Mandy Hubbard - Prada and Prejudice

It is perfect. It is everything I want it to be and more.

And then we both retreat, and I open my eyes.

He moves his arm so that it wraps around my shoulders, and I have somewhere to rest my head, and then I snuggle up against him and close my eyes again, as the heavy draw of sleep lulls me under.

I must have fallen asleep on a rock. It's digging into my shoulder blade. I scrunch up and start to roll over, but then freeze.

It's not just a single rock. It's a giant one. Like concrete.

I go numb as I realize what this means. It can't be... I ease open one eye, and then in an instant I'm sitting upright and looking around. And all I see are cars. And people in blue jeans. And street signs. And I smell smog and I hear radios crackling in the passing cabs.

I close my eyes for at least ten seconds and then open them again, but it's all still there.

The twenty-first century.

I can't stop my face from falling. I'm back. Just when I'd realized I don't want this at all, I'm back. My shopping bags are strewn around me. I'm wearing jeans. A T-shirt. My heels.

I glance back to realize the Prada shop is still a few yards behind me, just where I'd left it. I'm sitting in the exact spot I'd fallen down.

I never left at all.

I stay put for a few moments as a pounding headache fades.

Alex. Emily. Even Victoria.

They were all make-believe. Some figment of my banged-up brain. That means the kiss... God, I made it all up! Every single thing!

I want to lie back down, close my eyes, and go back. I want horrible soup and stiff corsets and lumpy mattresses. I'll trade it all to see Alex again. To go to Emily's wedding.

A man trips on my foot and then has the nerve to glare at me, even though he basically kicked me in the shin.

Yes, I'm definitely in the twenty-first century.

I scramble to my feet and wipe the dirt off my jeans and lean over to pick up my bags. And then I notice them.

My heels. My beautiful, damaged heels. I glance over my shoulder. Yes, the Prada shop is definitely still behind me. I've gone maybe four steps from the door. Nowhere near enough to ruin the heels like this. They're scuffed, dented, and scratched.

I gather up the rest of my bags, my grin in full-force. It wasn't fake. It wasn't make-believe or a dream or anything.

It happened. As sure as the mud on the heels, it happened. There's even a dent where the front door of Harksbury bounced off the toe.

I don't know how or why or anything, but somehow, I was there. I danced with Alex and helped Emily. I played a piano for a duke and a countess, and I ate more exotic animals than I ever wanted to.

But it happened. I don't understand it; I only know that the last month was real, and it was the best of my life.

I sling the bags over my shoulder and practically skip down the block. No matter what happens next, no matter what happens for the rest of my life, I have something no one else will ever have. An adventure to rival Indiana Jones. A crazy month that can never be replicated.

I continue in the direction of the hotel, feeling oddly out of place and right at home at the same time. A clock chimes somewhere in the distance. I wonder if it's Big Ben.

I wonder what time it is.

"Excuse me," I say to the first woman I see. She's wearing a sundress so loud I have to squint to look at her. "What time is it?"

"Two-fifty."

I thank her and then resume my walk. Two-fifty. I wasn't out long. Probably not even a full minute. I look at my shoes again, just to be sure they're still as scuffed as ever. I love them. I love every scratch and dent and mark. They're perfect.

I walk easily to the hotel, as if the shoes were made for me. As if they're sneakers and not three-inch heels.

I miss Alex.

I wonder if he remembers me at all. If no time passed here... what if the same thing happened there? What if the whole month starts over?

No, I can't believe that. If I remember him, he must remember me. Emily must be on her way to marry Trent. Victoria must be as grouchy as ever. It's simply not possible that they could all affect me so much and they wouldn't even remember me. I was there. I know it.

The hotel comes into view while I'm still thinking about it, and I slow down. Mrs. Bentley could be anywhere. I so don't need to get caught, on top of everything else.

I slip into a side door using the room key and walk up two flights of carpeted stairs, my steps muffled. They're nothing like the grand marble staircase of Harksbury.

I swipe my keycard again on the door of room 312. Once inside, I drop all my bags and head straight to the bathroom.

A shower sounds like heaven. I wonder if it's possible to run out of hot water in a hotel room.

I think I'm about to find out.

I'm sitting in a chair on the balcony, watching the traffic in the street below, when I hear a knock on my door. It echoes across the room. I stare for a long while. Some crazy, wild side of me wants it to be Alex, even though that's totally irrational.

I can't really get over losing him in an instant. He was there when I fell asleep. Gone when I woke up. I wasted a month, thinking he was a jerk, and just when I realize he's a good guy, I'm gone.

I leave the balcony and manage to tangle myself in the sheer curtains flapping in the breeze. By the time I'm at the door, someone is knocking again.

I open it and my hopes are dashed. It's Mindy. She's standing there in the same jeans and pink cami as the day I left. The same cami as this morning. "Hey."

"Oh. Hi," I say, one hand still on the doorknob.

"So, urn... "

Does she look nervous? Is that possible?

"Me, Angie, and Summer are going to sneak into a club tonight. And, uh, I wanted to know if you're interested," Mindy says, staring at the carpet.

Oh my God. She is nervous. The whole time I thought she was ignoring me because I was an embarrassment. Is it possible she just didn't want to put herself out there either?

I guess we have more in common than I thought.

I'm just standing there, staring at her.

"I was going to invite you earlier, in the bathroom, but you just kind of ran off," she says.

"Oh. Uh—" I pause for a second. To be honest, room service and sleep sounds too good to pass up. Maybe a pint of Ben & Jerry's to drown my sorrows.

How could he be gone just like that? The first time I've ever felt like I was falling in love... and now we're two hundred years apart. Talk about a long distance relationship.

"Urn, I don't know."

"Come on, you have to. When is a chance like this going to come along again?"

She has a point. A nightclub in London. It would definitely be different from that ball at Harksbury. And when this is all over, I'll be back home again. Friendless. After a month with Emily, I can't go hack to that. I have a chance to change it all.

Starting with tonight.

"Okay. Sure."

Mindy grins. "Awesome. We're all getting ready in my room if you want to joins us. Room 315."

I don't tell her I already know that. "Okay. Let me grab some stuff. I'll be over in a minute."

Mindy dashes off before I can change my mind, slinking along the walls like a secret agent. I almost forgot we were supposed to be doing this all on the down-low.

I pick up the shopping bags near the door, where they've lain since I dropped them over four hours ago. I dump them on my bed and sort out the clothes. Tight hoodies, tees, tank tops.

I pick a teeny little tank top with lace across the top and pair it with new jeans. I don't even have to wonder what shoes I'll wear: it's Prada all the way. I grab my makeup case and curling iron, even though they both feel foreign in my hands, and head down the hall, barefoot.

Tonight, my life changes.

Tonight, Rebecca and Callie become one. And I'm never going back.

When Mindy opens the door, pop music assaults my senses. I wish it were classical. I wish it were like the band at the dance.

I wish I could dance with Alex again, silly little do-si-dos and dips and spins.

Mindy waves me in and returns to the chair near the mirrored closet door, where she's busy pinning her hair up in a dozen little twists. It's half done, but it looks cute already.

And somehow I'm not jealous.

Summer is sitting on the bed, strapping on some black stilettos. "Hey."

"Hi."

I toss my stuff down on the empty bed behind her and then stand there, wondering what I should do. The bathroom door is closed, so it's not like I can change.

"I did my makeup in that mirror. You can slide my stuff over if you want," Summer says, pointing to the little desk in the corner. Those two sentences are more words than she spoke to me our entire freshman year. I wonder if it's because Angela isn't in the room.

"Thanks." I walk over and plunk down on the chair and lean over. I look a little tired. Technically, I did stay up until nearly dawn yesterday. Or would it be this morning?

I'm only halfway through with my makeup when Angela strolls out of the bathroom in a miniskirt and backless top.

"Wow," Mindy says. I wonder if it's the same wow I was thinking. As in, Wow, skanky much? I decide not to ask.

"Oh. Hey." Angela looks at me like I'm a maid, come to fluff her pillows.

"Hi." I prop my foot up on the chair and lean in again, toward the mirror, to apply another layer of mascara. It's already a little clumpy, but I'd rather look busy than have to talk to Angela. Why do I let her do this to me? How can one second of standing in the same room reduce me to feeling completely unworthy?

"Nice knockoffs," Angela says as she descends upon the bed and pulls her legs up, even though her skirt rides up. I can see her hot-pink underwear.

I stand up and stare straight at her. "Are you talking about my shoes?"

"Yeah. Get 'em off a street vendor or something?"

I open my mouth to tell her that no, I did not, and I have the receipt to prove it, but then I stop. Does it really matter anymore? Do I even want her to like me? She's about as fake as the girls who follow Alex around. They drool over wealth and titles and popularity. And the second you have any of that, they're your new best friends. But they'll never, not in a million years, be real friends. Not like Alex and Emily.

I'm done with her. I'm done with caring about her. I'm done with letting her make me feel inferior.

"Something like that," I say, and turn back to the mirror.

I don't need her anymore. And it feels good to finally realize that.

An hour and a half later our televisions are set on low, our beds are stuffed with pillow people, and we're slipping out of a cab in front of the club. My heart pounds with adrenaline.

But I'm not scared. All the rules and etiquette and the insane social ladder of 1815 showed me I can survive anything.

Even if I'm not Rebecca anymore. It's a little like slipping off a protective mask, and I feel a bit exposed.

I tug my tank top down a little to shield the last inch of bare skin from the night breeze, and follow the three girls down an alley. This feels decidedly uncool, to be traipsing through mud puddles and squeezing past overflowing dumpsters, but whatev. It'll keep my mind off Alex.

Alex. God, I wish I could have brought him with me. Put him in a pair of jeans.

I need to stop thinking of him. Stat. It makes my chest ache.

Once we're behind the building, the sound of a heavy base beat intensifies. It's practically rattling the street. An unlabeled side door swings open and a head pokes out. I take him to be the guy who is supposed to be getting us in, because Angela rushes over and hugs him. He's got short shaven hair, a la Justin Timberlake, and he's wearing a black T-shirt that hugs his bulging muscles. He steps aside and holds the door open for us, and then I follow the girls inside and try not to blush as he nods at me when I walk past.

It's dark, except when the lights strobe and illuminate the floor filled with dancing people. A heavy beat reverberates in my chest and makes my lungs rattle.