Free Love and Other Foreign Words by Erin McCahan Page A

but it still privately bugs me.
    I explain I have plans with Kate, which he pronounces
cool
.
    He’s going to see his grandparents in Indiana the following weekend. I have an away track meet the Saturday after that. We compare schedules and find they don’t coordinate until prom night, four weeks from today.
    â€œThat’s cool,” he says, sounding resigned. “At least I get to see you at school.”
    After I hang up, I think about
at least I get to see you at school
. I think about these words as I pack my bag for Kate’s. I think about these words as Kate drives me to Nordstrom, out at the ever popular Easton Town Center, and I think about these words as I try on the first three of seven dresses Kate has picked out in Shopping Commando Style.
    I love her Shopping Commando Style. She dons her imaginary shopping-vision goggles, declines all help from salespeople, moves with intention, speed, and determination, and obtains the target or targets within minutes. Minutes. Unlike Sophie and Jen Auerbach and other friends I go shopping with, who take forever, leave with nothing, and consider the excursion a success, which makes absolutely no sense to me, even though I go along with it.
    The only person I enjoy shopping with is Kate.
    And the only reason I stop thinking about
at least I get to see you at school
and the pleasant feeling it induces is because a tag on the inside of dress number four is trying to lacerate my flesh over my bottom rib.
    â€œThis one’s no good,” I call to Kate through the dressing room door.
    â€œI need to see it.”
    â€œNo you don’t.”
    â€œJosie, let me see,” she says, opening the door and peeking in. “Okay, that one’s perfect. Stop fussing.”
    â€œI’m not fussing,” I say, holding a pinch of dangerous fabric out from my side. “I can’t wear this.”
    â€œNo. That’s the dress. I’m telling you, that’s the one.”
    â€œThen I have to wear it like this all night,” I say.
    â€œWhat? A tag?” She knows me so well. “A seamstress can remove it.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYes. She can.”
    â€œNo. She can’t because what if she misses one little piece? What if she creates a big or bigger knot or bump where there isn’t any? What if she—”
    â€œOkay, stop,” Kate says, and sighs. “I get it. Let me see the others.”
    Eventually, she chooses a long dress of navy blue satin with spaghetti straps and a fitted, ruched bodice gathered at the waist with a large teardrop-shaped crystal brooch.
    â€œIt gives you the illusion of having hips,” she says.
    â€œWell, then I ought to have brooches here and here,” I say, grabbing my non-existent bust.
    â€œJosie, it fits you perfectly. You don’t need a thing, but that reminds me,” she says before grabbing her phone out of her purse and typing notes.
    â€œReminds you of what?”
    â€œReminds me,” she says, dropping her phone back in her purse and shooting me a quick smile, “that I need to get you a strapless bra before the wedding.”
    â€œI have a strapless bra. It doesn’t stay up.”
    â€œI need to get you a padded one, and we’ll find one that stays up. You’re going to need it for the bridesmaids dresses I chose.” And her description of them and how she found them carries us through Nordstrom, to the parking lot, back to her place. At least I think it does. I have stopped listening and am thinking only
at least I get to see you in school
.

Chapter Ten

    I am sitting with my backpack on my lap, underneath the glowing light on the front steps of Kate’s condo in German Village, a historic but trendy part of the city consisting mostly of red bricks and young lawyers. German Village abuts downtown Columbus, sharing nothing but proximity with the city. The sweet scent of crabapple blossoms fills the air tonight, courtesy of a warm