Peas and Carrots (22 page)

I press my hands to my hot cheeks. Foster Lady's cackle is straight
evil.
Whatever. She can laugh if she wants to. “Are you serious? We can go to Henry's house, and pull stuff out of his closet? For real?”

Foster Lady nods. “We'll take some of his old clothes. He'll never miss them.”

I'm on my feet. In spite of everything, a party sounds…interesting. “Let's go.”

Hope touched her hair—flat-ironed and unfamiliarly smooth—with the back of her hand.

Dess growled. “Don't.”

“I'm not even touching my face,” Hope objected.

“Don't,” Dess repeated shortly, peering out from under the tilted brim of Aunt Henry's fedora. “Don't touch your face, don't smudge your lipstick, and don't keep pulling that!” Dess slapped Hope's hands away from where they tugged futilely at the hem of her sweater dress.

“It's too short,” Hope hissed, darting a glance at the front seat. Her father was driving them, and his raised brows and long exhalation had been
his
statement on Hope's outfit.

“It is not,” Dess argued for the
n
th time. “When you stand up, it's just above the knee, which is fine. And anyway, you're wearing boots
and
tights. It's not like you're flashing your backside at anyone.”

“You'd better not be,” Dad muttered from the front.

As Dess glowered at her, Hope smiled to herself. At least the party had distracted Dess from the hole she'd dropped into after her social worker came. Hope had asked her mother if she believed the story about the motorcycle gang, and Mom had said, “What's important is that
Dess
believes it.” Dess yelling about the dress was a lot better than Dess sitting in the dark, too depressed to move and too scared to stand by the window.

Hope's father braked as they turned and approached the security gate. The guard in his little house waved them through when he found their names on his list. The gate slid back silently.

Dad cleared his throat. “Okay, ladies, let's go over the rules again. Stay with the group. If somebody spikes the punch, both of you drink some water and tell an adult. We're leaving at fifteen minutes past ten o'clock, on the dot. If I have to—”

He slammed on the brakes, and they all strained forward against their seat belts.

“Hey, Dess. We're here,” Hope said unnecessarily.

In silence they stared at the line of stop-and-go traffic from the car to the split-level ranch house up the wide road. The house and porch were lit with spotlights, revealing a circular drive and a three-tiered fountain.

“Jeez. That
pink
thing is Rob's house?” Dess stared, stunned, as they slowly approached the sprawling coral-and-cream stucco with the terra-cotta tiled roof.

The house always made Hope think of a gigantic frosted cake. She laughed. “Yep. That's Rob's house. Remember when you thought
we
were rich?”

Dess gaped. “The Anguianos are rich?
Rob?
But…” She trailed off, her brow furrowed. Hope half expected her to say something dumb, like the sorts of things she'd said about black people when she'd first come, but Dess just sputtered. “He doesn't even act rich!” she finally managed.

“How do you know?” Hope asked. “Maybe Rob's how real rich people act.”

Dad tapped on the horn and waved at someone crossing the street, who waved back. Hope leaned across the car toward Dess and peered out the window. There were tons of cars and tons of people walking up the path to the house. The Anguianos knew everybody. And
everybody
was going to see her dress.

She looked at it and gulped. She kind of liked it—mostly. Instead of bright bands of neon-aqua blue at the hem and sleeves, Dess had replaced the knit with wide black ribbon she'd found somewhere. The original, oversized neck Dess had folded flat and decorated with a pair of big black buttons, turning yards of stretched, sagging knit into a cute off-the-shoulder cowl neck. With the rest of the sweater tight enough to hug Hope's body and not just hang, the dress didn't suck. Hope just wasn't sure it was
her.
It was short, tight, and bright. Could she, Hope Carter, wear a slightly-longer-than-usual, off-the-shoulder sweater with black tights and tall black boots in public, in front of Jas and God and everybody? Her sweaty hands said no.

“I'll have to drop you girls by the door and find somewhere to park,” Dad said, frowning at the lines of brake lights along the road ahead. “We should have gotten here earlier.”

“Sorry,” Hope mumbled. It was her fault they were late—Dess had had to practically drag her away from the mirror. Then Mom had taken about a hundred and sixty pictures while Dad fussed and muttered, until he finally hustled them out to the garage. He was cranky tonight, for sure. Hope thought it was partly how much makeup she had on, and the other part was the length of her dress.

“Ten-fifteen,” Dad repeated as he braked in front of the house.

“Ten-fifteen,” Hope echoed. Slipping out of the backseat, she grabbed her gift bag with one hand. With the other, she yanked on the hem of her dress.

“Would you leave that alone?” Dess slapped Hope's hand, then turned to look around. “Who the hell are all these old people?”

Hope delicately touched her hair again. “Headwaters parents. The Anguianos always invite the whole family to their kids' parties.”

Dess's eyes widened incredulously. “Parents other than Mr. Carter are staying?”

“Yep. But don't worry. We're going to be in the back. The adults stay in the front, mostly.”

“They're going to make us stay
outside
?” Dess wailed. “Nobody's going to see our outfits with coats on.”

“It's a sunroom, in the back. It's not really outside—it's got glass walls. There are all these plants and a pool table and Ping-Pong and air hockey.” Hope grinned and dragged Dess up the path with her. “Trust me—everyone's going to see your outfit.”

“And yours,” Dess reminded her, which made her wince.

It would be fine if they looked at Dess. She'd borrowed an old brown-and-cream bowling shirt from Aunt Henry and belted it over a black tank and a pair of black legging capris. “Henry” was embroidered in brown thread over the chest pocket. Hope didn't have the heart to tell Dess that the shirt had belonged to Grandpa Hank, whose real name had been Henry, too. Wearing Aunt Henry's fedora and Hope's stack-heeled brown boots, Dess looked adorable—not too dressed up but
right.
Hope tugged the dress, which seemed to shorten with every step. She was a mess. And she was probably flashing everyone, too.

“Hopeless,”
Dess sighed. “If you smear that eye shadow, I'm going to kick you. Don't try and pull up the cowl on the sweater. Your shoulders are
supposed
to be showing, and it's supposed to be short. Pretend you have style, all right?”

“I know, I know, I
know.
” Hope swatted at Dess's hand and prepared her company smile for Mrs. Anguiano, who was wearing an apron over her ruffled pink dress and was giving a hug to the woman in front of them. Hope wiped her sweaty hands on her hips, her pulse pounding in her throat.

“Don't cross your arms. And remember, don't talk to Rob until he apologizes,” Dess bossed in a loud whisper.

“We
brought a present,
” Hope hissed through her toothy smile.

Dess whispered, “So? Give it to his mom.”

“Bonitas!”
Mrs. Anguiano smiled, holding out her hands. “Hope Carter, look at you! You look just like your mother!”

“Really?” Hope couldn't remember ever seeing her mother wearing makeup, especially not as much as Dess had smudged around her eyes tonight.

“What a stylish dress, young lady. Love that hat!”

“Thanks.” Dess, who wasn't too shocked to be polite, beamed. “This is our present for Rob.” She pushed Hope's arm forward and offered the gift bag.

“Oh, you can give that to him. Roberto?” Mrs. Anguiano called to her son, who was standing in the high-ceilinged entryway, talking with a crowd of people from their class. His jeans looked as if they'd been ironed, and his thick dark hair, usually a freestyle mess of tufts and cowlicks, had been firmly and definitely gelled back from his forehead like Elvis's. He lit up when he saw the two girls and came eagerly to the door.

“Rob owes Hope an apology, so we're not giving him his present,” Dess said clearly as he came toward them. “We'll just give it to you, Mrs. Anguiano.”

Hope winced.

Mrs. Anguiano whipped her head from Dess to her son. “Beto? What's this?” she asked, her voice dangerous.

Rob was sulking. “Dess, come
on.
You are
not
still making a big deal over this—”

“Ro-bert-o.”
His mother's tone sharpened all three syllables. “What did you do?”

Rob widened his eyes comically. “
Nada!
I forgot to invite Hope to my party, Ma. That's all. She knew she could come, though.” Rob flung up a hand to gesture at the crush of people moving from the entryway deeper into the house. “Everybody else knew.”

Mrs. Anguiano sighed and took the bag from Hope with a slight grimace. “Thank you,
bonitas.
I will take this until Roberto decides to work a little harder. Welcome to our home.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Anguiano,” Hope and Dess said, almost in unison.

Hope choked back a laugh as Dess made a big show of walking
around
Rob to go in, her nose in the air. Hope followed, amused and slightly embarrassed.

“See?” Dess whispered as Rob trailed after them, complaining at the injustice of not receiving his gift. “I told you we were going to come and rock that boy's world.”

“Yeah, I'm sure he'll never be the same.” Hope giggled.

The house opened up into an entryway, with a big living room two steps down. The girls found their classmates in the den off the living room. Almost everyone they knew was camped out around the food table, which looked like a good place to go. Hope dragged her feet as Dess bounced up to the group, but Dess turned back and tugged her into the circle of eyes.

“Check it out, people,” Dess announced over the gasps, “You like?”

“Look at your hair!” Ronica, her own natural hair cropped close for her gymnastics competitions, gave Hope's sleeked strands an admiring glance. “That must have taken
forever.
”

“Hope, I don't think I've
ever
seen you wear makeup!” Liesl exclaimed.

“I wore makeup for class pictures,” Hope mumbled, embarrassed.

“Lip gloss doesn't count,” Dess informed her, and batted her eyes at Hope's glare.

“So that's the dress you ‘upcycled,' Dess? It's amazing!” Natalie, wearing a sparkly red dress and matching horns on her head, circled Hope and touched a sleeve. “I can't believe that's the same sweater!”

“It looks good on you,” Wynn assured Hope, giving her two very positive thumbs-up. “You look older—like a senior.”

Hope admired Ronica's costume, which was her brother's old basketball uniform, and Wynn's outfit, which was halfway between Lara Croft and Indiana Jones. She admitted she couldn't tell who Liesl was supposed to be, in her white turtleneck, navy jacket, skirt, and heels.

“I'm CEO Barbie,” Liesl said, lifting up a briefcase. Her jaw-length black hair was stiff with hair spray. “This is the same outfit as on my mom's Barbie doll, except Barbie's blond. And white.” Liesl laughed.

“Liesl's mom collects Barbies,” Natalie said when Dess looked confused.

“Oh.” Dess looked horrified. “That's…cool.”

Liesl laughed, but before Hope could hear her reply, a hand touched her shoulder.

“Hope? Hi!”

She turned, a goofy smile blooming as she saw Jas in dark-washed jeans and an orange T-shirt that read “This
Is
My Costume.” Hope clenched her fists behind her to keep from pulling, smearing, tugging, or fixing anything at just the wrong moment. “Hey, Jas! Did you just get here?”

“No.” Jas was staring at her oddly. “You look…taller,” he said, taking in her outfit.

Taller.
Hope lifted her foot, and they examined the heel on her boot. “It's three inches. That's tallish,” she offered.
Tall? Was that all he had to say?