Chapter Fourteen
It had been two weeks since Maeve sat on Wendy’s bed, her bra on the floor at her feet, nine days since they’d spoken.
Three days since Wendy walked past Maeve in the hall and hadn’t even looked at her; two days since Maeve saw Brett leaning into Wendy at her locker, not looking like they were “just friends.” The day before, the theater kids came up with an alternative to prom, a dress-up party, misfit style.
The theme was simple—dress as your favorite character from a book or play. What the hell. She would go.
Maeve sat on the living room floor, leafed through an old photo album searching for a particular picture to complete her outfit, to remind her exactly who she was.
Each page was a part of her family story, starting from the beginning.
She had looked at this album often, memorized the photos so that the photos themselves had become memory.
In one, her pregnant mother, sideways to show off her belly in a tented dress.
The pine tree next to the house is so small!
Her parents on the same day—someone must have purchased a roll of film for this particular occasion—standing next to a silver car they no longer owned, her father in dark pants, mud boots, a solid flannel shirt from the looks of the black-and-white picture.
Another, this one with her grandparents.
Maeve inspected it more closely. Her mother’s careful smile, her grandmother’s mouth thin and tight, like she’s holding a watermelon seed between her teeth.
Maeve could almost remember her but not quite.
She smelled a little like dirt, Maeve thought, though it might have been her cigarettes.
She thumbed through the copy of To Kill a Mockingbird her father had given her on her thirteenth birthday. When she found the page she was looking for, she marked it with the photo, then stuck the book in her back pocket.
Her parents were sitting on the porch swing at dusk drinking bottled beer when Maeve came out the front door.
As annoying as they were, she couldn’t help but smile.
Her dad still put his arm around her mom; she still tapped his chest when he said something silly.
They were perfect together. Somehow, even that made Maeve sad.
Could she ever be happy like they were, considering how messed up she was on the inside?
“There she is!” her father said. “Glad you decided to go.”
Maeve had been sulking, it was true. She buried herself in her favorite books, moped herself to tears listening to records.
She’d snapped so often that even Molly steered clear.
But she had to keep trying. The more she let on, the more her parents pried.
She told them she was embarrassed she didn’t get invited to prom. She had to fake everything.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in a costume?” her father asked.
“I am,” Maeve said. She was wearing denim overalls with a star embroidered on the back pocket, flat red sneakers, and a honey-colored checkered blouse.
A brown four-door sedan turned into the driveway.
“And?” her mother asked.
Maeve turned and pointed to the paperback in her pocket.
“Ha! Scout Finch!” William said. “My ray of sunshine in pants.”
Maeve flourished her hands, happy and sad that her dad remembered it like she did.
It felt like a thousand years since she’d been his little girl.
He’d said Maeve was a tomboy, like Scout, told her the importance of being principled, though Maeve hadn’t really known what he meant by that.
“Be honest. Stick up for what’s right.” She was a tomboy.
A girl who liked sports. A girl who didn’t like dresses.
That was all. She could have said that to Wendy.
Her stomach knotted again. How had she let this all happen?
She never wanted to be a disappointment to her parents, especially not her father.
She choked back tears, faked a cough for distraction.
“Home by midnight, sunbeam.”
“Dad, it’s prom night. One a.m.”
“You’re not going to prom, remember? Twelve thirty.”
She remembered. “Fine. But don’t wait up.”
“Maeve,” her mother said, caution in her voice. “Please, be careful.”
She’d been weird since that Conor O’Kane guy came around even though William said it was a chance meeting.
“Don’t get into strange cars,” she’d said to Molly. “Even if someone says they know you. You don’t go. Never ever. That goes for you, too, Maeve.”
Now, Maeve looked at the car full of theater kids but saw only strangers there.
A lump lodged in her throat. The horn honked, whoops and laughter erupted.
Maeve looked over her shoulder at her parents on the swing, how they glowed in the fading sunlight.
They could not see her, not what she really was.
She felt invisible. She wished she was invisible.
“Maeve? Honey?” Her dad stood.
Maeve squeezed her eyes closed, gritted her teeth, pasted on a smile. “You know,” she said, “I’m not sure how late I want to stay out, after all. If I promise, seriously, I promise, I will not even sip a beer, can I please take your car?”
Maeve had her license, but she wasn’t one of those kids who drove their parents’ car around town. “I don’t know . . .” her mother said.
“Dad, seriously.” She pointed again to the novel in her pocket. “Ray of sunshine, remember?” She twirled her fingertips into her dimples.
“Eleven,” her father said, pulling the keys from his pocket. “Don’t let me down.”
Maeve breathed out, caught the keys her father tossed. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She followed the brown car through town to make sure she knew where the party was but circled back to the high school.
She parked in a spot where she could see couples arriving, girls with corsages and curly up-dos, boys in suits with jackets too big and pants too short, their hair slicked unnaturally.
As the last few couples trickled in, Brett Overton’s white pickup squealed into the parking lot. Maeve wanted to see Wendy dressed up, see her arm looped through Brett’s, queen to his king. Then maybe she could let this all go. She had a clear view.
The passenger door flung open before the truck even came to a complete stop.
Wendy hopped out, her feet bare, shoes in hand.
She stuck her head back into the cab. She was clearly enraged, though Maeve couldn’t hear what she was yelling.
Brett stormed around to where Wendy stood, gripped her arm.
Wendy tried to yank it away, but Brett squeezed tighter.
Maeve sat up, heart pounding. Her mouth went dry.
She reached for the door handle, hesitated.
If she jumped out now and made a scene .
. . was that what Wendy would want her to do?
Wendy was inches shorter than Brett, and he loomed over her, his mouth chomping down at her.
She adjusted the back of her dress like it had gotten caught in her underwear.
She wiped her eyes with both hands. Brett motioned toward the doors to the gym.
Maeve rolled down the window a crack, hoping to hear.
Wendy sat back in the truck, pulled her feet up.
Maeve thought of the day they shot hoops at the court behind the junior high, how Wendy insisted they switch shoes.
Same size, though the fancy shoes Wendy strapped on now looked too small for real feet, dainty as glass slippers.
When Wendy stood again, her stance was more fitting for a basketball court than a dance floor.
Brett put his hands together like he was praying, and Wendy held up a finger of warning.
Maeve felt a pang of guilt, watching as if it were a performance. But it seemed to be over.
She wanted to follow them through the double doors like a shadow.
A gleeful voice shouted. Brett and Wendy turned.
One of Brett’s teammates loped up, dragging a girl in a poufy dress behind him.
Brett threw his arm over Wendy’s shoulder, his hand landing above her breast. She flung it off, and Maeve could hear her then.
“I said keep your hands off me!”
Maeve rolled the window down a little more.
“You know what? I’m done. I’m going in. You can do what you want.” Brett and his buddy laughed, the other girl shrugged.
Maeve read Wendy’s lips. Take me home.
“I’ll take you home after prom, or you can walk. I don’t care.” Then: You’re a bitch.
Wendy took one step back. She swung wide, a forehand shot. Her palm connected with the side of Brett’s head. “You fucker.”
He twisted his mouth like he was counting teeth. Fuck you.
They left Wendy in the cement courtyard. Maeve looked around. No more kids, no more headlights. She got out of the car, walked smoothly to Wendy, who had taken off the shoes again.
“Wen,” she said, the name floating off her tongue like a butterfly.
“What are you doing here?”
Mascara ringed Wendy’s eyelids, and the clasp of her pearl necklace was skewed to the side.
She was missing an earring. Maeve brushed a strand of hair from Wendy’s cheek.
She was beautiful. In that moment, Maeve wasn’t afraid anymore.
She was with Wendy, and Wendy was safe. They both were. “Are you okay?”
In a flash, Wendy’s arms flew around Maeve’s neck, her hot breath puffing into Maeve’s ear. She wrapped her arms around Wendy’s waist. She could smell her Ivory soap, sticky hair spray, the gentle funk of the vintage dress. They pulled away from each other.
Maeve’s head bobbed. She couldn’t stop it. Yes, yes. Do this. Yes. It’ll be fine. “Let’s get out of here.”