Chapter Twenty-Four
Davi wasn’t joking when he said Zane couldprovide a princess dress fit for a teenage girl. On Friday evening, when Esosa, Bethany, and I walk into Tabitha’s Wardrobe, the costume shop Zane’s parents own, it all becomes clear. The massive space has a goth vibe and is mostly separated by eras. Within seconds, I go from an eyeful of regency fashion to 1950s circle skirts. Then the masquerade masks on the red wall capture my attention, until I’m looking at the heads of stuffed animals on another wall.
“Oh my gosh,” Esosa says. Her mouth drops open and doesn’t snap shut.
“I know. Cool, right?” Bethany says, grabbing a Victorian bonnet and placing it over her blond curls. “I love this place.”
“I can see why,” I say. “It’s amazing.”
According to Davi, my very own informant, Zane’s parents are costume designers who provide wardrobe for theater productions across the country and even a few television shows. They have a Tabitha’s Wardrobe in Brooklyn that’s much larger than this location. I look around again, finding it hard to believe anything could outdo this space.
“Enore.” Zane steps out of the back room and into the shop. The fringe on his black suede jacket sways as he walks toward me. “I’ve been expecting you.” He looks from Bethany to Esosa. “And you brought an entourage.”
“Ha. Funny.” Bethany smacks his arm playfully. “For your information, we’re here to help Enore pick a dress.”
“The only help she needs when she’s in this emporium is from me.” He smirks, and Bethany rolls her eyes.
“Are your parents here?” I ask, while extending my head toward the back room. “I would like to say hello to them.”
“My folks are in the city till Monday. Holding down the fort till then.” He pushes his fingers through his long dreadlocks and they fall backward. It’s as if the movement happens in slow motion, like in the movies when music plays in the background and girls look on in awe.
Because my heart only ever flutters for Davi, and Bethany has, on multiple occasions, described Zane as the brother she loves but never wanted, I know there’s one person left in the room who might be in a state of awe.
“Your outfit.” Esosa’s eyes shift over Zane’s lean physique—slowly down and then slowly up until she meets his gaze. “Love it.” She runs her fingers through the fringe on his jacket and smiles just a little. “You have great style. Anyone ever told you that?” Her tone is soft, low, and slightly hoarse.
I’m not exactly sure what’s going on, but it’s definitely strange and uncomfortable to watch. Is Esosa flirting? With Zane, my friend? Yeah. I can say that now. Zane is my friend. I spent every lunch period this week eating and talking with him, Blake, Sybil, and Bethany. Of course, Ara was there too, but she doesn’t fall under the category of friend. Zane, though, is a friend, a friend who is grinning at my little sister encouragingly, like he’s receptive to whatever she’s giving.
What in the world is happening?
“Um…” I clear the knot in my throat. “Could we get started?” Hopefully, my interruption will snap them out of their momentary insanity.
“Yeah. Right.” Zane blinks sharply and turns to me. “A princess dress, right?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve got plenty of those. You thinking medieval princess or Disney princess?”
“A combination of both would be ideal,” Esosa answers. “Like Princess Tiana meets Anne Boleyn. Jodie Turner-Smith’s Anne Boleyn, of course.”
“Obviously,” Zane agrees. “I’m thinking something like the iconic emerald gown.”
Esosa smirks. “Perfect.”
He turns toward a rack and sorts through the clothes. Colorful, detailed fabrics sway against each other as he riffles through the extensive collection. Esosa watches his every move. Basically, checking him out.
What is happening?
“Hey,” Bethany whispers in my ear. “Are you seeing this?” She gestures at Zane and my sister.
“How could I miss it?”
“Yeah, that’s some serious eye humping.”
At those words, that really shouldn’t go together but somehow make perfect sense, I choke on my spit and start coughing. Zane and Esosa turn to me, frowning, and Bethany waves them off.
“She’s fine. It’s all good.” She taps my back. “Carry on. Nothing to see here.”
They both continue with their previous activity—Zane sorting through the costumes and Esosa ogling him.
“Chill. It’s nothing,” Bethany says. “She probably just has a little crush on him.”
“Yeah?” I get out after clearing my throat. “And what does he have?”
“Likely a brief infatuation with the only person who has ever complimented his bizarre style. Seriously, it’s probably nothing to worry about.”
I really hope she’s right.
Zane hangs four green dresses in the fitting room, and as I enter the small space, I worry what my absence will prompt Esosa to do. Has my newly found dating life inspired my sister to pursue her own American teenage dream? Is she following the example of her big sister? Ideally, I should be on a straight and narrow path and should ensure Esosa is on that path with me. It’s what my mother expects from me—to be a shining example for my sister. But as someone who, in the past few days, has lied, skipped school, and gone through with an elaborate scheme, I can’t say that I am.
Lately, I find myself somewhat detached from the person I used to be, slowly being shaped by my new environment and new desires.
I don’t want to be a hypocrite, dating while depriving my sister of the same. But the difference between Esosa and me is that I’m still dipping my toes into these new experiences, enjoying them with some sort of caution that’s tied to obligation. Esosa has never operated with that same sense of caution. But she’s always had me— the blueprint to making our parents proud. And to some degree, I think that has restricted her wild, carefree, make-my-own-path nature. But if she no longer has me to be that example, my sister will be everything my mother doesn’t want her to be. Forget the possibility of her being a lawyer or a doctor or an engineer or having a nine-to-five career with a steady and hefty paycheck. Esosa will be herself—the whimsical creative who so naturally gravitates to another whimsical creative.
And you know who would take the blame for that?
Me.