Authors: Eliza Freed
H
ey, Clint, do you want a beer?”
“Ah, yeah, Charlotte. I’ll be done in about five minutes.”
“Meet me on the deck,” I yell as I grab the bottle opener. For the past few weeks Clint’s been working on Sean’s room, turning it into a library/office with built-in bookshelves on three walls. It’s nice having him here. Most days we have lunch together and he fills me in on the current gossip. Clint must go out a lot because he seems to know everything that’s going on. Between him and Margo it’s almost as if I have a social life.
I cut a sub in half and split it onto two plates. Clint comes out and flops into the chair next to me. “Oh man. Thanks, Charlotte. You don’t have to keep feeding me.” He takes a big bite of the sub and smiles broadly. “I like it, though.”
We eat in silence as we absently observe the unplowed fields in front of us. It’s a gorgeous evening. Blue sky with brush-stroked clouds highlighting the sun. The birds have started to return and two are singing on the fence.
“Crazy March, huh?” I ask, referring to the current seventy degrees in comparison to the three feet of snow in January.
“Totally crazy.” Clint pulls out a joint, lights and inhales, and hands it to me. I gratefully accept. “Hey, Charlotte, are you going to the Harvest Dance with Nick?”
I stop smoking and ask, “What are you talking about?”
“What? Are you going to the dance with Sinclair?”
“Does everyone go to the Harvest Dance?” I ask, taking a deep drag of the joint. All of a sudden, the whole idea is hilarious.
“Yes, everyone goes,” Clint explains. “I was wondering if you’re going. I saw Sinclair the other day and he said he didn’t have a date yet.” Clint continues a little shyly. “I know you guys aren’t together, but you’re more together than you are apart.”
I lean back and study the sky. What a charming way to describe us—more together than we are apart. Clint’s leaning back, too, and the evening sun is hitting his face, forcing him to close his eyes. “Do you think I should ask him?”
Clint looks at me. “Him or me. I’d choose me, but you two seem to have something going on that I don’t want to get in the way of.”
“Right. Like you said, we’re more together than we are apart.” I lie back and cover my eyes. I focus on the clouds and watch the birds fly in and out of my view. “Do I have to dress up?”
Clint laughs. “Yes. You’ve never been to the dance before?”
“No, I’ve never been. I moved away by the time I was finally old enough to go. Is it fun?”
Clint inhales the joint deeply. “It’s fun because the whole town goes. Afterward we all go out to the bars and keep partying.” He exhales. “You have to dress up. It’s almost like the prom.”
I moan.
“Okay, not as bad as the prom, but dress, hair, and whatever else girls do.”
“When is this Harvest Dance?”
Clint laughs again. “Charlotte, seriously, it’s like you’re submerged. Besides me, do you talk to anyone? It’s Saturday.”
“I guess I better ask Noble.” I take a deep breath and then a big bite of my sandwich. “What do guys wear?”
“Suits. Think of it like a wedding.”
“Okay. It’s just been a while since I tried to look nice.” I can’t imagine going to a formal.
“I’m sure it comes easy to you,” Clint says as we hear a truck pull in.
“Charlotte!” Noble yells as he walks around the side of the house. Clint starts collecting his stuff.
“I think I’d better get out of here. You two need to talk.”
Noble turns the corner and walks toward me, void of his signature smile. Did he hear us?
“Here, take this to go,” I say as I wrap up Clint’s half of the sub and hand it to him. He thanks me on his way out.
“See you guys!” he yells over his shoulder.
Noble and I stand silent and watch Clint’s truck pull away.
Noble walks to the picnic table and runs his hand along the edge as he surveys the ashes and beers.
I walk closer to him. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Really?” His tone is dripping with contempt. Icy.
“Really. I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Something you talked to Clint about first?”
He’s jealous of Clint? Still? Of all the reasons he should run from me, Clint is what he has a problem with?
“Yes, I was first discussing it with Clint. He remi—”
Noble’s hand shoots up to silence me before I can finish. “Are you seeing Clint?” His face is stricken.
Without thinking, I walk over to him and wrap my arms around him. “No, I’m not seeing Clint.”
He calms and returns my embrace.
I grab his face in both my hands. “If you would let me finish…Clint reminded me Saturday is the Harvest Dance and I wanted to see if you would escort me.”
Noble is uncharacteristically shocked. His smile slowly comes back. “You’re asking me to take you to the Harvest Dance?”
“That’s right. If you don’t already have a date. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I just—in a million years—didn’t think you’d want to go to the dance.”
“Why? Clint says it’s fun.”
“Well, if Clint says it’s fun…” He starts to laugh at himself.
“Great!” I give him a big hug and take two steps back, providing the distance I need to think straight around him.
* * *
I’m searching the top drawer of my desk when Clint arrives in the morning. Papers are strewn on the floor and stacked on the top of the desk. How the hell did all this stuff fit in this drawer?
“Looking for something?” he asks, jovial as always.
I sigh, about to give up. “A business card for Nadine’s salon. I think I need some maintenance before Saturday night.”
“It’s 0440,” Clint offers, still watching me tear apart my parents’ drawer that I’ve inherited. I pick up another stack of papers and they cascade to the ground. They scatter across the floor, happy to finally escape. Clint kneels down to help me corral them and hands me a picture that almost got away.
“Look at this.”
He hands the picture to me. It was from the junior prom I went to with Brian Matlin.
“I remember this prom, Charlotte. You were hot.”
We were hot, both of us.
“Why did you and Matlin break up?”
I’ve been asked that question at least a dozen times. On paper, Brian and I were the perfect couple. Had we stayed together, we’d probably be expecting a perfect little baby by now, but it just didn’t work out.
“Brian is a great guy, but…don’t tell anyone this”—Clint nods silently, not wanting to interrupt—“but he just didn’t hold my interest.”
“That’s the big secret? I thought you were going to tell me he has six nipples or something.”
“No. He does not have six nipples.” Clint and I laugh at the same time. “I don’t know why, but it just wasn’t that exciting. No one wanted it to work out more than me. Well, maybe my mother; she liked Brian. We tried to get back together the summer before my parents died, but we broke up after only two weeks. After the funeral, things were completely awkward.”
“Because of all the extra nipples?”
I ignore Clint and look at the picture. I was tan, sporting a manicure, pedicure, makeup, a new dress, and jewelry. God, I need some maintenance.
I dial Nadine’s salon. I only need the last four digits because there’s still only one exchange in Salem County. “Salon Nadine,” a woman answers.
“Hi, is Nadine there?”
“Is this Charlotte O’Brien? I was going to call you if I didn’t hear from you today. I hear you’re going to the Harvest Dance.”
I’m stupefied. “How in the world—”
Nadine interrupts me. “Oh please. News travels fast in this county and there hasn’t been much to talk about lately. Now, what are you thinking? Hair, of course. What about fingers, toes, waxing, airbrush, lashes?”
“I don’t know,” I answer slowly, quite overwhelmed.
“Can you come in tomorrow? Say around three? We’ll start with the hair.”
“I can do three,” I say.
“Awesome. I’ll see you then. I can’t wait to catch up.”
I hang up and take a deep breath. Reluctantly, I press redial and squeeze my eyes shut as I place the phone to my ear. “Salon Nadine.”
“Nadine, it’s me again.”
“I know.” I can hear a giant smile in her voice.
“What am I supposed to wear to this thing?”
“Oh, girl, you’ll see a little bit of everything Saturday night. The doctors and lawyers will bring the class, the cowgirls will have the sparkle, and the farmers, well…they’ve got their own look going, too. We call the collection ‘farmhand fabulous’ here in the salon. Seriously, you can wear whatever you want. There’ll be recycled prom dresses, jeans, and sequins hobnobbing with Nicole Miller and Missoni.”
I try to digest it all. “Oh.”
“Last year I was talking to Rebecca Hopkins in the bathroom. She had on this slinky white dress. I told her I liked it and she said it was left over from her mother’s third wedding. I told her I was surprised her mother let her wear white to her wedding, and she said she didn’t…it was her mom’s dress.” Nadine breaks into a raucous laugh and I join in. “Good luck. I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”
I call Bruce and ask to take one of my flex days tomorrow. After assuring him I’m fine, he allows the time off. On a whim, I tell him I need today, too. Again, I have to promise him things are fine. Is there not one person who knows me who doesn’t believe I might jump off a bridge? Apparently not, because Renee e-mails me to ask if I’m “fucking suicidal or something itchy-twat worse?” It’s difficult to respond.
I wish my mother were here. I’ve never shopped for a formal dress without her. For the few events I attended after her death, I just borrowed something from a roommate or ordered something online. The last dress I bought was the blue sequined dress I wore to my spring formal, and then I just grabbed the first one I tried on during a group shopping trip. It just wasn’t the same without my mother’s opinion and patience. I could call my aunt Diane or Michelle, but I want to leave now and it seems unfair to give them no notice, especially knowing they’ll both drop everything.
My cell rings, interrupting my melancholy thoughts. I perk up when I see it’s Noble.
“Good morning,” I say.
“Hey. How’d you sleep?”
His voice sounds sexy. I have to calm myself down a little.
“Good, you?”
“Not good. It’s lonely in my bed. I just lie there awake and pray for a blizzard.”
“Did you call for a reason?” I ignore his former statement as usual. I no longer engage in the discussion of us. Unlike Noble, I don’t think it’s getting us anywhere.
“Yes.” He sighs, frustrated as usual. “I need to know what you’re wearing so I can get you the correct color flowers.”
“Flowers?” I say, stressing the plural.
“Yes, I was thinking three dozen roses. One for each time you attacked me during the snowstorm.”
I can feel his smug smile through the phone.
“I’m beginning to think you escorting me to this dance is a huge mistake. Please tell me you’re not getting the wrong idea about my intentions.”
“Oh, Charlotte. I find your intentions very easy to read. I’m just patiently waiting for you to catch up,” he says, unhurt.
Again I ignore him completely. “I don’t have a dress yet.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line.
“I have to go get one. Do you have a color preference I should consider?” I ask, businesslike.
“Why don’t you wear the blue dress from your spring formal last year? You looked incredible in it.” He pauses before adding with a raspy voice, “Good enough to eat.”
“Something happened to that dress and I don’t have it anymore,” I answer sadly.
Something like, since I was wearing it when Jason tried to confess he fucked Stephanie until she was pregnant, I set it on fire out back. You know, something like that.
Noble puts it all together and doesn’t bring the dress up again. “Whatever you wear will be beautiful. Personally, I’d go with something small, perhaps invisible. I know how you like to be one with your surroundings.”
“I’m leaving in a few minutes to go shopping. Can I call you when, if, I find something?”
“I look forward to hearing from you.”
I hang up and text Margo and Jenn:
Any chance you guys will come
home and go to the Harvest Dance
with me on Saturday?
Clint walks by on his way to his truck, and I surprise myself when I ask, “Clint, do you want to go for a ride with me? I’ll buy you lunch.”
“Sure. Where are we going?”
“I need to get a dress.”
Clint’s expression changes as he thinks the offer over.
“This will be a new one for me.”
“You’ll be fine. I just need an extra opinion. Bring a magazine or something to read because it might involve some waiting.”
We take the Volvo and head across the river to the King of Prussia Mall. It’s a forty-five-minute drive to the mall. Even leaving at 9:30 it’s guaranteed to take through lunch. Clint lights a joint and offers it to me.
“Rain check. I don’t want to come home with a rainbow-colored dress that doesn’t fit but we both think is outstandingly hilarious.”
Clint nods in agreement as he laughs. He’s a good choice. Not at all like my mother.
We pull into Nordstrom’s lot and my phone dings with a text from Margo:
OH, I WISH I COULD. I HEARD IT IS
SO MUCH FUN! I THINK SAM, BOB,
AND TRICIA ARE GOING. TELL ME
EVERYTHING! OH, AND I THINK BRIAN
MIGHT BE THERE (JUST AN FYI)
How does she know all this in Colorado?
I’m pretty sure Clint’s never been to Nordstrom before. We walk into the shoe department and Clint looks around wide-eyed, at least as wide-eyed as he can be, as high as he is.
“Fancy,” he says, and I lead him up the escalator to the Special Occasion department.
“Can I help you find something special today?” a woman in her late twenties, dressed ridiculously stylishly, asks as she coyly looks over the rims of her glasses. I decide the easiest way to get through this is to just throw myself at her mercy.