“Oh, no. I don’t need that. And I don’t need the—”
“Okay great. Just let me know if you need anything else.”
With that, the screen went blank. Jada was not one to waste words or time. At first, her curt behavior could come across as rude or unfriendly. But over the past month, I have appreciated her lack of small talk. She got right to the point.
“Who was that?” Ri asked.
“Jada, she’s Nick’s assistant.”
Ri’s jaw dropped. “Nick sent you these?!”
I shrugged my shoulders. Either he had or Jada had, but I doubted she would have without his approval or knowledge.
As Ri flipped through the rack, her face split into a wide smile. “You know what these are?”
“Dresses,” I answered.
“These are your tickets to Pound Town.”
“Stop calling it that. And no, they’re not.”
“Yes, they are. This is how rich people flirt,” she explained as she waved her hand at the rack, spokeswoman style.
I was coming up with a rebuttal when the front door opened and my mother walked in. Her eyes grew to the size of saucers as she beelined to the rack of clothing. “What is all this?”
“I have a work thing, remember?”
“What kind of work thing?”
“She’s going to a gala.” Ri clapped her hands.
“A gala,” my mother repeated with the reverence that one normally reserves for a saint or Mother Theresa.
I’d told her about the fundraiser several times this week, but she hadn’t been interested in it until fancy clothing was involved.
“Try this one on!” Ri shoved a red satin dress at me.
“I can’t wear these!”
“Yes, you can! You have to! It would be rude not to.”
Ri knew all my buttons and when to push them. I had two Achilles’ heels: rudeness and rule-following. I never wanted to be rude or offend anyone, and I always followed the rules.
Grabbing the dress, I went back into my room and shut the door. After peeling off my sweats and stepping into the gown, I slid it up my body. The straps rested on my shoulders as I pulled the zipper on the side of my hip up.
I turned and looked at myself in the mirrored closet and barely recognized the person I saw. It was a floor-length satin dress with a dangerously low back and straps that crisscrossed and spanned my tailbone. It hugged my curves and flared out slightly at the knee. My hands slid down the dress, which felt like it had been specifically tailored for me. I’d never felt more beautiful in my life.
The last time I’d worn a formal dress was as a bridesmaid in Rihanna’s short-lived marriage, but it was not floor-length. Since her favorite movie isThe Wedding Singer, all of her bridesmaids wore ’80s-inspired dresses, that came to mid-thigh. We also rocked fingerless fishnet gloves and side ponytails.
There was a single knock before my mom and Ri opened my bedroom door.
“Holy hot tamale, mama! You look a-maz-zing!” Ri lifted her camera and either took a picture or video of me. It was a crapshoot which one. She loved both.
“It’s like Pretty Woman and Cinderella,” my mother swooned.
I never understood why people thought fairy tales were so romantic. In my experience, no prince had ever come and saved the day. But I had to admit that, as I stared at myself in the mirror, I felt magical.
