Page 36 of Taking It To Overtime
I take too long to answer. She’s grabbing her pajamas and closing herself into the bathroom while my brain is trying to catch up. When she comes back out, covered in the smallest satin shorts and tank top I’ve ever seen, she smiles at me.
“Think it over, Robbie. I’m not going to rescind the offer, but you need to be sure.”
I’m sure,I want to tell her.I want any piece of you you’re offering,but she’s already slipping under the covers of her bed and switching off the lamp on the bedside table.
I head to the bathroom to take the coldest shower of my life.
She tugs down on the lace at her collar. It itches worse than that one time she got a spider bite she got on the back of her knee. The one she scratched until it opened up, caking bright red blood underneath her purple-painted fingernails. The dress is not only lace-trimmed, it poufs. Ballooning out from her waist like some sort of shiny cupcake, and she hates it. Hates it, hates it, hates it, but it’s a big day for her daddy and this is the dress Mom left on her chair for the party.
She wanted to wear the long yellow dress. The one with the spaghetti straps. The soft and stretchy one that covered her to her ankles. The one her mom says is for colder weather and older girls, but this frilly one is for younger girls. Babies. She’s almost a teenager. Almost old enough for boys, and going to the movies by herself. At least no one she knows is here to see this.
“Vera Aster, fancy meeting you here.”
Except Robbie. She didn’t know he was coming to the party. There aren’t any other kids here. She can’t decide if she’s relieved to see a familiar face, or if she wishes he’d never set eyes on her in this dress.
“It’s my backyard, genius.”
Robbie plops himself down on the step next to her, the black of his pants making a swishing sound as it brushes her skirt. She gathers the extra material close to her legs, trying to keep some semblance of space between them.
“You didn’t want to join the party?”
The party isn’t really a party, it’s a fundraiser, so not only is it all adults, but the food is all fancy and there’s nothing to do but talk. She wishes she’d been allowed to stay in her room, or go play at a friend’s house. There isn’t even cake at this stupid party. What’s the point?
“Ew,” she says and wiggles her toes in her platform sandals. “No, thanks.”
At least she’d been allowed to pick out her own shoes. The black Steve Maddens are heavy and clunky to walk in, but they’re the coolest shoes she owns. Someday, she promises herself, she’ll be able to pick out her own clothes. Things shewantsto wear. Colorful, and fitted, and no pouf or lace or shiny satin that makes her sweat.
“So you’re hiding out here?” His shoulder brushes hers and she swallows, her throat dry.
She isnothiding. It’s boring inside. Suffocating. She just wants to breathe.
“I like your dress,” he says, bumping into her again, and when she meets his eyes, he’s grinning.
“Don’t do that.” She hunches her shoulders away from him.
“Do what?”
“Lie.” She says, and when he frowns she adds, “This dress is hideous.”
He leans his upper body back, just enough so he can run his eyes from her head to her toes. She rolls her eyes. It’s dusk now. Hopefully dim enough to hide the flush painting her cheeks. The dress is awful. It’s cotton candy in the form of clothes, but she doesn’t actually want Robbie to agree with her. She doesn’t want him to thinksheis hideous, too.
This is a recent development in their friendship, even if she can’t pinpoint exactly when it started. When did she start caring if he liked the way she looked? Why does she care if he thinks she’s pretty?
She bites down hard on her lower lip.
“You didn’t pick it out, your mom did,” Robbie says, turning to look out at the yard too. “But it’s not that bad.”
“Sure,” she says, picking at one of the ruffles. He didn’t say anything wrong, but there’s still a sinking feeling in her gut. He said the dress wasn’t ugly, he didn’t say she was beautiful. He’s thirteen, though, and an actual teenager. Of course he wouldn’t think she’s pretty when she looks like an oversized kindergartener. It doesn’t stop her from wishing he would, anyway.
It’s not a crush, though, this thing she has for him. She likes him, but it’s not a crush. She just knows he’d be one-hundred percent honest. If he told her she was pretty, it would be because he really thought it was true.
“It looks like one of your dance costumes.” This time it’s his knee he knocks into hers.
She can’t tell if he’s touching her more than normal, or if she’s just noticing each accidental point of contact. It makes her stomach flip and she frowns.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Robbie says. “I like watching you dance.”
“You do?” She doesn’t mean to ask, but now she’s drowning, waiting for his answer.
