B.C. Johnson - Deadgirl

I’d gotten home and been ambushed by my father. He demanded phone numbers for Benny’s house, his parents, his neighbors, his distant relatives, his ancestors, his pool boy, etc. I’d provided them all, and after a short discussion with Benny’s parents—who were in actuality Benny himself and Daphne on a three-way-call—Dad agreed to let me go.

By the time I left the shower, Daphne, Sara, and Wanda were already lounging around my room. Daphne lay across my bed, her head hanging off of the side facing me, and she was staring at me upside-down with her purple-black hair streaking across it like surreal streamers. She stuck her tongue out when I walked out of the bathroom. Sara sat in the window sill, and Wanda held her cheeks in her hands at my desk, staring at the wall.

“Ladies,” I said, and began collecting garments.

“Hey, Lucy,” Daphne said, and rolled around right-side up. She made a face and clutched her forehead. “Whoa. Brain rush.”

“Don’t you need a brain—” Sara began.

“—for that to work. Ha-effing-ha,” Daphne interrupted. “Your jokes are pedestrian and cheap.”

“So—” Sara began.

“—is my mom,” Daphne laughed. “Try again.”

Sara flashed her teeth at Daphne, threw her arms across her chest, and stared out the window. Daphne flashed me a victorious look, hopped off the bed, and cleaved to my side.

“So…did your dad buy it?”

Daphne grinned and waggled her eyebrows at me and threw her hair up into a quick faux ponytail—I imagine it was her attempt at miming mom-hair.

“How did I do?” she asked, inexplicably, with a British accent.

“You…didn’t use the accent did you?”

Daphne’s sour look answered that question.

“Well, Dad believed you were Benny’s mom,” I said. I couldn’t disguise the lilt of shame in my voice. “So I guess it worked.”

Daphne was, as usual, more perceptive then I gave her credit for. “Unhappy, babe?”

“Just worried.”

Sara, from the windowsill, grunted.

“What?” I asked.

“I think you should be worried,” Sara said. “I think you’re taking advantage of your dad, who’s just scared and wanting to make you happy.”

“What?” I said again, because I agreed with her and wanted to hear her take on it.

“Morgan agrees with me,” Sara said. Both Wanda and Daphne flashed her dirty looks. “But that’s it. I agreed not to say anything else.”

Daphne let out a sigh that sounded like a zeppelin deflating. She hooked her arm in mine and led me over to the closet. Her quick hands swept through my hangers, dresses, and blouses with a keen eye and a familiarity of my wardrobe that I didn’t like. She removed a red pin-striped pencil skirt from the tangle and spun it on its hanger.

“No,” I said. Without comment she raised an eyebrow but slid it back into the closet. She began rummaging again.

“How do I look?” Sara asked, her parental tone either invisible or held well in check. She spun and popped a hand on her hip for good measure.

“Terrible,” Daphne said, with an annoyed tone and without looking. She remained shoulder-deep in my closet.

“You look great,” I said, but I wasn’t paying attention. It looked like a designer jeans, fluffy black top outfit of the style that Sara usually whipped out for special occasions. She pulled the look off well.

Daphne came out with a pink tulip skirt. I made the vomit face, and she tossed it back in.

Wanda slumped even further into whatever misery-induced coma she was gunning for. I wanted to ask her what was wrong, but with the animosity shooting in sparks between Daphne and Sara, it didn’t feel like the right environment. Wanda was fragile as it was—pushing it any further, in semi-public, might make her shatter.

Sara wouldn’t stop looking at me. She looked worried, pissed, and confused. The kind of combo you might imagine on a friend looking out for your safety and also hoping you don’t ruin their good time.

“I don’t think anything is gonna happen,” Daphne said, reading either Sara's thoughts or my own.

Daphne emerged from the closet with a cute black A-line skirt with lace trim and a deep purple scoop-neck blouse hanging from separate hangers. I raised an eyebrow in surprise.

She turned a box over with her foot, and my smoke-gray wedges poured out and tumbled to the carpet. Sara laughed, a single bark that she couldn’t contain despite her tiff with Daphne, and Wanda said, “Wow.” I gave the suggested ensemble a once-over, nodded, and bowed deeply.

“Your ability to zero in on taste is second to none, Daph.”

Daphne grinned. “You’re welcome.”

When we were all dressed, ready, made-up, and sure that the twenty minutes Zack and Benny waited outside was sufficient, we all headed down in a gaggle. I noticed Wanda typing into her phone diligently for the better part of the prep-time, and she tucked it away with a sharp, annoyed gesture when we left my room.

I wasn’t surprised to see my dad waiting at the bottom of the stairs. The look he gave me could only be described as crestfallen. I flashed him a sympathetic smile and touched his arm as I passed. Much to my surprise, he locked his fingers around my wrist and stopped me dead in my tracks. I glanced up at Wanda, Daph, and Sara, and cocked my head toward the door.

“I’ll…be there in a sec,” I said, trying to keep my tone light.

“Okay,” Daphne said, too cheerfully. “We’re gone in five.”

I growled but said nothing.

“Luce?”

I glanced up at Dad.

“I thought it was—”

“It is,” Dad said, and took in a deep breath. “I want to meet Zack.”

Blood…draining from face. Skin pale, breath sharp. Fast. Heart setting off firecrackers in my chest. Taste of batteries. Wet hands.

“Dad—”

“No, Luce,” he said. “This is my thing. Let me have it.”

“No.”

“I’m not asking,” Dad said. “Zack in this living room or your ass upstairs.”

He said it with that same pleasant, let’s-work-together tone. My fingers were sore from curling into fists. It felt like my hands were being stretched from the inside.

“Fine,” I said. “Three minutes, tops.”

He had something up his sleeve, and something I wasn’t going to be happy about. I took a deep breath, left the house, and jogged out to Benny’s minivan.

The girls were already inside, buckled in, and laughing to each other. Zack was in the passenger seat, and I rapped my knuckle on his window. I took three deep breaths, thinking of the parking lot today. Thinking of him kissing me. Then thinking of me running away like a drama-mama freak.

“Yes, Madame?” Zack asked, the top of the window whizzing past his face. He didn’t seem upset. Allow me to fix that.

“You have to come inside.”

I gave him a look. Zack didn’t even try to hide his smirk. He unfolded from the cramped seat, shoved the door open, and hopped down into the damp grass. Zack smoothed his clothes and hair, an unnecessary move—he looked great. White shirt, sleeves rolled up, faded-but-stylish blue jeans, and a pair of brown shoes.

I took a deep breath, desperate to negate a powerful need to up-chuck. Zack laid his hand across my back, his palm hot against the thin cloth of my shirt. I shivered.

He led me to the stoop like I didn’t know the way. I stared at him, but his sideways smirk didn’t shake. The door opened, and I nearly jumped out of my stylish yet comfortable wedges.

Dad leaned against the door frame, bouncing a stare down off of Zack’s implacable features.

Unfazed, Zack stuck his big hand out and flashed a dazzling smile.

“My name is Zack, Mr. Day,” he said. “It’s great to finally meet you.”