Catered

Chapter Twenty-Four: Breakfast at the Gala (Aria's POV)

            “Marianas Trench,” he mumbles.

            “Is there a subliminal message in this too?” I ask with a smirk.

            “God, Aria, chill. Not everything has some deep meaning,” he says.

            “I was just joking,” I say, feeling like a chastised child.

            “Okay. Deep breath for both of us,” he says.

            We inhale and exhale.

            “Were you a yoga teacher in some past life?” I ask.

            “Maybe,” he replies.

            We turn on a movie. Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

            “This is such a chick movie,” I say.

            “It’s a classic,” he says.

            “Whatever. Might as well come out and admit your love for The Notebook,” I reply.

            He laughs, and we watch. Until we get distracted by, um, more important things.

            Later, as I’m about to leave, he stops me. “What’s the deal with the gala?” he asks.

            “Oh, you have to rent a tux and fancy shoes. Get all clean and spiffy and stuff. Be at my house by seven,” I say.

            “Kay. See ya,” he says, leaning down to kiss me.

            On Tuesday afternoon, I decide to rekindle my search for my father. This time, I narrow my search, doing some quick math to figure out how old he would’ve been and what year he was born. Then I add in some other little details.

            Just as I’m about to click on a link that seems to have some real potential, my mom rushes in.

            “What are you doing? Go shower and dress!” she shrieks.

            I click on the link and a picture of a blue-eyed, dark-skinned guy pops up. He’s holding a guitar. Underneath the photo is a caption reading, Daniel Basto, member of Bran.

            Bingo.

            At first, I just shake my head. Bran? Who names a band Bran? Meanwhile, my mom rifles through my closet to pull out my plastic-covered dress.

            “Mom?” I ask.

            “What? Why aren’t you in the shower yet?” she yells.

            “Is this what my dad looked like?” I ask.

            She rushes over to my screen and looks. “Holy shit,” she whispers. “Go shower.”

            I’ll take that as a yes.

            Twenty minutes later, I’m showered and curling my hair.

            My mom comes in as I’m pulling back my hair.

            She rushes in and takes all the pins out of my hair. “You’re doing it all wrong.”

            A few minutes and a lot of jabbing later, I have this really pretty, really complex bun thing going on.

            Then it’s time to smoosh into a dress and heels, or as I call them, hells. I’m tall, so heels serve no purpose other than to stop my foot circulation and create discomfort.

            My dress is actually really awesome, one of the better picks. It’s long, with a flowy, princess-style skirt and strapless, sweetheart neckline. It’s made of this peach, gauzy fabric that hugs just the right spots without showing too much.

            I struggle into it, then plop on the couch to wait for Austin. At six forty-five, the doorbell finally rings and I rush to answer it, practically tripping over my dress.

            He’s wearing a tux with a bowtie and cummerbund, the whole nine yards. His shoes are shiny and polished, and his hair is neat and combed. His jacket is just draped over his shoulders because of his arm. 

            “Hey,” he says. “How do I look?”

            I look him up and down. “You don’t look like yourself.”

            “Bad or good?” he asks.

            “But….you look freaking awesome!” I break out into a grin. “Get in here, you handsome little freak.”

            He smirks. When Ned and my mother finally emerge, we get going. In the car, my mother coolly eyes Austin.

            “You clean up nicely,” she says.

            “Thank you,” he replies politely.

            When we finally get to the venue, this huge ballroom, it’s a lot of smiling and pictures before I can plop down with Austin to eat.

            By the time I do sit down, Austin’s well into his third helping.

            “I haven’t eaten food this good in a long time,” he comments.

            I plop down and eat along with him. Then, eventually, my mom comes over and hisses at me to go and dance.

            So dance we do. I’m surprised at Austin’s skill. Even with a broken arm, he's a better dancer than me.

            As we’re waltzing, I ask Austin, “Where’d you learn to dance?”

            “My father and mother taught me. They love the big-band music, so they taught me to dance,” he replies.

            “Impressive,” I reply.

            We dance in silence until he mumbles, “I like you better with your hair down.”

            He reaches to pull the pins out of my hair, but I stop him. “Don’t you dare. You know how much jabbing it took to get my hair like this?”

            He ignores me and pulls the pins out of my hair, tucking them into his pocket. “I like you much better like this.”

            He kisses my neck, and I have to stop him before he gives me a hickey or some shit. “Austin!” I hiss.

            He stops, and we take a break for a drink. That’s when I spot the devil, a.k.a. Derek. He’s with some chick with huge boobs. That are totally hanging out.

            “Shit,” I mutter.

            “What?” Austin asks. “Is that Derek?”

            “Yup,” I reply.

            “What’s with that chick’s boobs? They look like bags of tapioca pudding.”

            I laugh as Derek comes over. “Hello, Aria.”

            “Hello. Derek, this is Austin.”

            Austin shakes his hand cordially as Derek coughs, “Sloppy seconds.”

            Austin clearly picks up on it, since he turns to me, appalled.

            “Ignore him.”

            Because as any seasoned idiot knows, ignorance is bliss.