Johnson family?
Mara nodded.
"Then we might get dinner after the game with some of the players," I added. "I'll be home by eleven." Really I had no idea what time I'd be home, but my dad's flight landed at six-thirty. By
eleven I'd be dealing with him, not her.
"We-ell," she said. "Eleven sounds reasonable."
For a split second I was afraid I wouldn't be able to stop myself from screaming at her. I don't
have a curfew. The rule is I just have to call if I'm going to be late. I only said I'd be home by
eleven to get you off my back, you evil, controlling witch.
Luckily I was able to repress the urge to express these feelings. The only thing I couldn't control
was how my hand tightened slightly on Mara's arm.
She confused my squeeze of rage with some kind of affectionate gesture and smiled at me. "I
only want what's best for you," she said.
"Oh, I know, Mara."
I bet that's what Cinderella's stepmother said, too.
Standing in front of my bathroom mirror in a T-shirt and sweatpants, I could see that getting rid
of Mara had catapulted me over one of the evening's many hurdles
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straight into another one: What was I going to wear?
My stepsisters' fashion advice echoed in my brain. Lucy, you're not wearing that are you? Lucy, your pants are sooo five minutes ago. Ten minutes ago. Yesterday. Last month. Last year.
Tonight I definitely did not want to look five minutes ago. I wanted to look now. I wanted to
look cute. I wanted to look sexy. I wanted to look cool. The problem was, I had absolutely no
idea what Glen Lake's standards were for hot, cute, sexy, or cool. At Wellington, everyone pretty much just wore jeans and T-shirts all the time. Even if there was a dance or something, people
dressed as casually as possible, like they would never in a million years do something as lame as
get dressed up for a school dance. I think the idea was to show up looking like you hadn't even
known there was a dance; you'd just gone out to walk the dog or buy cigarettes or something, and
the next thing you knew you were rockin' out with your classmates.
But people at Glen Lake dress up even for school. They wear outfits, color-coordinated shirts and pants and socks. I myself do not own any outfits. Unless you count jeans and a black T-shirt.
Which is my totally five-minutes-ago uniform.
No way was I going to wear jeans and a black T-shirt to the game after wearing it basically every
day of the year.
I finally decided to pair a tight, green scoop-neck
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T-shirt with a little black skirt, black tights, and black boots with a low, chunky heel. Over the T-
shirt, I put on an old Stanford sweatshirt of my dad's. I looked at myself in the mirror. It wasn't
bad. The sweatshirt said, "I'm super caz," while the skirt said, "I'm super sexy."
Unless I was wrong and the whole ensemble simply said, "I'm super freaky." I stared at my
reflection.
"Hey, Connor," I said nervously. My voice sounded high and tiny, Tropical Barbie pumped-up
on estrogen.
I cleared my throat. "Hey, Connor," I said again, dropping my voice down an octave.
Now I sounded like Harvey Fierstein.
A car honked outside. My heart started pounding and I got a feeling in the pit of my stomach like
I was about to throw up.
Another honk. I took a deep breath and exhaled, slowly.
"Hey, Connor," I said to the mirror. It sounded okay. Not perfect, but okay. I studied my
reflection. Something still wasn't quite right. I took off the sweatshirt.
The car honked again.
I reached up and pulled out the ponytail holder. My hair fell around my face and shoulders, a
wash of bright red.
I stared at myself, hard. With my hair down, I definitely didn't look like a female impersonator.
And the
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green T-shirt looked good against the red. Not bad. Not bad at all.
I flipped off the light and raced upstairs.
"Sorry we're late," said Jessica, as she and Madison slid over to give me room next to them in the backseat. "This one here"--she pointed at Madison--"took about ten years deciding what to
wear."
Madison shrugged and pointed at me. "I like your skirt," she said.
"Oh, thanks," I said, relieved.
"Hey, your little sisters are in my sister's class," said Jessica. "They're totally sweet."
The Princesses? Sweet?
"Uh, yeah," I said. "I guess Jennifer's their good friend." I managed not to add for now to the end of my sentence.
"Yeah, but she's a total brat," said Jessica. "She drives me crazy."
I knew there was a bonding opportunity presenting itself here, but I wasn't sure how to proceed.
Did I say the Princesses were total brats, too, or would that make me look like a bitch? Maybe I
was supposed to defend Jennifer, say she was sweet, like Jessica had said the Princesses were.
As I analyzed and rejected half a dozen platitudes, I realized six months in social Siberia had
taken their toll. I was no longer able to carry on even the most mundane conversation.
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While I was busy trying to come up with a banal yet deeply significant observation about my
monstrous stepsisters, the conversation moved on.
"Are you totally psyched about Connor?" asked Jessica.
"Well, I--"
"God, this color is way too dark," said Madison, who had taken a mirror out of Jessica's purse to check her lipstick.
It was true; her mouth was stained a disturbing shade of purple. She rubbed at her lips with a
tissue.
Jessica took her hair out of its ponytail, turning toward me as she fluffed it around her face.
"Wow," she said, "your hair is really red."
Was she making an observation or an accusation?
"Um, yeah," I said. My hand flew up to my head as if touching my hair would make it less red.
"I'm using your lip gloss," said Madison, reaching into Jessica's bag.
"Yeah, sure. Go ahead," said Jessica. She was still looking at me. "Is it natural?"
"Um, yeah," I said for the second time as Jessica took her bag back from Madison and dug
around in it.
I should never have left my hair down. What had I been thinking? I felt utterly exposed, like I
was living out the dream where you're walking down the hall in school and you suddenly realize
you're not wearing any clothes. "My stepsisters keep telling me to dye it," I said, trying
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to control my tone so it fell somewhere between statement and question. Was there a ponytail
holder in my bag?
"Why would you dye it?" asked Jessica, running her brush through her hair. The look she gave
me was one of honest confusion. "It's totally hot."
"Oh, thanks," I said, forcing a laugh. "I mean, I wasn't seriously thinking of dyeing it."
But, of course, for a second there, I had been.
I'd never been to a high-school basketball game before. Officially, Wellington has a basketball
team, but they're not exactly state champion material, and no one I knew ever followed their
record too closely. Glen Lake's team, on the other hand, is a juggernaut, something the bards are