Chapter 58
“Ow!”
“Sorry, zipper caught ya?” Mom asks. “A silk restraint, that’s what this is.”
Four hands, one zipper, and Mom and I still can’t manage to squeeze me into this dress. But I paid eighty bucks for it, sale price, and I already popped the tags, so we will have to find a way.
Mom grits her teeth and tugs the zipper so hard her hand shakes until finally it unsticks and zips all the way up.
She helps me into my heels and I do a quick mirror check to make sure nothing’s ripped, snagged, or broken.
Nothing is. No evidence of the hero’s journey that took place to get here.
Just a girl in a pretty dress. A dress that’s completely catered to what Mr. Korgy likes.
I did good at first, refraining from checking the chaperone list, making sure to distract myself by walking out of school with Frannie or Nolan, and I probably could’ve kept with it if the list wasn’t pinned on the bulletin board right near the exit.
Or if Nolan hadn’t gotten caught up talking with a friend.
Or if Frannie hadn’t had to pee. But it was and he did and she did.
And so three days ago, I caved. I ran my index finger down the list of teachers’ names, down down down, until at the very bottom I got to his.
Theodore Korgy—scribbled in hurried, slanting cursive, as if it was impulsive, done quickly, his heart racing, when no one was around to see how manic he was while doing it. Just like how I checked it.
Suddenly the shift dress I’d planned on wearing was a trash bag.
I went shopping that night and found a gown that was perfect.
Deep teal, the color of the sweater Mr. Korgy compliments the most because it brings out my eyes.
Strapless with a bustier because he loves my C-cup boobs—especially in the week before my period when they swell up, but I don’t have timing on my side here so the corset will do the trick.
Sure, it’s not comfortable and sure, the smooshing will lead to sweating which will lead to a breakout, but I can deal with the revolting fallout later.
My hair is back in a messy ponytail, his favorite hairdo on me, and mostly out of my face except for a few strategically plucked strands to frame it, the strands he used to twirl around his finger.
My makeup is what Mr. Korgy calls “natural” and I call “a lot”—dabs of concealer, pumps of foundation, strokes of brow gel, brushes of powdered bronzer and blush, pats of highlighter.
His favorite rose shade of lipstick with a gloss coating on top, a shimmering champagne eyeshadow, a slick line of black eyeliner, and three coats of mascara.
And the shoes. Stilettos, four and a half inches high to show off the legs that he swore he loved so much.
It’s all for him.
There’s a faint “shave and a haircut” knock at the front door. Mom squeals and opens it. Nolan stands there, his hair slicked back with gel, an ill-fitting tux rental hanging like a box on his body, the corsage clipped to his lapel already half wilted. He holds a bouquet of roses out to me.
“What a sweetheart he is,” Mom says, pointing to him. “This is a good young man, Waldo. A very good young man.”
“I know,” I say. And I do.
“Ooh, I wanna get a picture of you guys.”
Mom hurries off to grab her phone while Nolan shuffles his feet.
“Wow, you look great,” he says. “But are you sure you’re gonna be comfortable in those shoes?”