…

Scheduled for Friday
by Anton M.

26: Nolche and Banana

…
Saturday, January 28

I held two pairs of (literal) mom jeans in front of me as I marched into the kitchen where my parents were having banh mi for a late lunch. Banished from YouTube, dad had spent the morning finding and collecting pieces of his torchworking equipment in the garage, and I had a feeling mom had enjoyed her alone time curled up on the couch, watching Binging with Babish. (This was a double-whammy to dad since mom rarely agreed to watch YouTube with him, so he pouted extra hard when he finally returned inside.) We'd planned to go to our new house in Smyrna to measure rooms for some of the new furniture we needed but postponed our visit to tomorrow since dad had had a long day yesterday and Edward was coming to tutor me in… twenty minutes.

"These," I held mom's ripped black jeans in front of me before switching to the light blue ones. "Or these?"

"The black," dad said, barely glancing up before he turned his attention on the list of things that needed to be done before our Smyrna house was ready to be moved in. Those included a plumber for the first floor bathroom, a new refrigerator, changing the locks, upgrading HVAC, installing a security system, electrical rewiring in the kitchen, renovating the upstairs bathrooms, and countless other mind-blowingly boring tasks. I had, thankfully, argued them into hiring people rather than letting dad break his back trying to prove he could do everything.

He could, but mom refused to let him do the electrical rewiring and I refused to let either of them work in the evenings.

It was still nice that they took care of all that boring stuff, and I had convinced them not to take our old worn furniture to the new house. It wasn't that we had to have the most expensive designer furniture, but… we'd lived with most of what we owned since I was a kid. It was time for a couch that didn't dip weirdly in one corner.

Mom lifted her eyes from the endless list of tasks, rested her chin on her palm and squinted at me.

"Do you think it's time you raid your own closet for once, sweetie?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." I stepped back. "Trigger warning, mom. Careful."

Mom glanced at dad before they both looked at me.

"Why?"

"You're kidding, right? Tell me you're kidding."

Mom raised her eyebrows.

I fought my smile as I leaned against the doorway, crossing my arms. "Please be so kind and remind me when was the last time we went shopping for clothes for me."

Mom paused, thinking. "November?"

"Really? Did we really? Last year? That was you alone, mom."

Mom combed her fingers through her grey hair, thinking.

"Oh my God, mom, tell me you didn't think I was raiding your closet for fun. I mean, I'm lucky you have a rad style, and I love fitting into your clothes, but most of my clothes are from when I was thirteen. I'm almost sixteen. That's a proper butt-and-boob difference in clothing, not to mention height. Did you think my clothes would magically resize themselves or what?"

Dad laughed.

"Are you serious?" mom asked, wide-eyed. "We must've been shopping last year."

"Nuh-oh," I denied. "When would we have done that? We only ordered bras and undies."

I held up my finger before I ran to my room to squeeze my oldest garment, a plum-colored frilly skirt, over my upper body. It settled just above my sweatpants like a corset. I returned to the kitchen, swaying my hips as I walked in a circle.

"Ladies and gentlemen, for our latest trend, the highest fashion, we have the multifunctional coochie-and-boobie dress by Nolche and Banana." Dad burst out his bite of the baguette as he laughed. "First," I continued, "it gives your coochie that beautiful airflow to make sure you always go home with a UTI. Second, it makes you insecure no matter which bra you wear, and last but not least—" I stopped walking and bent forward, creating chin and stomach rolls. "—it ensures that even your smallest customers are insecure about their body to make sure no woman grows up thinking their body is normal. No, no, no. Our mission is profit, and our coochie-and-boobie dress is perfect for convincing girls who hate their body that they should just keep buying clothes to solve the problem."

Mom keeled over against dad, wheezing as she laughed. Grinning, I straightened.

Mom gave me an amused, sheepish smile, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. "Why didn't you tell us you needed new clothes?"

"I thought you knew! We were all so busy last year. You're always getting up at ungodly hours just for me and listening to my fake problems and…" I shrugged. "You're doing so much. I didn't want to add to that."

"Aw, honey," mom cooed, getting up. She wrapped me in a hug. "It's our job to take care of you." She pulled back and tugged at the edge of my make-belief dress before she touched a lone curl on my neck. Her blue were were as soft as her voice. "I guess we'll have to go shopping, then."

"I don't know, sweetie," dad said, his eyes still glistening from laughter as he picked food from his beard. "This Nolche and Banana dress sounds like a real hit."

Mom began to laugh again, eyeing me. "Do you think we've overwatered our daughter?" she asked, clearly talking to dad. "I'm worried she will win all arguments against us soon."

I hugged mom once more just for that compliment, and I was about to ask dad if he could leave me and Edward the living room for tutoring when the doorbell rang.

"No!" I shouted in horror. "He's early. No, no, no, no." I began to tear off my skirt, but it wouldn't move, and I stared at my parents, wide-eyed. They were fighting laughter.

Dad stood up.

"No," I warned, stepping between him and the hallway. "Don't you dare let him in before we've found scissors to cut me out of this monstrosity."

"Oh, honey," dad said, voice empathetic as he squeezed my shoulder. "I feel for you, I do. But you must realize that, as your father, I have a solemn duty—"

His face broke into a shit-eating grin, and my dad, that little shit, sprinted to the door, threw it wide open and practically shoved Edward through the hallway and into the living room. Setting Edward's helmet on a shelf, dad motioned at the kitchen, and I stared daggers at dad before I masked my mortification behind a smile. I walked through the kitchen and leaned against the half-wall between the kitchen and the living room, crossing my arms. I desperately ignored the fact that, instead of looking all cute for Edward like I'd planned, I wore grey sweatpants, my rattiest T-shirt, and I had a frilly skirt stuck around my waist.

"Hi," I said, smiling softly before I tsk'ed. "Sadly, you missed a most epic fashion show. Sadder, still, all our scissors have disappeared, but make yourself at home while we—"

Mom held out scissors in front of Edward. "Would you mind? Charlie and I promised to call the electrician before three."

"Of course not, ma'am," Edward replied, all politeness even if he did look taken aback.

"We did?" dad asked, totally oblivious. "On a Saturday?"

Shut up, dad. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

"John, remember?" mom bluffed. "Remember he's available to discuss the wiring in the kitchen wall, but only if we call before three." Eyes sparkling, mom mouthed, 'You're welcome,' before they disappeared in their bedroom and shut the door.

Edward stepped closer, towering over me, handing me the scissors in silence as he slid off the jacket I'd borrowed. He, too, wore grey sweatpants, but also a zipped-up dark green hoodie with ragged sleeve ends that he pushed to his elbows.

I felt warmth spread through me in the knowledge that he felt comfortable enough not to feel the need to wear new clothes around me (although, sadly, it was probably evidence of him not being into me), but damn if he didn't look like the cutest thing in his sweatpants.

"It's laundry day," he apologized, noticing the direction of my gaze. The cushion in his helmet had created faint red lines on his forehead and cheeks. His silver eyebrow piercing fit perfectly with the shape of his eyebrows, but today, instead of making him look more severe, his eyes looked soft. Not even sad, just… calm. Was he hiding his anger and sadness? Did he really get over Lauren so quickly? Were they officially over?

Eyes twinkling and eyelashes moving, Edward glanced over my body. I felt a shiver run through me.

Calm down, you moron. He's not checking you out.

Squeezing the scissors and feeling ridiculous that mom had put him up to this, I assessed the corset-skirt around my waist and twisted my hands.

"I think I can—"

"I'll do it," he interrupted, taking hold of the scissors. He bit his lower lip, and his eyes were alight with an energy that made me feel like I could've burst out of my skin. I twitched in response to his cold knuckles brushing against my stomach when he gripped the edge of the skirt.

"Sorry," he whispered, tucking the scissors under his armpit as he breathed against his hands to warm them. "What is this thing, anyway?"

"It's my skirt."

"Your skirt?" he repeated. "When did you last wear it, as a toddler?"

I laughed. "Maybe."

Edward stopped blowing on his hands before he put the back of his knuckles against my jaw. "Better?" he asked quietly. Feeling breathless, I nodded. He began to cut off my corset-skirt.

"How'd you get into this thing, anyway?"

"I guess my boobs are extra squishy."

Kill me.

I did not say that.

The cold edge of the scissors pressed against my stomach when Edward's hand slipped. In an instant, he rolled up my clothes to examine the damage, and wild affection ran through me when he brushed his now-lukewarm thumb against my stomach, confirming no injuries. His eyes snapped to mine, like he couldn't believe what I'd said, but then he took a step closer to me and breathed against my ear.

"I know," he whispered, voice so low I might've imagined his words. I felt aflame. I wanted to interpret his words as evidence of him having thought about our first kiss, even if he was just teasing me. Had he… thought about our kiss, after? Had he thought about me like that?

"How functional do you want the skirt to be after this?" he asked, tearing me out of my giddy thoughts.

"It'll go straight to rags."

Edward handed me the scissors. "Hold these." Before I knew what was happening, he gripped the sides of the skirt and ripped it apart up until the hem. I stared at him, wide-eyed, not expecting to be so amused and turned on by his strength. "Much quicker," he said, his voice a bit strained.

I cut the hem just under my boobs and put the offending garment on the counter. Edward smiled, his eyes dancing with a secret, and I was just about to excuse myself to put on a more respectable top when he squeezed my waist, his eyes flickering to my tattered T-shirt.

"Oh shit."

I struggled to gather my thoughts with his hand on my waist.

"What?"

Edward facepalmed. "It appears I'm… continuing the tradition of ruining your clothes. I'm sorry."

He slid his hand under my T-shirt and poked his index finger through the V-shaped hole he'd created in the front. A wild warmth tugged in my belly when the hairy back of his hand tickled my skin, and it took everything in me not to reveal the effect his casual touch had on me.

"It's an old shirt," I assured him, giggling inside because my crush was touching my belly. "Don't worry about it."

"You sure?"

"Look at it." I pointed at my ragged collar and a hole on my shoulder. "Not keeping it for the better days."

"Hey, that means nothing. The ugliest shirts can be the most important to you." Edward rolled down his hoodie sleeve and held the split edges of it in front my face. "Presentable stuff, right?" He shrugged, pushing up the sleeves again. "But they're the last hoodies my mom bought me, so I'm wearing them until they fall off."

I wrapped him in a hug, sniffing his hoodie and feeling his cold zipper against my neck. Edward, clearly surprised, relaxed into me, and I couldn't see his face in my hair but I could've sworn he was smiling. His warmth surrounded me as he held me oh-so-tight. I got high on his scent.

Straight to hell I go considering my date with another guy is literally in three hours. They'll surely have a special call center for me to spend the rest of eternity cold-calling strangers.

"What was that for?" Edward asked, quietly, looking at me with his soft eyes when I pulled back. I felt tingly and feather-light in his gaze.

I didn't know how to tell him my heart felt too big for my chest when he shared why he hadn't replaced his ragged hoodies, but also… I kind of struggled not to touch him.

How was he so relaxed today, anyway? Wasn't he supposed to be angry and hurt with one-word replies to my questions and resenting having to be here? Was he feeling all of this but just good at hiding it? Where was the murderous man from yesterday?

"Make yourself at home," I replied, ignoring his question. "I'll be back in five."

I changed into a skintight black T-shirt but kept the grey sweatpants now that Edward was wearing them, too. My hair had turned into a poof factory, but I flipped my hairline on the other side so that at least only my (defined) curls were visible. I would've put on some tinted lip balm but I may as well have worn a shirt with a sign announcing my big fat crush on him.

When I returned, Edward had inhaled a banh mi mom had probably forced him to eat. My parents sat around the kitchen table, immersed in a silent discussion inaudible behind the instrumental music they'd put on. Edward sat on the living room couch, his biceps half-visible in a black T-shirt. He threw his tissue across the room towards the bin, missed, and got up to fix his mistake just as I dragged my backpack into the living room.

Edward sat back down. His eyes felt tender and full of restrained energy as he took me in, and I could've melted at the twinkle that appeared in his eye when he attempted to hold back his smile.

"What is this plagiarism?"

"Excuse me," I replied, dropping my bag on the floor next to him and crossing my arms. I could not help my grin. "This may be the only unstained, unstolen, uncut piece of clothing I have left."

Edward held his neck as he laughed. "Okay, I deserve that," he replied, watching me as I emptied my backpack on the carpet. "Suits you better anyway," he said in this quiet, appreciative tone that made me want to giggle like a maniac.

Do not giggle like a maniac. The boy did not declare his eternal love for you. He just likes your T-shirt.

I tried but it was impossible not to beam, but at least I turned away my face as I searched for my transcript so that he could do math wizardry to my grades. I did not agree with him, either—he looked far better in his black T-shirt, all biceps and wide shoulders and hairy forearms, and I was glad he didn't catch me checking him out when I handed him my transcript.

"Okay, how do you want to start?"

…