The Palmer Pool

21 | Burn

I followed Joan down the stairs to the front entryway, where Nick and Pete were standing with Joan's dad. When he saw me, Pete's eyes widened, the tips of his ears flushed red and then he cleared his throat and said, "You look nice," as he stared at my feet. I wasn't sure if his reaction meant he liked what Joan had done to me or if he thought I looked ridiculous.

Pete and I slid into the leather backseat of Nick's huge maroon sedan and he drove us out to a hall in the country. The inside of the hall was sparsely decorated; there were no flower arrangements or colored lights or white fabric chair covers. But it was full of wedding guests, dressed up and drinking and eating roast beef sandwiches and homemade cookies from the buffet table. There was a live band set up at the end of an open space in the middle of the hall.

"Are you sure it's okay that I'm here?" I asked Pete as we made our way through the room in search of a table. "I wasn't invited."

"Half the people here weren't invited. Not officially, anyway. I think Mr. Kozmirski told all of his customers and everyone at church to come. That's gotta be at least half of the town."

A slightly older, brunette version of Joan waved to us and we squeezed through the aisle to a few empty seats next to her at a long rectangular table. Joan introduced me to her sister, Lois, and her husband, before our attention was drawn to the center of the room where the bride and groom were cutting a three-tiered cake loaded with globs of white frosting. The bride wore a gown with long lace sleeves and her veil spilled from a white cap fastened at the crown of her head. Her wide, dimpled smile accentuated her youthful round cheeks. The groom had on a white jacket and a white bow tie with black pants. Neither of them looked much older than twenty.

"Is she knocked up or something?" I asked Pete in a whisper.

"Well, I don't know. I guess we'll find out in a few months."

Then he studied me with a strange look on his face: a mixture of bewilderment, longing and humor.

"What?" I snapped as I cast a side-eyed glance at him.

"You look different," he said with a smile.

Of course he would like this look. My long, loose hair tamed into a neat, socially acceptable updo. My freckles concealed by a mask of makeup. I looked like every other girl there.

"I sure do. I'm a little offended actually."

"What for?"

"For enlisting Joan to make me look like a girl you'd rather be seen with."

"Hey now, I only asked Joan to help you find something to wear. Looks like she got a little carried away." He leaned closer to sneak into my line of vision, which was purposely directed away from him. "I think you look beautiful."

"Thanks," I responded curtly.

"And you have to admit, you fit in a bit better."

"And that's what's most important isn't it? Wouldn't want anyone to think I was a non-conformist. Or a feminist. Or a Communist. Right?"

A balding man with glasses and a navy suit coat a couple of seats away turned to shoot me a disapproving look.

"Keep your voice down," Pete scolded. I was about to snap back until I saw how serious he'd become. "You're right," he said quietly, "you don't want anyone to think you're a Communist."

"I'm sorry. I guess I don't feel like myself all done up like this, that's all."

"Don't worry, I can tell you're still you, Vanessa. All the makeup in the world can't hide what comes out of your mouth."