Buzz Kill (24 page)

She definitely got my conflict. And I did take a moment to consider her offer.

This isn't any different from a conversation you would've had at the library, Millie.

Your relationship hasn't really changed—except for the venue.

And Mom wouldn't want you to go it entirely alone.

“Okay.” I nodded. “Yeah. I'd like to know what you think.”

Ms. Parkins pursed her lips, as if she took her job seriously, then advised me, “You can't make some boy like you if he doesn't, Millicent. That's just the hard truth. But you can't compare yourself to some girlfriend he has, either. You are a unique, beautiful girl in your own right, and if I were you, I'd put on a dress, and I'd go to that dance, and I'd have a great time as the one-and-only Millie Ostermeyer.”

She was right, and I could do that. But . . . “What about how Chase sold out Dad? There's that, too.”

“Yes, your father told me what happened,” Ms. Parkins said. “And we both agree that Chase did the right thing.” All at once, she seemed apologetic, and I knew we weren't just talking about Chase when she added, “Lying—even telling lies of omission—clearly doesn't help anyone. It just makes things worse.”

We really met each other's eyes for the first time since my meltdown. “I guess you and Dad
were
trying to do the right thing by keeping your relationship from me,” I finally conceded. “I mean, I
did
freak out, and break you up.”

Ms. Parkins glanced past me, and I realized she'd noticed the overdue Nancy Drews on my desk. But she didn't bug me about returning them. Instead, she asked a question that at first seemed entirely random. “Did you ever read
The Mystery of the Glowing Eye,
Millie?”

“No.” I gave her a confused look. “I stopped reading the books after Mom died. I guess we didn't get to that one.”

“Well, it's the only book in which Nancy's widower dad, Carson, has a love interest—”

I plopped down on my bed, finally getting where the conversation was headed. “Yeah,” I interrupted glumly. “And Nance handled it perfectly, I'm sure. She probably threw a tea party for them or something, with fine china.”

Ms. Parkins sat down next to me. “Actually, it's the only volume in which I ever recall Nancy being described as ‘cross' and ‘petulant.' Throughout the whole novel, she's in a jealous, sulky—sometimes rude—funk . . . until she gets her wish and the relationship doesn't work out.”

That
was a shocker. “Really?”

“Yes, Millie.” Ms. Parkins ventured a smile. “You're actually handling your father's dating much better than Nancy Drew did when confronted with the same situation.”

I met her eyes again, and doing that seemed more natural. “Thanks, Ms. Parkins.”

I still wasn't entirely comfortable with having a new mother figure in my house—and let's face it, I saw the way Ms. Parkins and my dad looked at each other, and she wasn't going anywhere—but right then, I knew we'd ultimately figure it out and make it work.

If only the same could be said for my wardrobe vis-à-vis a formal dance.

What was I going to do? Turn my “Nihilists for Nothing” T-shirt inside out, tug it to my knees, and call it a little black dress?

But, of course, if there was one thing Isabel Parkins knew, beyond books, it was fashion, and it was almost like she read my mind when she squeezed my hand and said, “Come on. Let's get you ready for a dance.”

And about twenty minutes later, when I walked—okay, wobbled—down the stairs, Chase and my father both spun on the couch and nearly spat out the satay they were scarfing down, sputtering simultaneously, “Oh . . . wow!”

“Millie, you really do look nice,” Chase said, helping me get out of his car. I normally would've found the gesture far too corny, but I was still pretty shaky on my borrowed heels and let him take my arm. “I know you keep telling me to shut up—which dampens the classy effect a little bit—but you really have to believe me when I say you look
amazing.
”

Actually, I'd seen that in Chase's eyes when I'd walked down the stairs—clinging to the banister for dear life, because Ms. Parkins's deep-purple strappy shoes were not only three inches higher than anything I'd ever worn before, but a half-size off, too. She'd also loaned me her plum, satin, sleeveless top, which we'd paired with a black skirt that—thank God—I had, for emergencies. Then, in a burst of courage, I'd gone to my mom's old dresser, which Dad had never cleared out, and found a pretty printed scarf, which Ms. Parkins had fashioned into a belt, like some sort of sartorial MacGyver.

It felt nice to be carrying a reminder of my mom on my first date.

Well, sort of date.

“I don't think this is really a traditional dance outfit,” I said, smoothing my skirt. I wasn't sure why I kept apologizing for how I looked. “It's not super formal—like your suit.”

Which is . . .
unbelievable!

I had to admit, I'd sucked in a breath when I'd seen Chase, too. He wore a dark suit that was even nicer than the one he'd worn to Mr. Killdare's memorial. The jacket fit his broad shoulders perfectly, and he seemed to have a knack for picking shirts and ties that made his eyes look as blue as the Caribbean that was the inspiration for the dance. At least, I assumed his eyes were Caribbean blue. I'd actually never been farther south than Virginia Beach.

Chase and I had started walking toward the school, but I stopped, seeing a bunch of other girls in what looked like serious cocktail dresses heading for the doors, too. No kidding, I would've worn any of their getups to the Oscars if I ever got invited. “I really think I'm underdressed,” I said yet again. “Maybe we should just go get a pizza or something.”

“Millie, your outfit is perfect,” Chase promised. “It fits who you are—and that's a good thing,” he added, probably because he saw me opening my mouth to ask if he was being sarcastic. He grinned. “And at least you're not wearing that crazy owl shirt your dad's date had on.”

“Uh, yeah.” Feeling my cheeks get warm, I went overboard to deny my connection to “Whooo Loves You?” “What was up with
that?
”

All at once, the silence that I'd feared descended upon us—swooping down like a stealthy owl—and Chase and I looked at each other. Only it didn't seem like we lacked things to say. On the contrary, there was
too much
unspoken stuff between us.

I was the one who broke the spell first, admitting quietly, “I didn't think you'd show up tonight. After how I treated you.”

We were standing in the parking lot, not far from where I'd blown up at him. Only this time, there were no flashing lights. Just a street lamp that cast his handsome face in a much more forgiving light. I could see his eyes better, too. See how they'd gotten a little hard toward me, as if maybe, in spite of keeping our date, he still harbored some anger toward me. “I told you that I was going to take you to the dance, Millie,” he said. “And regardless of what you think of me, when I make a promise, I keep it.”

“I also kind of wondered if you were going with Viv,” I confessed.

I didn't think I could've surprised Chase more if I'd said that in perfect French. “What?”

“I saw her talking to you in the caf . . .” I realized that I was saying too much, and concluded with a shrug, “I don't know . . . I just heard this rumor that you were taking her.”

“Millie, you had to practically bully me into doing this,” he reminded me. Then he frowned. “Plus, Viv . . . No offense to her, but she's kind of terrifying. She tried to muster some tears for Mike, but couldn't quite pull it off, and eventually just gave up. That's pretty cold.”

Not just cold. Psychopathic!
“So what did she want?”

“A study partner. She wants to do a precollege summer program in France. I'm helping her prepare.”

“Oh.” Maybe Chase
was
naive. Viv was the president of the Language Club and practically fluent. “Well, good luck with that.”

“I know what you're thinking,” he said. “But trust me. Even if Viv is into me, I don't have any interest in her.” He seemed about to say something else—then stopped himself.

When it became apparent that he definitely wasn't going to add anything more, I said, “Anyhow . . . I'm really sorry for yelling at you.” I looked down at my feet. “I'm just so worried about my dad. But you were right that evening. You did the right thing by telling the truth.”

“Hey, Millie?”

I raised my face to see that Chase was smiling. “Yeah?”

“I actually think it's great how you defended your father, like a pit bull—even if you did leave a bruise on my arm. And you stood up to Detective Lohser, too. That took guts.”

Once again, it was a different kind of boy-to-girl compliment. Not like the ones he'd offered earlier, about my appearance.

Did guys find girls with “guts” attractive?

No. Of course not. They judge them “pit-bull-ish.”

Unfortunately for me, guys liked girls with tame hair, sparkly nails, and—in my experience—vapid eyes with fluttering lids and who could walk in heels, just naturally.

For a split second, I started comparing myself with a girl I'd barely glimpsed in a locker, not to mention a bunch of classmates who'd be in the gym, dancing effortlessly on their stilettos. Then I remembered what Ms. Parkins had told me earlier.

I'm Millie Ostermeyer, dammit. And if that's not what Chase, or any other guy, wants, then screw it. His loss.

“Come on, Chase.” I started leading us toward the school again. “The punch and cookies won't last forever.”

It was Chase's turn to hang back, and I knew what he was thinking. That he didn't belong at a dance. That he should be home alone watching some dismal, maybe Norwegian
,
DVD whose bleak landscape and bleaker plot would remind him how awful he used to be.

“Hey, I guess we could also go to my house and get
Kitchen Stories
on Netflix,” I suggested, recalling the most depressing foreign film we'd ever screened at the Bijou. From what I'd gathered, it was about two sad old Swedish guys who never left their gray kitchen. I also remembered that Chase had bought a ticket. “You wanna see that again?”

He almost smiled. “I can't believe you know that movie.”

“I can't believe you
watched
it.” I tugged his sleeve. “Come on, already. If I don't get a cookie because of all this yapping . . .”

“Okay, okay,” Chase agreed. Then he took a deep breath and—maybe because he
was
a guy of his word and had promised to take a girl to a dance—said, “Let's go.”

We'd only taken a few steps when Chase, no doubt noticing that I was having trouble navigating the parking lot, wordlessly slipped his hand into mine to help hold me up the rest of the way to the gymnasium doors.

Or maybe I was helping Chase—the hottest, most mature, most confident,
self-hating
recluse
I'd ever met—face the crowd in the strangest faux tropical paradise I'd ever seen.

One where a good deal of the crepe paper was black.

“Well, this is cheerfully morbid,” Chase observed, ducking as we entered the gym so he wouldn't get hit by a plastic parrot. It hung from an equally fake palm tree, crudely fashioned from cardboard and strips of green Saran Wrap by someone on the decorating committee who'd clearly overestimated his or her abilities with a glue gun. He released my hand as we both stopped in front of two easels, heavily draped with black crepe and placed so everyone entering would have no choice but to pause and pay tribute to Coach Killdare and Mike Price. “I do not know what to make of this,” Chase added. “It's a nice gesture, but . . .”

“It's terrible!” I finished the assessment for him, speaking just loudly enough to be heard over the music. “And who chose those pictures?”

It almost seemed as though whoever'd killed Mr. Killdare and/or Mike had subsequently been tapped to create their pictorial memorials. The photo of Coach Killdare, affixed to an oversize posterboard, captured him on the sidelines at a game, red-faced and bellowing, his trademark vein popping in his neck. And the picture of Mike wasn't any better—although it was his official junior year photo. Regardless, he was wearing a too-tight polo shirt, as if he'd grudgingly ditched the Eagles jersey on “picture day,” and he was scowling like he wanted to beat the crap out of the photographer.

“Not exactly flattering,” Chase muttered. “Coach Killdare, at least, deserved better.”

I'd kind of forgotten that Chase had shared a bond with Mr. Killdare, and I tentatively touched his shoulder. “Hey, Chase . . . Sorry this is so crappy.”

He met my eyes and shrugged. “It's okay. I know most people didn't get him.
I
didn't always get him.” Then he reached for a marker that was dangling by a string tacked to a corner of Mike's poster. “I guess we should sign both of these, though.”

That was the first time I noticed that what I'd taken for black squiggles around the edges of the posterboard were actually notes written by kids and chaperones. It was like the most dismal, oversize yearbook ever. Still, I reached for the marker that swung next to Mr. Killdare's picture, agreeing, “Yeah, I guess so.” Then, while Chase tried to figure out what to leave on Mike's board, I bent down and wrote, at the very bottom of Mr. Killdare's frame, “Journey safely, Cap'n Andy.” And although I wasn't sure I believed in angels—or that Hollerin' Hank would be in their company if they did exist—I added, “May you sing ‘Ballyhoo' forever with a heavenly chorus!”

“Millie, what does
that
mean?”