ABBY’S BALLROOM DRESS

ABBY’S BALLROOM DRESS(Kelli Isaak) (Note that the author was 17 years old when she wrote this story.)


“Doesn’t Abigail look beautiful in her new dress?” Mom asked Aunt Christine as I slurped my fancy British soup, “I found it at Nannette’s Dress and Jewel Shop this afternoon.” We had just gotten back from Nannette’s an hour ago, and I had already been humiliated in front of my brother, Maxwell. Mom was showing off pictures she’d insisted on taking after we’d bought the dress. Most of the shots included me spinning around the sidewalk; the dress flew so high that I swear everyone around us could see my undergarments.

“She looks beautiful!” Aunt Christine exclaimed, “I’m so glad you got custody of her!”

“Me, too,” Mom agreed, “But Richard has changed her so much, it’s hard for us to agree on anything.” After fifteen minutes of gabbling with Aunt Christine, she finally heard me slurp. I was wondering when she would. “Abigail,” she said, turning to me, “Please don’t slurp your soup; sip it, like I’ve told you a million times before. Slurping is loud and rude, especially when we’ve got guests.”

It was too much; Mom was always so finicky about how my hair was styled, whether or not my dresses had been properly pressed, and, worst of all, how I ate. I slammed my tiny spoon onto the white lace tablecloth, “I hate it here!” I cried, “Everything in and around this house has to be perfect! Well, I’m sick and tired of perfect! I want everything to be normal again! I—I want to go back to living a normal, imperfect life with Dad NOW!” I began wailing uncontrollably; something Mom hated ten billion times more than all of my imperfections combined.

“Abigail—“ Mom began.

“Life here is so boring . . .” I said, cutting her off. I didn’t want to hear another word come out of her perfect little mouth.

“Abigail—“ she said again.

“At least Dad’s life was carefree, and not full of tight, binding rules!” I said, cutting her off again.

“ABIGAIL!”

“WHAT?” I screamed.

“Your father’s place might have been carefree, but he was not,” Mom told me, “He did drugs.”

“Such as?” I demanded.

“Morphine.”

I turned my head, “I don’t care.”

“Morphine is illegal in the States,” she continued.

“I don’t care!” I repeated more adamantly this time.

“Fine,” Aunt Christine said icily after a long, dragging silence, “You may return to the States.”

“But if your father gets put in prison,” Mom continued, “Don’t come crying to us!”

“I won’t,” I promised bitterly, “I’ll find someone else to live with. Dad has many friends, and I do, too.”

Mom sighed, “Go pack your bags, Abigail. It’s a good thing your father doesn’t abuse you like most drug addicts do.” She snorted distastefully, “That’s the only reason Aunt Christine and I are letting you go back to him.”

As I went to my room, I heard Maxwell asked, “So may I have her living quarters, along with mine? Or must I choose one?”

“You may have both,” Aunt Christine answered, “Maybe your rooms will stay cleaner, then.”

It took me four hours to pack my things and buy a one-way ticket to the States, but I felt that the time was well worth getting out of Mom’s perfectly tight grasp.

“I’m sorry, Miss Nichols,” the young receptionist, Natalie Brinks, said, “But Mr. Nichols has been sent to jail for drug abuse and trafficking. I was in Dad’s office, where I’d hoped to find him; he used to work sixteen-hour shifts, and would most likely be at work filing papers.

“Do you have any idea when he’ll be back?” I asked sadly.

“Sadly, he’s in jail for life,” Ms. Brinks told me, “I’m sorry, Miss Nichols.”

“Me, too,” I said, “Thanks anyway, Natalie.”

I walked solemnly into the hot, humid Florida air and headed toward Darla, Dad’s fiancée’s, house.

When I got there, I noticed that the lights were all off. Not even the friendly porch light Darla left on when we were napping was on. Knowing it was unlikely that Darla still lived there, I knocked on the door anyway. The family room light was immediately flicked on. A few seconds later, Darla opened the door. “Oh, hello Abby,” she said sleepily, “What brings you here?”

“I just found out Dad’s in jail,” I said, “I need a place to sleep before I head back to London tomorrow morning.”

“Come in, dear,” she said, opening the door wider, “I’m aware that Rich is in jail for life. I’m as sad as you are. Are you hungry? I’ve got some leftover pepperoni pizza in the fridge if you’re interested.”

“Thanks, Darla,” I said gratefully, “To tell you the truth, I’m starving.”

“It’s on the top shelf,” she continued, ushering me into the large house, “Then we’ll find the cheapest plane ticket back to London.”

After pizza, and after Darla and I had found a plane back to England, I went straight to bed. I couldn’t leave right away the next morning, as I’d hoped, so Darla said she’d talk to some of Dad’s relatives and see if they had a room I could stay in for the next week. The last call I heard before I dozed off was one to Dad’s brother, Uncle Sampson. I hoped he’d let me stay with him for awhile.

As it turns out, I was to spend the next week with Aunt Trixie. She is one of Mom’s many sisters, but she’s definitely not a perfectionist like Mom and Aunt Christine. In fact, she’s a bartender for one of Manny’s, the busiest pubs in Tallahassee. Before Mom got custody of me, I used to perform as a comedian and singer for Manny’s large, demanding audience.

Aunt Trixie and I met there at about eleven in the morning. “Hello, Abby!” she cried, “It’s so great to see you again! You’re going to perform for everyone this week, aren’t you? I think the audience would be delighted if you would!” She chuckled heartily, “So, what brings you to Florida?”

“Of course I’ll perform!” I exclaimed, “But I’m only staying for a week; I return to London next Wednesday.”

“Why?” Aunt Trixie asked.

“Dad’s in prison,” I replied, “For drug trafficking and risky stuff like that.”

“Richie? In jail? How awful!” my aunt exclaimed, putting the back of a delicate hand to her forehead.

*****

As it turns out, my plane ticket was a fake! To make things much worse, the airport’s computer malfunctioned, making it impossible for anyone to book flights, return home on time, and keep the airplanes on their designated courses. All in all, it took two years for them to reboot the main computer and take out anymore bad bugs that might still be inside.

Anyway, by the time the airport called to tell us that the malfunction was taken care of, I was eighteen, and had officially begun working with Aunt Trixie, which was very fun right from the start. The part I still liked most, however, was performing in front of the audience every night. I had spent almost two years practicing comedy and dreaming of the day I would be able to dance and joke alongside Aunt Trixie. It all paid off.

I especially remember one busy, rainy night in the middle of July. The audience was extremely rowdy, rude, and angry because nobody had come onto the stage to perform for three hours. Finally, I took the stage and began singing several songs, including Gwen Stefan’s “Holler Back”; Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams”; and something (I don’t remember exactly what song) from Shania Twain. The audience roared with applause, so I told jokes throughout the remainder of the night.

One night, however, our comedy acts turned into a life-or-death rescue situation. Aunt Trixie’s boss’s ten cats had gotten stuck in the rafters while exploring her house. Before she’d left for work, Gertrude told us, she’d put the cats in a wooden box with air holes so that they wouldn’t get into any trouble. In order to keep the cats inside it, she’d continued, she put a pillow over it, then put a very heavy book on only one half of the pillow. The cats had apparently escaped through the other end, and, to make things worse, the rafters had started on fire.

Aunt Trixie and I were now standing outside the house, waiting for the first cat to drop. We’d decided to reenact a three-person routine called “Flying Fireballs”, in which Aunt Trixie would stand atop a large cylindrical piece of wood and throw down red light-up balls, which were turned on. I would then bounce these “fireballs” off of the ballroom dress Mom had bought me. I was going to donate it to the Salvation Army, but Aunt Trixie told me about this routine, so I decided to keep it. Anyway, the third character would try to avoid the fireballs and tell jokes at the same time. If he was hit, the act was over because he “died”. The point is, however, that I would catch the cats in my dress instead of bouncing fireballs off it.

Suddenly, one of the firemen shouted, “Whoa! We’ve got ten flaming felines up here! Get ready to catch them, Abby!”

“Don’t catch them in your dress, though, Abby,” Gertrude advised fearfully, “See if you can make them land in that water basin that fireman over there is holding.” She pointed to a young redhead standing a few yards away.

“I’ll try,” I promised, “But he’s pretty far away, and I don’t know how much distance my dress will give cats.”

“All right,” the fireman called, quickly glancing at the cat’s collar, “Here comes Dolly!”

As Dolly fell from the rafters, I lifted the skirt of my gown and turned toward the fireman holding the water basin. When the cat hit my dress, she landed directly into the water!

“You did it, Abby!” Gertrude and Aunt Trixie exclaimed.

“I have no idea how you did it, either; those cats are awfully heavy!” my aunt exclaimed.

I repeated the process as the remaining nine cats were tossed from the rafters. They all bounced off my dress and landed directly into the red-headed fireman’s water basin. When it was finally over, Gertrude enveloped me in a huge bear hug. “Oh, thank you, Abby!” she cried.

“You’re welcome, Gertrude,” I replied, “But you might want to consider getting a box with a latch so that they don’t escape again.”

“Oh, I will!” she cried, “You bet I will!”

That night was the best night of heroism in all my life, but I knew that I couldn’t stay in town much longer. Mom already knew I had decided to return home, as well as the airport computer’s malfunction. Therefore, she’d be expecting me, and I couldn’t go back on my word to her, no matter how much we hated each other for our little imperfections, or, in Mom’s case, perfections.

THE END