Sandwiched. Jennifer Archer
heart attack. And two against one makes it that much harder to defend yourself. I’m sure Mom didn’t have this sort of outfit in mind for my concert. Which, now that I think of it, I totally forgot to shop for. The concert, that is.
“This all goes back,” I say, shaking my head and turning to face my friend. “It’s not me at all. It’s more like something you’d wear.”
Suz grabs the top and holds it up in front of me. “Oh, get over it. You’re just nervous. You’re gonna look amazing.”
“I’ll feel like a skank.”
“Are you saying I dress like a skank?”
“No. I’m saying that you can pull off wearing slutty things without looking skanky. I can’t.”
Suzanna tosses the satiny top in my face. “That’s just stupid.”
I catch the shirt and start to refold it. “It doesn’t matter what I wear tonight. If I’m with you no guy’s going to notice me anyway.” Not that they pay me much attention when Suz isn’t around. It’s just worse when she is.
“That’s only because you’re so quiet. They probably think you don’t want to hook up.”
“Okay.” I sit at the edge of her bed, wishing she’d turn off the rap music, which I hate. “Then explain why it is that guys who’ve never met me, guys who don’t know I’m quiet or that you’re outgoing, completely look past me whenever you and I are together? Even before we ever open our mouths?”
Suz rolls her eyes. “As if.”
“It’s true.”
“If it is true, which it isn’t, then maybe it’s because…” She pauses to nibble her lower lip. “Well, I hate to say this, but maybe it’s because you dress like an orchestra member.”
“I am an orchestra member.”
“Exactly.” Suzanna flips back her long blond hair.
“Playing the cello doesn’t have anything to do with the way I dress. Lot’s of girls who aren’t in orchestra dress like me.”
“They probably can’t hook up, either.”
“What’s wrong with my clothes?” I glance down at my jeans and T-shirt, bought last week, though they aren’t my style. “I’m showing skin.” I point at my belly button. “See?”
Suz eyes my jeans. “At least they aren’t your usual. Baggy, khaki or black.”
“Samantha Carter dresses like a nun and she has boyfriends. My clothes aren’t the problem.”
“Then what?”
I lay the folded skank-top on the bed beside me, cross my arms and stare straight at her chest. “Remember yesterday after school when you ran up to me in the parking lot while I was talking to Todd Blackburn about our science project?”
She nods. “What about it?”
“When he saw you coming, he forgot I existed. At first I thought it was your bouncing ponytail that threw him into a trance. Then I realized your hair wasn’t the only thing bouncing.”
Her eyes widen. “Shut up! I wasn’t bouncing!”
“Yes you were! And Todd wasn’t the only guy in the parking lot who noticed. Instead of ‘follow the bouncing ball,’ it was ‘follow the bouncing boobs.’”
“That’s disgusting.” Suzanna’s face flushes, which is a total surprise since nothing much embarrasses her.
“Well, if that’s the problem,” she says, “I can solve it.”
“If you tell me to stand up straight and stick out my personality, I’m out of here.” Back before Nana quit sewing, she’d say that to me. She’d be fitting a dress or whatever, pinning it at my shoulders or under my pits and getting all bent out of shape because I was slumping.
Suz makes a face and starts for the door. “Wait here.”
While she’s gone I turn off the music and swipe a piece of mint gum from her dresser. I think how weird it is that two people so different wound up friends. I moved to Dallas as a sophomore two years ago when Dad expanded his business. Since then, I’ve been pretty much alone when it comes to a social life. I hate my school with all its little groupies. Until Suz transferred in at the beginning of the year, I didn’t have a best friend. The truth is, I didn’t have any close friends at all. Just kids I hung out with sometimes. Other girls from my orchestra class, usually. Most of them quiet, goody-two-shoes nobodies. Which is probably how people think of me, too. I didn’t share secrets with anyone or talk on the phone ’til late at night. I never laughed so hard I peed my pants. Mainly, I studied a lot, practiced my cello, made the honor roll and spent time with Mom.
Then Suzanna showed up and everything changed. She lives nearby in a Dallas suburb. Suz isn’t exactly honor roll material, but she knows how to have fun. She should’ve graduated last year, but she didn’t pass a couple of classes. Instead of retaking the first semester of her senior year at her old school and being totally humiliated, her parents let her transfer. I still can’t figure out why she chose to hang out with me. At her old school, she was a cheerleader with more friends than she could keep track of. She says they’ve all taken off to different colleges. I’m pretty sure some of them made her feel stupid for not graduating, though she’s never come out and said it.
Some friends.
I think she realized that. Or maybe she’s just had enough of the whole “high school popularity” thing. Whatever the reason, she latched on to me the second she heard me playing cello in an empty classroom one day after school, and she’s never let go. Okay, so sometimes I feel like her ugly stepsister. But at least I have fun now that I’m not hanging with Mom 24/7.
I’m dabbing some of Suz’s spicy perfume on my neck when she walks back into the room and hands me two pale pink oval blobs. “What are these? Dead jellyfish?”
“Silicone inserts,” she says. “They’re Katie’s. She takes after Dad. I take after Mom.”
Katie, Suzanna’s fifteen-year-old sister, is so flat she’s almost concave. “She actually wears these?” I press the blobs against my 32-A’s. The inserts even have nipples. Hard ones.
“Sometimes she does.”
“Well, I can’t,” I say. “I won’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s false advertising for one thing. For another,” I pinch the nipples, “I’d look like I’m chronically cold.”
Suz snickers.
“Besides, if a guy’s only interested in me because he thinks I have big boobs then maybe he’s not worth knowing.”
She sits beside me. “Let me explain guys to you. They can’t help it. They’re drawn to ta-tas like flies are drawn to picnic tables. It’s the way they’re wired.”
I lay the blobs on the bed beside the red boots. “In that case, I have no hope.”
“Not true. You just have to trick them into noticing you so that they’ll stick around long enough to get to know you better. Once they do, and they realize how funny and smart you are, your booblessness won’t matter so much.”
I stare at her. “Yeah, right.”
Suz sighs. “Okay, maybe not. I’ve never met a guy our age that mature.”
I think of Dad. Mom doesn’t know I figured out about him and the sleazoid who lives next door. But I’m not stupid. I saw how his eyelids got all heavy-looking whenever he saw her out in the driveway wearing only a little bikini top with her short shorts. I heard how his voice changed whenever they spoke, how his deep drawl got deeper and more drawn out, like the words were coated with molasses. “I’m not sure they’re ever that