Rachel had given her head a shake, half in anger, half in sorrow. “It’s not like that for girls.”
He wanted to ask more questions—like what straight versus curly versus wavy hair had to do with job interviews or with giving back to the community; whether Keila cared if Rachel had red or pale pink polish on her nails—when someone knocked on Rachel’s door. “Hey there, Andrew Landis,” said Pamela Boudreaux, who was Rachel’s co-vice-president, a legacy whose mom had attended Beaumont, an Atlanta native with a syrupy drawl and a wry sense of humor. In her room once, Andy had picked up a framed photograph of Pamela in a white dress. “Were you in a wedding?” he’d asked, and she’d chuckled and said, “Honey, that was my debut.”
“We’ve got a situation,” Pamela said, pulling Rachel over to the window seat. Andy listened closely enough to learn that the situation involved a sister whose dress was “inappropriately revealing.”
“I see London, I see France, I see Stacey Saperstein’s underpants. Or I would, if she was wearing any.”
“Oh, dear,” Rachel murmured.
“She said it’s Dolce & Gabbana, thank you very much, and she’s not changing.”
Andy closed his eyes, listening to the two of them try to solve the problem of Stacey Saperstein’s ass crack, and imagined the next day’s run around Beaumont’s track: ten minutes at an easy jog; hundred-yard sprints times four, each followed by a thirty-second recovery, then four two-hundred-yards, two four-hundred-yards, and two race-pace miles with a five-minute break in between. He imagined kneeling, setting his feet in the blocks, fingers tented on the pebbled surface of the track, crouched and waiting, imagining the starter’s pistol . . . Then Rachel was shaking his shoulder, saying, “Hey, Prince Charming, it’s time for the ball.”
Even he had to admit that the room was lovely. Rachel and her sisters had strung up tiny, twinkling white lights, and stapled billowing clouds of white tulle across the ceiling to look like clouds. Yards of fabric with tiny mirrors sewn on draped the walls, making it look like the guests were dancing inside a tent. Two bands took turns onstage, playing three fast songs for every slow one (Rachel had explained, very seriously, how they’d come up with that ratio). In his tuxedo, among a throng of similarly dressed guys, Andy didn’t feel awkward. Maybe, indeed probably, those guys, all of whom were white, owned their tuxes, didn’t have to rent them, especially didn’t have to rent them using a coupon their girlfriend had sent—but it didn’t matter. He took Rachel in his arms, holding her close, as the second band’s lead singer crooned, “I knew I loved you before I met you, I think I dreamed you into life.”
“You did a good job,” he whispered, and her face lit up, so pretty, even though part of him wanted to soak a napkin in water and wipe off all the foundation and blush and concealer and eyeliner (“ladies, please, ONLY black or brown!”) and eye shadow (“neutrals, blended very well, and do I even have to say no pastels or vivid colors?”) that the checklist mandated, until she looked like the girl he’d met in the hospital again. “Tell me a story,” he’d say, and she’d smile and take his hand, and for a minute they’d both marvel at how long they’d known each other, and talk about how they would be together forever.
“Hey, watch it!” A red-faced guy holding two red plastic Solo cups bumped into Andy. Beer surged over the edge of a cup and slopped onto Rachel’s gown.
“Oh!” Rachel stared at the stain in horror, then dashed away, leaving Andy and Beer Guy looking at each other. Beer Guy was a beefy fellow who looked like he’d been force-fed into his tuxedo. His gut swelled against his buttons; his neck bulged over his collar.
“Jesus, didn’t you see me?” Beer Guy whined. Andy held his hands up, quickly recognizing that this guy was drunk, drunk enough to not care about anything.
“Sorry.”
“You’re goddamn right you’re sorry. Sorry piece of shit.” The guy’s tiny, mean eyes, shoved deep in the glistening, sweaty flesh of his face, did a fast flick up and down, taking in Andy’s face, his tux, his feet. A predatory grin stretched his fat, drunk face, showing off the kind of straight teeth you got only after a few years of expensive orthodontia. “Nice shoes, ass-face.”
Andy felt himself blush. The guy at the tuxedo store had wanted to rent him formal shoes, for an extra eight bucks. Andy didn’t have an extra eight bucks, due to the expense of the bus tickets and the new undershirts he’d had to buy (Rachel had run her finger over the frayed collar of the one he’d worn on his last visit, and she hadn’t said anything but he’d known what she was thinking). He had worn his blue Nikes, thinking it was ultimately kind of a cool look, an I’m-too-hip-to-be-bothered-to-match look. But maybe not.