“Yeah,” he says. “I heard that part.”
For some reason, he sounds really hurt by it. A small piece of me wants to feel victorious. But mostly, I just feel guilty.
“I don’t know what you sound so sorry about,” I say. I don’t know where the words come from; maybe I’m just tired of being kicked around. “You’re going with Megan.”
He shrugs and mutters something under his breath.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says. Then he sighs deeply and looks at me for the first time this entire interaction. “Anyway, I just . . . I just wanted to say you looked good today. You should be proud.”
“I am,” I say. “Thanks.”
“I don’t know why you’re mad at me,” he says. And yeah, I suppose my responses were biting, but I’d hoped I was hiding it better than that.
I open my mouth to explain precisely why I’m upset, but then the tent flap opens and the reason for all my anger steps in.
“Oh, there you are, Branden,” Megan says, stepping inside. My blood boils at the sight of her. She glances at me just once, giving me a look that says I’m clearly not worth any more attention than that, and focuses on Branden. By “focuses,” I mean “walks up to and grabs his arm like I’m not even in the tent.” She continues, “I was hoping I’d be able to find you before dinner. I wanted to make sure we matched at the dance tonight.”
It takes all my self-control to keep myself from screaming at them as she flaunts the fact that he chose her. I try to hold on to that bubble of happiness from before, the exhilaration of a show well done. It’s impossible, like trying to hold on to a greased juggling pin.
I don’t need to stand here and take this. But I’m also not about to give Olga or anyone else a reason to throw me out because I decked a contortionist in the face. Without saying another word, I stalk from the tent, making sure to brush into Megan just enough to shove her to the side as I leave.
• • •
I’m sitting with Riley and the boys at dinner, trying not to think about Megan and Branden and having to watch them dance tonight, when Luke steps up behind me and places a hand on my shoulder. The other arm reaches around in front of me to hold out a flower. A little pink carnation. When did he have time to get me a flower? In spite of everything else warring in my head, that gesture of kindness makes me melt a little.
“What’s this for?” I ask, looking up to him. He smiles down at me, completely oblivious to the rest of the table.
“Your performance today,” he says. “I would have gotten a corsage for tonight, but turns out they’re hard to find at a gas station, so this is the best I could do. That, and I didn’t know what color dress you were going to wear.”
I take the flower gently and feel my stomach drop. Does he really like me that much? If so, I feel bad for having feelings for Branden. Once more, I try to convince myself to give this boy a chance. He’s certainly trying harder than any other boy in my life.
“I didn’t bring a dress,” I respond. I give him an awkward smile. “Sorry.”
“Oh. Well then, a really good thing I didn’t get you a corsage.”
“She has a dress,” Riley pipes up. “She’s borrowing one of mine.”
Luke’s smile widens. “Excellent. I mean, not that it matters. I’m sure you’d look great no matter what.”
Then, because once more it’s nearly impossible to hold a conversation with him, he excuses himself and walks back over to his table of acro boys. Which, I’m pleased to see, Branden is sitting at. Without Megan.
“Jeez, girl,” Tyler says, “how much clothing did you bring?”
Riley smiles and pops a carrot stick into her mouth and responds around her crunching. “A girl must always be prepared.” Then she glances at me. “Clearly, this is yet another skill I must verse you in. At least now I know I’ll see you outside camp.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
“Because you still need a lot of work before you can call yourself a lady.”
I just giggle and shake my head; it’s hard to take her seriously when she still has half a carrot crunching in her mouth. If I’m taking lessons from her, it will be years before I can consider myself proper.
• • •
There’s not much time to prepare for the dance after dinner, so Riley and I finish eating early and head to the dorm immediately. She forces me to take a shower before she does, convinced that it will take me extra time to make myself presentable. Which is probably the truth, seeing as she’s going to be the one dressing me. And doing my hair. And my makeup.
If I make it to the dance without looking like a clown or having purple streaks in my hair, it will be a small miracle.
She’s already laid a few dress options on my bed by the time I’ve stepped out of the shower. I reiterate Tyler’s earlier question when I see the three choices: “How much clothing did you bring?”
“Barely enough,” she says, sounding sad. She hops off the bed with her towel in hand. “Try them on while I’m in the shower. I expect you to be ready for hair and makeup by the time I’m out. Unless you choose poorly. Then it’s back to the drawing board.”
She pats me on the shoulder and bounces into the bathroom.
The dresses she picked out are definitely Riley. There’s just enough of a clash in colors and patterns to edge on gaudy, but she has a keen enough fashion sense that they actually, miraculously, work.
Option one is a slinky lime-green sundress, paired with a leopard-print belt and a sheer yellow shawl. She even set a pair of giant plastic bauble earrings beside it—they look like pink grapes.
Option two is a long pink-and-purple plaid skirt with a white blouse and a purple jacket that looks like a short ringmaster coat. She’s paired it with a studded pink belt and a necklace made of thick silver squares.
Finally there’s a relatively plain cream-colored sundress with a delicate blue embroidered hem. It would have been the sanest of the options, but she’s paired it with a rainbow-tie-dye shawl and multicolored plastic bangles. It’s the only option that has shoes to go with it. Apparently, if I’m to wear this, I have to also wear her pink, marker-covered, knee-high sneakers.
I decide to try on the green sundress first. I’m lucky Riley is my size—the dress just barely fits, but it doesn’t really mesh well with my skin tone. As I stare at the ensemble in the mirror, I can’t help but wonder how in the world she manages to pull this off without looking like a Christmas advertisement. The green with her red hair would be a color clash waiting to explode.
The cream dress is next, mainly because I think my eyes need a rest from all that intense color, and the plaid dress just screams disaster to my relatively conservative fashion sense. But looking in the mirror, fully decked out, I can’t help but think it’s almost a little too plain. I thought I would have settled on this one, but it doesn’t scream “Jennifer, Juggling Circus Star.” It just whispers “Jennifer, Still Too Scared to Take Chances.”
So, almost a little regretfully, I slink out of the cream dress and try on the pattern explosion of option two.
Of course, that’s the moment Riley gets out of the shower, a towel wrapped around her and another around her wild hair.
“That one,” she says, casting me the briefest glance. “Definitely that one.”
“You didn’t even see the others,” I say.
“Don’t need to. You look too daring in that to even try the others on. Besides, I think you’d look good with a little punky pink eye shadow.” The grin she gives me is kind of frightening. “Oh yes, I’m going to have a lot of fun painting your face.”
“You scare me sometimes,” I respond, giving myself another once-over in the mirror. I hate to admit it, but she has a point. I do look pretty daring in this. Seeing as this is my last night, I want to make an impression.