Alice Bliss - Laura Harrington [48]
“I only wanted one, Mom. The one I had. The one he wore,” Alice replies as she slams out the door and down the stairs.
Angie sits on the unmade bed, the broken glass of her favorite picture beneath her fingers. She feels awful, as she always does after a fight. Couldn’t she just have washed that stupid shirt?
She looks at their wedding photo. Matt is holding her with both hands around her waist, his head thrown back, his whole face lit up with laughter.
Lighten up, she can almost hear him say. Don’t you remember all the shit you put your parents through when you were in high school? She’s just a kid, a scared kid.
Does she have to be so annoying, Angie wonders? Does she have to wave everything right under my nose?
Stop rising to the bait. You’re the grown-up here.
Easy for you to say, Matt Bliss, from nine thousand miles away.
April 20th
Alice and Henry catch the bus downtown after school, way downtown, to Pearl Street, to the cool vintage clothing store that specializes in tuxedos. They have twenty dollars to outfit Henry for the dance, and another twenty for Alice. Maybe. For Alice this is all a big maybe. The mothers wanted to take them to the mall; that was a definite no.
Unbeknownst to Alice, Henry also has another fifty dollars in his pocket, given to him by his mother. Henry and his mother have discussed the options; Henry and his mother have outlined a basic game plan; Henry actually knows what he is looking for.
Sitting next to Alice on the city bus, however, Henry feels lost. It’s a cold, comfortless day that could belong to any month from October to May. Henry follows Alice’s lead and pulls out his history homework, but he can’t read. Reading in cars and buses makes him sick. He sneaks a look at her. She appears to actually be reading about the Continental Congress. She does not sense him looking at her and turn toward him and begin to talk, like she usually does.
They have not discussed the kiss. Or the non-kiss. In fact, they haven’t really talked at all. They are both pretending that nothing happened, that everything is the same. But of course, nothing is the same. Riding the bus isn’t the same, sitting side by side so their legs almost touch is not the same, getting thrown against Alice as the bus makes the long curve up onto I-95 is not the same. Not talking is not the same. Not talking and joking and laughing. Not having to think so much about every single thing it gives you brain cramp is not the same. It’s all so overwhelming that Henry falls asleep, right there on the noisy downtown bus, falls sound asleep until Alice wakes him up at their stop on Jane Street at Downtown Crossing.
They walk the two long, dreary blocks to Pearl Street in total silence. Maybe this was a mistake, Henry is thinking. Maybe this whole thing is one big, terrible mistake. Maybe Alice hates him now and maybe he’s mad at Alice for ruining everything and maybe they should just go home. But there’s Alice throwing open the grimy door and striding inside Rerun like she owns the place.
There are millions of tuxedos at Rerun, crammed into a long, narrow, dusty storefront on a street that has seen better days. Rerun is flanked on either side by empty stores. The middle-aged, potbellied, Hawaiian shirt–wearing guy behind the counter is eyeing them as if they are hardened shoplifters out to rob him blind. Alice starts sneezing. They don’t even know what size to look for. Henry walks up to the counter.
“Hi.”
“Yeah.”
“I need a suit. Or a tuxedo.”
“Uh huh.”
“For a dance.”
“Look around.”
“I don’t know what size.”
The guy whips out a tape measure.
“My name’s Henry.”
Measuring Henry’s waist.
“What’s your name?”
Measuring Henry’s chest.
“Roger.”
Measuring Henry’s inseam.
“Nice to meet you, Roger.”
“The smaller sizes are on the left. Upper rack.”
“What size am I?”
“You’re the size that’s gonna need alterations.”
“Which is—?”
“There might be a couple of thirty-fours in there.”
“You got anything for my friend?”
“A tuxedo?”
“Hey, Alice!