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I remembered how much fun Madison and Jessica and I'd had shopping for our dresses. "That'll
be great," I said, smiling both at the memory and my recent decision to go to the prom no matter
the consequences. "You'll probably really like it."
"Actually, I probably really won't," he said. Then he laughed, but it sounded forced. "Sorry, don't let me rain on your prom parade." He patted me on the shoulder and started down the corridor.
"See ya."
"See ya," I called after him.
The studio was totally empty. I set up my easel and started working, focusing on the tiny corner
of the canvas that had been giving me trouble. The green I'd mixed looked good, and I smeared it
a little with a sponge. Then I dipped my brush into some blue and swirled a small line in the
green.
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Yeah. I blotted the edges until the blue was a fuzzy shadow on the grass. Perfect. Dip, swirl, blot.
Dip, swirl, blot.
When I looked up at the clock, half an hour had passed. Damn. I totally hadn't meant to keep
Co
could, then brought my brush over to the sink to wash it. Of course the paint took forever to
come out; no matter how hard I scrubbed at the bristles, the water refused to run clear. Just as I
started to get really stressed out about how long everything was taking, I noticed that the rich
blue ru
was going to remember I'd once been ten minutes late to meet him at the gym when he saw me in
that dress. The dress. I pictured my dress, pictured myself wearing it as I floated across the dance
floor toward a tux-clad Co
we slow danced the night away? Co
image.
A second later my eyes flew open. My heart was pounding and I couldn't catch my breath. I'd
just done what Madison told me to do at Roses are Red--pictured myself at prom, having the
most romantic time of my life, slow dancing with my perfect prince.
The only problem was, in my picture, I wasn't dancing with Co
I was dancing with Sam.
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Chapter Twenty-seven
The CD Jessica had burned for me may have successfully drowned out the sounds of di
being served, but it couldn't do anything about the delicious smells wafting downstairs.
Chinese take-out.
I couldn't believe it. We never got Chinese food. Mention Chinese food in front of my
stepmother and she'd go on for hours about sodium content, fatty oils, MSG. When my dad and I
lived in San Francisco, we probably ate Chinese twice a week. Since moving to New York ten
months ago, we'd had it three times. Each time, Mara had been out for the evening.
I felt like a guerilla warrior hiding in the jungle. They could do what they wanted, but no way
were they going to smoke me out. The baby carrots I'd stashed in my room over the weekend
were all gone. I turned up the
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volume on my iPod. Who needs food when you have Janis Joplin? I sang a few lines out loud.
"Summertime, and the living is easy. Fish are jumping, and the cotton is high."
I definitely smelled orange chicken, my all-time favorite dish. In San Francisco, there was a
place that made it perfectly--crunchy skin outside, tender chicken inside, lots of caramelized
orange peel. Two of the three restaurants we'd tried on Long Island made it kind of chewy and
bland, but the third really knew what they were doing. My mouth filled with saliva, and I
swallowed. The song ended, and the prom song came on.
Prom. Co
Why isn't there an off button for your brain?
I felt dizzy, whether from hunger or my thoughts I wasn't sure. Either way, I couldn't just stay
where I was. I decided that since Mara, Emma, and Amy were definitely eating in the dining
room, I'd go upstairs, serve myself some food, eat it alone in the kitchen, and then watch the
basketball game in the den. The only thing worse than eating and watching a game by yourself is
starving and not watching a game by yourself. I headed up.
When I pushed open the door, I was greeted by the single most shocking sight of my life. Not
only were Emma, Amy, and Mara eating around the kitchen table (something Mara says only
servants should do), but my dad was sitting there with them.
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"I thought we might be able to lure you up here," he said, nodding at the table piled high with
takeout containers.
I looked from one of them to the other, trying to figure out what, exactly, was going on. Emma
and Amy were sitting facing my dad and Mara, their backs to me.
This was not part of my plan. It was one thing to sneak some food out of a container while my
wicked stepmother and her evil daughters comparison shopped through Lucky in the dining
room. It was another to fill my plate up and sit at the counter by myself while everyone else sat
there watching me. My hand was still on the doorknob. Was it too late to turn around and head
back downstairs? I remembered a special report I heard on the news once that said it's important
to have a three-day supply of food and water on hand at all times. Why hadn't I taken that
broadcast more seriously?
My dad pointed at an unopened container with his chopsticks. "Orange chicken," he said.
Okay, this was completely unfair. I mean, I was starving.
"Why don't you come sit with us?" asked my dad. He pulled out the chair next to him and patted
the seat.
Without removing my hand from the doorknob, I considered my options. A) Turn around, go
back downstairs, potentially starve to death or B) Sit down, eat, watch basketball game.
But if I sat down and ate with them, would I be
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expected to talk to them? I looked at Emma's and Amy's backs, remembered their frantic phone
call, the rescue. Thank you, Lucy. We love you, Lucy. Lucy, you're the best.
Traitors.
I decided I'd sit and eat but not speak. I walked over to the chair my dad had pulled out and sat
down. Mara passed me the container of orange chicken. I unfolded the foil edges and took off the
plastic top. Everyone was looking at me as if I'd just had a miraculous recovery from a deadly
illness. I served myself some chicken and took a bite. It was hard to swallow with four sets of
eyes watching my every move. When I put my fork down, Emma reached across the table to
hand me a container.
"Rice?"
I nodded. A nod does not equal a spoken word. I spooned some rice onto my plate while
everyone else sat in silence. I took another bite.
"Emma and Amy have something they would like to say to you," said my dad.
I looked across the table at Emma and Amy, my mouth full of orange chicken. Their heads were
bent.
"Girls," said my dad.
Emma looked up. After a second, Amy did, too. "We're sorry, Lucy," they said in stereo.
I swallowed, but I didn't say anything. There was a silence, and then my dad prodded them again.
"Sorry for what?"
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"We're sorry we got you in trouble," said Emma, dropping her head down.
"We're sorry we made it sound like you knew we were at the party the whole time," said Amy,
whose head was now also down.