Saving Zoë

Eleven

Two days before the dance, I tell my mom I need a dress. Though of course Jenay had already bought hers, like the day after my party. And Parker, just naturally assuming I’d already gotten mine too, kept quizzing me about the color so his mom could order a matching corsage.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I hadn’t bothered to even think about a dress, much less go look for one. So I lied and said I was torn between a black one and a white one, so any old flowers should do.

“It would’ve been nice if you could’ve given me just a little more notice,” my mom says, shaking her head as she trolls through the racks, trying to find something pretty and affordable that won’t make me look like a slut.

I just stand there, amazed by the show of emotion. It’s been so long since she’s expressed sadness, annoyance, or anything stronger than zombie-like calm.

“Zoë and I always used to make a day of it. We’d buy the dress, have lunch, and then go looking for a bag, jewelry, and shoes. But this, this two days’ notice.” She shakes her head again, this time pursing her lips. “What if we need alterations? Did you ever consider that?” She looks at me, eyes clearly alarmed at the thought. Well, as alarmed as those happy pills allow.

But I just shrug. I mean, even though it’s nice to see her thawing out of her usual, icy numbness, I really don’t appreciate having to compete with Zoë. Especially when I’m so clearly the loser. I mean, I may be the good, obedient, straight-A daughter, but Zoë was the exciting one. Zoë was the fun one. Zoë was the glamorous one. Zoë was the kind of daughter you actually miss.

“Well, I guess if it’s too long, I’ll just get higher heels or something,” I finally say, determined to ignore that last slight of hers and get through the rest of the day unscathed.

But she just ignores that, presses a handful of dresses into my arms, and goes, “Here. It’s a start. Now where the heck is that salesgirl?”

If you were going to categorize my mom, you’d obviously choose words like “organized,” “controlling,” and “type-A personality.” But that doesn’t mean she can’t be relaxed, compassionate, or fun. Though in the last year, it’s like she’s been riding an emotional roller coaster, and it’s been kind of hard to adjust to all of the surprising twists and turns.

I mean, everything started off all fine and well. One of her papers finally got published and she was actually awarded tenure, which is like a really big deal. But then the whole Zoë thing happened, and she headed straight into this rapid descent, her tears and depression building at an alarming speed until one day, after an extended couch-sitting, food-avoiding, sleep-depriving crying jag, she reached for that bottle of doctor-prescribed happy pills, and ever since it’s been miles of flat track, allowing for a safe but boring ride.

But that little show of annoyance back there in the store, when she compared me to Zoë and got all upset? Well, that’s something she’s never actually done before. And I wonder if it signals another drop ahead, one that I won’t realize until it’s too late.

“Well, under the conditions, I’d say that went much better than I anticipated,” she says, carefully placing her linen napkin across the lap of her jeans, but not those high-rise, tapered-ankle, multipleated “mom jeans” (thank God), but still, dark blue and no-nonsense. “And you’ve got quite the figure, young lady. Who knew?” She raises her thin, arched eyebrows and cracks a brief smile.

“Yeah, quite the stick figure,” I say, gazing down at my nearly concave chest, wondering if it will ever progress.

“Don’t kid yourself. You’ve got your great-aunt Eleanor’s figure.” She nods, her short, brown, wash-and-wear hair barely moving. “And she was a model for Saks.”

I think about Zoë, and how she always wanted to be a model, and I wonder if my mom ever said that to her.

“So tell me about this young man.” She leans forward, taking a sip of iced tea.

I gaze down at my lap, knowing she’s only trying to connect, and wishing I felt more comfortable talking about things like this. “Well, I’ve known him forever, but we never really hung out until now, and I don’t know, his best friend asked Jenay, and so, he asked me.” I shrug, using my straw to move the lemon wedge and block of ice that’s impeding my progress to the good stuff below.

“Do you like him?” she asks, as though we always engage in these heart-to-heart girl talks, as though nothing’s changed, like we’re just picking up right where we left off. And it’s been so long since she even tried, that it makes me want to give the right answer, the one that will keep it going, the one that will keep her feeling this way.

But I also don’t want to lie. So instead, I just nod.

“Well, your father and I are looking forward to meeting him. And I’m so glad we went with that cobalt blue dress, aren’t you? I was thinking maybe a silver purse and shoes? What are your thoughts?”

I reach for my menu and pretend to read it. “Urn, I guess something cute and dressy, that I can actually walk in without falling over.” I shrug.

“I know just the place.” She nods.

The whole time Jenay’s stepmom is taking our picture, all I can think about is Abby. And how she’s missing. And how she should be standing right here beside us, overdressed, overexcited, and anxious to take part in her first limo, first dance, and first date too. But even though Jenay tried her best to set her up, Abby wouldn’t have anything to do with it. Insisting she had a “family thing” that’d been planned for months, and that she’d “completely forgotten all about.”

But I know better. I know Abby’s just romantic enough to want a date who asked her for real, and stubborn enough to insist on that, or not go at all.

“Okay, everyone, just lean in, a little bit closer. Echo, move your hair out of your eyes so I can see your beautiful face,” Jenay’s stepmom says, the fingers on her free hand directing us toward the center, while she holds the tiny digital camera with the other. “Perfect. Hold it…great. One more. Okay, I’ll e-mail copies to all of your parents.” She leans against Jenay’s dad and smiles. “Oops! There goes Landon! I knew it wouldn’t last. Okay, have fun everyone, and girls, you look gorgeous!”

She hugs Jenay and me, careful not to mess up our hair, then runs upstairs to the nursery in her bare feet, snug jeans, and tight pink T-shirt, with her stream of blond hair trailing behind her, making her look more like Jenay’s hip older sister than her father’s second wife.

“Okay, the limo’s outside waiting. So everyone, be good, have fun, and stay out of trouble,” her dad says, delivering the exact same speech my dad gave, just half an hour before.

One by one we crawl into the back of the limo, sliding across the long, leather seat. The second the door is closed and the driver pulls away from the curb, Jenay leans her head back, heaves a dramatic sigh, and goes, “Thank God that’s over.”

Chess grabs her hand and smiles. “What do you mean? Your mom’s really nice, and your dad seems cool too.” He shrugs.

“Well, she’s actually my stepmom. My real mom died when I was little, and my dad didn’t remarry until about four years ago. So yeah, she’s nice and all, and it’s good to have a mom again and not be the only girl in the house for a change. But still, parents, you know?” She smiles.

“Echo’s parents are way cool,” Parker says, obviously wanting to say something positive, even if it means he has to lie.

But Jenay and I just look at each other and burst out laughing. And even though it’s really not all that funny, every time we look at each other we laugh that much harder. And I know it’s kind of rude, and I know it excludes the guys, but still, being able to share a private joke like this makes me feel calmer, reminding me how whatever happens tonight, we’re both in it together.

We go to this restaurant called the Blue Water Grill even though our town is completely landlocked and there’s no blue water anywhere to be found (including the lake at the park where the water is polluted, murky, and brown). I mean, let’s face it, a name like that can’t help but conjure up images of vast ocean views and glamorous diners docking their yachts, before strolling inside for a nice sunset meal.

But here, instead of ocean views, you get a parking lot. And instead of a yacht, you get a smiling, plywood, cartoon pelican ushering you into the nautical-themed interior that’s a lot closer to Moby Dick than luxury liner.

The hostess leads us to a table where Teresa and Sean, Lisa and Drew, and Kaitlin and Mike are already waiting, and I spend the entire time fiddling with my menu and napkin and pretty much doing whatever it takes to keep my hands busy and as far away from Parker’s as possible.

I know I’m acting all weird and uptight and ridiculous, and it’s not like I can even explain why. I mean, I used to love watching Zoë get ready for all her school dances, and I could hardly wait for the day when it would be my turn. I even used to dream about us going together, you know double-dating, just two cool sisters and their cute, hottie boyfriends, sharing a limo and acting all glamorous and sophisticated. And even after I learned how Zoë and her friends usually only stayed long enough to take the formal pictures before heading out to go party somewhere else, that still didn’t change it for me.

I guess it just always seemed like Zoë was part of this mysterious, grown-up world, one that I couldn’t wait to join. Only now that I’m being admitted, I no longer feel ready. And since everything Zoë did was always bigger, and brighter, and better than everyone else, I know that no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be able to match her.

“Did I tell you how much I love your dress? That color is like, so amazing,” Teresa says, leaning close to the bathroom mirror and applying a layer of pale pink lip gloss over the dark pink lipstick she just applied.

I gaze down the length of my dress, all the way to my strappy sandals, amazed at how it all came together so much better than I ever would’ve guessed.

“You and Parker are so cute together,” she says, dropping her lip gloss into her bag and moving on to her blond highlighted hair, which has been professionally twisted, curled, and pinned into the world’s most complicated updo.

I force my face into a smile, watching as she fishes around in her green, oversized tote bag, which I have to admit looks incredibly odd with her pink shiny dress and gold shoes.

“Want some?” she asks, retrieving a water bottle filled with some kind of red homemade brew. “I brought enough for everyone. That’s why this bag is so big, in case you were wondering.” She laughs. “I’ll probably pass them out in the limos. But let’s just get a head start and take a little hit now, K?” She unscrews the lid and takes a long, hearty sip. Then she shoves it toward me, urging me on with her wide, blue eyes. “Go ahead.” She nods. “It’s awesome. So sweet you can barely taste the alcohol.”

I hesitate, but only for a moment. Then I tilt the bottle back and take a gulp. A much bigger gulp than I’d planned. Then I close my eyes and realize she’s right. It is sweet. And other than the sting, burning its way down my throat, I can hardly taste the vodka.