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I put my arms around her, trying to make her better. I was shivering in the dress, the too-early air conditioner making goose bumps all over.
Finally Aunt Amy wiped her eyes on her flowered blouse and smiled at me. I wanted to get out. I didn’t try on my other dresses. I just said I wanted the one I had on, with the long white sleeves and buttoned-up top.
So she paid for the dress and we went to have lunch. The smell of the food court in the mall is like an indoor version of the state fair. I got what I usually get—a Hot Dog on a Stick and lemonade. We sat near the fake trees under the white light from the skylight, where Mom and May and I used to sit. Aunt Amy looked at me picking the batter off the corn dog.
She said, trying to be casual, “So, do you have any crushes? A boyfriend?” As if she hadn’t practically forbidden me from talking to any member of the male species. I wondered if this was a trick. I never told her about Sky, because I didn’t want her freaking out about it. I shook my head no.
“Well, that’s for the best…” And with that she trailed off. She picked back up with, “You know, I am very proud of you. Your mother is, too.”
I swallowed hard, the corn batter stuck in the back of my throat. I didn’t believe that Mom had actually said that. But I guessed that she’d probably told Aunt Amy about our fight, and Aunt Amy was likely trying to smooth things over. I know I should call Mom and apologize, but instead I’ve been avoiding it for the past two weeks.
I didn’t want to get into all of that, so I just tried to smile. “Thanks,” I said. I couldn’t imagine what exactly Aunt Amy was proud of anyway, unless it was the fact that I didn’t have a boyfriend, which is only the case because I got dumped.
Then Aunt Amy asked me, “Do you remember my friend who I went on the pilgrimage with?” She couldn’t keep herself from gri
She went on explaining, and what I got is that after all those months of not calling, the Jesus Man called Aunt Amy last week to tell her he was coming to visit. I guess they’ll go to di
Honestly, it makes me sad. Because she sent him cookies, and cards, and New Mexico chili, and messages, especially the messages where she would do the voices of Mister Ed and of the Jamaican bobsledders and she would be herself. Her hopeful self, like she was saying, I’m here.
But for the past year, she got no response, and finally she stopped pressing her flowered dresses like she imagined someone was about to see her in them. She put her rose soap back in its box and back on the shelf where she’d never use it. She finally gave up.
And now she will take her rose soap out again, its rose petals rubbed down from all of the mornings of sitting in the shower waiting for something. It’s not new anymore, but she’ll take whatever she can get. She’ll take even a night of iced tea with ice crushed the right way, and fake cherry pie, and maybe his hand on hers across the table. And if he wants more, she’ll give it. If he says, “God means for us to do this,” she’ll believe him.
After lunch, we stopped at one of the kiosks where they sell tee shirts. Aunt Amy picked up one that said GOD MADE SOME MEN EXTRA CUTE. She found that hilarious. She laughed at it so hard that tears started ru
After the kiosk, I took Aunt Amy into one of the cool stores, Wet Seal, where I secretly wanted to look around for something right. Something that would make up for the dress I had to get to make her happy, something that would feel like me—whoever I am right now. I hadn’t bought any clothes in a long time. I’d been wearing May’s for a while, but since Sky and I broke up I haven’t wanted to. So mostly I just wear my old things and try to blend in.
At first all the clothes in the store seemed dressed up in the wrong way, like they were pretending. But then when I was looking in the back on the sale rack, “Rehab” came on the store radio. A lot of your songs, even the saddest or the maddest ones, sound happy, like you are telling a hard truth but backing it up with a dance tune. It’s part of what I love about you, how you can be defiant, or heartbroken, or broken open, and still be bright about it.
And then I found this shirt. It’s lavender crushed velvet. I felt like you were with me as I rubbed the fabric against my cheek and remembered how I love the way the new clothes in the mall smell sweet and pressed. Like very clean sugar. I tried it on and I felt prettier than I’ve felt since I had on May’s dress at homecoming.
Tomorrow for Easter, I’ll wear my scratchy white dress and we’ll go to Aunt Amy’s church, where they sing things like “Our God Is an Awesome God.” And then on Monday, I’ll wear my new shirt to school.
Amy, you were all over the covers of tabloids and stuff, doing what you did. And how the world is now, how we follow everyone and try to see everything, it changes the story. It makes your life into someone else’s version of you. And that’s not fair. Because your life didn’t belong to us. What you gave us was your music. And I am grateful for it.
Yours,
Laurel
Dear Amy Winehouse,
Something terrible happened today. I wore my new lavender crushed velvet shirt to school, and in English, I saw that Mrs. Buster had on the exact same shirt. Mrs. Buster is not a young, pretty, hip teacher. She’s old and she has bug eyes and ironed-out hair. It seemed impossible. I’d gotten the shirt at a cool store. A store for teenagers. Why would Mrs. Buster shop there? But her shirt was exactly the same, right down to the smooth gray shell buttons that I’d loved. That I’d been ru
After the bell rang, Mrs. Buster tried to talk to me. “Laurel!” she called as I was walking out.
I turned around, barely.
“Nice shirt.” She smiled.
She knew that our same shirts were not a good thing for me, so there was no reason to smile about it. I did not smile back.
“Laurel, how are you doing?” She said it the way she does, like a question that might as well be a loaded gun.
“Fine,” I said. Though I wanted to tell her I wasn’t doing well at all, if she must know. I also wanted to ask her what the hell she was doing ruining my life shopping at Wet Seal.
Instead, I mumbled, “I’m late,” and ran out the door.
I knew I’d have to see her again in chorus, because she co-teaches it with Mr. Janoff. And Sky’s in chorus. When I got the shirt, secretly I had hoped that Sky would notice me in it and see who I could be. Maybe he’d feel a pang of regret over losing me. Now that clearly would not work. So I ditched. My grade in chorus is going to pretty much suck, between my mumble-singing and skipping class a couple of times. But at that moment, I didn’t care. Tristan always ditches eighth period to get stoned, so I told him I wanted to come.
“Oh, the shirt thing?” he asked. Clearly everyone knew by then.
I just gave him a look. With Tristan, I never have to say anything if I don’t want to. He always gets it.
“Well, in a who-wore-it-better poll, you’d smoke her. You look really pretty.”
That was kind, and it made me laugh a little as I followed him out through the alley and down to the edge of the arroyo. It was still filled with shiny dry leaves leftover from winter that glinted below the budding trees.