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Candy sat on her kitchen stool, staring at the bird clock Grandma had bought a few years before she died, the one that made different bird sounds every hour. It was three minutes to mourning dove, when Justin would pick her up for their date. Guess what, she hadn’t had to bake him cookies after all; he’d called all by himself.
It did seem a little odd that he’d sign up for Milwaukeedates.com to invite her to dinner when he could have asked her on the block, but maybe he wanted other female options.
Maybe he hadn’t really thought of her as dating material until Marie shoved her in front of his face. Maybe he still didn’t, but Marie had threatened him with certain death if he didn’t go out with her.
Who knew? She didn’t. She didn’t even care right now.
Before her other dates, Forceful Frank and Sweet Sam and Randy Ralph, she’d been upbeat, excited, filled with a sense of purpose and fun, giggling the whole time she got dressed as whatever person she’d be for that night.
Tonight she’d started off okay, but on her way to the bor-rowed clothes hanging in her closet, she’d bumped her bedside table and knocked over the silver-framed picture of her and Chuck. Putting it right, she’d made the mistake of stopping to look at the snapshot. Chuck hadn’t liked being photographed so it was a rare example, slightly out of focus, taken by Abigail at a Brewers’ game. Chuck, in the act of rising from his seat after a huge line drive toward right field, arms in the air already celebrating the home run, mouth open in a victory roar Candy could still hear in her imagination. Next to him sat Candy, hands on their way to clapping, laughing up at his joy.
She missed him. Thinking about Chuck had made the game of Who Shall I Be Tonight? seem silly and shallow. Candy should be going out with someone who’d be into her no matter what she looked like.
Tonight she’d wanted to dress as a different character for Justin, maybe try out Child at Heart, but Marie said she’d shown him the Sexy Glamour Girl profile at Milwaukeedates.
com, and what he saw should be what he got. Truth in ad-vertising. On subsequent dates Candy could tone down her appearance if she wanted.
Yeah,
okay.
Eventually Candy had roused herself from staring mourn-fully at the photograph and made it to her closet for the evening’s outfit. She’d tried to enjoy stepping into the little red skirt Abigail wouldn’t be able to fit into again for many more months, tried to grin while brushing her hair into a side part so she could execute the perfect mane-over-the-shoulder toss, tried to giggle while adjusting her boob-crusher of a bra under the scoop-neck stretchy white top. But by the time she stepped into what Abigail called her “ho shoes,” bright red, open-toe with silver stiletto heels, which would undoubtedly do their best to pinch and freeze Candy’s feet, Candy was completely out of fun.
Now, slumped at the kitchen counter in her Sexy Glamour Girl finery, ready to go out with another guy she didn’t belong with, she felt like a first-grader in a beauty pageant: ludicrously made over into someone she wasn’t meant to be.
Why had she thought this was a good idea?
She let her chin drop into her hand, leg swinging back and forth, bumping the stool next to hers. Bump. Bump. Bump.
One minute to mourning dove.
Maybe she should call Abigail. Except Abigail was escaping winter in Jamaica at the moment and probably wouldn’t appreciate having some fabulous dinner interrupted by Candy whining about an ex-boyfriend she should have gotten over by now. Or so people said—mostly Abigail, who was as sentimental about past relationships as a stapler.
Bump. Bump. Bump.
The sad strains of the mourning dove filled the quiet kitchen. Whoo-ee ooh-ooh-ooh. Whoo-ee ooh-ooh- ding-dong.
Justin. She moved to jerk her feet off the rungs of the stool, caught a heel, and barely managed to slam fingers on the counter before she fell on her face.
Darn it. She pressed a hand to her heart, trying to calm its thumping, trying to swallow a silly rush of poor-me tears. He was here; she’d have to make the best of the evening.
“Coming.” She tap-tapped to the front of the house, pulling on her black sweater-coat, wishing she were wearing sweats and sneakers. Deep breath and she opened the door, determinedly bright smile superglued to her face. “Hi, Justin.”
