Bex, however, refuses to give up on me.
“What says, Look at me?” she cries as she sorts through the rack, dragging things out, eyeballing them, then tossing aside what does not meet her approval. “Oh, yes, this is the one.”
She’s found it. Buried far in the back, as far as I could hide it, is a vintage champagne-colored flapper dress. She holds it up against my body and gasps. It’s beaded and hangs about midthigh on me, shimmering like heat on asphalt. I discovered it buried inside an old chest at an estate sale in Gravesend and guessed it was from the 1920s and probably one of a kind. The owner’s son let me haggle him down to ten dollars just before the vintage-shop vultures swooped through the doors. One of them chased me—literally chased me—down the sidewalk and offered me three hundred bucks for it, but I couldn’t give it up. I was in love. I carried it home like I would a newborn baby, hand washed it, repaired a few loose stitches, and fantasized about the day my body would fit into it. I was going to wear it to school and watch boys fall downstairs when I walked by. I was going to cause a panic in that dress.
“This is so inappropriate.” Bex giggles and shoves it into my hands. “It’s perfect.”
A little bit of my heart breaks when I swap it for a pair of black jeans and a Bruce Springsteen T-shirt instead.
“TV! Internet!” Bex shouts, and yanks the clothes away. “This outfit will give birth to a billion mean comments. You’ll become a meme like that bitchy cat. Don’t shake your head at me. I’m serious. When it happens, I will pretend I don’t know you. I’ll be a crappy friend, but I’ll do it. I swear.”
I reach for my clothes and she reluctantly hands them back. Her frown shouts, I miss the old Lyric!
I miss her too. I miss the glitter princess and the Sailor Moon wannabe from four years ago. I miss the days when I strutted along the catwalk known as Coney Island, all hair and dangly earrings and clogs like I was fifty feet tall. Now I have to be small. I have to be a mouse. Squeak. Squeak.
There’s a heavy knock on the door, and then it slowly opens. My father peeks in, if a six-foot-six-inch cop can peek in anywhere. He’s a mountain, hands like catcher’s mitts, and shoulders as broad as the Brooklyn Bridge. He’s in his police uniform, black shirt and shorts, sunglasses, and his Easter Island head—always watching, always unamused.
“Lyric, I need to speak to you,” he says, gesturing out into our tiny living-slash-dining-slash-closet room. I follow and close the door behind me.
“I hope I don’t have to tell you how important it is for you to keep your head down today,” he lectures in a low voice.
“You don’t.”
“Lyric, don’t give me attitude. This is serious.”
“Dad, I know,” I say, squeezing past him to the kitchen, where there is more room.
“Keep your distance. Don’t get involved. Don’t try to be nice. Don’t talk to the new kids. Just go about your business.”
“I know!” I snap. How many times is he going to deliver this lecture?
“I need to be sure,” he hollers.
My mother enters from her bedroom. Her raven hair is tied up, and her face freshly scrubbed. She looks tired but still beautiful. “Don’t fight while Bex is here,” she begs us.
“Sorry, but I’ve heard this speech a million times.”
“Cut me a break, Lyric, today of all days,” my father whispers.
“Cut me a break. I’m the one who has to go there,” I cry, then turn my attention to my mother. “Why are you still in your pj’s? You should get dressed.”
She lowers her eyes and shifts from one foot to the next. It’s a sad little dance she does when she’s upset.
“You’re not coming,” I say. I’m crushed and don’t care to hide it.
She inhales deeply and looks at my father “I want to, but—”
My irritation turns to rage and I roast him with my gaze. “Just forget it.”
“It’s too dangerous,” my father explains. “There will be police and military everywhere, and then the kids, too. She could be recognized.”
“Leonard, no one has identified me yet,” she says.
“The feds tracked almost all your friends down, Summer, and each one of them disappeared, along with their families. It’s just you and Angela Benningford now. We can’t take the risk.”
My mother winces like she’s been slapped. “Am I going to miss her graduation?”
“You’re being ridiculous, Summer.”
“What about when she gets married?” she groans.
“Summer.”
“Are you going to let me see my grandchildren?” she cries.
My father throws up his hands. “You’re not a prisoner here. We can always leave, Summer. If we left, we could have normal lives. I have friends at the blockade who could help us get out even without identification. We could start over in Denver, or—”
“Shhhh!” I point at my bedroom door, quietly dreading that Bex will burst through it with a million questions. It’s a miracle that she hasn’t figured us out yet; the girl who hides in ugly clothes, the mom who never leaves the house, the father who lives on the edge of panic. I wait, but there is no burst, no million questions. She’s probably too busy liberating more of my clothes.
“I’m sorry,” my father whispers. “I saw Terrance Lir last night. He’s escorting the children to school and acting as a spokesperson.”