continue considering Marcel’s feelings because the sleepover activities were unrelenting. She was struck again by how much of Candi’s life seemed to be based on what she saw teenagers doing in movies; Astrid wasn’t even entirely convinced that Candi herself enjoyed the endless rinse-and-repeat of snack foods, girl talk, makeovers. And yet they all soldiered on, pretending that things that were low stakes were high stakes (would Vince like Candi’s homecoming dress?) and that the things that were high stakes were low stakes (would Marcel survive the night?). It was exhausting.
Next, at Mayor Clifton’s prompting, the girls adjourned upstairs to try on Candi’s dresses—Candi insisted that Astrid “shop her closet” for a homecoming outfit and said that Gina could make any necessary alterations. Astrid modeled various absurd ensembles—most of them puffy and pink and all of them too big, as Candi was at least three inches taller than Astrid.
“I like black,” Astrid said at last. “Do you have anything in black?”
“You’re so New York,” Candi said, both impatiently and admiringly. She entered her walk-in closet and emerged with a pretty standard LBD.2 “Something like this?”
“Yeah,” Astrid said. “Exactly.”
Astrid tried on the dress and, like the others, it was roomy, but it did have the look that she was after.
“Go get Gina,” Candi said. “Have her come up and do the pins now, while you’re wearing it.” As instructed, Astrid turned and left the room, padding down the grand front stairs to the kitchen.
She crossed the front hall and was about to enter the kitchen when she heard a voice behind her.
“Lost?” a man asked.
Astrid turned to see Candi’s stepfather, now in blue jeans and a button-down, holding a beer.
“Just going to get Gina,” Astrid said. She felt awkward walking around barefoot and in an ill-fitting formal dress, like a child who’d raided her mother’s closet.
“Want a beer?” Sheriff Toomey asked.
“Oh,” Astrid said, startled. “No thanks.”
“Good answer,” he said, smiling with only one side of his mouth. “That was just a test. We don’t let underage kids drink in Elsewhere.”
“Yeah,” Astrid said. “Of course.”
Sheriff Toomey took a swig of his beer and stepped closer to Astrid. “I might make an exception for you,” he said, winking. “Especially since you got all dressed up for me.”
This remark, coupled with the way he was looking at her, left no doubt in Astrid’s mind anymore—Candi’s father was coming on to her. Astrid’s skin crawled and she took a step backwards toward the kitchen.
“I’m looking for Gina,” Astrid said loudly. “Is she in the kitchen? Gina?” she called. Astrid took another step backward, but the man stepped closer and put his hand on her shoulder.
“What’s the rush?” he asked.
“Hey,” a voice interjected. “Oh, good. There you are, Astrid. Come on in here.”
Gina’s head was poking through the doorway.
The sheriff removed his hand.
“Come on, then,” Gina said, smiling and acting as though she hadn’t seen anything.
Sheriff Toomey scowled as Astrid drew back and slid into the kitchen.
“You okay?” Gina whispered. She put an arm around Astrid’s shoulder.
Astrid nodded. “I think he was . . . It was just . . .”
“I know,” Gina said. “I’m glad I got there in time.”
“Thank you,” Astrid said, looking into Gina’s, frowning, concerned face.
Gina leaned in closer and whispered into Astrid’s ear. “You have to watch out for him,” she said. “I’ll walk you upstairs.”
Gina kept a hand on Astrid’s upper arm and wordlessly guided her back to Candi’s room, where Astrid then stood on an ottoman, heart still pounding, while Gina pinned the hem of the dress. The other girls continued to flip through magazines, as they conferred about possible homecoming themes.
“The dance is really soon, you know,” Candi reminded everyone. “And I definitely want the gym to look amazing.”
Astrid noticed that the other girls’ eyes skittered around the room. She didn’t know what she was missing.
“Who’s in charge?” Astrid asked at last. “Is there a committee?”
Candi looked at Astrid levelly. “It’s supposed to be Marcel’s job,” she said.
“Oh,” Astrid said. At a gentle touch from Gina, she lowered her arms.
“I think I’m all done here,” Gina said softly. “If you want to go ahead and get changed.”
“I’m just saying,” Candi said, as though Gina had not spoken at all. “I don’t care who does it. The only thing I care about is that gym being transformed. And if it isn’t, there will be hell to pay.”
Astrid cleared her throat. Gina quietly exited the room.
Astrid stood awkwardly, facing the others who were sprawled on the floor and on Candi’s bed, unable to sit because of the pins in the dress. “I have an idea,” she said. “Maybe I could head the committee to decorate the gym. Maybe you could make Marcel . . .” Astrid searched for the words. She had an idea, but she had to say it just right. “Like, if Marcel could work for me? Be my . . . helper?”
Candi smiled crookedly over her. “Your maid?” She cackled. “Astrid, your face is priceless. But yeah, that works.” Candi laughed wickedly. “Marcel, you work for Astrid now.”
“It would be a lot easier if I could talk to her,” Astrid said. “Actually, if we could all talk to her. It would make things easier to organize.”
Candi rolled her eyes dramatically. “You are like a broken record with this, Astrid,” Candi said.3 “But fine,” she groaned, throwing a pillow in Astrid’s direction. “You can talk to Marcel again. Everybody can talk to Marcel again. Are you happy now, Astrid?”
Astrid, who hadn’t realized she was holding her breath, exhaled. She stepped down off the ottoman, ready to make a break for the bathroom. “I am,” she said. “It’ll be rad. Homecoming and all that.”
Astrid was so careful for the rest of the sleepover. During the mani-pedis, while they watched the movie (Purple Rain, which was awesome), and during the requisite “pillow fight” (during which Chrissy was way too aggressive and which ended with Lori in tears), Astrid only spoke to Marcel to give her orders. “Hand me the pink polish” and “refill my popcorn” and “not this pillow, that one.” She didn’t want to be mean and she felt like she might be overdoing it a bit, but Candi seemed happy and, more importantly, convinced. She apparently believed that Astrid was finally coming into her own, coming back to being a bully.
Astrid worried that Marcel might believe it too. But, as she lay awake in Candi’s king-sized-castle bed, reviewing yet again the day’s horrors, she felt something, a little squeeze of her big toe. It was Marcel, who had to sleep on the floor at the foot of the bed. It was Marcel, letting her know she understood.
1 See: Tom Selleck, Burt Reynolds, Freddie Mercury.
2 Little Black Dress
3 Another record metaphor! A record with a scratch on it would repeat the same section over and over.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Naturally, there were pancakes with whipped cream and strawberries in the morning, and Marcel’s position had changed overnight. Now that they were permitted to speak to her, she became everybody’s errand girl. When she wasn’t buzzing around the kitchen, picking up dropped forks and re-filling juices, she lurked silently in the corner.
The breakfast was delicious, of course. “Thanks so much, Mayor Clifton,” Astrid said, as Candi’s mother slipped another stack—made by Gina, but served by Mayor Clifton—onto her plate.
“Are they good?” Mayor Clifton asked, wistfully. The phone rang and Gina answered it. Astrid watched as she wrote information on a notepad on the counter. “They look good.”
“You should have some,” Astrid said, confused.
“Oh, I can’t,” Mayor Clifton said. “I sure am tempted though.” She cut a look at Candi. “Maybe I should break my diet?” she asked.
“No, mother,” Candi replied. She looked at Astrid. “She’s not allowed to eat.” Astrid, apparently, was not as in control of her face as she would have liked, because Candi said defensively, “She asked me to do it! She literally said, ‘tell me not to eat.’”
Mayor Clifton shrugged bashfully. “It’s true. But I’m so hungry, honey.”
“Did you weigh yourself today?” Candi asked.
“I’m down seven pounds,” her mother said.
“So you have three more to go,” Candi said with finality. “I’ll let you have a salad tonight.”
Astrid tried to look sympathetically at Mayor Clifton, but the woman was on the move again. “Vince is here!” she called and all eyes turned to the kitchen entrance in time to see Vince walking in.
Candi leapt from her stool at the kitchen island and jumped into his arms, straddling him. They made out for what felt, to Astrid, like a really stupid amount of time.
