Page 39 of Seven Percent of Ro Devereux
Maren pokes me in the arm as she moves past. “One and the same, these days.”
She isn’t wrong, necessarily. Only wrong in assuming that information has anything to do with me. The doorbell rings just as she hits the staircase, and eventually their voices drift up to me.
My dress is Vera’s from the sixties, short-sleeved and burgundy with a full skirt and a bow at the neckline. She gave it to me when I turned sixteen,Something I thought you might like, and I never wore it because it always felt too beautiful for me. Now, I zip theside seam and smooth the skirt in the mirror. It feels simultaneously vital and impossible to have her with me tonight, like this.
“You coming, Ro?” Maren calls from downstairs. “Autumn’s five minutes out.”
I lean toward the mirror, pick a stray eyelash from my cheek. My hair is smooth and unfamiliar, like I’m not only in a borrowed dress, but a borrowed body.
I run my palm over the soft ridge of my scar. Think,There you are.
Downstairs, Miller’s prying open his plastic box. To my horror, there’s a corsage inside.
“Oh no,” I say, and when he turns to look at me, his whole body goes still. He looks even taller than usual, all those black tuxedo lines pulling at his edges. His hair’s still a little wet. His eyes move over me like they’re searching for something.
“You look—”
“Beautiful,” Maren supplies, just as Miller finishes, “—like someone else.”
“Thanks a lot,” I say, as if I wasn’t thinking the exact same thing two minutes ago. I cross the room toward him, plucking the corsage out of its box and holding it up. It’s delicate, a cluster of purple columbines surrounded by vivid green leaves. I think, distantly, that Vera would love it. “Why didn’t you tell me you were doing this? I don’t have anything for you.”
“I didn’t realize I had to notify you,” Miller says. “We’re going to a dance. It’s what people do.”
We’re not “people,”I think.We’re fucking nuts.
“We’ll make one,” Maren says brightly, looking around the house and snapping her fingers. “Ummmm...” There are no flowers in sight, of course. It’s December.
Maren wanders toward the kitchen, and I put down the corsage to follow. When she reaches for Dad’s row of potted herbs, I groan.
“No, no!” Maren says. She gathers them by the stems, bunching them into a crude bouquet. “It’ll be cute. World’s dopest cilantro boutonniere.”
Just as she ties them up with kitchen twine and hands me a safety pin, the doorbell rings again.
“Must be Autumn,” she says, glancing between Miller and me. “You good here?”
“Good’s generous,” I mutter as Miller says, “Yes.”
When Maren flits out of the kitchen I take a step toward Miller, safety pin pointed straight at him.
“Try not to draw blood,” he says, and I roll my eyes.
We have to get very close for me to attach the stems to his lapel. So close I can tell he’s wearing cologne, like a huge nerd. I duck my chin to get a better angle on the pin, and he raises his so our heads don’t touch. I’m pretty sure he’s holding his breath.
When I clip the pin into place and step back, it’s atrocious: a cluster of basil and cilantro and rosemary, the leaves already going wilty.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and immediately regret it. Why should I be sorry? This isn’t real; I couldn’t have expected he’d bring flowers.
“It’s fine,” Miller says, looking down at his chest. “At least if the food’s underseasoned, we’ll know what to do.”
I snort a laugh before I can stop myself, and Miller smiles—just a little, the ghost of it on his mouth before he remembers and tucks it away.
“You’re here!” Maren cries, and we both turn to look toward the front door. There’s a girl framed in it: tall and angular in a black pantsuit with a deep V-neck. She grins at Maren, and before I can look away, they’re kissing. I glance at Miller, but he’s staring at his shoes.
“This is Ro,” Maren says, after what feels like a half hour. Her cheeks are flushed when she turns toward us, ushering Autumn over the threshold. “And her match, Miller.”
“Oh, I know Ro and Miller,” Autumn says. She hugs us one by one, tight, like we’ve known each other forever. Her dark hair is parted in the middle and smoothed behind her ears. “Who doesn’t, at this point?” She points at Miller. “Great tux.”
“TheIliadtux,” Maren says.
