Peace, Love, and Baby Ducks Read online

  I get to my feet.

  “Where are you going?” Lydia demands.

  “Where do you think?” Peyton says. She uses her eyes to point across the room.

  “Oh,” Lydia says. “Good luck.”

  They snicker, and I press my lips together.

  “Give him a kiss for me,” Peyton calls.

  Shut up, I say in my head. I swallow and try to push that negative energy out. Peyton and Lydia? Unimportant. Cole? Important. Smile. Be confident. Be chill.

  “Hi,” I say to Trista when I reach her table. I glance at Cole as if I’m just now noticing him. “Hey, Cole.”

  “Carly, my man,” he says.

  I grin. “Peace, brother.”

  Trista looks confused, and it takes away a bit of the Peyton/ Lydia sting. See? I tell them mentally. He does like me.

  “Still trying to get those stockings filled?” I ask Trista. I keep my tone neutral, since I don’t yet know where Cole stands. Stockings: dumb or good?

  “Now I’m signing up volunteers to do the actual deliveries,” Trista says. “We have two drivers, and each driver can take four passengers. Chuck might be able to take more if his Hummer’s out of the shop, but he won’t know until the very day.”

  I glance at Cole. He gives no hint of his position.

  “Uh. . .where exactly are you delivering them to?” I ask.

  “To the poor people. We’ve got a list.”

  Surely Cole is scoffing by now. A list? Of the poor people? Except he says to me, “You should come. It’s going to be cool.”

  Trista’s pen hovers. “Can I put you down?”

  “Uh . . . when is it?”

  “Next Thursday night.”

  “Um, okay.” I feel flustered, but I tell myself not to. Poor people. Stockings. It’s all good.

  “Terriff,” Trista says.

  Cole nods his approval in his slow, easy way, and Christmas spirit fills me up and lifts me to the sky. Or rather, the ceiling, where I bob, balloon-like, and smile down at all the oh-so-human humans.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  PASHMINA IS SO LAST YEAR

  That weekend, I tell Mom about the service project and explain that I need to go shopping. She immediately gets fired up and suggests we go right away. Anna comes, too. Dad stays home to watch the football game.

  All I want is something cute to wear when we deliver stockings, but I make the mistake of mentioning Trista Van Houser, and Mom loses all perspective. At Neiman’s, she strides to the cocktail-dress section and pulls out a black silk dress with bows. A salesclerk named Joy nods approvingly.

  “Very Chanel,” Joy tells us. “So precious and darling.”

  “Mom, you’re insane,” I say. How little does she know me that she’d think a Chanel cocktail dress is what I wanted to go shopping for? “I’m not going to a dance. It’s a charity thing.”

  “Ooo, charity balls,” Joy says. “Such fun. The question is, what to wear with?” She rubs the fabric of the skirt. “You could do a pashmina scarf, but I really think we’ve seen the end of that trend.”

  “Oh no!” Mom exclaims. “I love my pashmina scarf. Are you telling me I can’t wear it anymore?”

  I make eyes at Anna. She makes them back.

  “What you want is a capelet,” Joy says. “A fur capelet, like something that belonged to your grandmama.”

  “A capelet,” Mom muses. “My grandmother did have a capelet, come to think of it. Although I don’t know that she called it that. Isn’t it funny how fashions truly do come around again?”

  “Mo-o-m,” I say.

  Anna smirks. I pinch her, and she yelps.

  “Anna, inside voice,” Mom scolds, as if Anna is five.

  “Capelets, capelets, capelets,” Joy says, drumming her fingers on the dress rack. “We don’t have any—but maybe you could find one at a thrift store?”

  “Now that’s an idea,” Mom says as if she’s genuinely considering trucking us off to Goodwill. She hates Goodwill. The smell gives her a headache, and she doesn’t like the homeless men who congregate outside.

  “Just make sure it doesn’t have fleas,” Joy says with a tinkly laugh.

  All right, then.

  “Mom, we’re delivering stockings,” I say firmly. “People will be wearing jeans.”

  “Jeans,” Mom repeats, meaning, Then why in the world did we go shopping?

  “Who are you delivering stockings to?” Joy asks.

  “The poor people,” I hear myself say.

  Joy puts her hand over her heart. “Oh, honey.”

  “They do some wonderful service projects at Holy Redeemer,” Mom tells her. “They work hard to encourage altruism.”

  “Hmm,” Joy says. “Perhaps a crisp, tailored blouse and wide-leg pants? Navy, perhaps? Or”—she brightens—“of course! We just received the most darling Marc Jacobs cherry-print tie blouse.” She splays her hands as if seeing it on Broadway. “Doesn’t that just scream Candy Striper?”

  I step back. I’m getting the sinking-in-mire feeling that accompanies shopping with Mom, which is why I never want to go shopping with Mom.

  Anna touches Mom’s arm. “Hey, Mom?”

  Mom seems surprised to see her. “Yes, Anna?”

  “I’m taking Carly to Urban Outfitters. I’ll make sure she gets something cute, ’kay? You do some shopping of your own, and we’ll meet you back here.”

  “Oh,” Mom says.

  Anna smiles pleasantly. Taking my cue from her, I paste on a pleasant smile as well. Anna is just better in this world of mannequins and brand names.

  Mom’s gaze drifts to the couture section. “Well . . .”

  “We just put out our new Armani,” Joy says.

  “I love Armani,” Mom says. “The styles are classic, and the fit is good. I find myself wearing my Armani pieces year after year.”

  Joy nods. “I agree. You always feel well dressed in Armani.” She goes for the kill. “Have you seen the holiday collection?”

  Mom reaches into her purse and extracts her Platinum Visa. “Here,” she says, handing it to Anna. “No more than a hundred dollars.”

  I start to protest—why is Anna in charge of the credit card?—but bite it back. Pleasant smile, pleasant smile.

  “Can I buy an outfit, too?” Anna says, widening her brown eyes.

  “I suppose,” Mom says.

  “Thanks, Mom, you’re the best,” she says, and gives Mom a hug.

  I kind of lift my hand in a wave—I’m waving at my mom?—and add, “Yeah, thanks.”

  Anna grabs my arm and fast-walks me out of Neiman’s. “Run, run, before the Candy Stripers attack!”

  I giggle. Oh my God, it’s good to get out of Neiman’s.

  At Urban Outfitters, Anna plays the role of personal stylist, plucking tanks and tees and jeans and cargo pants from the racks. She shoves me and a heaping pile of clothes into one of the cloth-curtained dressing rooms and gets comfy in the armchair outside.

  “Show me everything,” she orders.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I love Urban Outfitters, even though I technically shouldn’t, since it’s pretty much a rich girl’s Salvation Army. It pretends to be of the people, but really it’s a mass-market pit of conspicuous consumption. Only at Salvation Army, there are so many ugly clothes mixed in with the good stuff, and it’s a crapshoot whether anything will be in your size. At Urban Outfitters, the funky peasant skirts are available in sizes zero through twelve, and the grunge-hip bomber jackets are perfectly distressed without actually falling apart or smelling like mothballs.

  They don’t have capelets, though. Bummer.

  Anna gives the thumbs-up to a soft white camisole with lace around the edge. I try it with a pair of baggy brown trousers, and Anna gives a Dad-style ssssss and a big thumbs-down.

  “What?” I say. I snagged the brown trousers from the rack when Anna wasn’t watching.

  “They make you look like Granddad,” Anna says.

  Ugh. They do. I make a face at her for be
ing right and go back behind the curtain.

  I try on a pair of black cords (thumbs-medium), an Indian-print skirt (thumbs-down and a command to stop sneaking in unap proved articles), and some wide-leg railroad stripe pants (thumbs-way -down) before lighting on a pair of beat-up jeans with frayed cuffs, a frayed waistband, and a pink patch on the upper left thigh. The patch is shaped like a heart, and it’s stitched on with red thread in a handmade-seeming way.

  In standing-up position, they’re perfect. I kind of think they might even look . . . well . . . sexy. I step outside into the main area and look at Anna hopefully.

  “Hmm,” she says, tapping her lip. “A bit folksy, but then, you like folksy. Squat test, please.”

  I turn around and squat.

  “No whale tail,” Anna proclaims.

  I stand. “Duh, because I don’t wear thongs. But no visible butt crack?”

  “You’re covered, babe.” She thrusts out her thumb. “Big thumbs-up.”

  So I get the white cami and the heart jeans, and I have enough left over to throw in a red-and-black-checked lumberjack hoodie. It’s snug and fun and makes me happy, even though it earns an eye roll from Anna.

  For herself, she picks out a Free People miniskirt printed with a pattern called Forbidden Fruit.

  I snort. “Like that’s not suggestive.”

  She twirls in front of the mirror, revealing winter-pale thighs. “But fabulous, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I admit. “Not fabulous for me, but fabulous for you.”

  “Well, I didn’t pick it out for you, did I?”

  She pairs it with a fake-vintage T-shirt that says MEET ME ON THE MOON. I resist fake-vintage T-shirts on principle, but . . . aww. Anna’s is so sweet. There’s another shirt on the rack with the words PROTESTING IS SO HOT RIGHT NOW printed across the front, and she grabs that one, too.

  “No way,” I say, taking it from her and putting it back. “Copying my sixties vibe.”

  “Like I’d want to.” Her hand hovers, then swoops to the rack. “This one, then. Do you love it, or do you love it?”

  It’s a baby-blue hockey shirt with the slogan LOVE IS COLOR-BLIND. The graphic shows three overly precious toddlers with chubby cheeks and little pug noses and teardrop-shaped eyes. One’s white, one’s Asian, and one’s black. They’re all wearing button-flap pj’s, and for some reason they’re on a scooter. Oh, and there’s a butterfly.

  It’s hideously, cheesily wonderful.

  “I love it,” I admit. Curse her for spotting it first. “But if you get it, you have to put back the ‘Meet Me on the Moon’ one.”

  “Says who?” Anna asks.

  “Says our hundred-dollar limit.”

  “Oh, please. Like Mom will know or care. You think she’s sticking to a hundred-dollar limit?”

  With the Armani holiday collection bowing and curtsying in front of her? No. But my going shopping for a feed-the-poor-people outfit is a lame enough move already. I am a big ball of hypocrisy and contradiction, but I’m not going to make it worse by going crazy with Mom’s Visa.

  “Sorry, Charlie,” I say, taking the “Meet Me at the Moon” shirt from Anna’s hand and placing it back on the rack. Anna pouts, but I stay firm. I even resist the “No Nukes” shirt calling to me from among the hangers.

  At the register, Anna signs Mom’s name on the credit-card slip and grandly pronounces, “We will wear these pieces year after year.”

  “Absolutely,” I agree. “I always feel well dressed in Urban Outfitters.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  SANTA’S LITTLE HELPERS

  On the evening of the Service Council project, Mom drops me off in the boys’-school parking lot. I’m decked out in my new jeans and camisole and lumberjack hoodie, and I’m reminding myself that despite my new duds, I’m still just me. I don’t want to get self-conscious about wearing a new outfit, because when I get self-conscious, I grow stiff and hold myself weird.

  “Have fun!” Mom calls, pulling away.

  I feel immediately out of place and think, Ack, why did I do this?

  Then I get stern and tell myself, Hush. You’re helping the poor.

  Trista’s already here, along with Chuck, a junior named Owen, and Lydia. Since when did Lydia sign up to do this? They’re loading the back of Chuck’s Hummer, and as Chuck heaves in an armful of stockings, he says, “Christ, there’s a lot of these suckers.”

  “Please don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Lydia says.

  I don’t see Cole. Where is Cole? There are a couple of other sophomore girls, including Vonzelle from my PE class. But no Cole.

  Vonzelle lifts her hand, and I go over.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey,” she replies. We’ve never hung out together, so it’s a little awkward. Side by side, we watch the people who know what they’re doing.

  A few minutes later, Pete pulls up, and with him is my beautiful Cole. My heart leaps. Cole spots me and grins. He climbs out of Pete’s Volvo and saunters over.

  “Groovy,” he says, fingering the collar of my lumberjack jacket. I’m so glad I came. So so so glad.

  “You’re looking pretty psychedelic yourself,” I reply, though he’s not. He’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt; nothing psychedelic about that. But I’m running out of sixties words.

  Cole chuckles, and Trista clears her throat. She’s watching us with a funny expression.

  “Okay!” she says. “Scotty, you come with me and Pete. You, too, Cole. And Chuck, you take Owen, Lydia, Kendra, Vonzelle, and Carly. All right?”

  I get a hot feeling in my stomach. I want to protest.

  “I’m glad we get to be together,” Vonzelle says to me. “I don’t know any of these people.”

  I turn to her. “Uh . . . yeah.”

  Vonzelle senses my lack of enthusiasm. I can see it in the way her mouth flattens. But my disappointment has nothing to do with being put in the same car as her. It has to do with not being put in the same car as Cole. Why do I have the feeling that Trista split us up on purpose?

  “Dudes, let’s motor,” Chuck says.

  “You’ve got your list of addresses?” Trista asks.

  “Affirmative.”

  I watch Cole head back over to Pete’s Volvo. Pete’s car is a two-door, so Cole opens the passenger-side door and yanks the seat lever. The front seat flies forward, and Cole steps back to let Trista climb in. What a gentleman, I think sourly. He climbs in after her, and the two of them are alone in the completely un-roomy backseat.

  I dig my fingernails into my palms.

  Chuck toots the horn. “What’s the holdup?”

  My face heats up, and I hurry over. Owen’s in the front passenger seat, Lydia and Kendra are in the first row of backseats, and Vonzelle is alone in the second row of seats. I scooch in and join her.

  She looks away.

  The first house we go to is in Cabbage Town. I’ve heard of Cabbage Town, but it’s a part of Atlanta I’ve never been to. The houses are small and crowded, and there are a lot of mom-and-pop liquor stores. We pass a billboard advertising Dark and Lovely Hair Relaxer, and Chuck punches Owen’s shoulder.

  “Need some hair relaxer, dude?”

  “Shit, dude, I’ll relax her,” Owen replies, meaning the billboard model who is dark-skinned and voluptuous. He lowers his voice to a put-on growl. “I like my women black, like my coffee.”

  Chuck laughs, and I’m mortified. I feel Vonzelle stiffen beside me, and I don’t know what to do. Challenge them? Tell them they’re being jerks? They’re juniors. They don’t even know my name.

  “Y’all, hush,” Lydia says.

  Owen twists around from the front seat and says, “Excuse me?”

  Lydia jerks her eyes at Vonzelle, and Owen says, “Oh, sorry. My bad.”

  Chuck cracks up more.

  “Dude,” Owen says, as if reprimanding him. But he doesn’t care. Neither of them cares. They’re too busy being hilarious.

  “They’re idiots,” Lydia says to V
onzelle. “Ignore them.”

  “Oh, I will,” Vonzelle says.

  I try to make eye contact with her, to say without words that they are idiots, and that honestly, I’m fine being in the same group as she is. There were just other factors at play.

  She holds her spine straight and stares out the window.

  Every house we go to, the families are black. Maybe I should have expected it, but I didn’t. It makes me fidget.

  One little boy we visit is named Terrell. “Like the football player,” he tells us, but I don’t know who he’s talking about since I don’t know football. He grins hugely when Lydia gives him his stocking.

  “For me?” he asks. “The whole thing?”

  “Don’t you open it now, Terrell,” says an older woman I’m guessing is his grandmom. She’s sitting in an armchair with a McDon ald’s bag on her lap. The air smells like french fries. “You save it, you hear?”

  “Well, y’all have a merry Christmas,” Lydia says. She pats Terrell’s head. “Blessings to you, cutie.”

  “What do you say?” prods Terrell’s grandmom.

  “Thank you,” Terrell recites, his smile lighting up the room.

  Back in the Hummer, Lydia goes on about Terrell and how adorable he was.

  “He is going to be a heartbreaker one day,” she says. “I just wanted to wrap him up and take him home with me.” She launches into a story about some friends of her parents who adopted a little black boy who was just as adorable as Terrell, only at first the parents didn’t know how to deal with his hair.

  “Because you can’t just wash it, right, Vonzelle?” she says. “You have to use, like, oils and stuff. Right?”

  I look at Vonzelle apologetically, but Vonzelle appears unruffled.

  “Not for an infant,” she says. “For an infant, plain old baby shampoo is good—just not more than once a week.”

  “Okay,” Lydia says. “I mean, I probably won’t adopt a black baby, but you never know.” She fishes through one of the undelivered stockings and pulls out a Hershey’s Kiss. “You know who’s really adorable? Those Chinese babies. Although my mom has this other friend who adopted a little Chinese baby—”