Finding Laila: Some Changes are Necessary (4 page)

I’m
not a girlie girl.

I’m not a girlie girl.

Somehow,
repeating the words doesn’t make me feel any less girlie, and the makeup I am
plastering to my face confirms it.

I am, in fact, a girl.

I
never wear much makeup because it feels suffocating, but since it’s Haden’s big
night, I’ll take the leap. As I stand here looking at my reflection, I can’t
fight the smile that creeps onto my face.

Not bad, Laila.

I
had to find YouTube videos about how to apply a smoky eye, because
if
I wear eye shadow, it’s one color and
it’s all over my lid. It took me three tries to perfect the look, and the
result makes my blue-green eyes stand out. I apply another coat of mascara,
determined to make my lashes look long and full like the girl on the video.

That’s it, I’ve gone
full-on girl!

My
dress is hanging on the back of my closet door and I step into it so I can pull
it up over my hips. Over the head is not an option. I spent twenty minutes
working my chestnut brown hair into a sleek, low, side-braid, which is more
than I would normally do. Mom tried to talk me into wearing a necklace, but I’m
not a jewelry person so this leaves my neck exposed.

I
find the zipper on the side and secure the dress in place, brushing the sides
down to free any unevenness. Mom and I went shopping the other day, despite my
aversion to it, and she insisted this was
the
one
.

Looking
at my reflection, I struggle to see why people point out the resemblance to my
mom. Brown hair that is a shade lighter than hers, and medium build—I
suppose I can attribute those to my mom. But other than that, it’s a stretch.

“Is
it okay to come in?” she calls from the other side of my door with a knock.
Speak of the gorgeous devil.

“Yeah,
I need a little help.”

She
walks into the room and smiles at my simple knee-length yellow dress and stands
next to me as we look in the mirror. Standing side by side, I can see the
concern in her eyes, though I don’t know why. I’ve caught her watching me
carefully quite a bit lately, as if she’s trying to memorize something about
me.

“I
can’t believe you’re about to be eighteen,” she sighs wistfully. “You look
gorgeous.”

“You’re
my mom, you have to say that.”

“I
do not,” she argues. “The manual clearly stated to provide food, shelter, and
clothing—it said nothing of padding your ego.”

“Okay,
if you say so,” I scoff. “Which ones look better?” I ask, holding up two pairs
of shoes.

“I
like the strappy silver heels.”

“Good.
Me, too.” I toss the shiny black heels into the closet and start to slip on the
winning choice.

“Then
why did you ask?”

“Just
making sure you
haven’t
gone senile yet.”

“I
don’t think I saw that in the manual either.” She pats at her jean pockets and
looks around.

“Saw
what?” I play along.

“The
part where your teenage daughter is supposed to turn into a snarky brat.”

“Ooh!
Good one, Mom.” I smile and walk to my bedroom door. “Next time, throw in a
hormonal jerk or ungrateful teenager. Or better yet, bring up those grey hairs
you claim I gave you that no one but you sees.”

“Noted.
I’ll work on my witty banter while you’re gone,” she says and hits my butt as I
leave the room.

“Just
save them for Luka—something tells me she’ll need them.”

The
doorbell rings and Mom runs ahead of me downstairs to greet Haden. I make one
last stop by the bathroom to check my makeup and apply another spritz of
hairspray.

I
hear Mom gushing downstairs and I can’t help but laugh at poor Haden’s expense.
He hates attention—we all know it—so I think Mom is laying it on
thick for that reason alone.

I
take a few steps and stop to listen to the conversation.

“Laila
didn’t tell us much other than you are showing some of your work at the gallery
tonight,” Mom reveals, clearly fishing for details.

“Yes
ma’am,” he says in his sweetest voice. “Don’t be too mad at her, she doesn’t know
much about it either. I just told everyone a couple of weeks ago. Stefon liked
what he saw this summer and gave me a room to showcase my artwork.”

“Your
mom must be proud,” she adds.

“She
really wants to go see it, but she’s been working evenings lately and when
she’s off—she’s…she’s tired. She hopes she’ll get to come by before it
closes next week,” he says.

It’s
unfortunate that she may not be able to see his first gallery show, because it
would mean so much to him. When his dad passed at the end of eighth grade, his
mom had to take on extra shifts at the hospital to make ends meet and Haden had
to step up at home. He grew up quicker than the rest of us—everyone
noticed.

I
finally take the steps to meet him in the living room and do my best to balance
on the extra three inches of height added by way of my heels.
A dress and heels
—
what was I thinking?

My
breath catches when I spot Haden looking so grown up. His black hair is brushed
and styled to look like one of those models in the magazines. The black suit
fits him perfectly, with a simple skinny tie around his neck. He looks like
Haden, but not.

I
clear my throat and wait to get his attention before stepping off the last
stair and placing my hands on my hips. Haden stands there with a blank look on
his face and I’m instantly self-conscious until he smiles.

“You—I
mean—you look…” He pauses and shakes his head and clears his throat. “You
clean up nice, Nixon.” He holds his arms out for my inspection and I see the
telltale signs of my Haden buried beneath the sleeves—the four black
bracelets on his left wrist.

“Wow,
Searle,” I marvel. “So do you.”

“Oh
good grief!” Mom laughs. “Will you two stop with the last names? It’s not as
cool as you think it is.”

“Good,”
Haden says. “We don’t want to be cool. Do we, Nixon?”

“Nope.
Never, Searle,” I laugh.

“Mission
accomplished,”
Dad
laughs before he walks over to give
me a hug.

Mom
rolls her eyes and snickers. “Okay, you better go before you’re late.”

“You
look beautiful, honey,” Dad says. He kisses my temple and shakes Haden’s hand.
“Good luck tonight, Haden.”

“Thanks,
Mr. Nixon.”

Haden
sticks out his elbow for me to take ahold of as we walk out, but we are
stopped.

“Haden,”
Luka yells as she runs down the stairs.

He
stops to face the little heathen and she has something in her hands. He squats
down to her level and she stops in front of him.

“I
got this for you.” She holds up a pink bracelet, similar to his black ones, and
smiles.

“For
me?” He grins. “Can you put it on me?”

Her
cheeks turn red and I roll my eyes. “Hurry up, Luka. Haden has to go.”

“Chill
out, Nixon.” He looks up at me and narrows his eyes before looking back to the
puffy-cheeked kid. “It’s not every day a cute girl gives me a bracelet.”

“Hey,”
I start to
argue,
when I realize what an idiot I sound
like for being pissed about a compliment one of my best friends pays to a
five-year-old.

Haden
touches the bracelet, pulls her in for a big hug, and blows a raspberry on her
neck. She starts laughing so hard that I can’t help but laugh, too.

“We
gotta go,” he says to her. “But thank you for this. I love it.”

“Love
you, Haden,” she practically sings.

“Love
you, too, kiddo.”

We
are about to step out the front door when we are stopped again, this time by my
mom.

“Lemme
get a quick picture with my phone,” she says as she holds the device out in
front of her.

“Are
you kidding me?” I ask, rolling my eyes and smiling.

Yeah, might as well because
this
won’t happen again.

“Hey,
I don’t remember the last time I saw you in a dress, so hush and let me take
the picture,” she orders, and then mutters to Dad, “not sure when we’ll see
this again.”

Can she read my mind?

“Haden,
get closer.” She waves him until he’s standing right next to me.

“I
won’t bite, Searle,” I tease with a smile.

He
gives me a smirk and wraps his arm around my waist before he pulls me into him.
I try to give him a teasing glare, but he playfully jabs at my side causing me
to squirm.

“Okay,
before I have to take him down, did you get the shot?” I finally ask before
reaching for the doorknob.

“Got
it. You two have fun.” She smiles again.

“Goodnight,”
I say, closing the door behind me.

We
walk down the steps and Haden runs ahead to get the passenger door. The guys
hold doors open for me but they never open car
doors,
pull out chairs, or anything like that, so the gesture catches me off guard.

“Thank
you,” I stammer weakly, thankful it’s dark out so he doesn’t see my
embarrassment as I slide onto the dark leather bucket seat of his slate gray
GTO.

There’s
something about these old cars and the way I feel in them that makes me giddy.
The only thing that he’s done to this car is the paint job; everything else is
original, and I love that he’s left it alone. It belonged to his dad, and his
mom gave it to him as a gift over the summer to get to and from work. Perhaps
that’s why he’s left it mostly untouched—as homage to his dad.

He
walks around to the driver’s side, slips into the car, and shuts the door. I
glance over as he slips the key into the ignition but he sits back before he
turns the engine over.

“Everything
okay?” I ask as I cock my head to the side.

He
runs his hand through his hair and rests his head back on the seat.

“If
I make you that nervous, I’ll go with the guys when you give us the okay.” I
don’t want to ruin his night or make him nervous. This is a big deal.

“It’s
not that. It’s just, well, I need to warn you about the showing. Stefon’s work
is a little weird—some critics have really ripped it up.”

“I’m
sure I can handle it,” I defend. It’s funny he feels the need to mention it,
considering everything he and the others have exposed me to over the years.

“I
won’t be able to show you around when we get there, so you’ll be on your own.”
He looks concerned when he finally looks at me.

“You’re
kidding me, right?”

“What?”

“I’m
pretty sure I can handle being on my own, Haden. I’m not a kid.”

“I
know, I just feel bad, and I’m not sure what you’ll think of my stuff.”

“This
is your night, I’m going to support my best friend, so whatever you need, just say
the word. Okay?”

“All
right,” he agrees, finally turning the ignition.

The
car roars to life and a surge of excitement runs through me as we back down the
driveway.

“So
tell me about your artwork. I’ve seen the abstracts you did for art class last
year—how is this stuff different?”

“Stefon
encouraged me to step out of my comfort zone, to try new things. So this is
much more personal, I guess that’s why I don’t want the guys to see it—or
you, for that matter.”

“Haden—”
I start to tell him something but he cuts me off.

“No,
that came out wrong—I do want you to see it, I’m just nervous about what
you’ll think.”

“Your
stuff in the past wasn’t personal?”

“Not
the things I did for class. I’ve never had a problem sketching or painting
things at home. I have a stash of work in folders that I’ve never shown anyone,
so that part was easy. It’s sharing it with the world that I’m not sure I’m
ready for.”

“Are
these paintings?”

“Do
you not want to go to the gallery?” he teases.

“Oh,
I’m going. I just mean, what type of—stuff—did you use?”

“My
medium?” he corrects with a crooked smile.

“Yeah.”

Damn
that
smile
.

“Some
are charcoal, others are oil-based, and I have two that are watercolor.”

“That’s
really cool. I’m so proud of you, Haden.”

“You
might not feel that way after tonight,” he warns, and my stomach knots at his
words.

I
know that there are things he’s kept from us, and I knew that he’d reveal them
in his time.

Maybe tonight is the night.

He
pulls into a parking lot and finds a spot, but lets the engine run while a song
plays over the radio. He stares toward the entrance and his leg begins to bob
up and down nervously and I smile.