The Humdrum Life of a Hero

Chapter 29

"Why the fuck are you answering the door?" Bridgette irritatedly asks when I open the front door for her. Cases full of make-up and hair stuff sit at her feet while she's got her dress slung back over her shoulder.

At first I don't understand why she's toting all of this make-up around when she's clearly put some on today already. She's got a white, lace skirt on with a blue lace blazer. She's dressed for summer, not the middle of December. Her red hair is piled on top of her head in an messy, yet elegant, bun.

When I look down at my ratty, blue, too-long sweats and my purple v-neck, I understand exactly why she's toting all of this shit around: she's here to do my hair and make-up.

"Because you rang the door bell?" I answer her question with a tone of smart-assness.

"No, I mean why are you answering the door?" She starts to pick up her assorted cases of junk and begins to stumble inside. I side-step her so she doesn't trample me, and so I don't have to help her. "You need to be getting ready."

I peer behind her at the clock in the living room. It reads 2:14. I look back at her with total confusion because the dance doesn't start until 7 o'clock this evening. "Why weren't you getting ready?" she persists even though she clearly notices the bewildered state of my face.

"Because I had to make and clean up breakfast? Because I had laundry that needed my attention?" I shoot back. Bridgette doesn't go the sympathy route like most people would if I used those as my excuses; she knows me too well to pity me. Instead, she rolls her eyes and hands me a make-up case that weighs about as much as a cinder block.

She starts up the stairs, and I follow her obdiently. In my room, she starts to pull tubes of lipstick and mascara, pots of eyeshadow, and sticks of eyeliner out of the three cases currently holding my bed down. She sets the various torture tools out on the counter in the bathroom while I take a seat next to the cases.

When she comes back in my room, her heels no longer clicking against the tile in the bathroom, she puts her hands on her hips and gives me a once-over, evaluating just how much time she's going to need. Pressing a finger to her lips in a contemplative gesture, she suddenly goes to my closet and pulls out the dress.

I haven't looked at it much since we brought it home a couple weeks ago for fear of it getting some god awful stain or chancing that Jay might see it, so it's nice to see the thing that has yet to give my father a minor heart attack when it shows up on the Visa bill. It's nice to see that it's all mine and nobody else's.

"Ah, just as magical as the day we picked it out," Bridge sighs. She carefully lays it across the bed, admiring it more once she releases it. "I'm so glad you resisted to show the ungrateful male this beautiful masterpiece."

"When did he become ungrateful?" I lean back on my elbows on the bed, making sure I don't squish the dress, and ask Bridge.

"He's not ungrateful yet, but he will be when he rips this dress off you later tonight," she looks at me and winks. I roll my eyes this time.

But as much as I hate that she thinks she knows what'll happen later on this evening, I know she's right. On Wednesday, I made a few calls around to see who would be willing to watch a pair of rowdy ten year-olds tonight. As I figured, most people either had plans to go to the dance or were spending time with family since it's the holidays, so I was forced to implement the if-all-else-fails plan, a plan I have never had to use and, quite frankly, never wanted to use.

Bridgette's mom has always told that if I ever need anything to just call her and she would gladly help, but the problem with Bridge's mom is that she doesn't have much of a filter and will say whatever comes to mind. I love the woman dearly, but I'm still scarred for life when what was supposed to be a simple ride home turned into a full on lecture about sex education. I think I was about fifteen then, and that was the first day I had ever met Mrs. Valencia.