Tessa Masterson Will Go to Prom (18 page)

Lucas is out of breath when he calls, like he’s just run up two flights of stairs or been chased. “Hey,” he says.

“Are you smiling?” I ask.

“You can seriously tell that over the phone?” I hear him runnng water. We used to be the kind of friends who could pee on the phone and not be grossed out. Now Lucas stops the water running.

“So …,” I start.

“So …,” he says back, and waits for me to say something.

And I want to tell him—what? What do I want to say? Thanks? Or, I miss you? I used to be able to say anything to this guy and now it all feels so loaded and heavy and like there’s this ravine between us and I can’t figure out how to make it over to where he is.

“How’s Josie?” he asks, finally, trying to fill the void.

“Uh, fine, I think.”

“Oh. You’re not—”

I shake my head as though he can see me. “No.”

This conversation isn’t happening the way I wanted it to. “I just … I texted because …”

Lucas clears his throat. “Come on, Tess.”

“Look,” I say, annoyed now. “You’re the grand-gesture person. Not me.”

“Step up to the plate, Masterson,” Lucas says.

And just like that I’m pissed again. “Never mind.”

“Don’t tell me to never mind. I’m like … the king of minding.”

“Yup, that’s you. The mayor of the grand gesture.”

Lucas sucks in air and I bet his mouth is all pinched and his eyebrows crumpled together. “You know what? Grand gestures are a good thing, Tessa. They’re dramatic. They’re …” He pauses, maybe remembering his failed grand gesture with me. “They might not always get you what you want. But they’re real. Maybe you’ll try it some time.”

We hang up and I’m bubbling over with frustration. I’m not the big-gesture type. And he knows that. I don’t even like karaoke for God’s sake. But when I look in the mirror I feel really bad because I’m still in my TEAM TESSA T-shirt. The one Lucas is responsible for. I pull it off, crumple it up, and whip it into the hamper. There’s no one there to cheer as I make the shot.

In the morning, I have that thirty-second grace period, pre-waking, when I still think everything’s normal. Back the way it was. I stretch my toes out so they curl over the end of the bed, and lift my head as the clock comes into view. Ten minutes to get up, shower, and get to work.

“Tessa!” Danny shouts.

It’s like any other morning, when Danny’s busy shoving bagels into his mouth and waiting for me. I decide not to shower since everyone already thinks I’m a social outcast. Then I ignore the TEAM TESSA shirt and just focus on shorts and a shirt and pulling my hair back as I trot down the stairs in search of a frozen waffle to eat unthawed in the car. Lucas used to keep a stash of Eggos in his freezer even though he is against frozen breakfast food as a rule. I feel a twinge as I picture him throwing the waffle to me Frisbee style all spring and how I kept gummy worms in my bag just for him even though candy for breakfast isn’t my idea of great nutrition.

“Tessa!” Danny bellows again, and before I can thwack him for being brotherly and annoying, I realize he’s trying to warn me.

In the kitchen, next to the open window with its flimsy yellow curtains, and right near our toaster, my parents stand with their arms around each other like a bizzarro version of that painting we studied in AP History,
American Gothic
. Mom’s in a too-big TEAM TESSA shirt and Dad’s in one that’s slightly too small and you can see his gut, but they are united as parents.

But they’re not looking at me.

Or at Danny.

They’re focused on the two television cameras aimed at them.

The same ones that turn to capture footage of me.

“Can you come down the stairs again?” one of the crew asks.

“What?” I ask, trying to make sense of it all.

“Mr. Wekstein did a live interview,” my father says. “On
The Morning Show
in New York!”

“New York!” My mom beams like it’s a foreign language. A foreign planet. Maybe it is.

A reporter comes in the front door, the one we never use, and wipes her high heels on our oval braided rug even though she doesn’t have anything on the bottom of her shoes, and if she did we wouldn’t care.

“Hi, Tessa!” She sticks her hand out and I automatically shake it. “I’m Louise Madden.”

And of course I know who she is. She’s on TV. Every morning. Only now she’s in my house and smiling at me with her perfectly outlined lips and expensively cut pantsuit and coiffed hair while I stand unshowered and craving a frozen waffle.

“Let’s back up, Lou. Introduce again and we’ll get her coming down the stairs.”

I allow myself to be directed: down the stairs, meeting Louise, hugging my parents, high-fiving with Danny, who gives me his I’m-about-to-crack-up face. I chew my lip to avoid laughing or screaming.

“Ah, I have to go work,” I say.

“Perfect,” Louise Madden says to the camera guy. “We can cut from there to the supermarket.”

“I have footage of MegaMart and a statement from Corporate,” she adds, like we’re not all standing here.

And I know I should be jumping for joy that “my cause” has gone viral. That I’m somehow the voice of people who need one.

“So, Tessa,” Louise says, “let’s get your response to the results of the ACLU action.”

I feel dumb because I’ve been so busy moping about Josie and wallowing about Lucas that I haven’t been paying attention to much of anything. “Ah …”

Sensing that I’m clueless, Louise says, “The statement just came this morning—as your mother was saying. Mr. Wekstein announced live that Brookfield-Mason agreed to create a policy protecting students from discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation and gender identity.”

“Wow!” I say. I smile and my parents give me a thumbs-up. But there should be more.

And I know what’s missing.

But I can’t do it. I’m not that girl.

In the glowy morning light in the kitchen that always made me feel protected and warm, Louise shakes her head at the cameras like I’ve totally failed. “We’ll get a statement later.”

I’m on deli duty, my first time since Josie ended things, and the smell of salty ham slices makes me wish I hadn’t raided the frozen-food aisles for whole-wheat waffles.

“Excuse me.”

I know the voice even before I see the face it comes from so I move extra slowly, taking the ham from the slicer and following store protocol by triple-wrapping it in plastic film and putting it back in the cold case with its meaty friends.

“How can I help you, Jenny?” I ask, going back to my original customer-satisfaction training and “personalizing my interaction” by using her first name.

Jenny Himmelrath tilts her head, the silver of her headband glints in the fluorescent lights.

“I wonder if you could be so kind as to fill an order for me,” she says, firing her own retail training right back at me.

“Why, I’d be honored,” I say.

It’s a war of the fake, overly nice people.

“We need fifteen platters of deli rolls,” she says.

I stand on tiptoe so I can look more closely at her over the barrier of the counter. “Seriously, Jenny? Fifteen?”

“What?” She shrugs. “I thought you’d be glad for the business.”

Jenny looks around, perfectly composed, her hair smooth and her hands on her hips. I follow her gaze to the rest of the store. It’s not full by any means but it’s not nearly as desolate as it has been. We’re getting new
products in, and a few major brands have ponied up to add bright displays, wanting to “be associated with a store that supports the American value of nondiscrimination.” This is particularly amusing because there are just as many brands who have pulled their distribution and cases because they “only want to be featured in stores that support American values.” They’re now at MegaMart.

“We don’t
need
the business,” I say. Then I take a breath. “Okay, just tell me what you’d like and if there are any food allergies.”

“For meat?” Jenny makes a face.

“The Paulson’s poultry comes in contact with their peanut-processing plant so I like to be clear about that,” I say.

Jenny stares at me. And stares. And stares until I raise my eyebrows at her.

“That’s, like, so … nice of you,” she says.

Now it’s my turn to shrug. “It’s just store policy. Full disclosure. Taking care of our patrons,” I tell her.

She hands me an order slip written in her curvy script. It’s on yacht club stationery.

“Did you know I’m, like, deathly allergic to tree nuts and legumes?” Jenny asks, her voice hushed.

“I didn’t.” The slip tells me I’ll be slicing smoked turkey and Genoa salami all day. “Do you want these arranged in a party-platter format?” I get the booklet and show her the fancy toothpicks, the unfurled lettuce as a base.

“I, like, nearly died two years ago,” she says. In her
eyes I see something I’ve never seen before. “No one really gets it. One minute you’re fine and just a regular cheerleader and the next you eat one stupid cookie and blow up like a frickin’ helium balloon.” She moves her hands over her face. “I couldn’t breathe. At all.”

“That sounds really scary,” I say, because obviously it does and the fact that this girl has hated me forever doesn’t mean that much right now. In fact, as I watch her watch me, we’re both doing that thing where we acknowledge that we’re both just regular people. Regular people with issues.

“I’ll keep the platters completely nut-free.” I point behind me. “See? That slicer doesn’t ever get any Paulson’s on it. So no cross-contaminants.”

Jenny’s eyes light up as though I’ve told her she’s lost weight or whatever is usually top of her list of wants. “No cross-contaminants. Cool.”

She could wander the store while I spend the time slicing the turkey and other meats, but she doesn’t. She watches me.

And then it hits me. Maybe this is all it would take. Jenny Himmelrath and her peanut-allergic self could be my grand statement.

So when I finish the first platter and it’s cloaked in plastic wrap and looking very fancy, I hold it out to her. “This’ll go in the big fridge,” I say. “But I wanted you to see it first. Just so you can tell what the final product will be.”

Jenny smiles. A real smile. And I know it’ll work. If I can just ask her.

I put the tray away. “Before I get to the other ones,” I say, rallying up my nerve to ask, “I was just wondering …”

“Yeah.” She leans on the counter, aware of the television cameras off in the distance.

“Actually, do you mind if I …” I wave Louise over and there’s a bunch of noise and confusion as I start the next platter and Jenny signs a release form for being filmed and they set up.

Talk about grand gestures, I think. This is it.

The cameras set up the shot, angling so they get my apron and the unattractive yet nut-free wedge of brined turkey as well as Jenny’s “camera-ready” short shorts and pert smile.

“So, Jenny,” I say.

“Tessa,” she says back.

“Now that we’re …” I stumble over the words. What are we? Nothing still. Not friends. But … something? “Tell me where these platters are headed.”

Jenny stands up straight, gleaming. “My mother has organized a wonderful event. At the yacht club. And we’re supporting our local store by buying extra platters.” She pauses, looking at me for a sign she’s said the correct thing.