Mama doesn’t speak to me all weekend. Oh, she speaks to me, but not really. She says turn the TV down and have you done your homework yet and pass the pepper. But that’s it. She doesn’t bring up the dance once. I know she’s waiting for me to apologize, to tell her I want her to buy me a dress and that I really do want to go to the dance.
The worst part is, I do sort of want to go to the dance. A little. The more people talk about it, the more I want to go. I don’t want to be left out. I don’t want to be the only seventh-grade girl who doesn’t go to the dance, well, the only one other than Carol Motts, whose parents are superstrict and won’t let her go to any kind of dance. I want to wear a pretty dress and I don’t want to be “just Annemarie.” I want to be special.
But now it’s too late. Some mean, sharp little part of me can’t let Mama have this. It means too much to her, and I don’t want her to take any bit of pleasure in it. I want this to be all mine, and if it can’t be, well, then I guess I won’t be going. Not that anyone would care. Elaine’s going with Hugh; Mark’s going with Hadley. Who will notice if I’m not there?
On Sunday night, the three of us—Celia, Mama, and me—are sitting in the living room. This is a miracle in and of itself, because Celia’s nights are reserved for Park. But tonight she is home, painting her nails candy apple red and watching TV. Mama’s sitting in an armchair reading the newspaper, and I’m sprawled out on the couch feeling as low as I’ve ever felt.
At the commercial break, Celia says, “Sit up, Annemarie, and I’ll do your nails for the dance tomorrow night.”
Hope surges through me. Right now, if Mama were to say, “Oh, Annemarie, just do us all a favor and go,” I could sigh and say, “Fine, I’ll go already.” I peek at Mama, who doesn’t look up from her paper. She turns the page, and it feels like an eternity before she speaks. “Annemarie’s not going to the dance,” Mama says. “She thinks dances are stupid.”
“Oh, of course you’re going, Shug. Don’t be such a baby.” Celia grabs my left hand and I snatch it away.
“I’m not going,” I mumble. Just this once, can’t Mama be the grown-up? Can’t she be the one to give in?
“See?” Mama says. “She’s not going.”
I should’ve known. I’ve never been able to beat my mama at anything. She always wins. If I go to the dance, she wins, and if I don’t, she wins.
Chapter 40
The dance is tonight. Kids at school were yakking it up about the dance all day. I couldn’t wait to get home. The only thing that kept me going was the thought of crawling under my covers with some hot chocolate and a good book.
Elaine kept saying that I should just come alone, that tons of girls were going stag, that it wasn’t a big deal. Not a big deal—ha! Last I heard, even Sherilyn had a date. Martin Lum asked her. Martin with his thick glasses and his greasy nose. Heck, I’d have gone with Martin Lum if he’d asked me.
I’m lying in bed reading when Celia struts in. I snarl, “Ever heard of knocking?” but I stop short when I see what’s in her arms.
It’s a dress. It’s black with tiny ribbons for straps, and a full skirt with crinoline underneath. You couldn’t buy this kind of dress at the mall. It’s old, and it’s sassy and it’s sophisticated. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen, not up close, anyway.
“Where’d you get it from?” I breathe.
“It was Mama’s,” Celia says. “I found it in one of her old trunks.”
“Where are you gonna wear it?”
“I’m not wearing it, dummy. You are.” She holds the dress out to me. “You’re going to that dance, Shug.”
I can’t stop staring at the dress. It is perfect, just right. “I told you I wasn’t going.”
“Shut up and try it on.”
“It’ll never fit me.” I reach out to touch it, and I listen to the way the fabric whispers.
Celia says, “We’ll make it fit.”
“Does Mama know you have it?”
“No. Who cares? She’s not gonna need it tonight. What, does she need a party dress to drink? I don’t think so.” We giggle, and she hands me the dress. “Try it on, Shug.”
“But I don’t have a date.”
“So?”
“So I’m not like you.” I stare at the carpet, then look up at her. “Celie, nobody asked me.”
She shrugs. “So what? You should be grateful you don’t have a date. This way, you can work the whole room and you won’t have some little dweeb hanging on to you. Now try it on, for God’s sake.”
I try it on. It hits just below the knee. It fits.
Celia decides that my hair should be down. She curls it and brushes it till it shines. She puts mascara on my lashes and peachy pink blush on my cheeks. She dabs lip gloss on my lips and shimmery powder all over my face and collarbone. Last of all, she sprays me with her perfume. She never lets me use her perfume. It smells like ripe pears and vanilla.
Celia’s all smiles, and she keeps saying see? See? I do see. Celia can make anything come true. When I see myself in the mirror, I can’t believe it. I don’t look like me at all. I look pretty. I look like the kind of girl who deserves to go to a dance. Celia’s lent me her red wool dress coat with the Peter Pan collar, and I’m even wearing heels! Celia borrowed a pair from Margaret for me—they are black with high, high heels and a dainty toe. She tells me to be careful with them, because they are Margaret’s lucky shoes. They’ll bring me luck too, she says.
When I am finally ready, Celia calls Park to come pick us up. We wait for him in the kitchen. Then Mama walks in, and Celia and I both stiffen. I feel like I’ve been caught going through her purse.
She stares at me. At the dress, and then back at me. “Nice dress,” she says.
“Thanks. It’s yours.”
“I know.” We look at each other some more. Then Park’s car honks, and Celia says it’s time to go.
Mama hesitates, and then she says, “Shug.”
“Yeah, Mama?” I hold my breath.
Please don’t let her try and come too. Please don’t let her ruin this for me.
“I’ll pick you up after the dance.”
“Okay,” I say.
I hope that she can see the thankfulness I feel in the way I smile at her, but I don’t know.
