nose wrinkles.
“So, there you go.” I stand back up.
“What do you think of Craig?”
“Craig, your-lab-partner-Craig?”
“Yeah.” She pulls the scrunchie out of her fading perm, shaking the limp waves to her shoulders as she slips the burgundy velvet onto her wrist. “I think you guys would look cute together. He’s tall and blond. You’re tall and brunette.”
“Aw.” I pat the top of her head and, momentarily forgotten, the bodice drops to my waist. My hands fly to my bare chest. “Yeah, both of us and our grandbabies could get in here.”
She stands, taking the peach one off its hook, and turns me toward my stall. “Try this. I think it’ll be really pretty on you. Plus it has straps. Which maybe is a good idea.”
“So, you’re admitting I have no boobs.”
“I’m saying your boobs would be extra flattered by straps.” She smiles sweetly before shutting my door. “So, what about Craig?” she calls.
I think about him as I kick off the heavy satin and unhook the hanger straps of the Gunny Sax. “He’s cute, I guess.”
“And nice. And smart.”
I step into the scratchy crinoline. “I just never really thought about him that way.”
“What way? The Jake Sharpe way?”
I swivel my head around the door. “Yes.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Katie, we can’t let everyone get boyfriends but us just because of Rick Swartz and Jake Sharpe. We have to move on.” She looks down to double wrap the scrunchie around her wrist. “I’m asking Randy Bryson.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I think his eyes will look good with these flowers.” She lifts her skirt and relays it gracefully around her legs. “So get that dress zippered and let’s move on already.”
I concentrate every ounce of my energy on the one hair that refuses to lie flat with the others sprayed and twisted in the peach satin bow clip. I’m about to rip the flyaway right out of my head when the door to the bathroom opens and loud music pours in, followed by Kristi Lehman.
She pushes into a stall door, tugging layers of white lace in behind her. “You’re here with Craig, right?” she calls out.
“Yup!” I stop with my hand on the girls’ room door, not sure if she’s finished talking to me, not wanting to slight the Queen.
“He’s nice. He used to live down the street.”
“Yeah, yes. He’s very nice,” I say, though he is not very anything else as far as I can tell. He checked the yes box on a note during Social Studies and here I am with a boy who has, other than smiling shyly, said nothing but, “Please pass the rolls,” since 7 P . M .
The stall swings open and she steps out, adjusting her strapless dress over her infamously large breasts. “Yeah, I’m here with Jake. Oh, crap, you like him, right?” So I’m told. “You don’t hate me, do you?” Answer irrelevant, she turns to the mirror to reapply her lipstick. “We’re going out now. You know, officially.”
I take this like all ten of her Lee press-ons have just lodged in my rib cage. “That’s great! No, I—that’s great.”
She pauses for a moment in the mirror, the ridged silver tube poised above her lips, studying me in the reflection. “You’re sweet.”
“You guys look really good together,” I hear myself add. “Well, have fun!”
I shove back into wailing guitar and walk straight to the drinking fountain. Leaning over, I press my hand against my chest to keep any of the pervs from staring down my dress and pretend like I’m getting a drink, but instead just watch the water circle into the drain. So Jake Sharpe has gone all the way to the top. Without so much as a word to me.
I release the metal button and straighten, broadening my shoulders so that the whole of the cutout back is exposed, and step around the huddle of blazer-clad teachers to look for Craig among the boys whipping each other into a frenzy with their liberated ties. The staff quarters in Dirty Dancing, this is not.
Immediately giving up, I find
“So, there you go.” I stand back up.
“What do you think of Craig?”
“Craig, your-lab-partner-Craig?”
“Yeah.” She pulls the scrunchie out of her fading perm, shaking the limp waves to her shoulders as she slips the burgundy velvet onto her wrist. “I think you guys would look cute together. He’s tall and blond. You’re tall and brunette.”
“Aw.” I pat the top of her head and, momentarily forgotten, the bodice drops to my waist. My hands fly to my bare chest. “Yeah, both of us and our grandbabies could get in here.”
She stands, taking the peach one off its hook, and turns me toward my stall. “Try this. I think it’ll be really pretty on you. Plus it has straps. Which maybe is a good idea.”
“So, you’re admitting I have no boobs.”
“I’m saying your boobs would be extra flattered by straps.” She smiles sweetly before shutting my door. “So, what about Craig?” she calls.
I think about him as I kick off the heavy satin and unhook the hanger straps of the Gunny Sax. “He’s cute, I guess.”
“And nice. And smart.”
I step into the scratchy crinoline. “I just never really thought about him that way.”
“What way? The Jake Sharpe way?”
I swivel my head around the door. “Yes.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Katie, we can’t let everyone get boyfriends but us just because of Rick Swartz and Jake Sharpe. We have to move on.” She looks down to double wrap the scrunchie around her wrist. “I’m asking Randy Bryson.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I think his eyes will look good with these flowers.” She lifts her skirt and relays it gracefully around her legs. “So get that dress zippered and let’s move on already.”
I concentrate every ounce of my energy on the one hair that refuses to lie flat with the others sprayed and twisted in the peach satin bow clip. I’m about to rip the flyaway right out of my head when the door to the bathroom opens and loud music pours in, followed by Kristi Lehman.
She pushes into a stall door, tugging layers of white lace in behind her. “You’re here with Craig, right?” she calls out.
“Yup!” I stop with my hand on the girls’ room door, not sure if she’s finished talking to me, not wanting to slight the Queen.
“He’s nice. He used to live down the street.”
“Yeah, yes. He’s very nice,” I say, though he is not very anything else as far as I can tell. He checked the yes box on a note during Social Studies and here I am with a boy who has, other than smiling shyly, said nothing but, “Please pass the rolls,” since 7 P . M .
The stall swings open and she steps out, adjusting her strapless dress over her infamously large breasts. “Yeah, I’m here with Jake. Oh, crap, you like him, right?” So I’m told. “You don’t hate me, do you?” Answer irrelevant, she turns to the mirror to reapply her lipstick. “We’re going out now. You know, officially.”
I take this like all ten of her Lee press-ons have just lodged in my rib cage. “That’s great! No, I—that’s great.”
She pauses for a moment in the mirror, the ridged silver tube poised above her lips, studying me in the reflection. “You’re sweet.”
“You guys look really good together,” I hear myself add. “Well, have fun!”
I shove back into wailing guitar and walk straight to the drinking fountain. Leaning over, I press my hand against my chest to keep any of the pervs from staring down my dress and pretend like I’m getting a drink, but instead just watch the water circle into the drain. So Jake Sharpe has gone all the way to the top. Without so much as a word to me.
I release the metal button and straighten, broadening my shoulders so that the whole of the cutout back is exposed, and step around the huddle of blazer-clad teachers to look for Craig among the boys whipping each other into a frenzy with their liberated ties. The staff quarters in Dirty Dancing, this is not.
Immediately giving up, I find
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