The Girl Who Wore Jordans

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Seven

      “Before you say anything, let me just tell you that I’m going to a cocktail party tonight for work—Trevor and Mackenzie should be there. You can come if you want,” were the first words my mother said to me as I got into her car after plausibly one of the worst days of my life. Well, it wasn’t bad, but rather complicated and fucked up.

      “I don’t want to go,” I said quickly, shivering at even the thought of going to one of my mom’s work parties.

      I had been to one—as a punishment—when I was fifteen. Now that was pretty bad. I was forced into wearing this sparkly (BARF) dress and heels (MORE VOMMIT), and had to civilly communicate with all these stuffy people who belonged to the fashion world. I ended up going into a back room with Ashton, Kit’s husband, to catch the remainder of a hockey game. I didn’t even like hockey—that was how terrible the party was.

      “I figured,” she laughed, driving away from the school with a stream of teen drivers, other parents, and buses. “So, how was school?”

      “It sucked,” I grunted, propping my feet up on the dashboard, only to have Monica immediately swat them away.

      “And why did it suck?” she indulged in my negative answer.

      “Because Eric asked me to prom,” I replied with a sigh, anticipating an ear-damaging response from my creator.

      After a long and overly animated shriek that could’ve been mistaken for a murder victim’s, my mother finally took a few intakes of air, and then her enthusiasm subsided somewhat completely. “I already knew that,” she admitted, as we abruptly stopped at a red light.

      “How?” I demanded.

      “Tara texted me,” she confessed sheepishly.

      “Of course she did,” I breathed. “So, did she happen to tell you what else happened?”

      “Yeah,” she nodded, accelerating the vehicle as the sojourn had concluded. “Seriously, Liz? Eric’s, like, perfect and you’re dating him! Why the hell would you say no?”

      “Because,” I shrugged, turning my head to the window to avoid her critical gaze.

      “Shit,” she let a light swear pass, “did Dylan ask you?”

      “Yes,” I said slowly, acknowledging the conclusion that she would instantly jump to, so added, “after Eric did.”

      “Phew!” she exhaled. “So, you’re not going with either of them?”

      “Nope.”

      “Fine by me,” she declared, not even questioning with whom I was going.

      “Hey, mom,” I began, thinking back to what Dylan had said earlier in the day, “can we stop by that gas station—you know, the one on the way home?”

      All day I had been thinking about what had transpired in the morning. Eric was acting distant, but assured me that everything was fine, and that he was just taking time to process everything. I didn’t see Dylan again—something not too surprising, considering the lack of interaction we usually had during the day due to the dearth of classes we shared. School was a complete blur, for all I could focus on were the stupid emotions I had encountered with both Eric and Dylan. It was so fucked up.

      At lunch, I sat with the girls, Eric, and Eric’s friends, as usual. Eric put on a strong façade—smiling, laughing, and speaking charismatically at the appropriate times, but something was off. He acted all couple-y with me, too, by constantly hugging, kissing, and grinning at me. Another side effect of his front. He just seemed…fake. Not Barbie doll fake, but rather a different kind. It was a more of an internal fake.