8

I could feel the pull of the nearly full moon before the sun reached the middle of the sky. It made my skin crawl. I lay atop my covers, chewing on the tip of a pen, trying to write a stupid essay on symbolism in The Scarlet Letter.

The phone rang. I heard the floor creak and the quiet echo of Mrs. Carpenter’s voice.

“Maggie,” she called. “Phone.”

I rolled my eyes, assuming it was Mr. Petersen calling again to lecture me on how important it was to graduate—he’d called the night before. I climbed from the bed and went to the living room. Mrs. Carpenter, white hair hidden beneath a red bandanna, handed me the ancient receiver and started to dust the gun case.

“Hello?”

“Hi. It’s Yana. You recovered from the fight?”

I glanced at Mrs. Carpenter. “More or less.”

“Good. Are you still going to prom?”

“Nope. When Bridger brought me home yesterday, Mrs. Carpenter told him I’m grounded.”

“Good. O’Connell doesn’t deserve you.” There was a pause. “This is going to sound totally paranoid, but I promised my grandpa I’d call.”

Curious, I pulled the desk chair out and sat. “What’s up?”

“Some guy came into the restaurant last night asking about you. My grandpa didn’t like him, said he had negative energy.”

“That’s weird. What was his name?” I asked, twirling my finger in the spiraled phone cord.

“He wouldn’t say. But after he came in and asked about you, even though we said we had no idea who you were, the dude sat out front in his car and watched the restaurant. My grandpa ended up calling the cops.”

Goose bumps shivered up my arms. “Weird.”

“Yeah, totally. We thought you should know.”

“Thanks, Yana.”

“Sure. I’ll see you at school.”

I hung up the phone and felt Mrs. Carpenter hovering, so I looked over my shoulder. She was still dusting the gun case and watching me.

“Everything all right?” I asked. The feather duster stopped.

“I’ve been thinking. Since today is your birthday, I’m going to unground you until midnight.”

“Why am I getting a Cinderella vibe?”

She chuckled. “I have no intention of being your fairy godmother. But you’d better call Bridger and see if he can still take you. And then let’s go birthday shopping at Wal-Mart. You can pick out a new pair of jeans, a dress for prom, and some heels. My gift to you.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

I jumped up and hugged her.

It was the second dress I’d worn since I was twelve years old. Every time I moved, air swirled up the skirt and against my thighs. The dress was beautiful—creamy white and made for warm weather, with thin straps and an empire waist, and a skirt that fell right above my knees.

I also got new hair dye, a dark auburn almost the color of a plum, but not quite so purple. I leaned in close to the mirror and attempted to put on mascara, but my hand was trembling. It took two tries.

Danni and Yana’s warnings about Bridger kept running through my head. Even so, I was hoping Bridger would kiss me after the dance—just a simple good-night kiss. It seemed like my stars were finally lining up. My first real date. My first school dance. My birthday. A guy I liked a little more than I should. A full moon. A beautiful dress. My first kiss would be the perfect end to such a night.

I took a step away from the mirror and looked at myself. Mrs. Carpenter had helped me curl my auburn hair and pile it on top of my head with a gazillion bobby pins; plus she’d loaned me a pair of real pearl earrings that matched the dress perfectly. I could hardly believe the girl in the mirror was me, Maggie Mae the foster child. A smile spread over my glossy lips.

I went to my room and checked the clock. It was five to seven, five minutes until Bridger was to arrive. I took a deep breath and left my room.

Mrs. Carpenter was waiting in the living room with a camera.

“Oh, Maggie Mae, you look absolutely picturesque!” she exclaimed, putting her hand over her heart. “Let me take a photo.”

She pointed the camera at me and I smiled just as the flash burned splotches into my vision.

“Why don’t you sit down and wait,” she said. I shook my head. “Do you know where he’s taking you to dinner? You’ve got to tell him it’s your birthday so your server sings to you and brings you a slice of complimentary birthday cake.”

My hollow stomach growled at the thought. Chocolate cake was my favorite food. “I don’t know where we’re going to eat, but I’m starving.”

“Sit down,” Mrs. Carpenter urged again, patting the sofa beside her.

“I don’t want to wrinkle my dress,” I explained, wringing my hands.

“How’s your hand feeling?” She eyed the gauze bandage wrapped around my right knuckles.

“Fine.” The split knuckle, held together with several butterfly bandages, was tender to the touch and hurt if I made a fist. But other than that, I hardly noticed it.

Mrs. Carpenter and I waited in silence for a few minutes, both of us darting glances between the grandfather clock and the front window. Each time I heard the drone of a car engine, my heart whirled double-time. Yet no headlights bounced and flashed in the yard.

“He’s late,” Mrs. Carpenter said disapprovingly when the clock read one minute past seven. “I guess your generation doesn’t place the same stress on punctuality that mine does.”

We waited in silence some more. I stepped from foot to foot, having to move so I wouldn’t burst with pent-up energy.

“Well,” Mrs. Carpenter said when the clock read eight minutes past seven, “I’m going to go heat up some leftovers. Not all of us have the luxury of eating dinner at a restaurant tonight. I’ll take another picture when he gets here.”

She stood and walked from the room. I could hear her banging around in the kitchen. The phone rang and Mrs. Carpenter answered it, dragging the long spiraled cord into the kitchen. I could hear her chatting with someone about the right tension to set a sewing machine to if you’re sewing quilt patches, could hear the hum of the microwave, and eventually could smell reheated beans, rice, and corn bread. My stomach rumbled.

At twenty past seven, I gave up on not wrinkling my dress and sat delicately down on the edge of the brown leather sofa. I kept my eyes glued to the window, but all remained dark in the moonless night outside. I thought that was pretty ironic, that darkness. I could feel the full moon pulsing inside of me even though it was buried behind a thick wall of clouds.

It wasn’t until seven thirty, when Mrs. Carpenter came out of the kitchen to hang up the phone, that I finally began to doubt. Mrs. Carpenter looked out the window and frowned. Her silence spoke louder than words.

She went back into the kitchen and I stopped staring out the window. It was obvious he wasn’t coming. I stood, hating the feel of the dress as it swished around my knees, and turned toward my room.

Light flickered against the glass face of the gun case. I looked out the window just in time to see a red sports car skid to a stop in front of the porch. My breath caught in my throat and I stared, hoping Bridger was behind the wheel.

The car door opened, Bridger stepped out, and I started breathing again. He smoothed his hair, straightened his bow tie, and walked up the porch steps. The doorbell rang and, as if on cue, my palms started to sweat.

Please don’t try to hold my hand! I swung my moist hands through the air, trying to dry them.

“I’ll get it,” Mrs. Carpenter called, hustling out of the kitchen with a smile on her face. She opened the door wide. “Please, come in.” Bridger stepped inside, one hand hidden behind his back.

My heart flip-flopped at the sight of him. He wore a black tuxedo that matched his hair and made his shoulders look twice as wide as normal.

“Sorry I’m late. The florist was running behind, since I called in my order so last minute. I tried calling you—twice—but the phone was busy.” He pulled his hand out from behind his back and handed me a bouquet of yellow tulips and white daisies. “And this is for your wrist,” he said, removing from the base of the bouquet three tulips attached to an elastic bracelet. I held my hand out and he slid the elastic strap into place.

“Let me make this a permanent memory,” Mrs. Carpenter said, holding her camera up. Bridger put his arm around my waist and pulled me close. I didn’t need to hear the word “cheese” to bring a smile to my face.

I wasn’t going to need a photograph to remember this night forever.

We went to Long John Silver’s for dinner—fish and chips had never tasted so good. Bridger apologized for the informal restaurant, said he’d made reservations somewhere nice but had canceled them when he thought I was grounded. Long John’s was the only place that wasn’t booked.

After dinner we drove to the high school. As we crossed the parking lot, Bridger took my hand in his and I silently prayed it wasn’t damp. His fingers tightened on mine and I looked up at him.

“You look really beautiful. Did I already tell you that?” he asked.

I smiled. “No.”

“Sorry. It’s the first thing I thought when I walked through your front door, but I was stressed from running late.”

We walked into the school through the gym doors and I froze, like a deer staring at headlights. My hand fell from Bridger’s.

The other girls weren’t dressed like me. Not at all. To say they wore dresses was like saying I was poor. I was destitute. And they all wore gowns. Gowns that showed flashes of bare shoulders, cleavage, and thighs as they sparkled beneath disco balls.

Stepping in front of me, Bridger blocked my view of the gowns and placed his hands on my shoulders.

“Maggie,” he said, leaning close so I could hear his voice over the music. “I want you to promise me something.”

I looked into his eyes, wondering if he was as embarrassed about being seen with me as I was to be wearing such an inappropriate dress.