That Summer by Sarah Dessen Page B

mean it,” she began. “It’s just hard, with my job and the Warshers and all the planning, and sometimes I just ...”
    “I know, I know,” my mother said, having jumped back into her soothing mode, easing off the troops and letting the skirmish settle down. “I just wanted to let you know how it was affecting everyone else. That’s all.”
    I combed my hair, put on deodorant and eyeliner, and got myself ready for work while the gushing and apologizing continued. By the time my mother had gently suggested that Ashley come up and apologize to me for her behavior of, oh, the last four months, I was fully dressed and waiting on my bed. I opened the door when she knocked, trying to act spontaneous.
    “Hey,” I said, making a point not to notice her red eyes and the crumpled Kleenex clutched in her hand. “What’s up?”
    “Well,” she said, leaning against the doorjamb and rubbing one foot with the heel of the other, “Mom and I were just talking about how crazy everything’s been with the wedding and all, and I wanted to come up and say I’m sorry if I’ve been a jerk lately. I mean, I’m sorry for taking it all out on you, you know, when I did.”
    “Oh.” I sat on my bed, nodding. “Well. That’s fine.”
    “I’m serious, Haven.” She came in and sat down beside me. “I’m sorry. It’s the last time we’ll ever be living under the same roof and I’ve been impossible. So I’m sorry.”
    “It’s okay,” I said. “And you have.”
    “Have what?”
    “Been a jerk. And impossible.” I smiled at her. “But I’m used to that from you.”
    “Shut up,” she said, staring at me. Then she looked down and added, “Okay. You’re right.”
    “I know,” I said.
    She stood up and walked to the door, turning back to me as she stepped out into the hallway. “You know, you’re going to be really grateful someday.”
    “For what?”
    “Being tall.” She looked at me, her eyes traveling from my feet to my face. “You don’t think so now, but you will.”
    “I doubt it,” I said. “But thanks for making the effort.”
    She scowled at me, halfheartedly, and I listened to her tiny feet patter back down the hallway to the stairs. Ashley had two weeks left in the bedroom beside mine, with a wall so thin between us that I always knew when she cried herself to sleep or had nightmares and tossed in her sleep. I knew a lot more about Ashley than she would have allowed me to if she could have controlled such things. There was a strange bond between us, however unintentional: the divorce, the wall, the years that separated us or didn’t. My sister was leaving the house, and me, in just two weeks. And regardless of it all, good and bad, I would be sad to see her go.
     
    The fitting that afternoon went the way they all had. I stood on a chair while Mrs. Bella Tungsten, seamstress, crawled around on the floor beneath me with a mouthful of pins, mumbling through her teeth to “Stand still, please.” She wore a measuring tape around her neck that she could brandish in a second, slapping it against my skin or around my waist with one flick of her wrist. This was the fourth and final fitting, and we all knew Mrs. Bella Tungsten a little better than we’d ever thought we would.
    “I have never in all my life seen a child grow so fast.” That was Mrs. Bella, tape in hand, tugging at the hem of my dress. “It’s gonna have to be shorter on her than on the rest. That’s all I can say.”
    “How much shorter?” My mother got up from the one good chair in Dillard’s fitting room and came over to inspect for herself. “Noticeably?”
    Mrs. Bella tugged again, trying to make length where there wasn’t any to be found. “There’s nothing I can do. I can’t let the dress down.”
    Ashley sighed loudly from the corner of the room, where one of Mrs. Bella’s assistants was unfurling her train, her arms full of white, silky fabric.
    My mother shot Ashley a look and squatted down beside Mrs. Bella,