|photo by Tara Winstead from Pexels|
My aunt has a gentleman guest—at 2:45 on a Wednesday?
Interesting.
"Thea, darling, come and meet Bobby Caldwell," she says, her arm extended, fingers waving me in like this is all just so fabulous.
Oh no. Oh crap. It's been two weeks since the Wicked Witch threatened me with dialect coaching, but I'll never forget her words: "If Bobby can teach Gwyneth Paltrow to speak with a twang, then surely he can teach you to speak without one."
I clear my throat and say, "Nice to meet ya, Bobby," with the heaviest accent I can muster.
"I prefer Bob," he says, casting a reprimanding glance at dear Auntie Em.
He offers his hand. I pump it enthusiastically. My aunt glares. "Thea has an interesting sense of humor," she tells Bob. "I'll let the two of you get to know each other."
She turns away, struts to her office and closes the door. "I don't want to get rid of my twang, Mr. Caldwell," I say in my normal voice.
"So I've been told."
"But you took the job anyway?"
"I agreed to a consultation because your aunt is very persuasive."
"So I hear."
I'd like to ask Conner to find out if Paige knows anything about my aunt and all of her string pulling, but our friendship hasn't fully recovered. Things have been better this week, though. The anticipation of the Tinsley's Annual Halloween Bash has us all kind of hyped.
"Miss Allen, I have no intention of ridding you of your accent—which, by the way is not as marked as your aunt has implied."
"Welcome to my world," I say and Bob smiles.
"When I teach a British actress to speak with an American accent, I am merely providing her with a tool. It's really no different from learning a foreign language. Do you speak a foreign language, Miss Allen?"
"Do we have to be so formal?"
"I believe it was you who set the standard."
Touché. "I speak French, Bob."
"Would you speak French for me now, Thea?"
"Je ne veux pas de parler français pour vous," I say, which equals, I don't want to speak French for you.
"And yet, you speak it so well and without the merest hint of a twang."
Okay, I kind of like Bob Caldwell.
"In a very short time, I could give you the tools to sound accent neutral whenever you'd like—say if you needed to get a certain annoying relative off your back?"
* * *
Friday morning is crisp and cool, and as I slip into the adorable navy cardigan my aunt bought for me, I connect with that very small soft spot I have for her and I seriously consider Bob's offer.
I talk this over with my lunch buddy while we eat brick oven pizza at a tiny glass table for two on the sidewalk-slash-patio in front of the restaurant. "It sounds like you've already made up your mind," Chase says.
"I don't know," I say, shrugging. "It still feels like I'm giving a piece of myself away—or worse, like I'm giving in to The Transformation."
Chase smiles and it could be interpreted as one of those Thea-is-being-clueless smiles I seem to get from everyone I know. "What?" I ask and he shakes his head. "You do know you're the only real friend I have in this city, right?"
There's a tight, twisting sensation in my chest that has something to do with regret and maybe, betrayal. Because Conner was my first friend here. And our conversations used to be this easy. I still talk to him every day. He's even come to lunch with me and Chase a couple of times.
And yet, somehow I miss him.
Chase contemplates my expression—which I imagine to be wistful and pathetic—and narrows his eyes. Sometimes he reminds me of Megan. Like I think he has that way of knowing exactly what's on my mind.
"You're the only person who doesn't want something from me," I say, baiting him.
He hitches an eyebrow. "I wouldn't go that far."
"I love that you're predictably perverted."
"See, that's what I like about you. Most people fail to appreciate that side of me."
"I like you, too, Chase. Now, tell me why you were shaking your head. What am I missing?"
He takes a huge bite of his pizza and chews slowly, smiling when I snort my impatience. "Living here is going to change you no matter what your aunt does. It already has."
"In what way?"
"Think about it," he says, sounding extra British.
My recent visit to the zoo comes to mind. Last Saturday was a quintessential fall day and I was dying to get outside. But my aunt was sleeping and Chase wasn't answering my texts and there was no way I was spending time alone with Conner. So I went by myself.
Well, Megan was there for the otter exhibit via video chat—because she's obsessed with them—but other than that, I was alone and not entirely uncomfortable. That's definitely new for me.
My phone rings. "Speak of the devil," I say showing him my caller ID.
"The Wicked Witch?" he asks, grinning.
Sometimes I forget Chase doesn't know that Oscar Zachary equals Oz. And I really want to tell him. It only seems fair that if the Scarecrow told the Cowardly Lion, then Dorothy should be allowed to let the Tin Man in on the joke. But every time an opportunity comes—like this one, for instance—I can't get the words out of my mouth.
"It's my new pet name for Aunt Emily," I say, dropping the phone in my purse. "I'll let it go to voicemail."
"You were looking rather proud of yourself before you got that call," Chase says.
"As you say, governor," I agree in a British accent that would make Bob Caldwell cringe.
Chase frowns at me. "I'm sorry," I tell him. "You're right. I have changed—for the better."
"Because you know me?"
"Oh my god. I can't believe you picked up on that—you've seen Wicked?"
His phone rings before he can answer. He looks at it, grimaces and shows me his screen: Emily McMillan.
Crap. "Do you think she knows we're together?"
"Yes," he says. "That would be my fault. Mom asked how we're getting on and I told her about our lunch dates."
If Emily has gone through Jesminda to find me, it could be urgent. I sigh and hold out my hand. Chase gives me his phone. "Hey, it's me. What's up?
"I hate to interrupt your time with Chase, darling, but it's urgent. Where are you?"
"Where are we?" I ask Chase.
"Al's Pizza on Second," he says, loud enough for my aunt to hear.
"I'll be there in two minutes," she says, breathless. "Tell Chase I'm sorry for taking his girl away."
"Aunt Emily, what's going on?"
She doesn't answer. "She hung up," I tell Chase, exasperated and a little worried. "She's picking me up. Here. Now."
* * *
It's an etiquette emergency. I miss two of my toughest classes so my aunt and I can meet with Barbara Kerns-Whitman of the Etiquette Institute of Manhattan to schedule private lessons—in which I will learn: everyday basic etiquette, dining and table manners, how to make positive first impressions using eye contact and body language and how to walk, sit and stand with confidence.
Oh, joy.
Barbara Kerns-Whitman shuffles through the pages of her paper calendar. She doesn't even have a computer on her desk. "I can do..." She shuffles some more. "The next four Wednesdays from 9:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m.?"
"Perfect," my aunt says.
"No," I say. "It's not. That's almost the entire school day."
"You can make it up, darling. I'll make a phone call."
I shake my head and turn back to Barbara Kerns-Whitman. "I'm sorry to waste your time, ma'am, but I came to New York to learn college math." I say this in my most polite voice.
See? I really don't need your lessons.
My aunt stands, lips pursed. "Pencil us in, Barbara. I'll call to confirm this afternoon."
Barbara picks up an actual pencil and writes what I assume is my name in her calendar, on four different pages. I have a strong urge tell her to get a computer so all she'll have to do is press delete when my aunt calls later to tell her there's no way in hell I'm missing four days of school for this crap.
* * *
The car service drops us off in front of the apartment building and Louis, the doorman, greets us with a smile. "A package arrived for you, Miss Allen."
My heart gives a quick thump at the possibility that Glenn has sent me something. Although, I can't imagine one thing that could make up for the fact that he still hasn't called me.
Ass that he is.
"Would you like me to bring it up now?" Louis asks.
"Yes, please."
He opens the door behind the concierge stand and produces a garment bag—and my heart decides to use my stomach as a trampoline. My Dorothy dress has arrived.
The plastic bag is longer than its contents. Louis has to hold it up over his head to keep it from dragging on the ground. His other hand is holding a shopping bag, which holds two pairs of shoes: one white, one silver and secret.
My aunt purses her lips as we watch Louise navigate the elevator doors. "What is all of this?" she asks.
"My dress. For the Allemande."
I am warming up to the idea of going to the ball—which has a lot to do with my ally, Chase. Apparently my attendance will save him from having to escort a girl he's nicknamed, The Fig, for reasons he will not disclose.
Emily unzips the bag and I'm instantly transported back to the dress shop: Dorothy standing in front of her Scarecrow. His eyes warm and...
"I hardly think so, Thea."
My aunt is frowning. Hard.
"Paige Lyons found it for me," I tell her. "And she went through a lot of trouble to find a sample I could try on."
Now my heart feels like it's in a vice made of guilt. I don't know if I'll be able to wear a dress that makes me feel this way, but I press on. "It needs a minor alteration to make it work, but the woman who fitted me says it won't be a problem."
Aunt Emily sighs. It's a big one. I angle my head away from her so she doesn't see my smile.
I model the dress, wearing the white shoes. Emily circles me, lifting the skirt to handle the fabric and tugging at the bodice to check the fit like she's examining an upholstered chair. "Well, I can't fault Paige's taste. And the dress suits you."
The jury is still out. I can tell by the wrinkles in her chin.
"It just doesn't suit the Allemande," she says.
"Paige was so excited when I told her how much I liked it. I'd really hate to disappoint her..."
"I should think Paige would know better." My aunt stops in front of me, shakes her head. "The length is wrong and color is out of the question."
"The length is perfect for a spring dance," I say, smoothing my hands over the blue chiffon at my waist. "And the woman at the dress shop said she could replace this sash with a white one."
Emily cocks her head to one side. "I would have Cassandra make any necessary alterations."
Yes! Victory is mine.
"Okay," I say, "but I'll want her to save this fabric so we can put it back on the dress after the ball. I'm thinking of wearing it to the prom."
My aunt claps her hands together. "Problem solved! You'll wear this dress to the prom and we'll find a more appropriate gown for the Allemande."
"Oh, um..." Crap, crap, crap. "What I mean is, if I go to prom—which I probably won't—I could just wear this dress for both dances."
"Darling, no one wears the same dress to two events."
"Right. Let's forget I even mentioned prom."
"Thea, if you wear that dress to the Allemande you'll stand out—and not in a good way."
"I'll stand out no matter what I wear. That's exactly why this is the perfect dress for me. I don't belong in your world."
Uh-oh. Unintentional knife to the chest. I know this because my aunt covers the point of entry with her hand and winces—but only briefly. "No, you don't," she says, her tone cold and measured. "But you could if you'd let me help you."
"The only help I asked for was a place to stay for nine months so I can finish high school. I didn't sign on to be your Socialite Barbie."
Emily draws a breath like she's about to scream at me. She holds it: the breath and the anger. But her exhale is abnormally loud, kind of like dragon fire. "I believe I've had enough of your attitude," she says, walking toward the bar. "Go to your room, Thea."
I go, but only so I can grab my walking shoes. I'm in desperate need of some wide open space.