If It Makes You Happy Page 11

  Why couldn’t knowing I was happy with myself be good enough for Granny?

  Reaching out of the tub, I shook out my hands, called Kara, and put it on speakerphone.

  I loved the way Kara sounded on the phone.

  Well, I loved almost everything about Kara, but Phone Voice definitely made top five. She didn’t sound too different—her signature husky and measured tone, the same throaty laugh, and the same staccato wordless sounds of agreement when I said something: “Mmmm … mmm-hmmm,” or “acccccckkk,” her duck noise of displeasure and disagreement.

  During our months apart, her voice became one of my favorite sounds, because not being able to see her changed the game. I imagined the way her lips formed around her words, the animated way she gestured with her hands for emphasis, and the absolute radiant joy in her eyes as she laughed. Absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder—that sneaky mastermind imagination hosted that show.

  Kara answered, not bothering to say hello. “I have been WAITING all morning. I need updates!”

  “The walk-sort-of-run went okay. I didn’t die.”

  “Woo!”

  “But I think Granny thinks it’s cool to try and put me on a diet.”

  “Boo!”

  “I know. Trying to figure out what to do about that.”

  “Talking is usually the best answer.”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “Hers. Bottling up until you explode is no bueno for anyone. I like my Winnie at DEFCON Five and smiling, thanks.”

  “I don’t explode.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Whatever.”

  God, I needed that.

  Sixteen

  Miss Jepson didn’t have a shop in the Misty roundabout. She operated her business out of the den in her house in the third section. On Misty’s side, Mayor Iero couldn’t be bothered to police historical house reconstruction and let homeowners do whatever.

  First section: the occupational district, filled with the people who lived in the apartments above their businesses, like Granny and Kara’s family.

  Second section: the closest Misty got to suburbia. The houses didn’t look alike but were built with little space between them and had front lawns, neighborly rules, and exclusive block parties where they barbecued and ordered side dishes from Goldeen’s and desserts from Meltdown. It was also the place where you’d be most likely to meet Ned Flanders reincarnated.

  Third section: mostly spaced-out ranch-style houses. Small farms; pools or ponds galore; and almost everyone had animals, pets or livestock.

  Miss Jepson looked after a feral cat colony that lived behind her house and rescued rabbits. No one knew why, but it worked for her.

  I walked up her front steps, knocking on the painted green wood panel of the screen door. A calico cat slept unbothered on the porch swing. Two tuxedo cats stared at me from inside the house. None of them actually belonged to Miss Jepson. The feral cats kept their distance, but random strays never stopped showing up for food; snuggles; and a comfortable, safe place to sleep.

  “Yo,” I said, knocking again and ignoring my potential new friends. I didn’t dislike cats, just knew all of their tricks. You had to act disinterested to get them to take an interest in you. A long con worth waiting for.

  “Coming, dear! Coming!” Miss Jepson called. Canadian by birth, she’d missed Old Hollywood by several thousand miles and decades, but I’d never heard her speak without her signature Katharine Hepburn accent.

  The indoor cats turned tail and met her as she stomped toward the front door. She’d always walked hard, like she was used to wearing heavy shoes but had forgotten she’d taken them off.

  “Hi, Miss Jepson.”

  “Winnie! Darling! Prompt as ever.”

  I stepped back to give the screen door space to swing open, and Miss Jepson joined me on the porch, giving me a huge hug, rocking me back and forth and everything.

  She always smelled like lemons.

  “Oh, let me look at you,” she said, pulling back but still holding me at the shoulders. Her warm brown eyes looked tired. A few more lines had settled in around her mouth. She hadn’t bothered to dye the patches of gray hair rooting around her edges this summer, and her warm brown skin looked as radiant, and moisturized, as ever. “Ah! Such a beauty. Your mother must be beside herself with pride.”

  I laughed, holding back an eye roll. “Sure.”

  “Well come in, come in!”

  And in we went.

  When I was little, before Sam and Winston joined me in Haven Central and when Granny was busy, this was where I’d end up—hanging out with Miss Jepson, the cats, and the rabbits. She was the only person Granny trusted enough to watch me. Which was probably my fault. I’ve been hardheaded my whole life and went through a pretty intense daredevil phase for a while.

  I liked to jump off of things for fun. Porches, chairs, stairs, balconies—the higher the better. It took dislocating my shoulder during a botched roof-to-pool leap of faith to make me give up my adrenaline-junkie ways.

  Miss Jepson had hovered and fussed over me while at the hospital until Granny arrived and said, “Betcha won’t do that again, will you?”

  Nope. Mortality was real and scared the hell out of me.

  Miss Jepson led the way down the short hall toward the back of her house to her office. Fabrics of all kinds and colors decorated the room, along with sewing busts, ancient-looking treasure chests, a multitude of sewing machines, a burgundy love seat, and a good-sized wooden worktable stationed just below the one window in the room.

  “Let’s see.” She turned the pages of the familiar leather-bound book, saying my name with each flick of her fingers and the page. “Winnie, ah, there you are. Have your measurements changed since last year, dear?”

  “My uniform still fits, so probably not.” I stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb. One of the tuxedo cats eyeballed me from a few feet away, tail flicking with curiosity.

  “How do you feel about mermaids? Too cliché?”

  “Well, it’s pearl diving, so I guess not.”

  “Mm-hmm. I can’t imagine you with a mermaid-style dress, though. I just can’t see it.” She clapped her hands together. “I’ve got it! Water nymph—no! A summer beach goddess! A tight bodice—”

  “Tight?”

  “Reasonably so. Nothing too revealing up top; I know how you are. Flowing skirts, liquid pearls, jewels, yes. You’ll look like you belong on a wall in Goldeen’s.” She laughed, delighted by her idea. “And I have just the fabric for this. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”

  She held out her hands. I took them and she spun me in a small circle to bring me to the center of the room. “By the time I am done with you, that boy will fall head over heels in love at first sight.”

  “I dunno if I want him to do that. Maybe we can tone that down a little.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I have two volunteers remember? Two. Gotta keep my options open,” I joked.

  She didn’t laugh as she walked over to one of the chests. “But it’s pearl diving.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  The likelihood of Kara not winning made me nervous.

  She wasn’t a particularly strong swimmer. The only reason I knew how to swim was because my mom made it a point to make sure I learned. I remember in elementary school on Mondays and Wednesdays in the spring, my mom would pick me up early from school for lessons at the community center every year. I hadn’t swam in a while, but I felt confident in my ability to not drown as soon as I hit the water.

  And I was a better swimmer than Kara.

  “You want her to win?”

  “She wants to win. I think that’s more important.”

  Miss Jepson stopped rifling through the dark blue chest in the corner of the room. Slowly, she turned her head and gave me that mm-hmm look. “I see the divine matchmaker is already working its magic. You like him.”

  Under oath and in a court of law, I would neve
r admit to being a believer in something as nebulous as divine matchmaking. Unfortunately, the what-ifs had me by the heartstrings. Honestly, it had to be a mixture of both. Real things like chemistry and desire holding hands with timing and luck. All of the past royal couples who had partnered up had to want to be together. The M&M fishbowl pressure cooker had just as much potential to drive us apart as it did to steer us together.

  “I definitely don’t dislike him.”

  “That’s hardly the same thing.” She smiled at me. “He’s cute.”

  “That he is.” I cleared my throat.

  “Oh.”

  “Please don’t. I’m embarrassed enough on my own, thanks.”

  “Why?”

  “Being cute isn’t enough of a reason to like someone.”

  “Says who?”

  “People,” I mumbled. “Because it’s shallow.”

  “No, it is not. Cut that out.” She turned back around. “It’s only shallow if that’s all there is. You’re not that kind of person.”

  “And! And I don’t know what he wants. I asked him why he volunteered, but he wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Of course he didn’t.” She laughed. “What fun would that be?”

  “Fun?”

  “Yes. Fun. If you liked someone and had the perfect romantic opportunity to win their heart handed to you, would you just blurt out the truth? Or would you play the game?”

  If I looked like Dallas? The truth. All the way. “But he doesn’t like me. Romantically. I’m sure he finds me delightful and thinks I’m funny, because I am, but that’s kind of it.”

  “And you know that how? Did you ask him?”

  “No.”

  “Did he tell you?”

  “No.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, that doesn’t make you right. He hasn’t given me a clue in either direction. He could like me, he could also want to be friends, and I’d rather be wrong than read too much into something that doesn’t exist.”

  Liking liking Dallas would forever be an absolute waste of emotional energy that I would forever expend in private on the nights when the stomping didn’t work and I let myself have five minutes of what-ifs.

  “What am I going to do with you?” She found the fabric—velvet in golden yellow with peach undertones. After standing up, she held it out for me, tilting it toward the sun. “I’ll add a little extra something so it really catches the light. You’ll sparkle like water on a crystal-clear day.”

  “Pretty, but won’t it be too hot for that?”

  “Not if it’s done right.” She set the fabric down on the worktable. “Arms out—yes or no?”

  “No.”

  “Legs?”

  “Shorter the better.” I grinned.

  “I’ll do you one better: strategic slits. When you walk, the gown will ripple and part like water and show off a touch of thigh and those killer calves of yours. Heels?”

  “Nope.”

  “Wedges?”

  “Possibly. Not too high.”

  “Excellent.” She pulled out the chair, wheeling it around so she could begin. “Shouldn’t take me more than a couple of hours.”

  “Can I hang out here? I’ll go sit with the rabbits if you want to work alone.”

  “Have a seat. Put your feet up. Relax.” She pointed to the love seat in the corner. I wasn’t even sitting three minutes before the cat jumped up and joined me, draping half of its body across my lap.

  Miss Jepson said, “I’m thinking of calling him Simon. He feels like a Simon to me.”

  Giving the cats real names—not just generic ones like sweetie or grumpyface—meant things had gotten serious. Simon must have decided to live here.

  “How long?”

  “Six months and counting. He likes to sleep on my ankles at night.”

  Yep. Definitely serious. Strays weren’t allowed in her bedroom.

  “Welcome to the family, Simon Jepson.” I scratched him behind his ears and got purrs in return. With my other hand, I started replying to Kara’s texts, sending her my signature Dealing with a Sibling Who Refuses to Admit They’re Dead Wrong advice, patent pending, because she was in the middle of a fight with her sister, Junie.

  Miss Jepson hummed to herself as she worked. Sketching, measuring, tracing, cutting, and assembling. It amazed me how she turned a few swaths of fabric into incredible clothing.

  I wished I could take her home. I wished I had enough money to pay her to create an entire wardrobe. Clothes always interested me. Not enough to become a designer or anything, but I wished I could be one of those girls who could wear mix-matched designs, slouchy shirts, and look perfectly thrown together with just the right amount of careless flair to pull it off.

  I tried it once and a relative told me I looked “slovenly.” Slovenly. She actually used that word. “Big girls need to look put together. Like you care about yourself.”

  Whatever.

  Miss Jepson asked, “Have you thought about how you want to wear your hair?”

  “A top bun. I think it’ll look good with my tiara.”

  “Never thought I’d see you in braids, by the way. They look good.”

  I had braided my hair on my own. My first successful set since deciding to give up relaxers. My mom couldn’t help, so YouTube University it was, until it wasn’t. Most of the YouTubers I followed didn’t have hair like mine. My first wash-n-go turned into a wash-n-no. Then the heavens parted; the sky cracked open and rained blessings down upon me: Jasmine Rose and Franchesca Ramsey made loc maintenance and hairstyling videos. My braids were a stopgap measure until my natural hair grew out enough to start locs in college.

  “Thanks. I did them myself.” And then, because I like pain, I said, “He complimented them, too.”

  “I bet he did.” Her sly know-it-all look made me laugh.

  There’s this phenomenon that happens when you have a crush and make the mistake of telling someone about it, intentionally or not. Everything is cool. You have all of your feelings under control. A slight undercurrent of butterflies. A fantasy here or there. But nothing too extreme.

  But then, that someone starts pointing out all of the ambiguous things you intentionally, and rationally, overlooked. You start thinking your crush is trying to tell you something without actually telling you. You start seeing and believing in signs that don’t exist so your feelings get completely ahead of themselves.

  If I told Miss Jepson what Dallas had said about winning, she’d really start rubbing it in.

  Audience participation. The last thing I needed.

  I hadn’t talked to anyone about this on purpose. Ignoring the fact that I didn’t have anyone in the first place—Granny didn’t care, Winston’s lip would curl, my mom would definitely talk me through it but we’d barely closed Skinner-gate, and Sam was terrible at keeping my secrets—I didn’t want anyone hyping me up about it.

  The only thing that mattered were facts.

  Dallas kept information sparse about his decision to be king other than admitting that I had been a deciding factor. A solid non-hopeful, educated guess could be that he wouldn’t have minded spending time with me, easily putting us in the friendship column.

  That made sense. If he wanted to get to know me and be friends, HSR made it super simple for him.

  But if that were true, why did Kara react the way she did? Her gut reaction had been to assume Dallas and I had planned the whole thing, not that he wanted to be my friend. My own gut screamed pity, and she didn’t consider that either.

  She assumed I—we—had kept a secret from her.

  She proclaimed that I got “weird” about “stuff.” Educated guess: stuff meant our relationship because I fully planned to date people in addition to her someday and she didn’t.

  When it came to crushes, I had no problem declaring myself a full-blown polygamist. I flitted around wherever my heart led, fell in like at first sight, the drop of a hat, turn of a page, and wink of an eye. But they never lasted longer than a week
. Why involve her if I didn’t have to?

  If the crush wasn’t leading to anything real, she didn’t need to know.

  I never told her about my crush on Dallas that definitely did not exist. So why would she know—unless he had told her something.

  Dallas had thought Kara was my girlfriend. Then, I corrected him, told him the truth. And he told me he planned to win.

  Could Miss Jepson have been right after all?

  Wait—wait a minute. Oh my God.

  Did Kara know that Dallas liked me?

  Seventeen

  Over twenty years of designing and costuming experience had given me an incredible dress. A one of a kind, a Miss Jepson original, made specifically to fit my body like a perfect velvet glove.

  Fashion runway in Paris perfect. Two-page haute-couture spread in a magazine perfect. I would have never been able to find something like it in a store. If I searched online long enough and had it altered once it arrived, I might have gotten close.

  Tears sprang into my eyes when I saw it, but I didn’t cry until Miss Jepson began to button and cinch the bodice closed, because it fit. On the first try.

  Hands down, the single most beautiful thing I owned, and I had to wear it to the Haven Central public pool.

  Irony had died a brutal death.

  In the locker room, I slipped off my flats. We’d decided against the wedges. Barefoot looked better while I practiced walking in it to test out the slits. As promised, the bottom half of my dress parted and flowed while I walked, the soft strips swirling around my legs. Oddly enough, the sleeves made my heart sing almost more than any other part. They had a similar design to the slits, elegantly draped around the length of my arms (only with less space between them), and the ends had been sown into a cuff. She’d decorated each one with clear teardrop jewels. Light, airy, and relatively modest—exactly how I liked it.

  I checked my reflection one last time. Dress? Amazing. Tiara? Centered with my bun. Makeup? Subtle, my usual no-makeup make- up look. My promise ring hung around my neck, fully visible.

  Kara would smile when she saw it.

  Outside, she was waiting for me. Unfortunately, so was everyone else.