Everything’s Coming Up Josey by Susan May Warren Page B

size.
    Discolored blouses. Unraveled brown knit vests. A pair of khaki culottes that made the khaki pants look like a slenderizer.
    And a fruit skirt. Prairie style, with three tiers of hemming and lots of flounce. The most, ah, stunning aspect is the pattern. Plums. Apples. Pears. Large ones decorating the skirt like bounty from heaven.
    I think she’s pushing the “poverty” part of the missionary definition. She doesn’t know about the will and my many assets, however. Someone who stands to inherit (as the second beneficiary) $3,542 in cold hard cash should learn to kiss up a little.
    The sad part about my mother’s flanking move is that the fruit skirt is actually slimming. Maybe because of the sheer volume at the ankles. It sucks in my waistline and shows off everything north without me looking like I’m trying too hard. I wadded Mom’s Goodwill bribe into a bag and dumped it off at its source.
    But I kept the fruit skirt. Just for…naked moments when I need to feel thin.
    I shouldn’t…I mean…today isn’t…
    I reach for the skirt, a wild hair twining through my spirit. With a giddy smile, I pull it on. And like magic, there goes the cinnamon rolls, and Jas’s oh-so-excellent kringle.
    I pull on a short sleeve red shirt (hey, I’m trying to be thematic) and brush out my hair. I have short, totally defiant blond hair that I’ve managed to tame, on a good day, with a blunt cut and a wide paddle brush. Today it is as lifeless as a rummy in a Minneapolis alley. I try putting it up with clips. Uh, no.
    Maybe pigtails? I part my hair, pull it back into two stubby tails.
    Perhaps no one will show up. It’s not like I was homecoming queen. In fact, I distinctly remember not being a cheerleader. It’s a wound I still carry. I mean, wouldn’t I have made a great cheerleader? Bouncy…in so many verbal and visual ways.
    I make a face into the mirror, check my watch. 6:52 p.m. As usual, I’ve left the important details, like hair and makeup, until the last moment.
    But this night is about the new Josey. The Josey not shackled to her past, or her appearance fears, or even her daydreams of men in Montana. Besides, I sorta look cute. In an Uma Thurman meets Laura Ingalls kind of way.
    And, most importantly, I’m kicking the dust off this town tomorrow. I’m not trying to impress anyone. After all, I’m a missionary. We’re above all that.
    I shove my feet into a pair of open-toed red nubuck-leather slides I’ve had in my closet begging for use, and tromp down the stairs.
    My mother raises one eyebrow, gives a tentative smile and disappears into the kitchen.
    I go outside and am fairly shocked to see a growing multitude of admiring guests. Or maybe they’re just hungry because they’re gathered around Milton and the grill. Still, I attract some attention as I let the porch door bang shut behind me. I see Myrtle and Uncle Albert (who hasn’t taken a shower, but changed overalls, an act I count as a real gift). And there is my pastor, Kevin Peterson, and his sweet wife, Mary, who wave. They’re real proud of me. I know because every once in a while, he looks at me in the middle of a sermon and smiles. Or is that a grimace?
    Tipsy McKeever is leaning over Milton’s shoulder, perusing the marinade. Three of our Berglund Acres guests are also here (I’m assuming this because they don’t look familiar). All seem focused on the smell of grilling meat.
    And next to them…
    I gasp because my heart has done a double flip with a half gainer and landed in the dirt at the bottom of the steps, taking my lungs along with it.
    Chase.

Chapter Five:
Benny and Bagels
    C hase Jordon Anderson, what are you thinking? Where have you been? Not a word, not one word from you all summer, even after I wrote you a heart-wrenching letter, at least from my perspective, and you show up twelve hours and thirteen minutes before I leave