I'D COMPLETELY FORGOTTEN I'd bought my prom dress back in January, until I came home from work this afternoon, and found the dress hanging on the back of my bedroom door.
"Um, Mom?" I call down the stairs, having found the dress after going into my room to change out of my work clothes.
Her face appears at the bottom of the stairs, peering up at me and wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. "Yeah?"
"Why is there a dress hanging in my room?" I point over my shoulder towards the door she can't actually see.
Mom cocks her head to the side. "Your dad called when it got delivered to his apartment last week, asking what to do with it. I asked him to send it here."
Now, I know that's a lie. My dad is still pissed off that I bailed on the Columbia interview and left New York without telling him. He hasn't talked to me since, which leads me to believe Mom had to use some pretty, pretty words to get him to send this dress.
"Why?"
She furrows her brow, looking puzzled by my twenty-questions. "It's your prom dress, Peyton. I assumed you would want to wear it to your prom."
"Mom," I heave a sigh. "I'm not going to prom."
I'm pretty sure my mom has been preparing for her only daughter to go to prom since she found out I was a girl. Even as absent as she was before the divorce, I could always count on her to gush about gowns and shoes and hairstyles. She'd been so excited when I'd been asked to the prom as a junior, and now that my time has come to go to my own celebration, I'm basically crushing her dreams.
"Peyton, honey," she starts, and I know I'm in for it. "I know things have been rough for you lately, and I'm so sorry for that. But you've been waiting for your prom since Junior High. Are you sure you don't want to go? At least for a little bit?"
With a sigh, I walk down a couple of steps and sit on the worn carpet halfway down the staircase. "Mom, it's not your fault things blew up. I played with fire, and I ended up getting burned."
She leans against the wall, her lips twisting into a sad smile. "And you've taken responsibility for that. I'm very proud of you for that, by the way."
Telling my mom the things I had done was possibly the hardest part of this whole situation. When I said my actions had no consequences at the time, I'd thought it was because my parents didn't care what I did, as long as the family name remained intact. But when I'd sat down on the couch with Mom and told her everything, she'd burst into tears.
Turns out, my father's indiscretions ran deeper than just affairs.
I was fully aware my father had swept some of my more colorful misdemeanors and behaviors under the rug over the years. More than a handful of strategic donations to the school had gotten me out of many detentions, usually for truancy or dress-code violations. I'd never been arrested for underage drinking, and not because I'd never gotten caught. No, because my father was friends with the police commissioner, as well as the mayor, and was very supportive of his campaign come election time. What I didn't know was that he'd kept it all from my mom as well. Sure, she knew about me stumbling home drunk on weekends and skipping class once in a while. But she didn't know about the worst of it, not by a long shot.
She remembered Layla-Mai's name in passing, having heard from a friend of a friend that the senator's step-daughter was in rehab. But she hadn't realized we'd been "friends". Didn't know her own daughter had humiliated such a promising young girl to the point where she'd done what she did. The look on her face when she found out... I'll never feel like such a disappointment more than I did in that moment.
In the same shaky, tearful breath she'd told me she was proud of me for admitting to my mistakes and trying to turn things around. And she keeps on telling me. So I return her sad smile now, telling her that I do know, even if I can't bring myself to believe her, because she's my mom and it's her job to say things like that.
"I'm perfectly alright spending the night with you and Yiayia. I mean, I've had my debutante ball and I got to go to prom last year," I assure her. "That's more than some of the kids here have got. Hell, you only went to one prom and you turned out alright."
She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth turns up in a grin. "Well, I'm not letting that dress go to waist, young lady. Your grandmother would have a coronary if she saw the price tag and heard you don't plan on wearing it."
It's true. Recalling the price I'd paid with dad's credit card, I shudder. The same cash could probably pay the bills for the rest of the year.
"Fine," I concede. Then I point a finger at my mom, mustering up faux intimidation. "But if I'm putting it on just for pictures and Yiayia, I'm telling her to bring your old dress too. I want to see what you crazy kids wore back in the day."
We both start laughing, and she tells me she'll have my grandmother dig her old dress out of the closet. But I don't trust her, so as soon as I head back to my room I pull out my phone and call her myself.
At five o'clock in the afternoon, the salon in town is probably beyond busy helping girls prep and primp themselves to perfection. Those who couldn't afford to go out, or who were too late trying to book and appointment in a town with exactly five hairstylists and maybe four estheticians, are probably piled in a room with their friends getting ready. Elsewhere, guys are probably pre-gaming and thinking about scoring tonight, because the male species doesn't require nearly half the time or hair products.
Meanwhile, I'm sitting in the living room in a pair of sleep shorts and an old tee, with my mom and my grandmother, trying to settle on the first movie we'll be watching tonight. Yiayia is in favor of Mamma Mia!, while Mom, who could watch any Brat Pack movie seventeen thousand times and not get tired of them, wants Pretty in Pink. I am the deciding vote, but it's not even a decision.
"You hate musicals!" Mom accuses when I side with my grandmother.
"Yeah, but I like food," I counter with a shrug. "And since Yiayia is cooking tonight, she's my favourite person and has my unending support in this."
Mom curses, the Greek words rolling off her tongue like she didn't spend seventeen years hardly speaking a word of the language. Now, I can't imagine not hearing them. Even if Yiayia does start nagging her about foul language while I pull up the movie on the TV.
The first few lyrics of "Dancing Queen" are being sung when the doorbell rings. My grandmother, who is shamelessly singing along to every word, hardly notices, but I'm grateful for the opportunity to spring off the couch.
"I'll get it," I say, beating Mom as I half-sprint to the front door. Do I know why the doorbell is ringing on a Saturday evening? No. Do I care? Nope.
I unlock the deadbolt— because city habits die hard— and open the door, only to find the last person I expected standing on the door step.
Okay, so there are probably a dozen or so people that I'd expect to see less than the girl in front of me, but I'm still so surprised that I have to repeat her name like I think I'm hallucinating.
"Liza?"
She looks at me like I'm stupid, which, admittedly, I deserve. "I'm not the pizza man, that's for sure."
I think that might've been a joke, but I'm too confused to laugh. "Come in," I say automatically, stepping back so she can come inside. "I mean, if you want."
"Yeah," she says, slipping past me and into the hallway. "I need to talk to you."
I motion for her to head up the stairs. Whatever she wants to say is probably best to be said in the privacy of my room, away from the prying ears of my gossip-mongering family.
The song on the television ends and my grandmother looks over at us heading for the stairs. "Eliza Newman, don't you dare walk into this house without saying hello," she scolds in that loving way only grandmothers can.
Eliza pauses and looks back over her shoulder. "You know, you're way too observant for an old bat. Aren't you guys supposed to go deaf in your old age?"
Coming from anyone else, Yiayia probably would've gotten off the couch and smacked them for their attitude. But she only smiles fondly at Eliza. "Just you wait until you're an old bat like me, young lady. We'll see how much you like all that metal in your pretty face when you're as wrinkly as a raisin."
A genuine laugh comes out of Eliza's mouth and she sticks her pierced tongue out at my grandmother. "So you keep telling me, Philippa. I'll see you in a bit."
Eliza saunters you the stairs and I follow, calling behind me for them to keep the movie playing. I find Eliza in my room, looking completely out of place on my white bed. "I thought you'd be getting ready for prom," I tell her, closing the door behind me.
"I was on my way to Addie's," she explains, picking at a hangnail with her teeth. There's a fresh coat of black nail polish on her fingernails, which are usually torn-up and colored with a Sharpie. "But I walked past your house and realized there are a few things that need to be said."
I nod, leaning my hip against my dresser. "Okay. Go ahead, I don't want you to be late."
Eliza's face screws up like there's rotten eggs in front of her. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't act all soft and spineless with me," she sneers, then she rolls her eyes and takes a breath. "You did a really shitty thing, Peyton. But you never claimed to be Mother Theresa in the first place. We've all got a history, and you just happen to have been an awful person before."
I flinch at her blunt remark, but it doesn't seem to faze Eliza as she continues. "You're not that person anymore. You haven't hurt a fly since you got here, no matter how much of a bitch Clary's been. In fact, you've done nothing but prove to us you can be a good friend and a good person. If that's not proof you've changed, I don't know what is. So stop acting like you're a parolee on their best behavior. Just be your damned self."
An exasperated sigh escaped me, and I rake my hands through my unbound hair. "Don't you think I want that?" I ask her, mostly rhetorically. "It's hard to just go back to normal when everything has changed. I mean, you're the only one who's even spoken to me since we got back."
Something softens in Liza's eyes. "Okay, so you have a point. But you gotta know that hearing that Regina George wannabe basically telling her she was being used by you really threw Addison for a loop. Especially when you're the first person she's really opened up to in pretty much her whole life."
"I do know that," I say with a sigh. Feeling slightly exhausted by this conversation, the past month and a long day at work, I half fall onto my bed. "You know, I didn't even intend to make friends when I moved here," I say out of no where. "I just wanted to finish senior year and go back home to New York. But then Addy asked me to be her partner on some history project, and then I met you, and suddenly I don't even consider New York home anymore. This," I tell her, motioning to my tiny bedroom, "Rock Valley, became my home. You guys became my home. And I would do anything to get that friendship back."
Eliza's eyes are surprisingly caring as she slumps down on the bed beside me. "Okay, you're making me feel depressed, and I don't like it. So let's be clear– you don't need to get my friendship back. You never lost it."
"Seriously? But... How?"
"Because I already knew all that shit." With a shrug, Eliza continues. "Not once did it change my opinion of you."
Now I'm confused. "What do you mean you already knew?"
Liza seems to hesitate for a moment before she comes out and says it. "I've got secrets of my own, you know. And my best kept, at least from you, is that I live with the devil incarnate."
I have to blink a few times before I understand what she's saying. But then it clicks. "Wait, you don't mean–"
"Yup," she cuts me off. "My mom married Clary's dad when we were twelve. Neither of us like to advertise it. Anyways, she told me soon after she found out herself. Thought it would make me turn against you, or some dumb shit."
My brows shoot up. "So that means you've known for weeks? And you never said anything about it?"
"It's not our business to know everything about your past, Peyton. It was obvious you wanted a fresh start, so why dredge up old ghosts? Besides, it's like I said, you've done nothing but prove to me you can be a good friend and a good person."
I've known since I met Eliza Newman that she is hardly a touchy-feely person. But in this moment, she's said all the things I've needed so badly to hear. So despite the fact that she may kill me, I throw my arms around her and hug her tight. Her body is rigid, which doesn't surprise me at all. But she also doesn't attempt to throw me off, which I take as a win.
It lasts about ten seconds before I put her out of her misery and let go. I wipe at a tear I hadn't noticed slipping down my cheek and laugh. Eliza has a crooked half-smile on her face, which is about the equivalent to a giant grin on some. I didn't think I'd see that when I woke up today, but I'm certainly not looking this gift horse in the mouth.
A phone buzzes, and she pulls her beat-up android out of her back pocket. Squinting to read through a nasty crack across the screen, Eliza curses colorfully.
"What's up?" I ask, flopping back on my bed with a huff.
"It's Addison," she says quickly, and I immediately sit back up. I don't ask her to elaborate, but she does anyway. "Her neighbor came over with her kids, and apparently one of the snot-nosed brats spilled grape juice on her dress. She's freaking out."
The curse words that come out of my mouth are even more colorful than Liza's. And bilingual. "Did she try cold water, detergent and vinegar?"
Liza rolls her eyes, but types out a quick reply on her phone. A moment later, the phone buzzes again with a reply. "She says they tried cold water, but it's an old dress. You can still see the purple. She can't wear it."
Addie had been so ecstatic when she'd shown me her prom dress just before we went to New York. In typical Addie fashion, she'd chosen one of her grandmother's old dresses– an old bridesmaid dress Pauli had worn at her friend's wedding in 1968, that Addie had altered to make less puff-sleeved. It was a perfect creamy yellow that would absolutely be easy prey for dark purple grape juice. A dry-cleaner could probably get the stain out, but not in the next few hours before the dance.
My eyes dart to the dress bag hanging on the back of my bedroom door. Months ago, in another life, I'd been beyond excited to put on a dress that wouldn't even be on the racks until after Fashion Week. It had been a favor from one of Mom's design friends, one that would provide good press for the designer if I posted a million pictures online, and would get my picture in the best-dressed section on all of the best blogs. Now, looking at the white bag, I felt like it had been nothing but a waste of fabric that wouldn't see the light of day.
I hop up off my bed and walk over to the door, reaching out and grabbing the hanger, gathering the bag in my arms. Then I turn to Eliza, whose eyes are on her phone. I hold out the bag to her. "Here. Take this to Addie."
Eliza looks up at the gathered white satin in my arms and raises a brow. "What's that?" she asks.
"It was supposed to be my prom dress. But, seeing as I'm not going to the prom, I think Addie will enjoy it more than I ever could. She'll look gorgeous in it," I tell her with a smile, before adding, "Ethan will be speechless."
She doesn't hesitate. "No."
My brows furrow in confusion. "What?"
"I'm not taking the dress to her," Liza reiterates as she gets up off my bed. "You are."
"Liza–"
"No. If you want to give Addison that dress, which I know you do, you'll walk your ass up to her front door and give it to her yourself. Don't just sit on your ass and wallow until graduation. Make amends, Peyton. This is how."
Standing at Addison's front door, I bounce on the balls of my feet. I quickly changed into leggings and a blouse before getting in the car with Liza, but I think I still smell mildly of the diner.
Liza looks at me and shakes her head. "For shit's sake, you're a wreck. I think your anxiety is giving me hives."
I mumble a rude insult just as she pushes open the front door, not bothering to knock. Eliza steps inside, but I hang back on the front stoop.
She notices, and looks back at me over her shoulder. "If you don't get your sorry ass in here, I will grab you by your too-perfect hair and drag you in here."
A voice calls from the kitchen, "Hello, Eliza! It's nice to see you're in a good mood!" Natalie pokes her head out as I step inside and close the door behind me. She smiles warmly at me, which makes me feel all kinds of guilty. "Hello again, Peyton."
We exchange pleasantries and Natalie tells us Addison is upstairs in her room. "I'm glad you two are here. Together, I'm sure you three can figure something out to fix this little mess."
With a wave from Liza, we head up the stairs to Addie's room. The door's closed, and yet again, Liza barges right in. And, again, I hang back out of sight.
"Alright, Cinderella," Liza chimes as soon as she enters the room. "Clean up your snot and start dolling up your pretty face, your fairy godmother has arrived, new dress in tow."
There's a sniffle I know for certain is Addison's, and my heart squeezes in my chest. "Eliza, I love you," she sniffs. "But I'm not wearing anything that came out of your closet."
"Oh, it didn't come out of mine," Eliza says, and peers out the door long enough to grab hold of my arm. "It's from her's."
Eliza pulls me into Addison's room roughly, and I squawk as I trip over my feet.
Addison looks like a deer in the headlights as she stares at me standing in her room.
"Hi, Addie," I say quietly, brushing hair out of my face. I backtrack in the tension. "Liza– Liza made me come."
"Oh," Addison says sadly, a frown creasing her mouth.
Realizing how that sounds, I try again. "I didn't mean it like that. I meant– I meant she asked me to come, because I wanted her to give you something." I hold up the dress bag like it's some magnificent explanation. "I heard about your dress. I'm so sorry, and I know it's not the same but... this is mine. I thought it would look pretty on you, and I know you need a dress, so... here."
Addison looks at the dress bag, eyes wide. But she doesn't reach for it. "That's your dress."
I nod, and walk over to hang it up on the vintage mirror sitting in the corner. Then I unzip the bag.
"It's Breonna Carmichael, not that that's important, but I think you'd like her. She uses vintage designs and adds modern flair," I explain as I free the dress from the bag. The beige tulle skirt brushes the floor, flowing up into a sweetheart bodice and flutter sleeves. The entire bodice is encrusted with tiny shimmering crystals that overflow into the skirt, giving the illusion of quite literally dripping in jewels. "It reminds me of you," I tell Addison, not turning back to face her just yet. "That vintage, classic underneath, glittering and bright on top."
There's a beat of silence. Then, a quiet, "Peyton–"
I turn around in a bluster of pent of unspoken words and emotions, and let it all out. "I'm so unbelievably sorry, Addie. I just want you to know that there was never a game or ulterior motive behind our friendship. I never saw you as anything but a friend, and a sister, and I never wanted to hurt you. The only reason I didn't tell you about my past was because I'm ashamed of myself, and I was afraid you'd be disgusted and hate me. I was trying to be a better person– I'm still trying– and so much of that is because of you, and Eliza, and this life here. And I miss you, I miss our friendship, but I hardly expect you to forgive me. I just need you to know, Addie, that I'm sorry."
I am a blubbering mess by the time I finish rambling. By the blank expression on Addison's face, I'm not even sure I made sense. I think it's time I break a clean break and leave her Eliza to their evening.
"I just wanted you to have the dress," I say, waving at the gown behind me before letting my hands fall uselessly back to my sides. "It's your prom, and you deserve to walk into that gymnasium looking as radiant to everyone else as you always do to us." Without another word, I turn on my heel and head for her bedroom door.
I make it all of two steps.
"Wait, Peyton," Addison calls out, and I turn around to see her on her feet, looking at me with shimmering eyes and a sad smile. "I miss you too."
She moves first, walking up to me and wrapping me up in the Addie hug I've need for weeks. Then it's my turn to be rigid, surprised by her actions. But it only lasts a heartbeat before I melt into the hug. And for the first time since our New York trip, the tears that slip out of my eyes aren't from sadness or loneliness.
They're from the relief of finally coming home.
Who's ready for the last chapter? 'Cause I'm only a few hundred words away from finishing it and I can't handle it. Figured I'd get y'all caught up before it goes live on Inkitt. Any theories?
For a final time...
Until next time, enjoy this heavily accurate Betty White gif, which perfectly describes how I feel.
Lots of love ...