Page 42 of If Not for My Baby
Before Indy can respond, a knock sounds on the other side of the door.
“Occupied,” Indy calls out at the same time I yell, “Just a minute!”
“It’s me, losers,” Molly says behind the plastic. “I’m coming in.”
Before I can shriek and cover myself Indy opens the door and Molly scoots inside.
There was hardly enough room in here for Indy and me. With Molly’s addition, I’m practically being big spooned by the shower door. Molly doesn’t seem to mind, hopping up onto the sink and perching there like a hummingbird.
“I like this stripper fit,” Molly deadpans. “Very baby hooker.”
I look down at myself, folding my arms over my nonexistent chest. The bra I’m wearing is virtually a tankini. My floral thong has bows on the sides. When I look back at Molly, she winks, the piercing in her brow crinkling.
“Here we go,” Indy says, fishing out a purple minidress. Lint has gathered between the sequins and my nose itches on sight. “If I give you a padded bra, you could fill it out nicely.”
The dress shimmers aggressively under the fluorescent lights, and I recoil. “I’m really a cozy sweater kind of gal. That may be too much of a leap.”
I don’t even want to go to this tonight. All I need to cure my crush is to curl up in my coffin bunk and read my book. Or maybe watchWest Side Storyon my phone and let Maria sing my anxieties away. Not a party that doesn’t even start until eleven, during which I will once again play chaperone to my gaggle of lovable yet witlessly inebriated friends.
Speaking of—
The knock that sounds as I continue to gawk at the sequined atrocity is somehow both speedier and less intimidating than Molly’s.
We all answer at the same time: “One second, please!” “Go away.” “Who is it?”
Then I sneeze and Molly rocks back with the high-pitched sound. “That’s it. I’m buying you Claritin.”
“She’s fine,” Indy says.
“I’m fine,” I say, in unison.
A voice shouts from the other side of the door, “It’s Lionel!”
“We’re giving Clementine a movie makeover,” Indy shouts back.
Wonderful. I was worried the entire state of Pennsylvania wouldn’t know about my fashion ineptitude.
“She’s fine the way she is,” calls Grayson from what sounds like the bunks. I rub my temples.
“Ooh, can I help?” Lionel asks.
“Absolutely not,” I snip at Indy. “I’mnaked.No.”
“He’s gay,” Molly adds, bored.
I am not swayed. “So?”
Indy nods. “And very good in a crisis.”
Now this is acrisis? Lionel cheers from the other side of the too-thin door and Indy lets him in. There are now four of us cramped into this minuscule bathroom. Lionel squeegees past me to stand in the open shower because there is truly no other room.
“Great heels,” he says.
“Thanks.” Indy beams.
I appraise Lionel. Despite his attire—the kid isstillin his rumpled suit and Skechers—maybe he can actually help me. “Tell her I cannot wear that dress. It’s too much sparkle.”
“She’s right,” Lionel decides. “That’ll wash her out. And it’s too heavy for her height.”
