Текст книги "From What I Remember"

Автор книги: Valerie Thomas

Соавторы: Stacy Kramer
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

ily, grab my cap, grab my cap,” Tessa Overby screams at me. “He’s going to throw it in the water and I’ll have to wear it to graduation all warped.”

I’m standing in Luca Sonneban’s kitchen as Luca holds Tessa’s graduation cap over his head. Tessa is climbing his back like a monkey on a tree, attempting to pry the cap from his hands. She’s clutching at his shirt and laughing hysterically. I might have found this amusing yesterday, but now I just want to smack her.

I wander out back to find Justin Brandt standing on the diving board, holding Ella Bing by her ankles, dangling her over the water. They’re both clearly wasted out of their minds. Ella’s always a little sloppy, but hanging upside down is really pushing things to a new level. Her shirt drapes around her neck, like a scarf, as her breasts dangle freely for everyone to see. It may be the last day of school, but, Jesus, have a little dignity.

“Should I do it?” Justin slurs.

A loud roar goes up from the crowd standing around the pool.

“Do it. Do it. Do it,” everyone chants.

Ella gives one last squeal and then Justin lets go. She drops into the pool with a splash. People cheer and hoot. A few seconds later Ella bursts to the surface, laughing and spitting out water. Justin dives in after her, fully clothed. Fifteen or so people leap in as well, all clothed.

Ella throws off her shirt and is slapping around the water, topless. A bunch of other girls toss off their shirts. Boys throw off their jeans, and soon it’s one big skinny-dipping bacchanal. More senior rituals I should be partaking in. I’ve been looking forward to senior night since freshman year. I’d probably have been the first person in the water. If only.

I’ve now thoroughly scoped out the party, and Max isn’t here, which is just so infuriating. And it begs the question, where the hell is he? And why hasn’t he bothered to text me all day?

“Hey, girl, where you been? I’ve been looking all over for you,” Stokely says as she throws an arm around me and kisses my cheek.

“Just got here a little while ago.”

“It’s awesome, isn’t it?”

“Totally,” I say, trying to sound enthusiastic.

“So…Luca asked me if I was going to Charlie’s party with anyone.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said I wasn’t going with anyone.”

“Oh, Stokes, you shouldn’t have said that. You should have let there be a little mystery. Make him want it.”

“Shit. Do you think I fucked up?”

“No. I’m sure it’ll be fine. He’s probably just waiting till the last minute to ask you. All of these guys are so lame.”

“Totally. Too bad we’re not lesbians. It would be so much easier.”

Poor Stokely. She’s hopeless at the games. I’ve tried and tried to coach her, but it’s just not sinking in, which is weird because she’s a smart girl. Just really stupid with guys. I don’t know how she’ll ever land a boyfriend. She’s had a crush on Luca forever, but she can’t seem to play it cool around him. Guys love the chase, but Stokely just wants to fall down at their feet.

“You wanna go swimming?” Stokely asks.

“Maybe in a little while. I’m starving. What’s there to eat?”

“Oh my God. You have to check it out. They got the sushi chef from Nawazaka. It’s unbelievable. C’mon.”

Stokely takes my hand and drags me toward the other end of the pool. Under a large cabana, a whole sushi station has been set up, replete with glass-enclosed cases of raw fish. It’s insane. A sushi chef makes sashimi and maki, whipping it out as fast as he can. People are downing toro and yellowtail like it’s popcorn. Stokely and I squeeze our way through the crowd and pluck a few rolls.

Susan Miles is standing next to me. She starts to wobble, and then turns and hurls onto the grass. Lovely. Raw fish and excessive vodka don’t go particularly well together. Amy Singer, Susan’s best friend since fourth grade, rushes to her side and holds her hair back as Susan finishes puking her guts out. Several of the waitstaff appear and clean up the mess, even as it’s still happening. Everyone walks around the carnage, not wanting the bloodshed to get in the way of their good time. It’s senior night; there will be plenty of roadkill. Susan just has the distinguished job of being first.

As Stokely and I head out into the yard, Sandy Lin calls out to me.

“Lily, did you find out what dorm you’re in? I just heard I’m in Adams House.”

Sandy Lin got into Stanford early decision, just like me, but the similarities end there.

“Um, the thing is, I’m actually thinking about taking a gap year.” As soon as I say it, I realize my mistake. I should have just kept my mouth shut and dealt with it later.

“Really? What are you going to do?” I can tell by the curdled look on her face that Sandy thinks this is the worst idea she’s ever heard. And I have to agree with her. Why would anyone put off the holy grail of Stanford? Trust me, Sandy, I’m right there with you.

“I’m thinking about traveling to Europe or Asia.”

Stokes is looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. This is the first she’s heard of any of this. First I’ve heard of it too. But I feel like I’ve got to have some kind of story, in light of what happened last night. This isn’t my greatest spin job, but it’s the best I can do on the fly.

“Okay. Well, that sounds…cool,” Sandy says. Not.

Stokely steers me away from Sandy.

“What are you talking about, Lil,” she says. It’s more of a statement than a question. I’m not even sure how I should answer her. I’ve dug myself into this hole and now I’ve got to climb out.

“I don’t know. I’m just not feeling the whole college thing yet. I think a year off would be good for me. Everyone in Europe does it.”

“What are you talking about, Lily?”

“You just said that, Stokes.”

“I know. ’Cause I don’t know what else to say. I mean, this is crazy talk. It’s so not you.”

“It’s not like I’m not going to college or anything. I just want some more life experience.”

“Isn’t it a little late in the game to be deciding this?”

“It could be good for me, you know?”

“Not really.” Stokes can tell I am not kidding, and she looks completely knocked out by the news. For good reason. I’ve just done a one-eighty on her. Then again, life did a one-eighty on me.

Stokely was hell-bent on going to Duke, just like I was hellbent on going to Stanford, and when we both got accepted, by chance on the same day, we burst into tears. Which is not exactly my style, but it was just such a relief, I couldn’t hold it in.

“Come on, Stokes, let’s go down to the beach.” I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Soon, everything will be public and everyone will be gossiping about me. At least for tonight I want to enjoy my fake gap year.

I head down the path toward the ocean. Luca’s parents have more money than my dad used to have—that thought goes down hard. Their house is one of those huge glass boxes that look like a modern art museum. It sits on the bluff above the beach, and everything in it is white. Or at least it used to be, before tonight. Luca’s parents made the mistake of letting him host a graduation party, and now everything is covered in a thin gray film of senior night debauchery. But no worries—they can just throw everything out and redecorate tomorrow.

We walk down the wooden stairs and snake our way to the beach. There’s a bunch of people on the sand, sitting in front of a huge bonfire that two guys continue to feed. More staff. Why couldn’t I be a Sonneban instead of a Wentworth?

“Yo, yo, Lil and Stokes,” Charlie says as he and Ben Goodman approach us. “What’s up, ladies?”

Their faces are red from either drinking or standing next to the blazing fire or both. Ben clutches a fifth of Jack Daniel’s. He takes a long sip and then passes it to Charlie.

“We just threw Billy Stafford’s clothes in the fire,” Ben tells us. And then he and Charlie high-five.

“Where is Billy?” I ask, not really interested.

“He’s in the ocean,” Ben says. “Guess he’s going to be there for a while.” This cracks Ben and Charlie up.

“Have you heard from Max?” I ask Charlie.

“No. This is messed up. He is seriously missing the dankest party of the year.”

I’m enraged. I have never been this mad at Max. I would be worried except that I know Max, and it is just like him to disappear on me in my time of need. Plus, if anything happened to him, we would have heard something. La Jolla is the smallest of small towns. News travels at the speed of sound.

“Let me have some of that,” I say to Charlie as I grab the bottle of JD from his hand and take a long pull on it. Fuck it. I’m going to get wasted. The whiskey burns my throat, but I force myself to keep drinking. I’ve never been much of a drinker. If ever there was a time to start, now is certainly it. I haven’t eaten all day and I can feel the alcohol taking hold right away. I feel lighter immediately.

Ben and Stokes have gone down to the water to look for Billy. I see Stokes pull her dress off and step into the water. I take a few more sips from the bottle.

“Hey, Charlie, can you match me?” I take a drink and pass him the bottle.

“Aw, Lil, you’re talking to the master here.” He takes two and passes it back.

My turn.

“You okay, Lil?” Charlie may be drunk, but he knows me well enough to know that something is wrong. I don’t normally act like this, drinking straight out of a bottle, matching Charlie, shot for shot. I’m acting like trash. It’s embarrassing. But I guess that’s where I live now. Might as well get used to it.

“I’m good,” I say. “Just pissed at Max.”

“Yeah, he can be an asshole sometimes, you know?”

I’ve never heard Charlie say anything bad about Max before. He’s loyal to a fault. I wonder if that’s just the alcohol talking.

“He sure as shit can,” I say.

Maybe something happened to him. Maybe I’m so caught up in my own stuff, I can’t think straight about Max. Nah, I doubt it. I’m pretty sure he’s just bailed on senior night. Lately, he’s been sort of cold. I can’t help thinking this is about another girl. With Max, everything is usually about sex or squash. Maybe he’s fucking someone on the squash court. Probably Marsha Spittman. Or, better yet, Lacey Garson. That little bitch. She’s wanted to get into Max’s pants for as long as she’s known him. And, come to think of it, I haven’t seen her here.

“Screw him.” And that’s when I take Charlie’s face and pull him to me. I kiss him hard. He’s too drunk to protest. His lips are bitter, like vinegar, and his breath is sour. Charlie’s tongue is in my mouth, forceful, poking, like he’s doing root canal work. It’s not particularly pleasant. Nothing like Max, but I’m here. No way out now.

I take Charlie’s hands that are hanging limply at his side, seemingly looking for direction, and I shove them under my shirt. He fumbles around on my breasts like he’s never been to this place before, like it’s unfamiliar territory. What’s up with that? I thought Charlie was quite the swordsman. Maybe he’s too wasted to know what he’s doing. Or maybe he just can’t do this to his best friend, he’s too good of a person. Not vengeful, petty, or bitter. Like me.

We make out for a few more minutes, but it’s not working.

For either of us. I pull away and crumple onto the sand. I don’t want to look at Charlie ever again. What was I thinking?

Charlie stares down at me, dumbfounded. “What just happened?”

I can’t help myself, I start crying.

Charlie falls to the sand beside me. He gently rubs my back. Now, at least, he seems to know what to do with his hands.

“We made a mistake. We were drunk. It didn’t mean anything. Max never has to know about it. Promise.”

“That’s not what I’m crying about,” I cough out, in between tears.

Neither of us says anything as we stare at the fire.

And then Charlie’s phone rings. He takes it out of his pocket and answers.

“Max…hey.”

Charlie looks at me, and I look away. Speak of the devil.

uenas noches, señorita. ¿Cómo estás?” a man named Augusto asks me, slurring his words. He’s so wasted, he’s about five minutes from falling off his stool. We’re back at Manuel’s bar, hoping he can help us track down Will. He’s so busy with the madding crowd that he hasn’t had time to talk to us yet, so we’re waiting at the bar. I don’t think we’re going to make it home tonight. It’s getting too dark to make the drive now. And the funny thing is, I couldn’t care less. Max is off calling his parents to tell them he’ll be later than expected. Much later. I’m drinking a beer and waiting for Max to return, wishing Augusto would disappear.

“Yo no hablo español,” I say. I’m not in the mood for a lengthy conversation with Augusto, who may or may not be celebrating his birthday. I glance over at him as he sways precariously. Jesus, I really hope he doesn’t fall over on me.

Max saunters back from the phone booth, smiling at me. I wonder what it’s like being Lily. Always having Max walking toward you, looking like that. Must be nice. Really nice.

“Everything good at your house?” I ask.

“No problemos.”

“Lucky you,” I say. I don’t think it’ll be quite the same at my house.

I stand up as Max takes a seat next to Augusto.

“I’m going to call my mom. I would advise you to move over a few seats. Augusto here is getting ready to take a tumble,” I tell Max.

“Don’t worry about me. I can handle myself.”

And then, as if on cue, Augusto falls over onto Max, and they both go down. Max is laughing.

“Wow. You called it,” Max says.

“I’m psychic.”

Augusto is snoring. Jesus.

“What are we supposed to do with him?” I ask.

“Let’s put him in a chair in the back.”

Max and I drag Augusto to a worn leather chair in the corner of the bar.

“He can sleep it off here,” Max says. “Go call your mom.”

As I head into the phone booth, I can’t help thinking that Max is a really decent guy. Possibly even a better person than me. All I wanted to do was run fast and far from Augusto, but Max wanted to make sure he was okay. Do I have everyone else at Freiburg wrong as well? I push that out of my mind as I dial Mom’s cell. I can only focus on fixing one problem at a time. Mom is up. Then I can revisit my social miscalculations from the past six years.

I never lie to my mom, but there’s a first time for everything, so here goes. I brace myself for the conversation, but she doesn’t pick up, which is weird. She always picks up my calls. I am calling from a different number, so maybe that’s the reason.

“Uh, hi, Mom. It’s me. I just wanted to let you know that the meeting went kind of late and I’m going to spend the night at Will’s, okay? I’ll call you in the morning.” And then I hang up fast. I’ve just dropped a bomb. She’s going to be, among other things, pissed. Really pissed. I’ve never done anything like this, but maybe it’s finally time I did.

“So?” Max asks as I slip onto a stool next to him, having passed Augusto along the way, who is curled up on the chair, fast asleep, covered in a colorful blanket. Did Max find a blanket for him as well? Who is he, Gandhi?

“I left her a message. She didn’t pick up. Second time today. She almost always picks up her cell.”

“I’m sure everything’s fine. She’s working, right?”

“Yeah, that’s probably it,” I say. But in the back of my mind, I can’t help worrying that something’s gone horribly wrong in my absence, because that’s my job. I hold things together for my family. But, you know what? I can’t do it forever. They need to learn how to take care of themselves, starting tonight. I’m leaving in less than three months. We’ve all got to learn how to let go, otherwise I might as well just call the whole thing off and go to UCSD.

I make a decision to put everything out of my head except for the here and now. For one night I want to be totally, unconscionably, downright selfish. Does that make me a bad person? I don’t think so. I’ll deal with everything else tomorrow. Maybe I’m just buzzed enough to pull it off.

“Manuel says we can crash at his house. On the floor or something. And then we’ll head out first thing in the morning.”

“Yeah. Definitely,” I say. But I can’t help wondering what the larger meaning is here. I mean, Max and I are spending the night together, in a manner of speaking.

“Don’t worry. We’re going to get to graduation on time,” Max says.

That’s the last thing on my mind at the moment.

“Dos cervezas, por favor,” Max says to an old bartender who’s helping out Manuel.

I laugh at Max’s accent.

“What?” Max asks.

“It’s dos, not does, which are female deer.”

“Maybe you can give me Spanish lessons when we get back home.”

“Maybe,” is all I say. But, of course, my mind races with the implications of that innocuous comment. First he mentioned going to the Ken. Now Spanish lessons. Does he think we’ll be seeing each other when we get back home? On a regular basis? I definitely need another beer. It’s been a long night and the buzz is ebbing and flowing. I need to get a continuous flow going or I’m going to pick apart everything Max says, looking for the hidden meaning. I’m sure he’ll forget about seeing me the minute we’re back in La Jolla.

A shouting match breaks out at the bar. A drunk guy with dreads is screaming at the old bartender. The bartender yells back. He’s a tough old dude. He looks about ready to leap over the bar and smash the guy’s face in. Manuel has one eye trained on the guy, watching. The shouting gets louder, and then the guy with dreads throws a glass at the old dude. The old dude rushes out from the bar, but before he can get to dreadlocked guy, Manuel is there. He’s got dreadlocked guy in a headlock. The old dude is yelling in Spanish. His face is turning red with fury. Manuel barks out orders. The old dude retreats. Manuel drags dreadlock guy toward the exit and kicks him out of the bar.

Max and I share a look. I don’t think either of us would want to mess with Manuel. He’s one tough mother.

Manuel walks over to us.

“Enjoying the show?” he asks.

“Totally,” I say.

“That was awesome,” Max tells Manuel.

“Just another night in Ensenada.” Manuel laughs. “Dealing with people like that is part of doing business. Don’t own a bar when you grow up, mis amigos. People are loco. And when they drink, forget about it. Do something that doesn’t involve glass or alcohol.”

“Got it,” Max says.

“I texted Juan. Didn’t hear back from him. Probably doesn’t want me to know he’s with a guy. I wish he’d just come out already. It would make life a lot easier for all of us. I’m sure if you wander around you’ll run into him. Either way, you’ll crash at our place. I’ll make sure Juan gets Will to the house bright and early, even if I have to go to Juan’s apartment myself in the morning and fetch Will. I’m sure Juan will insist they’re just friends, even if they’re butt naked and in bed together.” Manuel laughs at his own joke. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you guys to the border in plenty of time.”

“Thanks, Manuel,” I say. “For everything.”

“It’s nothing. I just hope you’ll come back to Ensenada. And bring your dad.”

“I’m definitely going to try.”

“You guys should get out there and enjoy the party. No need to hang around with a boring old man.”

“You’re the least boring person I’ve met in years,” Max says.

“I second that,” I say.

“Okay, now get out of here and have some fun.”

“All right, we’ll catch you later,” Max says, throwing his arm around my shoulder and leading me out the door and back into the crowd.

We weave up and down the streets, connected. For Max, an arm around a shoulder probably means nothing. To me, it means everything. A whole new world. My whole body is buzzing from the sensation of being bound to Max. Never let me go, I think.

“So did you really hate the quote?” I ask Max.

“What quote? What are you talking about?”

“The Golda Meir quote. From my speech.” I’ve been wanting to ask Max about it, but I didn’t really feel comfortable bringing it up until now.

“No. I didn’t hate it. I was just surprised by it.”

“Surprised. Why?”

“I don’t know. I guess the quote felt pretty average. Kind of dull, predictable. I figured you’d have some obscure movie lines or some brilliant insights into our future. You don’t think like anyone else I know. So I was expecting something different, I guess. Does that make sense?”

I’m pretty sure he means this in a good way. Still, it doesn’t bode particularly well for my speech.

“You have to hear the rest of it. It makes perfect sense in context.”

“I’m sure it does. And I know it’ll be great. I’m hardly the person to give advice. I’m a terrible writer. You should do the opposite of what I say.”

“You think people can’t relate to the quote?”

“Look, Kylie, I haven’t heard the whole speech, so what do I know? It’s just, now that I know you, I bet you could stand up there without any speech and just ad-lib and it would blow everyone away. You’re funny and smart and insightful. You don’t need to quote anyone but yourself.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not exactly how I roll. I show up prepared for everything.”

“Whatever you say is going to be awesome. Don’t over-think it. And don’t take my opinion too seriously. I’m almost always wrong about stuff like this.”

“Okay,” I say. But Max’s words ring in my ears. Is it too stiff? Not relatable? I don’t ad-lib my life, so no chance that I’ll just show up and wing it.

We walk by a cluster of people standing on a street corner singing Mexican folk songs at the top of their lungs. Like mostly everyone else in town, they’re drunk. Oddly, they don’t sound half bad. As we pass, a woman pulls us into the circle, throwing one arm around each of us. It’s exactly what I need to shift the mood. I don’t want to think about my potentially disastrous speech tomorrow.

We all sway together, like trees in a breeze, as everyone continues to sing. Even though I don’t know one of these people or the song they’re singing, I want to be part of it, which is bizarre since I’m so not a group kind of person. I attempt to sing along, catching words and phrases here and there. They finish singing and the circle splinters.

Max and I wander back into the street. We’re no longer touching. I wish we were, but I’m not sure how to initiate it. I spend several endless seconds thinking about how I should do it. Do I just grab his hand? Or would it be more subtle to slip my arm through his and then slowly, gently, wind my hand down his arm until my fingers find his? As I’m strategizing, Max casually throws his arm over my shoulders, and once again we are connected. I am freed from the misery of figuring out how to do it myself. Max probably didn’t think about it for a minute.

We turn down a small alleyway lined with open-air stalls. Couples kiss in discreet corners. Stragglers loiter on stairs, sharing cigarettes. It’s quieter as the revelry from the main street dies down. A dress in a tiny shop window catches my eye. I stop and stare at it. It’s a deep fuchsia, delicately embroidered with yellow flowers, with layers of lace on the front, and tiny cap sleeves. The body of the dress hangs in tiers, almost to the floor. It looks as if it’s been fashioned out of paper, like an elaborate valentine cut by hand.

“You like it?” Max asks me.

“Yeah, it’s sort of fantastic. Tacky and chic at the same time.”

“Let’s go in. You can try it on,” Max insists.

“First of all, I don’t wear dresses, especially not one like that. Second of all, I’ve got practically no money; and third—”

“Slow down, Flores. You know what, I don’t care about number three. Or number one or two, for that matter. You like it. You should try it on.”

Max opens the door and pushes me into the store. There are racks of brightly colored flouncy dresses crammed into every pocket of the tiny space. The shop is packed so full of dresses there’s barely room to maneuver around the clothes. Purses and hats hang from the low ceilings and line the walls.

“Hola,” says a round old woman as she approaches us. She’s so short she barely makes it to my shoulders. “Let me help you find something, señorita.”

Before I can respond, she ushers me toward a rack of dresses. She plucks a lime green macramé number from the mass and holds it up to me. The skirt is speckled with pink pom-poms. Hideous does not begin to describe this frock.

“You like?” The woman peers up at me, hopeful.

I catch Max’s eye and can see he’s holding back laughter. I grope for something diplomatic to say, but what comes out is, “Uh, no. Not at all.”

Upon hearing my blunt response, Max bursts out laughing.

I switch to Spanish so that Max can’t understand me. I try to tell the woman that I’m not really a frilly dress girl, but she’s so delighted that she can speak Spanish with me, she isn’t really listening. She’s on a mission and there’s no stopping her. The little round ball of a woman is a whirling dervish as she bounces through the racks in search of the perfect dress for me.

I feel bad. The woman seems sweet and she clearly wants to make a sale, but she’s got the wrong girl. I don’t want to try any of these dresses on. I can’t even remember the last time I wore a dress. I’m all about jeans and T-shirts. Dressing up for me means buying a new pair of high-tops. What am I doing in here? Oh, right—this was Max’s idea.

“C’mon,” Max whispers to me. “Just try something on. It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t do dresses,” I say.

“Make an exception.”

“Only if you will.”

“What do you mean?” Max asks.

“You try one on. I’ll try one on,” I offer.

Max stares at me, trying to determine if I’m serious. I am. His eyes crinkle into a smile. He’s up for the challenge. I should have figured; he’s the kind of guy who’s up for anything.

“’Kay. I’ll pick yours. You pick mine.”

The old woman is pulling out dress after dress, one more hideous than the other. I shake my head at the choices, saying, “Lo siento,” after each one. She is surprisingly chipper, undaunted by the fact that I’ve yet to give her any positive reinforcement.

Max, meanwhile, begins to peruse the racks, checking out dress after dress.

The woman disappears into the back and returns with a plain white cotton gown. It’s lovely in its simplicity. Perfect for Max. “Sí,” I say. She smiles, pleased with herself.

“But it’s not for me. It’s for my friend,” I say, this time in English so that Max will understand. I’m worried she’s going to freak and kick us out of the store. Instead, she smiles broadly.

“Ah, St. John brings out la niña in all of us. I get a bigger one for you,” she says to Max, sizing him up. She retreats into the back room again.

“What have you got for me, Langston?”

“I think you’ll do the pink one in the window, Flores.”

“No. It’s too…too. For me.”

“Sorry. Too late. I’ve made my decision.”

The woman returns and hands Max his dress.

“Can you get the pink one in the window for my friend?” Max asks.

The woman yanks the dress off the hanger and holds it up to my body.

“Yes. She’s beautiful, no?” she says to Max.

“Yeah, she is,” Max replies. It’s hard to tell if Max is just being polite or if he means it. Nonetheless, I turn seven shades of red.

Max and I head to “the dressing room.” A generous term. It’s more of a broom closet. There’s only room for one of us at a time, which is a relief. I couldn’t deal with us both changing at the same time, my big butt exposed for Max to see.

I let Max go first. He squeezes himself into the room, and after some grunting and groaning, he returns with the dress on. Max’s long, buff limbs look strangled in the form-fitting dress.

The old woman claps at Max. “You look so funny. It makes me smile.”

“And by that you mean handsome and debonair,” Max says to her.

The old woman just laughs.

“What do you think, Flores? Can I go head-to-head with Will?” He looks absurd. Not like Will, whose lithe frame is made for the delicate lines of women’s clothes.

“’Fraid not. Will kind of blows you out of the water on the cross-dressing front. But you rock jeans and a T-shirt much better.”

“C’mon, you’re bringing me down. I am totally feeling this transvestite thing. I thought it could be my new look for UCLA.”

Max sashays in between the racks. His lovely tight ass is obscured by the folds of the fabric. Max’s ass was invented for jeans.

“I’m sorry, dude. You can’t work it like Will does.”

“That’s cool. I’m good with guy clothes. It seems really hard to walk in a dress. And if you add heels to this, I’d seriously kill myself. Okay, your turn.”

Max retreats to the dressing room, throws on his clothes, and comes back out looking even better than when he went in. How is that possible?

Max hands me the pink dress. I wrinkle my nose and start to protest. I worry it’ll look silly on me. Like I’m dressing up in my mother’s clothes. Like I’m trying to be something I’m not.

“We had a deal. I showed you mine, now show me yours,” Max says.

I can tell he won’t back down, so I capitulate and head to the dressing room. I pull my jeans and T-shirt off and shimmy into the dress. It fits me perfectly. I turn to look at myself in the cloudy mirror. Someone has written Ensenada rules across the length of it.

The bodice of the dress is tight. It emphasizes my A-cup breasts, making me almost look like a B. The cap sleeves hang off my shoulders just a little, framing my upper arms and giving the illusion of sculpted muscles. The low scoop of the neckline reveals my cleavage, and my instinct immediately is to cross my arms over my chest. But I don’t. I stand there and stare at myself, shocked that I don’t look as ridiculous as I thought I would.

I step out of the dressing room to find Max and the old woman staring at me. I feel exposed and excited in equal measure as I stand there awkwardly. Max doesn’t say anything for a moment, which adds to my insecurity, tipping the scales toward exposed.

“Yeah, like I said, it’s not really me.”

“No. It’s definitely you,” Max says. “You look incredible. Really.”

And then Max reaches over and pulls the band from my hair. My curls tumble out of the ponytail and onto my shoulders.

“You look like a rose in bloom, like fireworks in the sky,” the old woman says to me. Her eyes fill with tears. “So lovely. Bella. I have never seen someone look so good in that dress.”

Okay, enough with the bad metaphors and the hard sell. I’m kind of wishing she would just go away at this point. It’s getting embarrassing.

“Well…I’m going to change now,” I say, and turn away.

“No, no.” The woman rushes up to me and tugs here and there on the dress to adjust it. “This dress is perfect on her, no?” she asks Max, like he’s in charge of me, or something. Got to love the Latino culture.