Fade to White Read online

  Because I am epically failing at being just me.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Ashley’s pressed lips barely contain a rising octave of squeals as she guides—no, manhandles—me out of the auditorium. Once the double doors click behind us, her gel-tip nails grasp my arm like a baby koala reuniting with her momma. “You have some talking to do, girl.”

  The image of a baby koala with a French manicure makes it difficult to keep a neutral expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I take a sip from my water bottle, trying my hardest to appear in control. I scan the hallway for Nish-like eavesdroppers.

  Maintaining her clawed security grip, Ashley drags me clear of the cast exiting behind us. Barely able to suppress my glee, I race toward my locker, Ashley in tow, and erupt into what must resemble an uber-goofy smirk.

  “Oooh, is that a summer-lovin’ smile I see?” Ashley and I have a thing with the movie Grease, and now I am all things Sandy.

  I use my default sad image of penguins stuck in a sauna to erase any Sandy-dreamlike qualities to my expression. Very rarely do I have anything interesting to share with Ashley regarding my social status, so I admit I want to let her sweat like one of my penguins before she gets it out of me.

  “There was definitely somethin’ goin’ on up there at the beginnin’ of practice, so don’t you go and act your way out of this one, young lady.” And here comes the Texas accent. Despite not wanting to admit to it, when Ashley is angry or chastising, she transforms into her mother—passion wound up in a whole lot of Southern flair. The remnants of a drawl seep out. Now all I can picture is a koala dressed like Ashley’s mom reprimanding penguins in a sauna.

  My smirk turns into muffled bursts of laughter as I struggle with my locker door.

  “Speak, dang it, or I’m gonna go ask Gavin myself.”

  Stuffing one’s head into a locker filled with insulated clothes works great when you need soundproofing in a jiffy. And yes, I used the word jiffy, because I am all things Sandy, remember?

  Once the first wave of vocal spewing leaves my body, I survey the hallways to make sure they are clear. Ashley’s eyes appear ready to pop out of her head in anticipation. I suppose she has waited long enough. I use all my energy to put my giddiness into poorly organized words. “Ashley, that was the most embarrassing and exhilarating experience of my life. Did I look like a complete fool from where you were? And please tell me you couldn’t hear me talking to him before we started. I was a complete idiot, and he is probably never going to talk to me again, but then he might come to M&H this weekend. But I highly doubt it after my—”

  “Pause.” Ashley’s open hand flashes before my face. “You were talking to him for maybe two minutes before Ms. V. took over, so you can’t have screwed up that much.”

  “I’m pretty sure I talked about body odor and hipsters in the same sentence.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Okay, maybe you could have.”

  One of the qualities I both love and hate about Ashley is her ability to say and show exactly what she thinks. An Ashley nose-wrinkle is never a good sign. A tingling sensation rises from my neck to my cheeks. “I am never exercising again, and I need to steal that perfume from you, or better yet, crawl under a large pile of wilting prom corsages.” I wrap my scarf around and over and behind my head. “Why I am such a freak?”

  “Wait. Come out of hermit mode.” Ashley pulls down a layer of my wool cocoon. “Did you say you invited him to the open mic night?”

  I pause and pull out from my scarf. “Yes.” I replay the conversation in my head. “And he said he would go.” Right. This is why I was filled with elated joy before my downhill rant of self-loathing. “I can’t believe I did that.”

  The giddy squeals erupt again in surround sound. How is it that pretty much every teen girl has mastered the art of synchronizing pitch through shared screeching? I flap my fingers in that stereotypical girly way, but I don’t care. Ashley is flapping with even more enthusiasm, which just roots me on. “This is not something I do. How did I do that?”

  “I don’t know. Thea. How did you do that?” Her flapping stops and she leans forward.

  It would be really helpful if I could pull out some insanely logical answer at this moment, to impart wisdom to the guru of social encounters; to be awesome, just once. But my mind is blank. My only response is to raise my shoulders, which further buries me back into my self-created turtleneck. Ashley shrugs in support, but with a single, leather-clad shoulder lift that’s hot without even trying.

  A light bulb clicks on. “Oh duh. I was being you.”

  Her head tilts sideways, a perfect curl cascades down her dainty shoulder. If I didn’t want to be her, I’d hate her.

  “I mean, I was attempting to be you because of your Scandalous Dare perfume. Ashley, I need a crash course on how to be you.”

  She breaks into a throaty laugh, the kind of laugh she must practice for hours in her bathroom to perfect. “I’m gonna need some guidance on what parts of me you’re goin’ for.”

  “Okay, let me specify.” Seems obvious to me, but apparently Ashley sees many aspects of herself that are worth emulating. “I need a crash course on how to be you around guys.”

  A blank canvas—void of emotion, full of makeup—stares at me. Then, like the moment the Grinch discovers he has a heart, a small grin builds across her crimson-stained lips. She stands a little straighter in her two-inch booties and accepts a new pet project. “All right, Miss Thea Louise Fenton, I’ll see what I can do, but keep in mind we only have one night before your next meeting with Prince Charming, and I am no fairy godmother.”

  “Yes, I realize, but you have a closet any fairy godmother would die for. Can we start there?” I clasp my hands together in front of my heart.

  “I think that is a brilliant first step.” She smirks while eyeing my footwear. “And please tell me you own more shoes than Doc Martens and Vans?”

  “Umm, what size are you again?” She shakes her head but signals with a flick of her wrist for me to join her as she saunters toward the exit doors. The click and squeak of our steps echo down the length of the hallway. If anyone were to compare us walking out, they would wonder how we became such close friends. Other than going to the same school and being in drama club together, we appear to have little in common. And, honestly, over the past six years, there have seemed to be more differences than similarities between us. We have completely different styles, for starters. She possesses a classic beauty all the girls in school envy. I, on the other hand, usually put together hand-me-downs and vintage pieces I hope achieve a Breakfast Club feel, but more likely appear as though I scavenged my mom’s closet.

  On a bigger scale, we have very different aspirations and motivations. I chose the academic route in grade nine, while she mostly stuck to applied courses, despite having the intelligence to do amazing in school. While I focus on grades and building my extracurricular resumé, she focuses on Ethan—over the last two years, anyway. Sometimes I wonder if her ultimate goal is to have him propose before high school is over so she can avoid college altogether and enter into her very public dream of becoming a trophy wife. Still, despite all our differences, I feel like nobody knows me and accepts me for me better than she does. So hopefully, after tonight, I will come out with some of me still intact. Although, based on the ideas coming from her at lightning speed, I highly doubt it.

  “And we’re going to need to do something with your eyebrows too, so come by as soon as you are done with dinner, okay?” We part ways at the end of the crosswalk. “Oh, and don’t forget to bring a decent bra that doesn’t have a racerback.”

  I stick out my tongue at her before blowing her a kiss. “Love you,” I say while glancing backward.

  She blows me a return kiss and then pulls out her phone. No doubt she’s already texting Ethan an update of our entire conversation. This should annoy me, but nothing is private between them, and fortunately, Ethan doesn’t talk with anyone who knows Gavin. I sho
uld be safe.

  With my new social-media detox, I’ve been avoiding phone use when walking anywhere, but this calls for an exception. All too often, Tom seems to get lost on his drive from Hamilton, but tonight I need him home for dinner ASAP. I send an alert to our shared calendar and then read a new text from Jade asking about practice. There is also a missed call notification. The number is the same one I hung up on before, but this time there is a message. My stomach flutters. I call my voicemail, pausing to recall my rarely used password.

  “You have one new voice message. To listen to your message ...” I press one.

  “Hey, Thea, it’s Khi from the coffee shop last week. I tried calling earlier in the week, but for some reason, the phone kept disconnecting. Anyway, thanks again for the invite to the open mike night. I’m free Saturday, so I’ll hopefully see you and your friends there. Take care.”

  Oh no. How did this happen? Somehow, I’ve gone from no confidence in even initiating interactions with the opposite sex to having invited two guys to the same event. I toss my phone into my bag. Should I be elated or freaked out? I rub my palms against my leggings and begin walking home faster. This is a good thing. I think.

  Further along Hillside Road, I glance over to the Shens’ bungalow. Today the chimney offers no sign of life, but there are movements inside the kitchen. Someone is pacing. I discreetly peer through the window. It’s Mrs. Shen, still in her peach housecoat, her hair a matted black mess. She travels back and forth from fridge to stove, but her pacing is awkward and unbalanced. In her hand is a teacup that must be empty or nearly there, the way she is carrying it. Without warning, she halts and turns toward the window. I don’t know why, but I can’t look away, even though she must see me staring. I smile and wave, and she graciously does the same. But then she approaches the window. A dull ache begins to travel from my heart with each thud that quickens within my chest. What if Khi is in there? What would I say? The longer I stand frozen in her gaze, the more my body aches and my head feels filled with cotton balls.

  Out of fear or embarrassment, I can’t say, I spin away. From the corner of my eye, I see the twist of her wrist and a slight flick of fingers toward herself. It’s an invitation, but I can’t. Friendly, nice—I can do that. But going in would be a whole new level of compassion that I don’t think I’m ready for right now. Plus, there are higher priorities than making an elderly friend today.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The front door creaks open. I exhale at the sound of two familiar clunks: a laundry bag and hockey duffel hitting the wood floor. Tom’s usual buoyant welcome echoes through the hall below. “Howdy, family.”

  Sometimes I play along with his comedic greetings, but this week he’s getting the silent treatment. It’s already six forty-five, and my alert to his calendar said to get home by five thirty. I don’t typically care when he decides to grace us with his weekend returns from school, but I have a strict timeline tonight. And he knows Mom’s rigid requirements for dinner; the Friday Fenton family feast will not be served until the entire Fenton family is present.

  My original plan: Greet Tom at five thirty. Provide ample compliments about his new band T-shirt because there is always a new band T-shirt. Successfully distract Tom from questioning me about my alert. Eat dinner sharply by six. Gush over Mom’s cooking. Insert tax shelter conversation mid-dinner with Dad. Leave for Ashley’s house by seven to allow four solid hours of transformational possibilities.

  And now Tom has messed it all up. I don’t have a chance of arrival until at least eight now. Even if I avoid him until dinner is on the table, I still need to dutifully sit through small talk for at least thirty minutes. Only then can I ask to be excused. At most, that will leave me two hours. And given Ashley’s latest set of plans, I’ll be lucky if I get through her closet in that time.

  Mom’s voice sounds terse as she greets Tom. “Dinner’s been waiting for over an hour. Thea said you’d be home by five thirty.”

  You tell him, Mom.

  “Sorry. I needed to stop on the way.” A pause. He’s probably giving her his bear-lifting hug that melts her into mush every time. “I’ll help with the dishes.”

  “Uh, too tight, son.”

  And there it is. Suck-up.

  “Just let me drop off my bag and get a clean shirt.” Pounding footsteps rise up the stairs. “Is Thea in her room?”

  “Last I checked.”

  A lock would be really helpful right now. I search my room for possible material Tom could ridicule me about. The contents of my closet and drawers are strewn across my floor like a robbery scene. Apparently, it was a female robber who stole anything that actually had style or form. No, wait—I never had anything with style or form to begin with.

  I stuff the contents of my underwear drawer back into place and stash the one underwire bra I own into my school bag. The sad truth is that the cream, padded, torture chamber probably hasn’t seen the light of day since my grade eight graduation. Mom insisted on getting it for me as part of my “coming-of-age” gift. Combined with my intro to hipster deodorant, a hot pink BIC razor, and super-thick maxi pads, I’d say it was the most embarrassing gift ever received.

  My door swings open. I toss the rest of the cotton and polyester crime scene into my closet.

  “Like what you’ve done with the place, Frizz.” Tom surveys the floor near my closet.

  “You’re late.” Dang it Thea, compliment him—don’t rattle him. “Nice T-shirt. What band is that?”

  “Wait a minute.” He scans from closet to dresser, his narrowed eyes lingering on the collection of nail polishes, lip gloss, and jewelry strewn across the top.

  A flimsy strap hangs like a spaghetti noodle from my school bag. At a snail-like pace, I saunter in front of it. “Wait for what?”

  “This isn’t just any mess. This is Frizzerella’s-got-a-hot-date mess.” He nods to himself, a smug smile raising the corners of his mouth.

  “I do not—”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Mom or Dad.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.” I sweep the gloss and bangles into the top drawer of the dresser. “I’m hanging out with—”

  He saunters farther into the room. “So, I can tell them you have a bra stuffed in your school bag to go where?” He reaches for my bag.

  “How did you …” I seize the bag and clutch it to my tightening chest. “It’s for Ashley, and it’s none of your business.”

  “That girl doesn’t need any bras from you, Frizz.”

  “Would you stop calling me that?”

  “Thea. Tom.” The bottom stair creaks under Mom’s feet. “Dinner’s on the table. Come down when you can be civil.”

  With a clenched jaw, I stand motionless until Tom saunters past me and out the door. “Next time, knock before you come in.” After dropping my bag in my closet, I exit the room and slam the door, then stride past him toward the stairs.

  “Yes, Princess Frizzerella.”

  My steps slow as the tension from my chest transfers to my clenched fist. But I would regret hitting him. Breathe. Tonight, all I need to do is get dinner over with and exit to Ashley’s without any further confrontations. “Just keep your mouth shut. Please,” I say through gritted teeth.

  He waves a dismissive hand through the air. I’ll take that as a provisional truce. Nights like this, I really wish I could replace him with a sister.

  Dad’s already sitting at the dining room table, his first round of lasagna almost gone by the time Tom and I join them. His Caesar salad lies untouched, crowded to the corner of his plate. I give Mom credit for trying. Anything leafy or green that appears on his plate inevitably ends up in the food waste.

  Garlic wafts from the freshly warmed bread Mom carries to the table.

  “Smells delicious, Mom.” I slide into my seat and scoop a hearty serving of salad onto my plate.

  No sooner has the bread hit the table than two pieces have been claimed by Dad. Mom raises an eyebrow as he reaches for more lasagna. He stare
s directly at her, lifts a second piece, and places it directly on top of his salad.

  “Can’t teach an old dog new tricks,” she says under her breath. She takes the salad tongs from me. “I guess we should just be grateful your father’s decided to join us this evening.” She pitches salad onto her plate.

  Given Dad chose not to eat dinner with us the last three nights, this is an improvement. Although, with the current emotional trajectory, I don’t know if that’s entirely true. Tom seems oblivious to the rising tension and reaches for bread. I will myself to copy his relaxed posture and hyperfocused interest in his meal. Don’t get involved.

  “Thank you for finally cooking something edible, dear.” Dad’s expression is flat, as is his tone.

  Mom closes her eyes; her chest rises and falls with exaggerated effort. This kind of fighting I’m used to tolerating. It’s almost comforting in a weird, dysfunctional way. That being said, Dad usually puts on a better front when his prodigal son is home. Tonight, his teeth-grinding mastication and icicle-like glares show no restraint. Even Woolie, who usually hovers for handouts, scurried to the basement at the first heavy scrape of silverware.

  After what seems like minutes, Tom stops long enough between bites to fill the silence. He starts into his no-fail bonding with Dad over his university classes. For once, I welcome the false charm. We all listen and bob our heads, and Mom even paints on a smile with news of Tom’s first midterm marks.

  I reach for the lasagna spatula, but feel the vibration of my phone in my sweater pocket and decide garlic bread will be faster to wolf down. Ashley must be wondering where the heck I am, but we have a strict no-phones-at-the-table policy for the Fenton feast. Pulling it out to check would be dangerous to my health. Not to mention, Dr. K has probably shared with Mom the whole social media strike I’m supposed to still be on.