“Whoa there,” says Hattie. “Are you getting dressed up?” She stands up and leaves her book facedown on the bedspread.
“If by dressed up you mean I’m wearing a dress that doesn’t have pizza grease stains on it, then yes.”
“You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
“I’m hanging out with Freddie.”
She glances to me and then to the two dresses in my hands.
“We’re going out and I don’t know where, so I don’t want to look stupid.”
“It’s not like it’s a date or something,” she says.
And when I don’t respond, she takes the dresses from my hand and hangs them on the doorknob before forcing me to sit on the bed.
“When you say you two are going out...”
I take a deep breath.
“Ramona Blue, you know this house is too small for secrets.”
And that’s the truth, isn’t it? Maybe that’s why I haven’t told anyone about what’s happened between us, because for once I’d like to have a secret to myself. But Hattie is my sister, and hiding from her is as easy as fitting a car through a keyhole.
“Freddie’s taking me on a date. I think.”
Her face looks like I’ve smacked her with a frying pan. “What does that even mean?” she finally asks.
“For me?” It hits me like a brain freeze. Part of me thinks I’ve been avoiding this question all week and part of me thinks the only reason I feel the need to answer it is because someone asked. But regardless, I don’t know the answer.
“Listen,” she says, “I get that your options here are limited, but you don’t want to mess stuff up with Freddie just because you’re bored.”
“I’m not bored,” I tell her. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, I’m here if you want to talk.” She tucks her paperback under her arm. “Wear the cat dress.”
After she leaves, I slip the cat dress over my head and glance in the mirror. She’s right.
TWENTY-FIVE
After styling my hair into two braids that crisscross over my head like a messy headband and putting on my boots, I wait for Freddie out front.
I watch as Bart’s truck, his beloved 1948 Chevy pickup, rocks over the potholes toward my trailer. I wonder how much talking Agnes had to do in order for Freddie to borrow it.
He hops out of the driver’s side and pauses for a moment as his eyes drink me in. “Well, you look lovely, but as promised...” He holds out a black tuxedo T-shirt for me that perfectly matches the one he’s wearing with his dark-wash jeans shredded on one knee and high-top sneakers.
His cheeks flush, making his orangey freckles stand out even more than usual.
“You look pretty,” he says. “You are pretty, I mean.”
I slip the T-shirt over my head, mussing up my already messy hair. “Thanks.” But my voice is too low for him to hear.
He opens the passenger door for me before joggingaround the front of the truck to his side.
He flips through radio stations restlessly as we drive out of town.
“Where are we going?”
“Not far. I don’t think.”
