Ellie frowns. “You’re not ready?”
I snort a laugh, but when Ellie doesn’t join me, I make a face that can only be described as “frog that’s been run over by a truck.” “You know these are the clothes I wore last night, right?”
She lifts a shoulder, looking a little too pleased with herself. “And they look good on you.”
“Almost as good as they smell.” I pinch the collar of my Cubs shirt, pretending to take a whiff. Only when you’ve been wearing the same clothes for two days, there’s really no pretending. I smell rank. “Be down in twenty, ‘kay?”
I take the stairs two at a time and slink into the bathroom, locking the door behind me and stripping down before turning the shower handle all the way to the right. It feels like there’s half an inch of bar grime that needs to be singed off my skin, but speed is the top priority today. The water hasn’t even heated up to the temperature I like by the time I step out and towel off.
I catch my reflection in the mirror, wishing I had showeredlong enough for it to fog. The bags under my eyes are beyond what concealer can save, even if I had the time, and my eyebrows haven’t been tweezed since senior prom. I’m not sure I’d be particularly proud to bring me home to my parents, but I guess it’s nothing that Professor Meyers hasn’t seen before.
Once I’m dry enough not to leave footprint puddles behind me, I sprint across the hall in my towel to dig through my closet, then opt for the first decent, clean outfit I can find: a loose-fitting tan sweater and black jeans. Better than I’ve ever dressed for class but not as nice as I would for our family’s semiannual pilgrimage to Catholic Mass. If only I had a pair of Docs like Ellie’s to give the look the edge it desperately needs.
After two pumps of moisturizer and an ungodly amount of dry shampoo, I deem myselfgood enoughand head back downstairs, where Ellie is posted up at the counter, her back facing me. It’s strange to see her in my parents’ kitchen, almost like we’re in high school again and I volunteered my house for a study session. It’s closer to the truth than I want it to be. After all, she and I are working for a grade. My grade.
“Ready,” I announce, and Ellie jolts a full inch off her stool, a puff of powdered sugar erupting around her as she whips her head over her shoulder. The Tupperware I left out is sealed and waiting at the end of the counter, presumably full of puppy chow, and as I get closer, I see she’s been drawing in the thin layer of powdered sugar on the countertop. There’s half a dozen loops, a handful of hearts, and her own name scrawled in the light dusting of white. Part of me wishes she would’ve cleaned upinstead of finger painting, but another part, an increasingly expanding part, would watch her create anything, even a mess.
“The puppy chow seemed pretty cooled off,” she explains. “So I went ahead and finished up. Hope that’s okay.”
“More than okay. Thanks.” I nod toward her powdered sugar art. “Impressive work,” I say, and her smile comes on all at once.
“Speak for yourself.” Ellie dusts the powdered sugar off her fingertips, her eyes drawing a straight line from my thin gold necklace to my worn wool socks. A buzzy warmth traces the same route along my nerve endings.
“The sweater seemed family friendly,” I say, holding my arms out like a paper doll. “Bland. Nonthreatening. Does it work?”
“It works,” she says, chewing her lower lip. I pause in the silence—a warmer, more inviting silence than any we’ve suffered through today.
“There’s, um.” Her eyes flutter over the crown of my head. “You’ve got some dry shampoo marks.” She gestures toward her own roots, and I rub the heel of my hand against my scalp, trying to remove any proof that this hair hasn’t been properly washed in four days.
“Worst-case scenario, we say it’s powdered sugar,” I joke, then crouch down, leveling the top of my head with her line of vision. “Is it better?”
“Mmm…Just let me.”
Ellie waves me a little closer, then pushes her fingers into my hair and starts fluffing. Her tongue inches past her lips, focused again. So am I, on the crinkle of her brow, the twitch of herbright blue eyes as she tousles the white residue away. Her fingers linger a little longer than they need to, but not nearly as long as I’d like. “There. All better.” She leans back to admire her work. “You look…”
I blink back at her, waiting for her to finish the thought. I look what? Tired? Unshowered? Like a convincing fake girlfriend?
“You look like exactly my type.”
My chest locks tight, and I’ve never been so aware of the volume of my heartbeat or the flutter of my breathy laugh. How am I supposed to respond to that? Breeze past it? Thank her? Go back in time and ask her to homecoming? Before I can iron out the details of time travel, Ellie’s hand floats back up to my scalp, giving my hair another gentle tousle before trailing her fingers down the frame of my face, landing on the stretch of skin just below my earlobe. She’s tender and deliberate, the pads of her fingers resting on a part of me people don’t usually notice or consider or ever, ever touch. But here she is, tracing the shadow of my ears, her fingers searching for the parts of me worth forgetting. My lips part on a breath, the beginning of a question, but Ellie steps back before I can ask.
“Perfect,” she says, admiring her job well done. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you washed your hair today.” With a small smile, she adds, “My mom won’t question a thing.”
Every bubbling feeling in me goes flat.
“Right,” I choke out, forcing a smile of my own. “One totally-has-her-shit-together girlfriend, reporting for duty.”
The twinkle of a ringtone interrupts this sinking ship of a moment.
“Shit.” Ellie jumps down from her stool, and the fingers that rested so gently on my skin moments ago are prying her phone out of her back pocket and holding it up to her cheek. “Hey Mom, yup, almost ready, be over soon.”
If there’s more to the conversation, I don’t hear it over the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. Her mom. Of course. We have a dinner to attend and a show to put on. When Ellie hangs up, she smiles sheepishly, just enough to show her top teeth. “We should go.”
“Sounds good,” I say, but my nervous laugh gives me away. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
I fumble with my sneakers and slip back into my jacket, and at the front door, I watch as Ellie pinches a stray blonde hair off her camel-colored coat, letting it float to the ground next to her. I can’t quite explain why it makes my toes curl. Maybe just knowing there will be evidence that she was here. God, I need to get it together. “Ready?” I ask.
“Yup.” She hands the puppy chow container off to me, but before I can reach for the door, her eyes narrow into that signature Meyers stare. “Real quick, though. I wanted to ask: what made you change your mind?”
