Don't You Wish (14 page)

I don’t know him, but from what I saw … we are a long way from love. “You know, there’s a difference between thinking a guy is hot and being in love with him,” I tell her.

“Oh.” Her whole being seems to relax a little. “I had no idea you were getting so mature.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Mom.” Like
who I am
. “But I really am interested in, you know, the history of you and Dad.” I suddenly see the right angle. “So I don’t make the same mistakes.”

She gives me another long exhale, but no answer, clearly struggling with what to say next.

“You met in college, right? He was in med school?” I need to know if this Emily’s history is the same as
my
Emily’s history. Because, somewhere, somehow, they had to diverge. “Then he … came to Florida? Right? Did you follow him?”

“Not until I finished school and had some time. Then I came down here to … tell him something. He can be very … persuasive. Even …”

“Even what?”

She shakes her head, shutting down. “It doesn’t matter, Ayla. Everything has changed since then. Especially me.” Sliding hands over her hips, she turns side to side. “I’m not that girl anymore.”

Yeah? Welcome to my world.

“You look great, Mom,” I say absently, skimming my mind for how to get her to tell me more.

“I could,” she agrees. “If I could get rid of this belly.” She laughs softly. “Guess I should have thought of that before I married a man who recommends that ironing boards get lipo. Looks like I married the wrong man.”

I sit up straighter at the tone of pure regret in her voice. Did she marry the wrong man? “Was there ever anybody else before Dad?” I ask.

Her eyes close a little. “No one who could have convinced me not to marry Jim Monroe.”

“But someone,” I prod. Someone like Mel Nutter. Did she ever meet him? Did she choose Jim Monroe over him?

Her attention is back on the mirror, and she’s turning to the side, sucking in her stomach. “Do
you
think I should have lipo?”

The sudden change of subject throws me. “Are you kidding? Look at you.”

“I am, but I don’t think I see what you see.”

“Obviously not, if you’d suggest something as stupid as lipo.”

She sucks in harder, making her gut concave. “I wish I could just see what it would look like. Just to have an idea of what is possible.”

“Maybe someone will invent that,” I say, unable to keep the irony out of my voice. “A magic mirror that shows you with a dream body. And you could pick your favorite celebrity body parts just to create the perfect person.”

“Holy hell, that’s a brilliant idea!” Jim Monroe’s voice surprises both of us. I startle. Mom freezes. “I’d put one in every Forever Flawless location in the country.”

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

“I live here,” he replies coolly. “Ayla, I need to talk to your mother.”

“Okay.” I glance at her; she’s pale and stiff. The little glimmer of closeness we almost had disappeared the moment Jim entered the room. “Do you want me to leave?” I ask her, wanting her to know I’m not on his side completely and I can’t be bought with a black AmEx card.

But she looks at me like I’ve spoken Greek. “Since when does what I want matter to you?”

“Never mind,” I say, knowing it’s not the time to convince her of anything. “I’ll talk to you later.”

As I pass Jim, he puts a hand on my shoulder, stopping me. “That mirror thing,” he says. “Great idea. I like the way you’re thinking, young lady. Where’d you come up with something like that?”

I just give him a dry smile. “I think I dreamed it.”

I close the door as I leave, and instantly hear the tones of an argument. But I’m not sticking around to eavesdrop.

In my own room, away from the fight, I log on to Facebook out of habit and check my notifications.

Lizzie Kauffman has accepted your friend request
.

I stare at the words for a good two minutes before I realize that my eyes are filled with tears. Apparently I don’t blush in this world. I cry.

When I step out of my bathroom, fully made up and ready to dress for my big night, the funniest thought hits me a little too hard.

It’s homecoming dance tonight at South Hills High, too.

I wonder who Shane is going with … and if Lizzie is still doing the
Degrassi
marathon. A little pull of something that feels like a mix of regret and longing squeezes me in the stomach.

I recognize it, of course. Homesickness. And I try to kick it out of my head and heart as fast as possible.

Honestly, who has time for homesickness? It’s
homecoming
. And not only am I going with a guy who puts Shane Matthews to shame, I’m wearing
that
.

Hanging from my closet door, freshly pressed by Tillie,
is the most incredibly beautiful buttercup-yellow dress I’ve ever seen. I found it in my closet, still bearing the two-thousand-dollar price tag. That’s right, two grand for a dress. Take that, homesickness.

Stepping into the gossamer silk, I run my hands over the exquisite beadwork, the strapless bust fitting perfectly over my boobs.

I twirl in front of the mirror, unable to take the smile off my face. I look like some kind of Disney princess. I step into four-inch sandals that I imagine will be kicked off for dancing, grab my bag, phone, some mints, and lip gloss, and I’m ready to go.

Oh, except I can’t forget the adorable Louis Vuitton change purse that Jade and Bliss gave me, fully stocked with condoms and a “V-card” they made by gluing my picture to cardboard and writing
virgin
at the top. Tomorrow it can be shredded.

Because tonight I …

That funny feeling tickles again. That’s not homesickness. That’s fear.

Ryder’s rose is just about dead now, but I pick up the card, taking a calming breath as I read his words.

I look up and meet my own gaze in the mirror, no longer shocked every time I see my face. In fact, I’m getting really good at being Ayla now.

All I had to do was avoid overt contact with the invisibles (easy with Charlie, since he hasn’t said two words to me since the hat incident), quit grilling my mom about ancient history, and log off Facebook, because Lizzie never says much of anything important about life back in Pittsburgh.

What could possibly be going on there that would be any better than this? More idiocy with Courtney Nicholas? I’m Courtney Nicholas on steroids, with a drool-worthy boyfriend who’ll be punching the V-card tonight.

And why not? I’ve already learned there are no consequences for anything in Ayla Monroe’s life, so what difference does it make?

Virginity’s gotta go sometime, right, and sex is supposed to be so much fun. What better night to find out than the teenage dream of the homecoming dance?

He’s picking me up in a limo any minute for a pre-party at Jade’s, so I pause at the top of the Hollywood staircase, take a deep breath, and begin the slow walk down.

The house is very quiet.

“Mom?” The word practically echoes. Isn’t she here? Doesn’t she want to at least take a picture?

“Dad?” Not my first choice, but there’s still no answer. “Trent?” I call, kind of desperate for someone to say,
You look pretty. Have a good time
.

Finally, I hear some footsteps, and by the solid stomp, I know who it is.

“Well, look at you.” Tillie smiles—a rarity in itself—and nods. “Very nice, Miss Ayla.”

“Thanks.”

As if she can hear the little disappointment in my voice, she steps closer. “Your mother had to go up to Boca and see her friend, remember?”

No, I don’t remember. Didn’t she remember it’s the homecoming dance tonight?

“And I really don’t know where Dr. Monroe is.”

Tapping some blonde, no doubt. “That’s okay, Tillie.”

Her smile falters, and I see pity in her eyes. Great. The staff feel sorry for me.

“Are you going to be the homecoming queen?” she asks.

“No, some dumb senior cheerleader is.” Some really nice, sweet, beloved cheerleader who isn’t quite in the above-popular crowd I’m in.

“Well, if you don’t mind me saying so …” Tillie takes a few steps farther, her linebacker shoulders squared, her face reminding me of someone, but I can’t place it. “If you’d been as nice as you’ve been lately, you probably would have been voted queen.”

“I don’t need to be queen,” I say quickly, embarrassed. “It’s for stupid losers.” I turn when I hear a car door slam. “I’m going to meet Ryder in the driveway. See ya.”

“Wait!” she says. “Let me take your picture.”

I start to say no, but then realize how much I want her to. “Use my phone.” I set it to camera and hand it to her. “Geraldine,” I mumble as the name pops into my head.

Tillie frowns at me. “What?”

“You remind me of someone I know named Geraldine. A bus driver.”

She inches her face around the phone to scowl at me. “As if you’ve ever been on a bus in your life.”

Before I answer, she snaps the picture, hands me the camera, and stuns me with the closest thing to a hug I think she’s ever given anyone. “Have a nice time.”

I swallow an unexpected lump in my throat and nod. Tonight she’s the closest thing I have to a mother in this house. “Thanks. I’m staying at … Jade’s. So don’t wait up.”

Tillie angles her head, and I know she knows I lied. Before she can call me on it, I hustle outside to greet Ryder and skip any more chances for the maid to step into the mother role.

I don’t need to bother hurrying. The driver’s coming to the door for me. Ryder’s waiting for me in the limo, and I consider getting mad at him for being rude, but he slams me with a kiss the minute I climb in, taking my breath and arguments away. He looks amazing in a tux, and tastes a little like vodka or gin or … I don’t know, but it’s bitter on his lips.

He mixes me a drink, and I sneak another at Jade’s house, where her parents are a lot more into the event than mine were. They take a zillion pictures while a caterer gives us fancy hors d’oeuvres and the adults act like they don’t know that all of the kids have put rum in their Cokes. The food clears my head, and I stop drinking, because, honestly, I don’t want to miss a minute of homecoming.

Ryder hasn’t let one inch get between us, his attention almost too intense. But I let it go, because, hey, it’s a big night.

The best night of my life. Well, of this life, anyway.

There are six of us in the limo. Then we pick up two
more kids, and by the time we get to the Fontainebleau in Miami Beach, most of them are pretty toasted.

The ballroom is huge, lit with a million tiny white lights, and rocking with a DJ who calls himself the Inferno. The whole place is pulsating with earsplitting music. Shoes come off, kids are grinding, and I dive in for my first and only homecoming dance.

Everywhere I turn, someone is calling my name, giving me a hug, taking a picture, laughing. A lot of laughing, since, whoa and damn, some of these kids are fried.

I don’t need booze to be buzzed. I’ve never been to a party like this. In fact, I’ve never been to a dance where I didn’t spend most of the night in the back, on the sidelines, in a chair against the wall. Nothing like
this
.

“Hey, babe.” Ryder wraps an arm around me when a slow song starts, his face close to mine. My heart hits quadruple time. I’m still not used to kissing him, even though we’ve been lip-locked plenty over the past few days.

During the dance, he kisses me so long and deep, my knees buckle.

“Let’s leave now,” he says.

I inch back. “No way,” I say. “I don’t want to go yet.”

He gives me a pathetic look and pulls me closer, like I might have missed the boner pressed against me.

“Cool down,” I tell him. “I’m not missing a minute of homecoming.”

“What? You were here last year. The barfing starts in the next half hour.”

The barfing? On cue, a kid blows on the dance floor, clearing it in an instant. When I hit the bathroom, there
are two girls passed out on the floor. By eleven, the whole event has disintegrated into small groups of kids, some loaded, some straight, and no one seems to be having “fun” anymore.

Is this what happens at all homecoming dances?

Ryder seems fine to see the party ending. His hand has spent the last half hour on my butt, and I can’t stop thinking about that card in my bag.

Tonight is the night.

I fight the beginning of a low-grade panic with each minute that passes. I’ve never even seen a porno. Why didn’t I watch the one Lizzie had? At least I’d know what I was getting into.

The thought sends me a little off-kilter, but Ryder’s arm is strong and steady, and he glances down at me. “Let me go see what the transportation situation is,” he whispers.

He leaves me by the table, and Jade and Bliss show up almost instantly.

“Marc’s passed out in the limo,” Jade says, referring to her date.

“Chad’s about to be,” Bliss says about hers, an expression of misery on her face. “He’s an asshole when he’s drunk. Thinks it’s so hilarious to make fun of how I pronunciate words. Jeez, at least I have a vocabulary.”

I bite my lip not to laugh, but can’t resist a quick look at Jade.

“Oh, screw both of you bitches!” Bliss hisses, a little bit of spit popping out as she sways on her heels.

God, why did they all get so blasted on a night this special?

“Laugh at me all you want,” she continues. “But Jade and I have been invited to a private party at Bianca Bloodsworth’s house.”

I’ve heard the name and know Bianca’s an A-list senior who hangs out with Trent, who is probably there, because he pronounced homecoming a complete waste of time.

At this point, I’m starting to agree with him. I look around for Ryder, half wishing he’d pass out in the limo, too. Nerves like little steel needles scrape inside my chest as we get closer and closer to … it.

“You all right?” Jade asks, sliding an arm around me. “You’re not having second thoughts are you?”