Pretty in Punxsutawney Read online

  Colton politely sells the couple their tickets, but avoids making eye contact. Once they’re out of earshot, he rubs his arms. “I think I need a sweater after that chill.”

  “I don’t know why people even bother when things get that obviously bad.”

  “What’s the point in staying together when there’s zero passion?” he says, and my whole face feels like a warm, slow-motion explosion.

  Gazing at his solid jaw, I sense that this could be it. My chance to actually move our love story a step forward. I’m filled with what must be hysterical post-action-flick boldness and give Colton a hip check, saying, “You know, I love passion fruit.”

  Colton looks at me as if I’ve sneezed directly into the popcorn warmer. Not the reaction I was hoping for. I straighten, and the two of us stare at each other.

  I try to think of something else to say. Anything that will erase my weird produce affection confession. But as the silence grows between us, I curse my ability to always think up the perfect pithy remark after it’s too late.

  “So . . . are you, um, wearing new school clothes tomorrow?” I ask.

  “I do plan on being fully clothed.” He cracks a smile, and I relax. “But I haven’t really thought about what I’m wearing.”

  “My mom is always buying me outrageous outfits from the thrift store that I would never wear,” I say. “This one time, she came home with a whole pile of jeans from, like, the nineteen eighties. One pair had such a high waist, the fly was about three feet long . . .” I continue babbling about crotch zippers and weird vintage clothes as if I have an acute form of Social Tourette’s. Colton just nods as he helps the next customers.

  I don’t even realize Tom is listening in until he interjects, “You should go with a wild new look for your first day of school, Andie.”

  “Gee, thanks?” I widen my eyes at Colton and he laughs.

  “I mean, wearing a unique thrift-store outfit will really trademark you as an independent thinker.” He points down to his black-and-white wing-tipped old-man shoes and shakes a toe at me. “Gives a vastly more interesting first impression.”

  “Andie doesn’t need some outfit to make her interesting,” Colton says, and I grin maniacally.

  “Just saying.” Tom shrugs. “Punx High is filled with boring drones who dress alike. It’s nice when someone isn’t afraid to sprinkle the place with a little originality.”

  “You and your crew provide more than enough originality, Tom. More like you hose down the whole school with your bizarreness.”

  “Wait a second,” I say to Tom. “You’re still in high school?”

  He and Colton laugh hard at this while I look back and forth between them. “Don’t let the pole up his butt fool you,” Colton says. “Tom’s a senior like us.”

  I know he doesn’t look old old, but I definitely figured Tom was in college. Maybe a college from the 1950s, since he’s wearing tight plaid pants with his wingtips. “You don’t really act like a high school student.”

  “Thank you, I’ll take that as a compliment.” Tom strokes his face as if he has a long beard. “I’m wise beyond my years.”

  “And what sort of outfit will you be sporting for the first day, O ancient one?” Colton asks him.

  “Still deciding,” Tom says before straightening up like he just remembered he has a pole up his butt. I get that he loves this theater and all, but the guy is way too serious. As if reading my mind, he announces to Colton, “Fun’s over. Time to clean out the popcorn maker.”

  He turns away and Colton whispers to me, “Fun’s just starting.”

  I laugh, and he pulls out a large plastic bag and two empty paper cups. He dramatically holds up one of the cups as if it is a holy chalice and hands it to me. We fold back the glass doors of the popcorn maker and get busy scooping out the warm kernels left at the bottom of the machine.

  Holding the bag open between us, we take turns with our cups, and I can’t stop staring at the way the neon PoPCorn sign lights up Colton’s face each time he leans forward. Like, hello handsome . . . hello handsome . . . hello handsome . . .

  The two of us laugh and discuss our favorite parts of the action movie we were just watching, while the strong aroma of warm butter wafts around us. It smells an awful lot like falling in love.

  It isn’t until Tom finishes sweeping the floor and comes over to inspect the popcorn maker that I finally think of something to say that will tie in my bizarre proclamation of love for passion fruit from a half hour ago.

  “You should see the way juice runs down my face when I eat passion fruit.” I laugh and gesture to my chin as if it’s covered in juice right now.

  Colton is wiping his hands on a napkin, and he and Tom both stop and look at me like I’ve just projectile vomited into the freshly cleaned popcorn maker.

  “Um, I mean . . . remember that chocolate drool I had the first time we ever met?” I’m pointing energetically to my chin. “The Whoppers?”

  “Oh, yeah,” the two of them say together.

  “It was just . . . very drooly.” I am doing a horrible job redeeming the passion fruit comment. I seriously wish I’d let it go.

  Tom says, “I’ve busted plenty of people sneaking in snacks, but no one ever started wolfing down their contraband food before. I couldn’t believe you shoved that first handful of malted milk balls into your mouth. And then you doubled down and just kept on going?” He laughs. “I think you would’ve eaten that whole carton.”

  “And you’d have just stood there watching her, huh?” Colton shakes his head. “Chivalry is truly dead.”

  “Come on, that would’ve been epic,” Tom says. “I didn’t even get a chance to snag a video clip of her before you butted in.”

  Colton tells me, “You did look fairly hilarious with your cheeks all stretched out like a chipmunk.” He slaps Tom on the back, laughing. It’s the friendliest I’ve ever seen them.

  I don’t know how this conversation turned on me so quickly.

  The next shift of theater workers is arriving in their red vests and nametags. Tom moves to the register and pops the money drawer open. I need to flip this back around fast.

  “Well . . .” I lean in closer to Colton. “It was still a pretty sweet meet-cute, don’t you think?”

  Colton looks at me with a furrowed brow, and my grin dies on my face. Meanwhile, Tom is counting bills, but nods with distracted amusement.

  “What’s a meet-cute?” Colton asks.

  I blink, surprised. How does he work in a movie theater and not know what a meet-cute is?

  “How did you get this job again?” Tom asks, stopping his counting.

  “My mom knows the owner.” Colton shrugs.

  Tom closes his eyes and gives a groan before going back to counting. “Of course she does.” He glances over to me. “You believe this one? Not even a movie buff.”

  How am I blowing things so epically that now Tom thinks he and I are bonding? I launch into a quick explanation of a meet-cute as Colton gets to work wiping down the soda machine nozzles. Since he and Tom only seem to be half listening, I get nervous and start babbling about how I became obsessed with movies. Which would be fine if I were describing some cool story, like having my mind blown the first time I saw Star Wars or something. But instead, I’m describing how I inherited my love of cinema from my mother.

  Over the years, Mom has taken me to every Pixar and Potter film on opening night, and the first moment anything good is released on DVD, we spend hours together exploring the special features. I’ve listened to more directors’ commentaries than most film students, and I was picking out act breaks when other kids my age were still searching for Waldo.

  Mom even has this locked glass cabinet filled with all her favorite movies from the eighties and nineties that she’s been watching with me at key moments in my life. For instance, the first time I stayed home sick as a teen was an excuse for her to break out Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. Then, when I was having trouble with chemistry, we watched Weir
d Science together, and I’m still awful at chemistry, but it was fun to see what they thought future computers might be capable of back in the 1980s.

  Of all Mom’s movies, the ones by John Hughes are the holiest vestiges of her own adolescence. As the two of us watch these movies, sitting side by side, we don’t speak at all, because, well, talking during movies is an obnoxious habit. But we always discuss the films after, which has resulted in some amazing revelations about life and each other.

  And now here I am babbling to my crush about how movies make me feel more connected and understood and close to my mother.

  “She’s been saving up her favorites,” I’m saying. “And tonight, my mom and I are supposed to watch Pretty in Pink. Since we moved here, she’s talked about waiting for the last day of summer vacation to share it with me.”

  Tom raises his head from the garbage bag he’s just tied up. “Did she name you Andie after the main character in that movie?”

  I blush and nod, looking down at my hands. “Because of my red hair. Both of my parents love the movie, and according to my mom, watching it will change my life.” I laugh. “Of course, she has made this claim about other movies before.”

  Tom grins, and I realize Colton is looking back and forth between the two of us as if we’re both speaking a foreign language. I want to crawl inside the garbage pail and roll away into a sticky, buttery oblivion.

  “Well, I’d better go catch that movie. With my mom.” I pull the car keys from my purse and jingle them in the air.

  “Give my regards to Duckie,” Tom says with a smile.

  “Um, yeah,” Colton says. “I’ll see you first thing tomorrow for school.”

  “You have my address, right?” I hate that my voice sounds so desperate. “I mean, if you’re still planning to give me a ride and tour of the school.”

  “Righto. You’re over on Cherry Street. Seven a.m.” I can’t tell from his expression if he regrets making the offer to drive me. But before he can back out, I wave good-bye and run from the theater.

  As I turn the key in the ignition of my mom’s vintage Mercedes, I wish I could rewind the last half hour of the night and act like less of a weirdo. Hopefully I can turn things around with Colton tomorrow, because I can sense our epic rom-com could be heading for a fade-out much too soon.

  And I’ve been counting on my magical first kiss being with him.

  chapter 2

  By the time I pull into our driveway, triggering the motion-detection lights, I’m already on my third replay of every single word I said to Colton tonight. And most of it is not good.

  At least 60 percent of my comments were downright cringe-worthy, not to mention that embarrassing bit at the end with me oversharing about my mom. She may be cool as mothers go, but I’m pretty sure my acting all dorky about it to Colton isn’t going to make him swoon.

  Mom flings open our chartreuse front door and steps onto the front porch with a big-toothed smile and a wave. “You won’t believe what I scored at the thrift store today!”

  I give an inward groan as I climb out of the car and walk across our driveway. Mom’s wearing a minidress composed of purple and white panels of material that desperately cling to each other around her hips. When it comes to thrift store bargain shopping, “perfect fit” is not her top priority.

  “Great dress,” I say. “Let me guess . . . half-off ticket?”

  “Oh, no, the dress isn’t the big score,” she says. “Although six bucks was a really sweet deal.” Her bright red bob swings as she spins around, exposing the puckered zipper in the back. “And it only needs a few stitches to be flawless.”

  I sigh and give her a kiss on the cheek. Mom might not technically qualify as a clothing hoarder, but she’s incapable of passing up bargains. Even bizarro ones. About one-third of the boxes we moved from our old house were filled with Mom’s questionable thrift store fashion “scores.”

  I step into the living room and stop with a gasp. A giant pink couch has taken over the whole room. It is the longest couch I have ever seen in my life, and the cushions look like they’re about to explode out of the tight leather. The radiant monstrosity is partially blocking the pathway to the stairs. And did I mention this thing is a giant pink leather couch?

  When I stop being speechless, I ask, “Has Dad seen it yet?”

  Mom pats my back reassuringly. “He’ll love it.”

  “So, you haven’t even sent him a photo of it yet?”

  “You know I hate that camera phone thingy,” Mom says. “He’ll just have to be surprised.”

  “Oh, yes, he will. Be surprised.” I widen my eyes. “Did you stop to ask yourself if we really needed a pink leather sofa?”

  “The woman at the thrift store labeled it pink on the delivery slip too.” Mom runs her hand along the couch’s low back. “But that’s silly. Anyone can see this couch is red. It’s just a little faded, so it’s a light shade of red.”

  I laugh. “Light red is another way of saying pink.” I drop my butt onto the center cushion and bounce a bit. “Wow, is it comfortable though.”

  “Lie on it!” Mom shoves my shoulders, forcing me down.

  I fold my hands across my chest and snuggle in deeper. “Maybe Dad can use it for his patients.”

  She pulls up an ottoman and sits primly, pretending to hold a pencil against her upturned palm. “Okay, Andie. Tell me, how do you feel about starting at a brand-new school tomorrow?”

  We both laugh and I sit up. My dad is a psychologist who was fine with being mostly an author, until his advances got so small he had to go back to being mostly a psychologist again. That’s why he, and by extension we, had to move to a town with more patients for him to treat. Punxsutawney isn’t exactly a bustling metropolis, but it’s bigger than the teeny-tiny two-store “town” I grew up in.

  The closest business in our old town was a semi-truck dealership three miles away, and we bought our groceries from a small general store on the first floor of my best friend, Rhonda’s, two-story home. With a sigh, I think of the sleepovers we used to have there. My favorite was the time we snuck down to grab ingredients to make midnight cookies. We ate so much dough, there were only three large (very-stuck-to-the-pan) cookies in the end. It was awesome.

  Rhonda is the only person I’ve met who loves talking about movies almost as much as I do. We fit perfectly as best friends, which is pretty amazing, since it’s not like the town had a huge best friend lake to go swimming in or anything.

  My old high school only had 172 students total, and that was junior and senior high combined, so to me, Punxsutawney is practically urban.

  To be honest, I’m nervous about diving into the new high school waters tomorrow. Colton is the only friend I’ve made since moving here, and I haven’t even spoken to anyone my age besides him and Tom.

  Mom furrows her brow. “Are you feeling ready for tomorrow?” My parents have been over-anticipating how damaged I’ll be due to a big upheaval during such a “vital stage in my development.” (Dad’s words, not mine.) I’ve tried reassuring them as best I can, but Mom has been counting down the days to tomorrow as if I’m about to start preschool.

  I say, “I’ll be fine, I’m sure.” I don’t add how much I’ll miss having Rhonda by my side. Or how nervous I am about winning Colton’s heart.

  “What are you planning to wear?” she asks.

  “Jeans and a T-shirt?” I shrug, but Mom launches into a monologue about how crucial my first day outfit is.

  “This isn’t just about you entering your senior year, Andie. Nobody here knows you. You will be judged solely on what you wear that first day.”

  “Thanks a bunch,” I say. “Dad always tells me I should just be myself.”

  “Of course you should be yourself.” Mom pats my hand. “Just be yourself, wearing something fabulous.”

  She rises and moves to a bin in the corner, where she roots around for a few moments, selectively gathering an armload of dresses as if she’s picking an oversized bouquet of
bright, patterned flowers. With a flourish, she spreads them out one by one down the length of our new pink couch.

  I let her have her fun, since I have to admit she does have some crazy-cool taste in clothing. That is, with an emphasis on the crazy.

  Within minutes, the living room is covered in fitted pinup-style dresses and silk-screened prints, black crinoline skirts, wild designs, colorful stripes, peek-a-boo cutouts, and lots and lots of ribbon. It’s like the couch has become a vintage fashion cornucopia.

  Mom turns up the stereo to act as a soundtrack for our montage of trying on outfits together. My mother wouldn’t be my mother without massive amounts of quirk. As usual, just like the cheesy special effects vortex they used in the movie Weird Science, her enthusiasm sucks me right in.

  Between outfit changes, Mom keeps insisting I try on a sleeveless pink dress covered with white polka dots. The bright pink color clashes with my hair, so I resist, but she eventually wears me down. Once it’s zippered, I must admit the cinched waist does create the illusion I have a great figure, and I can’t seem to help spinning around in it. The poufy skirt just insists on being twirled.

  When Dad walks in the door, he looks back and forth at the two of us wearing zany dresses with our hair all static-y, and he starts laughing.

  Mom sings him the line from her favorite Cyndi Lauper song, “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,” and blows him a kiss.

  Dad pretends to catch her kiss as he moves into the room, but stops at the new couch blocking his way.

  “This place wasn’t Barbie’s Dream House enough for you two already? Did we really need to start collecting pink furniture?” He’s referring to the periwinkle-painted exterior of our new house, but he sounds more amused than angry.

  “It’s red.” Mom pouts as she drops onto the couch, tugging at the tight, yellow pencil skirt she landed in after our fashion experimentation. “The leather’s just a little faded.”