10. Adaline
Iwas crossing Saturday off my calendar quicker than I’d hoped. So quick that myMonday felt like a past life memory. A thing I’d dreamed up years ago, not lived six days ago.
It was a wonderful day, as expected. The books I’d picked up from JoJo were in fact beyond filthy, and it had started raining when I got home, the thick sideways type of rain that comes with dark grey clouds and a thunderstorm not too far behind it.I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve such glorious reading weather, but I wasn’t aboutto question it.
Reading turned to writing pretty quickly. It always does.
I’ll read a line, or a paragraph of a book, and something about it will inspire me. It mightbe the words, how they’re crafted and so perfectly placed together, or it could be the dialogue between a mother and a daughter, the grump and the personified sunshine that will make a flag ding in my brain, and before I know it, my spine resembles the letter ‘c’ and my manuscript is five-thousand words bigger.
That ache from hunching over and practically head-butting my laptop screen was stillbothering me, but if anything, it provided something else for my thoughts to fawn over, rather than the fact that tonight was Nate’s birthday dinner.
“Are you sure it’s okay that I got ready with you tonight, instead of in my own home? I feel bad that I left Jacob with the cooking, but he told me it was fine because I spent all day baking anyway. But still, I feel awful.” Flo calls from my bedroom, her voice coated with even more panic than when she asked me that ten minutes ago.
“I just told you it’s fine. Even though this dinner is taking place where you live, I’mactually really happy that you”re here.” I shouted back with giggles weaving the words, while my eyes scanned what had once been a semi-organised clothes rail, but were now three giant piles of those clothes spread out across the floor of my walk-in closet.
But just as I’m about to mentally stomp my feet and give up, I see it; the dress I’d beensearching for all day.
“Gotcha,” I whisper to myself.
Dress in hand, I leave behind the clothes I”ll tell myself I’ll clean later but casually forgetabout until next week, and walk out of the closet that still makes me catch my breath every time I open the door to it. It’s the ocean-blue tiles that line the walls and the chandeliers that dangle from the glacier-white ceilings that have me wanting to spend all my time in there. I think it was how they reminded me of the ocean, the contrast between the waves and the foam they left on the shoreline after they’d crashed.
I’d be back there soon…
My toes begin to curl at the iciness of the floor compared to the carpet I’d just steppedover, before I spot the riddler, Flo, half in her dress, half out, and only her cute sage green lingerie on show.
“Besides, I don’t think Jacob would mind either way if he knew that—” I raise my finger in herdirection, pointing from her chest to her thighs “—is what he’s getting later.”
Her cheeks go round and rosy as she breaks into a laugh. “Oh, behave. I think all thosebooks have gone to your gorgeous orange head.” She may be onto something. “But please help me; I think I’m trapped. And I can feel a S.U.L.A. coming on.”
It’s pointless suppressing my laughs as I toss my dress onto the chair by my vanity, mysteps taking me over to where she was hunched in the corner of the one dressing room that would always be mine. She has one leg and one arm in her dress and the other arm and leg out of it, half squatting in what looks like a type of yoga pose, and her brown locks tangled in the straps.
“I don’t know, it’s kind of… chic. I’ll give Anna Wintour a call, she’ll love this.” I joke,grabbing her trapped arm and eventually pulling it out of the silk fabric, then shuffling the dress up her torso, which frees her leg. I step back to admire her, a smile that feels hazy appearing on my face. “She’s a free woman.”
She shimmies the dress, the glassy silk resting so nicely on her curves, falling effortlesslyto the middle of her thighs that I’m forever jealous of, as she turns to face the mirror behind her. “I don’t know why I chose silk, it just lured me in.” An aching groan leaves her mouth. “It’s a non-stretch fabric for crying out loud. And what is non-stretch fabric?” she asks herself, and me.
“The devil.” We say in unison, barely able to keep the laughter from our voices.
With Florence free, I turn my attention back to my dress, heading for my bedroom and laying itout on the fresh sheets as I smooth out the ivory cotton and puff up the milkmaid sleeves. The sunlight that announced to us that spring was officially on the way cast a subtle glow over the room as I straightened my back, my eyes tracing over every inch of the dress, and the floodgate on the memories I never let myself drown in started to lift. Moments in time that I’d forgotten about trickling in, and my breaths becoming harder to catch.
Luckily, I feel Flo move to my side, her chin resting over my shoulder. “I think Nate’sgonna go all Monica Gellar on you, because that dress is a thunder-stealer.”
He wouldn’t, I think to myself. If anything, he’d be glad the spotlight was on me, onanyone, rather than him. I knew how much he hated these days.
But I shake my head, telling her she’s crazy, a laugh that says ‘yeah, right’ coming out ofmy nose… but in a twisted way, she is right.
And not for the reasons she thinks.
I want to say I have no idea why I’m choosing to wear this dress tonight. I want to say Ifound it in the depths of my wardrobe after I’d abandoned it for years and finding it again has only ignited the love I once had for it. I want to say it holds no significance in my life at all.
But if I did, my pants would burn brighter than my hair.
Thirteen Years Ago
I race up the steps of the porch, the worn-away panels creaking under my feet as theplastic bag holding tonight’s outfit thrashes in my hands. I’m only running because the one person I don’t want to see what’s in here, or know I’ve spent nearly all day searching for it is only next door. And if he sees me, I know he’ll—
“Freeze!”
Crap.
My legs stagger up the last step, catching my breath as I spin to face the boy I was tryingto hide from. My eyes are clamped shut, like it’ll help me be invisible, but it’s no use, as I creak one eye open and see Nate in his yard. Too smug a smile on his face for my liking.
He’s always cocky around me, says it’s because I’m the only person on the planet whodoesn’t make his chest hurt or his anxiety attacks flare up. But it’s the type of cockiness I can handle. Not like a Jimmy Cavanaugh from the grade above us type of cocky.
A sweet one. If that’s even possible.
It suits him.
“What’s in the bag, Addy?” He questions without hesitation, somehow knowing that’s what I was trying to hide from him. Am I that readable to him?
“None of your business.” I shoot back, brushing my frizzy curls over my shoulder.
“I’ll give you the answers to the algebra questions if you tell me.”
“I know the algebra answers.” I scoff, leaning over the wooden handrail.
“Liar.”
I flatten my still-sweaty palms on the beam. “How do you know I’m lying?”
A laugh splutters out of him. “Because you’ve asked me for the answers every week sincewe moved eighth grade.”
I mean… he has a point. But I shake my shoulders, a giggle quipping my lips. “I don’tknow what your—”
“It’s a dress, isn’t it?”
The giggles waiting to leave my mouth stop altogether, my lips gaping and my suspicionsabout Nate being a mind reader only growing more serious.
“Why? Wanna try it on?” I retaliate, stropping back down the steps and heading for him.
“Nah, cream isn’t my colour.” A devilish smirk curls up his face, making him glow rightalong with the sunset bouncing off the side of his house. “But thanks for telling me what’s in the bag.”
My eyes morph into slits, channelling some of that fire I keep hidden for moments likethis.“Okay, FYI, it’s ivory, not cream.” He lifts his hand and pulls a face, muttering ‘same thing’ under his breath. I knock my hip to the side. “Do you want me to spend your birthday with you or not? If you keep up the attitude, I can have other plans in minutes.”
He stumbles closer to me, dropping his head, but not well enough that I don’t catch himsuck in a breath, and his eyes squeeze shut for a moment. Like he has to recharge that confident energy he says I spur on.
His head pops back up a second later, grin in full force. “I don’t think—”
“Adaline?” A deep, rigid voice calls from behind me, the way my stomach nose-dives to my toes, telling me who it was without having to turn around. But I knew he’d only shout again if I didn’t.
I tried not to let how scared I was shine through in my features, as I turned to face my dad.
He was standing at the top of the porch steps, looking down at us with a face that couldgive thunder a run for its money. The quiff of his hair was always the same, a deadly auburn mountain peak, the strands of whites and greys like snowy walkways dropping from the summit.
His intense gaze shifted to me as he leaned over the handrail. “Where’ve you been? Youpromised you’d be back two hours ago.”
I pulled at the plastic between my fingers, my head knocking to the side.“Dad, I told youI was—”
“I don’t want the excuses, Adaline.” he boomed. “These lines need learning.”
I feel my heart join my stomach somewhere in the abyss, a sigh rolling through my body. Ithink I’d rather sprint to Santa Monica and back than run lines for another stupid callback. I bet I could write scripts better than these fancy writers.
Nate would agree.
“Let’s go.” Mydad calls again, the fire in his eyes burning darker.
I drop my eyes from him, getting lost in the browning grass that clearly wasn’t enjoyingthe drought the neighbourhood had been stuck in, before daring a glance over my shoulder, my eyes landing on Nate.
But his attention wasn’t on me, or the grass, or squinting from the fierce orange glow thatwas raining down on us. No, his eyes were fixed on my dad.
“I’ll be over at seven,” I assure him, winning his stare back and away from burning ahole in my dad’s head. They soften to that aquamarine shade as they do.
“Yeah, see you soon, Addy.” he nods at me before digging his heels into the grass andheading for his backyard.
My body twists back to face the stairs, my steps slow and lingering, almost like I don’twant to go home.
My dad steps aside as I climb the steps again, before heading inside.
“I’m just putting this in my room, and then I’ll be down,” I shout to him from the stairs,my shoulder staying clear from the frames and avoiding the gallery wall of photos purely of me, on sets and premiers and places that no child should think to when they think about their childhood.
I’m already walking the hallway to my bedroom before I hear him mutter something Idon’t think I want to know, before I walk straight into something.
“Ooh, Adaline.” Someone, I should say. “Watch where you’re flying, little bird.”
I creak my neck up to see my mom, never-ending strands of blonde cascading down the aprondotted with flowers that covered her, as her hands, which were always warm, press against my forehead before smoothing down my hair.
“Sorry,” I muttered, as one of her hands skated under my chin.
“You’re okay.” she smiles, before making mine fade. “Just don’t be too long, honey. Thecallbacks are only a day away.” She calls, that motherly smile warming me like her hands, before she steps around me and floats downstairs.
I always knew my mom was put on the planet to be a mother. There was just somethingabout her, a glow that only seemed to ignite when we were around. Constant, golden. She looked after me, and Goldie, with such a gentle ferocity that I wouldn’t know how to survive without her. And on her own? She was perfect.
But the longer I held her stare, the deeper I searched, I saw it—the darkness that smudged the windows to her soul. I’d notice it when she was around Dad too… the dreams that neither of them captured became evident to them both, too loud to ignore, darkening that onyx sparkle that lived in her dreamy eyes.
I saw different kinds of glow hover over my mom sometimes. When she’d drive me toauditions, it was a sad glow, blue and heavy and completely somber. I didn’t know what it meant. I could decide whether she was jealous or whether she saw that I was unhappy. Then, when we’d get invited, as a family, to premieres for shows and movies I’d worked on, it was a happy glow, that there was still some way she could experience this life, the life that she dreamed about the same way I dreamed about writing.
Given how much she does for me, and how weird it is that I’m living her dreams… it wasno wonder I felt like I had to carry on. I can’t bring myself to tell her, tell dad, about what I want to be doing instead.
Ungrateful. That was what they’d call me. What I’d call myself.
But then, in the back of my mind, would be my writing, and how it made me feel. I hopedone day someone would notice my glows, and what they meant.
“I know,” I reply, even though I could already hear her discussing my schedule with mydad in the kitchen.
I jog down the rest of the hallway until I close my bedroom door behind me. My cheeksare probably as red as my hair with the amount of running I’ve done today. But it’s fine. I’m in my safe space now. My room. And even though I’m sweating and fighting for my breath, I take these precious moments I have to myself to try on the dress in my hands.
The cream cotton slides on with impressive ease, and I feel so pretty, like a fairy of somesort. I stand in front of the mirror propped up against my bed, getting lost while I take in the girl staring back at me. The way the skirt bends and moulds over me makes me feel like I’m entering the doors of womanhood and scarily close to waving bye to the sparkles and princess dresses of girlhood.
Almost.
“Ooo, Addy, you’re pwetty!!” I hear my little sister call from my doorway, making mejump and spin to face the intruder. I should really get a lock for this door soon. She’s lucky she’s my world. “Where are you going?”
“Oh, just to Nate’s,” I say, smoothing out the cotton while I gaze back at Goldie throughthe reflection in the mirror.
I loved being a sister. Her big sister. I wished I had an older sister, ready to guide methrough my impending teenage years. But I still smile deeper at the thought that I”ll be that for her someday.
“If you’re going to Nate’s, then why are you wearing that?” She asks, taking a seat at theend of my bed, her eyes all wide and fiery, like mine. Light years different from the blonde hair gathered up into pigtails on either side of her head. The same shade as Mom”s.
“I thought it looked cute. I found it in a thrift store in Rosemead.” I turn my attentionback to my reflection, pulling at the gaping waistband. “It’s a bit big for me, but I’ll grow into it.”
She drops her dangling ballet flats onto the floor, tiptoeing her way over to me by themirror.“It’s weal pretty, Addy.” she says, twiddling the cotton in her hands. “Can I borrow it when I’m older like you?”
I smile as I wrap my arm around her and tug her into me, my hand smoothing out her fringe, which I sometimes get jealous of.“Of course you can,” I follow her eyes, which are tracing the edges of the dress, before they land on me, her mouth parting.
“But,” Her little brows pull together. “If you’re just going to Nate’s, why are youdwessing all fancy?” she questions.
For a six-year-old, she’s rather observant.
I unwrap my arm from her and grab the lipgloss from my vanity, one that was mainly justsparkles at this point, making a mental note to ask my parents if I can get one of those mirrors with the Hollywood lights with the money from the Christmas movie I just finished filming, swiping the rollerball across my lips, getting giddy at how the sparkles are twinkling in the sunlight.
“Oh,” I mumble, running a hand through my curls and sucking in a few breaths to calm my nervous heart.
“It’s his birthday.”
This dress reminds me of that time in my life. And every year after when I’ve worn it onthis day. And for a second, I think I can feel the things I felt the last time I slipped it on my body.
The giddiness brushes my legs. The heartbreak gathers around my waist. The uncertaintyand hopelessness lie across my chest. There’s a split second, when I’m about to slip my arms through the puffed-up sleeves, where I want to rip it off me, tear it up and ask Flo to help me burn it.
But I think destroying it would hurt more than what it’s making me feel.
I just can’t find it in me to admit that I’m wearing it for him. I hate myself for doing it. Ihate that I can’t detach this dress from the memories I had when I first wore it. I hate that I can’t erase its meaning.
And I know what you’re thinking, and no, it’s not a validation thing. I’m not seeking acasual compliment or a more than friends stare as I walk into the room.
No… I think I’m wearing this dress because I owe it to myself.
I owe it to the fourteen-year-old that’s figuring out what love feels like. I’m wearing it forthe seventeen-year-old who just had her first kiss with the boy she lives next door to. I’m wearing it for the nineteen-year-old who’s waiting at the pier for him. I’m wearing it for the twenty-two-year-old at the movie theatre who just watched the boy who broke her heart become famous.
I’m wearing it for the twenty-five-year-old who’s wearing it now, who, somewhere sodeep down, is hoping the boy who told her she looked like a fire fairy in this dress will remember how he felt about her the first time he saw her wear it.