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“Sounds good.” I apply some lipstick in a shade only slightly darker than my lips and snap the cap back on. “I think I’m done here.”
“You look gaw-geous,” Ciara drawls, batting her eyelashes at me. She takes another hair tie and finishes off whatever she’s done to my hair. “Turn around,” she says, and I do as she requests. She leans close, brows pulled together, and pulls out two strips of hair from my temples and lets them hang loose on the sides of my face. Then she steps back and admires her work, seeming a little too impressed with herself.
“You’ll make him wish this was a real date,” she says, spinning her finger for me to turn around and look. She’s done some kind of braided messy bun style to my hair. It looks a million times better than anything I could have done to myself, and without the aid of going to a real salon, I’ve saved a ton of money.
“I love it,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Of course you do.” She places two pretend kisses on both of my cheeks and then grabs her purse off the bed. “See you at the dance,” she says. “I’ll be the one on the arm of the hottest black guy in the auditorium.”
I laugh and stand up, catching a glimpse of my dress in the oval mirror. “I’ll walk you out.”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” she says, unsnapping the silver clasp on her tiny sequined purse. She digs around inside of it and produces a shiny purple plastic wrapper. “Just in case,” she says with a wink, before tossing the condom toward me.
I catch it with wide eyes. “Wha—?” I stumble over my words as I stare at the thing I’ve only ever seen Nate use. I’ve never bought or owned or held a condom before. “Why would you think I’d need this?”
She shrugs and gives me that smirk she often reserves for when she’s mocking someone in the Break Up Support Group. “You never know,” she says, closing the purse and tossing the silver chain handle over her shoulder. “Emory is a womanizer, and I’m just looking out for you.”
“So not happening.” I toss the condom next to my makeup bag and hope the layers of foundation I just applied will cover the deeply horrifying blush I feel sliding over my cheeks.
With fifteen minutes left until Emory had promised he’d pick me up, I waste about thirty seconds of my life wondering if he would have rented a limo for another girl. For a real date, and not a fake one like me. But then I decide that it doesn’t matter and that whatever Emory would do with a real date is none of my business.
When it comes to high school homecoming, my experiences are the definition of been there, done that. Nate and I got a limo with our friends every year and the after homecoming party sophomore year was my first experience in getting so drunk I puked. And although your senior year is supposed to be the most important year for this kind of stuff, I almost feel like I’m over all of it. High school was 75 percent Nate Miles and the rest of it I’m just making up as I go along.
The sound of the doorbell makes my heart seize up and crawl into my throat. My eyes are wide orbs decorated in silvery eyeshadow as I stare at my reflection in the vanity mirror. Emory is ten minutes early.
My cell phone has no new messages, and I stare at it for a moment, wondering why he didn’t tell me he was here. Nate always texted me before dates so that I could meet him at the door and he wouldn’t have to suffer through small talk with my parents.
“Isla, honey,” Mom calls out, her voice ringing with pleasantries in the presence of company. “Emory is here.”
An entire afternoon of dressing and primping and yet I am not prepared for this.
Okay. My reflection looks good. Perfectly applied makeup, a casual yet gorgeous hairstyle, and a blue dress with little beading that shimmers with all the magic of a dark night sky. Tonight is simply a way to make Bastian and the Break Up Support Group happy. It is not a real date. So why am I so damned nervous?
With one last glance in the mirror, I grab the condom off my vanity and shove it into my purse. I won’t be needing it tonight, but I’m happy to avoid having my mother find it and ask questions later. Still, my brain finds a way to slip unwanted thoughts into my mind as I step into the hallway. Does Emory bring condoms on dates?
My heart goes on a rampage beneath my dress. I don’t know why I’m nervous of all things. I see Emory every day at school. We’re friends. Surviving tonight should be a cinch.
I can hear the low rumble of Emory’s voice as I make my way toward the living room. Whatever he just said, it makes my dad laugh. Dad says, “The Warriors just need a tighter defense, and they’ll be back to winning.”
“Seems like an excuse to let the offense slack off,” Emory says. I stop at the end of the hallway and peer into the living room before making my grand entrance. Emory wears that sarcastic expression on his face, the one he always uses when he’s messing with me.
Dad draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, shaking his head in a way that takes all responsibility for the high school football team’s failures. “You’re right about that,” he says. And then he does something I never thought would happen on my one and only fake date with Emory Underwood: he grabs Emory’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “You’re a good kid.”
“Becket, don’t embarrass the boy,” Mom chides. “Isla!”
“I’m here,” I say, stepping onto the gray carpet. All eyes swing toward my direction, and I swear it’s like a scene out of some stupid teen movie. Mom and Dad’s jaws drop, as they gape at me in awe, starstruck by the wonders of makeup and a two-hundred-dollar formal dress.
And Emory, standing tall between both of my parents, his hands clasped together in front of him, takes me in like he’s never seen me before. Like I’m some nerdy loser transformed into a princess by the hands of a fairy godmother. It’s cheesy and embarrassing, and the worst part is that I like it.
Emory’s dark eyes drink up the sight of me in my blue dress, and he shifts on his feet a little. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “Are you ready?” he asks, gesturing toward the door.
I nod. I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry. Emory’s usual t-shirt and jeans have been replaced with a charcoal gray tux that fits so well it could have been sewn onto him. He looks a foot taller in formal wear, his piercing eyes now seem like he knows every answer to any question I’d ever ask. I have to force myself to look away before my brain can form a logical thought.
I turn to my mom. “Do I have a curfew?”
She glances at Dad and then they both look from Emory to me. “Nah,” Mom says, waving her hand.
“You two have a blast and be careful.” Dad grabs Emory’s shoulder again and gives him a smile that can only be described as appreciative. “It was great meeting you, Emory. You should come by more often.”
