Sloppy Firsts_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [87]
I smiled with all my teeth.
Mom wanted to separate for an hour so we could shop for Christmas presents without ruining the surprise. This was fine by me. I had already taken care of everyone’s presents. I stuck to a magazine theme. I ordered subscriptions for everyone in my family. (Martha and House Beautiful for Mom. PC World and Cycling for Dad. Cosmo and People for Bethany. Some boring trade mags for G-Money.) And for Hope, I made a fake teen-mag cover. I wanted to make something for her wall for a change. It didn’t require any artistic skill, just a computer. I scanned her picture and wrote cover lines like:
HOPE WEAVER TELLS ALL: "IT’S NOT EASY BEING A TEEN QUEEN"
THE ALL-GIRLS-SCHOOL GUIDE TO GETTING A GUY (WHEN THERE AREN’T ANY AND THE JANITOR IS LOOKING TASTY)
MAD ABOUT PLAID: 101 WAYS TO WORK THAT DRESS CODE
ARE JERSEY GIRLS THE BEST IN THE WORLD? TAKE OUR QUIZ!!!!
It cracks me up.
I didn’t let Mom know I was done with my holiday shopping. It would have broken her already fragile heart. So I spent sixty minutes in the food court, fueling up on Cinnabon and Coke, because when we reunited, it would be time to begin our search for the anti-homecoming dress and I would need to tap into my sugar reserve for energy.
I know that as a red-blooded American teenage girl, I should be thrilled that she considers buying something for me a better present than the tiny bottle of Chanel No. 5 my dad and I’d already given her. Yet it was an excruciating process anyway.
"Oooooooh," my mom cooed, putting down her shopping bags so she could rub a swath of burgundy velvet between her fingers. "You would look lovely in this."
"Mom, you’re missing the point," I said. "This is supposed to be an anti- homecoming dress. Anti meaning something I wouldn’t wear to homecoming."
"Oh, right," she said, her voice as flat as my chest. "Like what?"
"Like nothing in the ’Midnite Expressions’ juniors section of Macy’s."
I dragged her to Delia’s, which is sometimes too trendoid for me, but where I can usually find something sorta cute for my pathetic, size-nothing bod. After I ruled out about a dozen of my mom’s girlier ideas, she finally pulled out a hanger that I could say yes to: a slate-blue corduroy, zip-front shirtdress. Cute, but not too cute. I tried it on in the dressing room and was actually pretty pleased by my reflection. So much so, that I actually stepped out and let my mom see me in it. Big mistake.
"You really live up to your name in that dress," she said, brimming over with maternal pride. "You look so darling in it."
Darling. I looked darling, which means I didn’t look like me. And that’s when it dawned on me: I was making my mom happy on her birthday by being like Bethany. Suddenly, this whole venture seemed stupid. I didn’t really need to get this thing. I had no reason to look darling for anyone or anything. I unzipped the dress, stuffed it on the hook, opened the door, and told my mom it was time to go.
"You’re not going to get it?" She looked crushed.
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don’t need it, Mom," I said.
"Nonsense," she said, grabbing it off the hook. "I’m getting it for you."
"Moooooom," I said, tugging it away from her. "I have nowhere to go in it."
"You’ll have somewhere to go in it, I promise."
If she wanted to max out her credit card for no reason, who was I to stop her?
Finally, four major department stores and 170 specialty shops later, we were done.
"The mall wasn’t crowded at all today," Mom observed, over a salad at TGI Friday’s.
I shoved a fistful of fries in my mouth, so as not to spew venom Linda Blair–style.
"I bet everyone is home getting ready for the homecoming dance," my mom said, spearing a cherry tomato.
Daggers. From my eyes. Through her heart.
"What?" she asked.
"Can you go for two seconds without reminding me about the goddamn homecoming dance?"
"Watch your language, honey," she said, her voice tight. "I just can’t believe that you’re the only girl in your class who couldn’t find a date."
"Well, Bridget isn’t going either."
"Bridget?" she sat