Asha pulls some ridiculous top hat on her head. “What do you think? Maybe I could show up in a tuxedo,” she says, and then sneezes. She sets the hat back down. “Or maybe not.”
Most of the clothes here aren’t true vintage. There’s a lot of crap from the eighties—old KISS band T-shirts, NASCAR sweatshirts, denim jackets, neon-colored track suits. But there is one section, toward the back of the store, a rack of old dresses. I sift through them while Asha looks through some nearby shoes.
Too poofy. Too slutty. Too churchy. Too pink. Crap. All crap.
And then.
It’s like the heavens parting, the light shining down, angel choirs launching into jubilant song. It’s how I felt when Dex offered me the dish-girl job, how I felt when Mr. Callihan handed me back the quiz I aced, how I felt when Sam leaned in to kiss me in the car. The feeling that this is right. This is exactly how it should be.
I’ve found the perfect dress.
* * *
I’m pretty sure my day can’t get any better, but then I get home. I kick the door shut with one foot, careful not to let the plastic bag carrying my new dress drag on the floor.
“Chelsea? Is that you?” It’s Dad, calling from the living room.
Before I can make my way over, he finds me. Mom’s right behind him, a bottle of wine in one hand. Dad skids into the hall, practically running, and this giant grin on his face. I don’t know what’s more shocking—the fact that he’s smiling, or the fact that Mom is home. On a Tuesday. Before nine o’clock.
“Honey,” he says, out of breath, “I got a job.”
He grabs me in a hug before there’s time for this news to sink in. I drop the bag on the ground and hug him back. A job? A job. I’m so, so happy for him. When he lets go, he’s still smiling, and Mom is…laughing. Laughing!
It’s nice, for once, to be proven wrong.
“It’s at the Harrison dealership across town,” he says, all in a rush. “Selling cars. Your friend’s dad owns the place. He called Saturday, I interviewed this afternoon, and he offered me the job on the spot. I start next week.”