I remember the creative ways some idiot kids consume alcohol, the ones Dad learned from the evening news and freaked out about.
“However,” I deadpan, “if people start eyeballing or butt-chugging, I’m all in.”
Dad doesn’t crack a smile. His face is harder than concrete.
“Butt-chugging.” Gaby giggles. “What’s that?”
“If you see any alcohol,” Dad tells me, a severe edge to his voice, “you come home.”
“Relax, Dad. It was a joke.”
“I don’t care if it’s beer, whiskey, or liquor-filled chocolates. I don’t care what hole they’re putting it in.”
“A joke, Dad,” I insist. “You know, ha-ha?”
I get up to look at myself once more. These sharp clothes don’t make me any less goofy. What does Karina see in me?
She’s probably home by now, getting into her new dress after doing her hair and makeup at her friend Janelle’s house. Karina’s mom had to wait until today, payday, to buy her dress. Picked it up before heading to her second job.
There’s a knock at the door.
Gaby rushes there first, asking “Who is it?” Dad and I follow behind.
No response. I look through the peephole. It’s Karina. Her face is flawless under much more makeup than usual. Her normally long black hair is swept up and styled all elegant.
I swing open the door to reveal the rest of her: she’s in the same T-shirt and cutoff shorts she wore to school, plus she’s holding a Macy’s bag. Her bright purple Nikes are wet because of the late-afternoon rain. You wouldn’t believe the number of pond-sized puddles in the twelve blocks between her house and ours.
“When the invitation said formal,” I say, “they probably didn’t mean just the neck up.”
“You didn’t answer your phone,” she says, not smiling. “We have to take an emergency trip to the mall.”
2
IT TURNS OUT the perfect dress, the one Karina and her mom agreed on after an extensive search, is not the dress her mom bought. Instead, she bought the one Karina hated.
“It really is the worst kind of ugly imaginable,” Karina tells me once we’re inside Macy’s, at 8:41. We have nineteen minutes before this place closes.
She grabs a simple black dress from the rack and checks the tag to make sure it’s the right size.
A saleslady is going through receipts at the register. As we head over, my formal shoes click and Karina’s sneakers squish on the floor.
“It can’t be that ugly,” I tell Karina.
But when she pulls it outta the bag and sets it on the counter for the woman to inspect for return, I see I’m wrong. Ugly might be an understatement.
It’s long and unrevealing the way moms probably like, but why is it blueberry-colored? And what’s up with the roundish sleeves and shiny stuff around the collar?
The lady eyes the receipt and asks, “What’s the reason for the return?”
“It makes me look like a piñata.”
“Hey,” I tell Karina. “You know how much I like piñatas.”
She gives me some side-eye.
Serious situation = no jokes. I need to remember that.
The woman accepts the return. Minutes later Karina emerges from the fitting area, mouth slack with disappointment.
I don’t get it. Is that not the right dress? It should be. Please be the right dress. She looks so amazing.
The way it hugs her completely, from the breasts down to mid-thigh where it stops, showing off her legs.
“Dayum!” I say, louder than I wanted to.
My girlfriend is a straight-up stunner, despite the frown on her face.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“It’s my legs,” she says, without averting her gaze from the mirror. “I hate them.”
“I’ve always loved your legs.”
Back when we first met she considered herself fat—a ridiculous idea. It’s why she wouldn’t let me see her naked the first two times we did it. I switched the light off and called her silly, but I was actually grateful for the dark. Because I didn’t want her to see me naked.
That’s only because I’m supposed to have some bulk on my body. Hell, I’m supposed to defend her with force if it comes down to it.
“How thin do you wanna be?” I ask.
Karina doesn’t answer. She’s staring down the mirror as if it’s a person she doesn’t trust.
I encircle Karina’s shoulders with my arm. Our eyes meet in the mirror reflection. For the millionth time since I’ve met her I wonder, how can someone so pretty worry about her appearance?
“You always look amazing,” I tell her. “Today you look extra hot. Lava hot. Surface-of-the-sun hot. You look Tabasco-sauce hot.” I pause to consider what I just said. “I know my examples make no sense but I can’t compare you to other girls. That’s how hot you are.”
“You’re just being nice.”
“No. I’m being real. And you’re sort of being a spoiled brat,” I tell her, trying to keep my face straight.
Her eyes dart away from the mirror and onto me. “What did you say?”
“Rather than appreciate all your beauty, you just want more.” I shake my head in mock disappointment. “It’s an injustice how sexy you are. You should spend the whole day apologizing to every girl you see.”
She laughs, breaking loose from my embrace. Seconds later she’s still smiling when she pulls me close for a kiss.
“Okay,” she says. “Let’s get the dress and get out of here.”
3
WE’RE SITTING at one of the six outside tables in Emily’s backyard, among the supertall palm trees, cords of dotted light swirled around the trunks. As EDM plays from two large speakers, people come through the side gate or the house, boys and girls in ties and dresses, red Solo cups in their hands.
The glass door slides open and two more formal kids come out. Neither of them bullies. The punch from earlier still has me on edge. I told Miguel about it because I tell him everything.
He gets picked on almost as much as me, being fat with those wild curls on his head and all. Yet he emerged from the house with a drink, unscathed. He’s certain nobody will mess with me.
Our table is made up of three girls, and the three guys they brought along—a sort of triple date. One side is girl-talk: Karina and her two friends are desperately catching up after being apart for a whole three hours. They’re wearing nice dresses and have their long hair all swept up and close to their heads. I don’t know what it is about fancy parties and dances that makes girls hide most of their hair.
On this side it’s Miguel, Enzo, and me. I’ve been friends with Miguel since the summer before fifth grade. That’s when our dads, sick of us being in front of all kinds of screens, forced us out into the sun. There we were on our front yards, Miguel across the street and four jacked-up houses over. He walked over and we sat in the shade of my porch, talking about video games and Marvel vs. DC. We’re still into those three things.
Enzo I barely know. He’s Janelle’s boyfriend, who’s Karina’s second bff. Today’s the first time I’ve said more than wassup to him.