Even though we were flush straight through spring, my mama was never in a good mood getting people ready for formals. You wouldn’t know it from watching her, but that’s cal ed being a professional. She would be al smiles six weeks later when the girls gave her wal et-sized photos of themselves dressed in Gone with the Wind hoopskirts; above the shampoo bowl hung a corkboard just for these displays. But when we final y closed down the shop, she flopped in her chair with a tiredness that was more than just one day’s exhaustion. “The money is good, but I don’t envy Raleigh and James. Driving those girls around and cal ing them ma’am! Sixteen years old. Help me, Jesus. It wil be prom season before you know it.”
“YOUR MAMA is looking at things al the wrong way,” Daddy said, slicing into his sausages. “Twenty years ago, none of this would be possible.
Your mama can’t see good news when it is staring her right in the face.”
“How much you think a party like that would cost?” Uncle Raleigh asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Four thousand? Five?” Daddy said. “But I am just talking out the side of my neck. I don’t know nothing about this kind of thing. You ever want a party like this, Buttercup?”
“It’s too late for me to have a Sweet Sixteen, Daddy. I’m seventeen already.”
“You could have a Sweet Eighteen.”
“Doesn’t exist,” I said.
“Graduation party?” Daddy suggested.
“Not my speed.”
Uncle Raleigh said, “I was thinking about for Laverne.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “This kind of stuff gets on her nerves. She turned so many spiral curls last week that she had to wear a brace on her wrist.”
“It’s different,” Daddy said. “It’s different being the guest of honor.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “She isn’t real y like that.”
“Maybe she is,” Uncle Raleigh said.
“She’s not,” I said. “I’m sure of it.”
“We’ve been knowing Laverne a lot longer than you,” Daddy added, and together they chuckled.
“She hates fancy parties,” I said. “I’m with her al the time. I know how much she hates them.”
Uncle Raleigh said, “By my calculation, it’s coming up on the twentieth anniversary of the Pink Fox.”
“There you go,” Daddy said.
They smiled at each other and turned their faces to me. There was no chal enging them.
“We’l tel her it’s your idea,” said Raleigh
“I thought it was supposed to be a surprise party,” I said.
“She won’t like that,” Daddy said.
“Verne does not like surprises.”
“That’s the truth,” Daddy said.
And there was no arguing. They had been knowing Laverne a lot longer than me. And with the matter settled, they went on to other topics. To Uncle Raleigh, Daddy said, “We could probably make some good money if we could bring back the photography angle to the business.”
Uncle Raleigh poured a little puddle of raspberry syrup on his plate and dunked the tines of his fork. “Nope, Jim-Bo. No. No. No.”
“How come?” I said. “You like taking pictures. Teenage girls like having their picture taken. Their parents like spending money. Seems like a good deal al around.”
“I don’t want to take prom pictures,” Uncle Raleigh said. “I want to be evocative.”
Daddy said, “Evock in your spare time. Think about it, man. People are going to col ege next year.”
By people, he meant me.
“Where do you want to go to school?” Uncle Raleigh asked.
“I’m thinking about Mount Holyoke,” I said.
My father and my uncle looked at each other. “You d-d-don’t say,” said Daddy.
“It’s stil early,” Uncle Raleigh said, more to my father than to me. “It’s stil early.”
AFTER WE PAID the check, we headed back to the Hilton. Daddy sent me in at eleven thirty to see if things were winding down. On the ride up to the twenty-third floor, I straightened my col ar and smoothed the accordion wrinkles from my skirt. The bul et-shaped elevator was glass, al owing me a ful view of Atlanta. The door opened and I looked around for the Magnolia Room. It took a couple trips up and down the carpeted hal way before I ran into Mr. Grant, Ruth Nicole Elizabeth’s dad. Tiny comb tracks made roadways in his Bil y Dee waves.
“Witherspoon!” he said, after patting down the pockets of his brain, trying to remember my first name. “I almost didn’t recognize you with your hair down.”
“Hel o, Mr. Grant. I just came up to see how things are coming along.”
“It’s a beautiful night,” he said. “Go on in and fix yourself a plate.”
“Oh no, sir,” I said, tugging at my hem. “I’m working tonight.”
“Don’t be sil y,” he said, putting his arm around my shoulders. Mr. Grant smel ed nice, like good cologne and cognac. I knew that I smel ed like fried food and cigarettes.
“You are such a pretty girl. Such a young lady.” He kissed me on the top of my head and gave me a little squeeze around the tops of my arms.
“Go on in. Enjoy yourself.”
He opened the door of the Magnolia Room, leaving me no choice but to step inside. For a moment, I was queasy with a wave of déjà vu, as this was the setting of one of my nightmares. In the dream, I walk into a fancy party. Everyone else is dressed for prom, but I am fat and wearing a two-piece bathing suit. My stomach sags over the leopard-print bikini and I am afraid to raise my arms because everyone wil see that I haven’t shaved.
When I have this dream lately, I know that I’m dreaming, but this understanding isn’t enough to wake me up. When I’m final y able to open my eyes, grateful for my familiar bedsheets, my body is damp and cold.
In the Magnolia Room, the partygoers were al silver as tea sets, and no one noticed me at al .
The DJ was playing a slow song, “Against Al Odds.” In the center of the dance floor was Ruth Nicole Elizabeth, swaying with her boyfriend, Marcus McCready, home from col ege. His hands rested respectful y at the smal of her back, just above the satin sash. Ruth Nicole Elizabeth’s dress, like her skin, was the color of sand. Her hair, glistening from a cel ophane rinse, reminded me of an oily lunch sack. Over the top of her head, Marcus met my eyes and kind of winked. I turned away and rushed toward the food.
The lady serving the cake, old as Grandma Bunny, was dressed almost the same as I was.
“Is it good?” I asked.
“It’s pretty,” she said, sliding a piece of cake onto my plate.
“Thank you.” I headed toward the door even though the plate probably wasn’t supposed to leave the Magnolia Room. On the twenty-three-story trip down, I tore into the lemon layer cake with my dirty hands.
In the lobby, I set the plate on a shiny-topped coffee table. I was tempted to fol ow the signs to the washroom so I could clean my hands, but I couldn’t bear the idea of mirrors. Instead, I set myself on the couch and sucked my fingers like a barbarian.
“Psst, ” someone said from the direction of the bathroom. My mother had told me that a man who doesn’t talk to you with actual words isn’t worth your time, but stil I looked around. When I didn’t see anyone, I turned my attention to my hands. Pale yel ow icing rimmed my cuticles so I stuck my thumb in my mouth, wondering if everything on the twenty-third floor had been engineered to match Ruth Nicole Elizabeth’s magnolia-cream complexion. I had busted out of the party before I had a chance to check out the hot-food buffet. I amused myself imagining a pale spread —
cauliflower, baked fish, mashed potatoes. Enjoying these petty, jealous fantasies, I took my thumb out of my mouth and rearranged my hair.
“Ooh,” said a voice. “You got spit in your fake hair.”