She drops her bag to the bleachers and pulls out a protein drink. “I already told the principal you’d do it. You can’t back out now.” She takes a tiny sip then puts the drink in her bag.
“I wasn’t backing out. I was only wondering if you had a dress yet?”
Her eyes drop to her tennis shoes—the ones that are being held together with a piece of duct tape. None of the girls seem rich by any means, but if my observations over the last month are correct, Diedre is lacking the most. I came up with a plan last night—during the ten minutes when Iwasn’tthinking about Connor—but I don’t know if Diedre will go for it.
“I might just wear jeans. The whole dress thing is so old school.” She grabs the drink out of her bag and takes another small sip like she’s scared to take too much, or is she rationing it? Is she getting enough to eat at home?
I shrug. “You can if you want. Or, since you were the one who roped me into the whole prom thing, I was thinking of returning the favor.” I let my words hang in the open, waiting for her to take the bait.
“What do you mean?”
I grab a ball and toss it nonchalantly between my hands. “My best friend works at Lisa’s in the mall. She’s kind of new to the fashion world, but she’s been begging me to find more models for the dresses she’s designing. Now, I can’t promise it won’t fall apart, but it would be unique,” I finish quickly, hoping she buys it. Also hoping Lyndi really does have some magic in her and can make a dress in only two weeks. She told me last night when I talked to her about my plan that she would figure it out.
Diedre bites her bottom lip, considering. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Well, if it helps, it would be free, so you wouldn’t be out any money. And you’d be helping my friend get better at what she loves.” What else can I say to sweeten the deal?
She nods slowly. “Okay. I guess so. I can always buy a new one if I hate it,” she says more confidently now.
“Of course.” I smile. The hard part is over. “Are you free tonight? We can run down, so she can get some measurements.”
“I could make some time.”
“Would your mom like to come?” I ask then immediately regret it when her face scrunches.
“No. She has better things to do,” Diedre says and pulls out her phone, effectively putting an end to our conversation.
It’s working. I want to clap my hands and jump up and down, but for obvious reasons, I refrain. I turn away and text Lyndi, confirming the plan.
Lyndi:I’ll have everything ready at 5:30.
The rest of the girls filter in and practice gets started. And for the next blessed hour and a half, I’m able to push Connor fully out of my mind. Okay, mostly out of my mind. But it’s easier to do with these girls. I feel more comfortable here than I ever did in a courtroom. Why did I ever think being a lawyer would make me happy?
***
Two hours later, Diedre and I arrive at Lisa’s. It’s nearly empty and Lyndi has already pulled about seventeen dresses, claiming she wants to get a visual for style and color. I know what she’s really doing is giving Diedre a moment to remember, a chance to feel beautiful, and I love her for it.
Lyndi calls the food court for a pizza delivery then starts putting Diedre into dresses.
I prop my sore ankle on the edge of the couch and settle into the soft cushions.
Diedre steps out in the first dress, a classic pink, princess ball gown. Her long black hair falls around her shoulders and she is absolutely gorgeous. But the moment she sees herself in the mirror she frowns.
“I don’t think this is really my style.” She returns to the room almost as quickly as she emerged.
The next dress is a beautiful baby blue with a mermaid fit. Diedre doesn’t even bother looking at her reflection.
“It makes me look fat,” she says, already retreating to the dressing room.
Lyndi blocks her exit. “Sorry. That word doesn’t exist in this store,” Lyndi says, shaking her head. “You are stunning in that dress. Turn.”
Diedre doesn’t move. Lyndi grabs her hand and pulls her around until she’s standing in the middle of the full length mirrors. Diedre folds her arms with a huff and glares at her reflection.
I grip the edge of the couch. Was this a bad idea? I still barely know Diedre, she might hate me for overstepping.
“My butt is too big,” Diedre mutters.
“Those are called curves, darling, and they are to die for,” Lyndi says with her comforting mom voice.
