Page 93 of On the Beat

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As it turns out, apparently the only colour to wear to the Grammy’s is red, because that’s all that the stylist at Saks is showing me. When I asked my mom what we should wear, she told me the limo driver waiting outside was about to drive them to the perfect place to get attired for tonight—which in turn led me to wonder if she was joking or even suffering from delusions of grandeur. Then, I remembered that Ryder gave the three of us invitations to the Grammy’s, and I relax. Somewhat.

“Isla, come tell me if this looks good!” My mom calls me, beckoning me toward the dressing room. I’ve been so overwhelmed by the sheer array of choices that I haven’t even tried on a single item.

“Okay, coming, Mom!” I run past a rack of dresses in—what else?—red, and hurry toward the fitting rooms, nearly slipping on the marble floor. This place is bigger and fancier than my entire apartment, which I guess isn’t saying a lot.

She unlocks the door—in most places I shop at, the fitting rooms are lucky to have curtains, which probably says more about my fashion style than anything else—and lets me in. My mother has been transformed into some glamorous 60s starlet, with her hair in finger waves and wearing an off-the-shoulder green gown. The long sleeves are slightly sheer, but the rest of the dress is velvet, with faintly glittery appliqués in floral patterns. It’s a far cry from her usual outfit of scrubs or jeans and a t-shirt.

“Wow, Mom,” I breathe. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you. Now, why aren’t you trying on anything yet? We only have three hours until we have to be there, you know,” she says.

I give an exasperated smile. My parents are the kind of people who show up five hours early to the airport for a flight that’s two hours away. “I was hoping you could help me pick something out.”

“Oh, of course. Just help me unzip this dress and then we can go look at something, okay?”

As I unzip the dress, I notice the price tag. My parents do pretty well as doctors, but notthiswell. “Mom… can we afford all of this?”

“Don’t worry.” She winks—actually winks!—at me. “Apparently, it’s a gift. He must really like you.”

I shift, feeling uneasy with the thought of Ryder paying for my clothes. “I guess so.”

“Isla? What’s wrong?”

I sigh and help her out of the dress, draping it over a chair. “We… we got into a fight. We made up, but… I’m surprised he would do all of this, you know?”

Especially when I’m the one who caused the rift to begin with.

“Oh, honey, maybe this is his way of apologizing,” she says, putting on her jeans and peasant blouse again.

“But, I’m the one who should be apologizing,” I murmur.

She frowns, moving closer to me. “What did you say?”

“I said—“

I hear my father’s booming laughter right outside the dressing room. Being a man, he bought the first black suit he tried on and has been waiting for us for an hour and a half.

“Who’s he talking to?” I say with a frown.

My mother shrugs. “Let’s go find out, shall we?”

Outside, we find Dad talking affably as he usually does to complete strangers, a middle-aged couple with folksy, Southern accents. There’s something that seems vaguely familiar about the two of them, though I can’t quite place it. “Joy, Isla, come meet Edna and Bruce Black.”

Black?

I cross the room, shaking Edna’s hand, then Bruce’s. “Are the two of you by any chance related to Ryder Black?”

“That’s our son,” Bruce says, his moustache twitching as he speaks. “How do you know him?”

“Your name is Isla? What an unusual name. Why, you wouldn’t be the girl he’s told me so much about, would you?” Edna says, a warm smile on her face.

My mother shoots me a look, as if to say,see? Told you he liked you.

“I’m not sure. Has he said good or bad things about me?” I say, only partially joking. I picture Ryder at home with his parents or on the phone with his mom, talking to her about me. Telling her how we met. Well, maybe not that part.

“Good, good. He says he’s in love with you, you know,” she says. “Says he wants to marry you.”

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