Page 30 of Grape Juice
“I get it, honeybee.” She pulls back to take in my face and must sense something fragile in what she sees there. “Why don’t we talk about it later, huh? Tonight’s our last hurrah, and I’ll be damned if we both don’t enjoy it.”
I nod, grateful for the diversion. I know she’s right: I’ll be endlessly disappointed if I squander my final big night. But my eyes are damp anyway. Leaking ever so slightly.
“Let’s get down to business. What are you gonna wear?” She squeezes my shoulder gently.
“I have no idea. You?”
Ruby holds up a vintage-looking button-down top with cap sleeves and large, spirited polka dots along with a pair of black wide-leg trousers.
“I’m thinking these and, well, any shoes at all that aren’t work boots. Might skew a touch primary school art teacher, but alas.C’est la vie.”
“I love it; it suits you.”
“Wait!” She holds up a hand, flinging her own clothes onto the bed. “I have something for you!”
She reaches into the armoire and produces a gauzy white nightgown with thin straps and a pleated panel down the front. “My ginger ass can only wear this to sleep—makes me look like a proper ghost. But you’re so tan now, you’ll look like a little angel.”
In this house of so few mirrors, I’ve hardly been awareof the slow-warming color of my skin, the deepening hue. I pull the dress over my head, my wet hair dripping coolly down my back, and it falls just right, the hem landing a book’s width above my knees, the body hanging loose with just a suggestion of silhouette.
“How’s it look?”
“It’s special—angelic, indeed. Wear it. You’ve got no choice.”
She finds her phone to take a picture—our mirror substitute in all sartorial matters—and I see that she’s right. It fits well, makes me look more feminine than I have in weeks. I like it, this reassurance of my own form. This ability to shift so swiftly from sturdy, capable, and soil dusted to young lady. And of course, I see Henri seeing me in it. I know he’ll like it—know the way his eyes will gleam, the corner of his mouth stretching to the left.
Ruby and I do each other’s makeup—one more solve for our lack of reflective surfaces. A light, bruisey eyeshadow for each of us; mascara (“Blink onto the wand,” she tells me); a mauve lipstick. Ruby plaits her hair with nimble fingers into a tidy French braid, while I let mine air dry, falling long and wavy to the midpoint of my back. After weeks of having the mass of it tied up in some knot of efficiency, it feels indulgent to let it breathe this way, so unrestrained.
“His jaw will drop when he sees you,” she whispers, not bothering to clarify thehe. I’m grateful for her soft reassurance, her acknowledgment of the Henri Conundrum—even if we aren’t going to discussl’éléphantin the room.
As Ruby spritzes herself with perfume, Pietro arrives, knocking softly before pushing the door open enough to peek his head inside hesitantly. “Ah,ragazzi! My God!”
He nudges the door the rest of the way open with his hip and presents three flutes of something sparkling balanced in his hands. “I come with a small treat for the girls!”
He distributes the wine among us, and we clink our glasses together with a sweet, small chime. “Grazie, Pietro, just what we needed.” I kiss him on both cheeks. A tenderness toward him dilutes my gloom as I take in his wild getup—an excellent stand-in for his personality—and I worry that I haven’t gotten enough of him while I’ve been here. That ultimately, my Big Experience has rested far too squarely on the shoulders of some precarious romance.
“You both look so beautiful. Like models!” He gesticulates effusively with his wineless hand. “So mucheleganza!”
“What can we say, we clean up nice.” Ruby pops a hip and reaches an arm in the air so as to properly display her outfit. “Well... it helps when we clean up at all. But look atyou, Pietro!”
He’s wearing his typical collection of gold chains, which hang at different lengths across his chest like rivulets. On this occasion, they’re offset by a leopard-print shirt with one lone button in use near his navel.
His hair isn’t nearly long enough to make use of Ruby’s braiding talents, but nonetheless, he demands a hairdo ofanygenre. The three of us kneel together in a circle on the hardwood floor, and Ruby sets to work, storing a spray ofbobby pins in her teeth while she divides his mane into sections.
As I pass her a comb, another knock. “Entrez!” I call out. “Come in!”
The door swings open to reveal Henri, stepping forward with a measured trepidation.Can everything revealed be called a revelation?I wonder.Or is that term specific to moments like this one?
In brown pants and a navy linen button-down, the sleeves rolled up just above his elbows, he looks like some masculine advertisement for vacation—a case for time spent, without cell service, in sunshine. God, I am relieved to see him. Meeting his eyes feels like encountering a spring... and it has only beenhow long nowsince my last drink?
“Welcome,mio fratello! The girls are beautifying!” Pietro gestures for him to come in and sit.
He pauses as if some barrier prevents his passage. “I... was hoping I could talk to Alice for a moment.”
We hold one another’s gaze, and the incongruous weight of the seemingly plain request makes my heart race. Will I ever tire of my name in his mouth? Does it ring differently knowing there is a dwindling supply of hisAlicesleft?
“Oui, let’s go for a walk?” I stand up, leaving my wine propped carefully next to Ruby, doing my best to avoid the knowing glances between my floor companions. “Don’t let Pietro drink my glass.”
Pietro rolls his eyes, and Henri holds the door open forme. Instinctively, we walk around to the back of the house and toward his truck, traipsing along in a high-decibel silence. I catch sight of myself in the rearview mirror, and I pause. Perhaps it has something to do with how rarely I’ve encountered my own reflection. Maybe it’s the mottled freckles on my skin; the sun-bleached, loosened quality of my hair; the Alsatian light. Perhaps it’s the berry-stain lip color in this land of smashed fruit. Maybe it’s just the distinct experience of moving about in a dress that doesn’t belong to me. Whatever the cause, all of the pieces of me seem to fit together in a way they never have before.
