DeeDee pointed toward the lights and swaying couples in the distance and said, "I figured if I came late then I wouldn't have to be a wallflower for too long."
I imagined her blending in with the wooden slats and bales of hay, disappearing among the sea of couples until no one noticed one girl standing alone, not quite a part of the party. That's when I knew that DeeDee was a chameleon, too.
"So, what are you doing out here by yourself?" DeeDee asked.
It was a pretty good question. Thankfully, one I was ready for.
I rubbed my temples and said, "It's so loud in there, my head is killing me. I had to get some air."
"Oh," she said, and started digging in her tiny pink purse. "Do you want some aspirin or something?"
"No. Thanks, though."
DeeDee stopped digging, but she still didn't look at me when she said, "He really likes you, you know? I've known him for forever, and I can tell he really likes you."
Even if I hadn't read her note, I would have known how much she liked Josh, how deeply she wished that he would someday buy her a wrist corsage. And she'd wear it—not because it was part of some silly inside joke but because Josh had given it to her.
"I really like him, too," I said, not knowing what else to say.
She smiled. "I know."
And then I thought she'd walk away. I really needed her to walk away, because I absolutely had to come up with a way of getting Josh out of there! "Well, don't let me keep you, DeeDee," I said, running through possible distractions in my mind: small explosion, easily contained forest fire, the possibility that there might be some pregnant woman inside who could go into labor in the next half hour …
"Cammie?" DeeDee asked, and I couldn't help myself, I snapped, "What?"
"Do you want me to tell Josh you need to go home?"
Or that could work, too.
As DeeDee walked toward the party, I found myself envying her. She saw Josh at school. She knew what he ate in the cafeteria and where he sat in class. There was no part of her life she couldn't share with him—nothing he didn't already know from a lifetime of dances and carnivals and ordinary days. And then I found myself thinking: if all things were equal, would he still like me then?
But I would never know, because things would never be equal. DeeDee would always be flesh and blood to him, and I'd always be a legend.
"Are you sure I can't drive you home?" Josh asked as he turned the van onto Main Street and we headed for the square. "Come on. I know you're not feeling well. Let me—"
"No, that's okay," I said. "My head doesn't hurt now." Not a lie.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
He parked along the square, and we got out and walked to the gazebo. He held my hand, and it was a very Dear Diary moment, if you know what I mean, because the lights in the gazebo were on but the town was deserted and his hand was soft and warm, and then … he handed me a present!
The box was small and blue (but not Tiffany blue as Macey would later point out) and circled by a pink ribbon.
He said, "I hope you like it."
I was stunned. Completely. I'd gotten presents before, sure, but usually they were things like new running shoes or a signed first edition of A Spy's Guide to Underground Russia. Never had the presents come with pretty pink ribbons.
"My mom helped me wrap it," Josh admitted, then motioned to the gift in my hands. "Go ahead," he told me, but I didn't want to open it. How sad is that—that the idea of a present was more precious to me than the gift itself?
"Go on!" Josh said, growing impatient. "I wasn't sure what you wanted, but…oh, well…" He started tearing at the paper. "Happy birthday!"
Yeah, in case you haven't figured it out already: it totally wasn't my birthday.
The present in my hands felt foreign and heavy then. Doesn't it usually take 365 days to earn a birthday present? I wondered. I mean, I know I've had a pretty sheltered life and all, but I'm pretty sure that's the standard way in which these things work.
"I bet you thought I'd forgotten," he teased, pulling me into a bone-crushing hug.
"Oh, um … yeah?" I tried.
"DeeDee helped me pick them out." He had taken the lid off the box and was pulling out the most delicate pair of silver earrings I'd ever seen. (Note to self: get ears pierced.) "I thought they'd go with your necklace—you know, the silver one, with the cross?"
"Yeah," I said, dismayed. "I know the one."
The earrings glistened in the night, and all I could do was stare at them, hypnotized, thinking that no girl has ever had a nicer boyfriend, and no girl has ever been less deserving of him.
I felt like I was outside myself looking down. Who is that girl, I wondered. Doesn't she know how lucky she is? Doesn't she realize that she has really pretty earrings that match her necklace and a boy who would think of such a thing? Who is she to worry about quantum physics or chemical agents or NSA codes? Doesn't she know this is one of those rare moments in life where everything is right and good and wonderful?
Doesn't she know these moments always end?
Chapter Twenty-one
As I inched through the secret passageways, my thoughts seemed to echo in the narrow space: But it isn't my birthday.
I wished the nagging doubt would just go away. I had earrings, didn't I? Does it really matter why he'd given them to me? After all, normal girls get mad when their boyfriends forget their birthdays, so shouldn't remembering a wrong birthday be worth bonus points or something? I should have been crediting Josh's account in case he ever forgot something else—like twenty years from now he could forget our wedding anniversary and I could say, Don't worry, darling; remember when you gave me earrings when it wasn't my birthday? Now we're even.