De La Porte Fashion: The Complete Box Set

by Mj Fields

  “Oh, God.”

  “What is it?” Mom asks

  Unable to say a word, I point to his name.

  “Aaron Es-.”

  “Shh!” Devastated, I look around to see who may have heard her.

  Mom’s giggle reminds me of how silly it is. In a city of millions, Aaron Es-, wouldn’t turn a head.

  In a seventeen-year-old freak and geek, it can turn a stomach though.

  “I can’t believe this,” I grumble, palm against my tummy hoping to steady it.

  She leans in and whispers, “You built it.” I give her a sideways glance, and she winks. “You, my dear, will be fine.”

  “What if he has halitosis? Body odor? A giant piece of spinach in his teeth when he smiles at me the first time? He’ll ruin the illusion for God’s sake.”

  To that, she laughs out loud, and well, so do I.

  I let out a long sigh and look at Mom. “This is going to suck,” I lean back, “Like a hoover.”

  After pushing my food around my plate at Misi, unable to eat, Mom has it boxed up. And we walk home. When she takes a left instead of a right, I know exactly where we’re going.

  I glance at her.

  “It’s been a while,” she shrugs slightly, and I nod in agreement.

  Two blocks later and we’re strolling as we check out the art on Troutman Street. Some may not agree that it’s art, but it indeed is. It’s someone’s secret dream, turned someone’s vision.

  Mom stops me when we see a man with a handkerchief covering half his face. He’s tall and covered in tattoos. From a distance, we watch him bring his vision to life. Spray can in hand, he works fast, adding to his creation. He’d already painted a black and gray mural of a woman with long wavy dark hair and curves in all the places I lack.

  The blue from the can streams out, and he paints a tear on the woman’s cheek. He adds a bit of blue to her eyes as we watch.

  “She’s beautiful,” I whisper.

  A siren blares and startles the artist and us. He pulls an earbud out of his ear and looks past where we stand.

  “Fuck,” he huffs and quickly reaches in the duffle bag next to him.

  He tosses the can in it and grabs another.

  Across the woman’s body, vertically, he sprays the words She. Is. Mine. in silver then squats down next to her feet and he writes the word Tag-ed.

  As the siren sounds again, I glance behind us and see the traffic light turn green.

  I glance back and he’s gone.

  I hold my hand over my rapidly beating heart. “That was amazing.”

  The rest of the night I spend in my room looking over all the information for classes and the peers I will be working with.

  Mom asks several times if I need help and I decline.

  After adequately stalking my five fellow seniors on social media, I’m regretting taking this ‘job.’

  My phone chimes alerting me of a message.

  So?! Who are we tutoring and how many sessions must you endure before having money enough for your self-appointed BFF to room with you in @LCF?

  Stella

  Pressure. I hate feeling like I’m under pressure. Thus, the decision to hole up and make sure everything is perfect for my session with Aaron… I mean, my students. Oh lord, what do I call them? I’m not a damn teacher!

  I take a deep breath and think of how to respond.

  Apparently, it’s too long because my phone rings.

  I sit up and crisscross my legs, take another deep breath and answer the phone.

  “Hey Stella.”

  “So, come on, spill it.”

  “Um, spill what, exactly?”

  She laughs, “The names, the amount of time these dip-shits are going to take away from our very limited hang out time, and lastly, how much bank.”

  I flop back on my bed and breathe in again.

  Exhaling, I tell her, “Five, half hour sessions, three days a week.”

  “WHAT? That’s too much. That’s like-”

  Knowing my bestie isn’t a math whiz, I do the math for her, “Two and a half hours on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays.”

  I rattle off the names, making sure I casually say Aaron’s in the middle, I don’t want anyone, aside from Mom and maybe Autumn, to know I think he’s stunning.

  “Well, make sure you schedule Saliva and Aaron as far apart as you can, or you’ll end up in the middle of something you don’t want to be part of.”

  Her voice is different, so different than normal. Fear?

  No, not Stella. Warning?

  But why?

  When she laughs, I’m no longer worried. “Unless you enjoy a good shit show.”

  Eager for more information I ask, “What does that mean?”

  Stella goes on to explain that Sylvia Whitaker; who she calls Saliva, and Aaron Esposito have been dating on and off again for the past year and a half. She calls it toxic and she says anyone who he shows the slightest bit of interest in, she ruins their reputation.

  “I thought you just started here the semester before I did. How do you know all of this?” I ask.

  “That’s a story for another day.” She yawns and quickly recovers. “Plans for the weekend?”

  “Same old, same old,” I reply nonchalantly. “You?”

  “Dad’s got weekend shits, that puts me in charge of the little bother.”

  “You mean brother,” I laugh.

  “Hell no, he’s a pain in the ass,” she laughs.

  “Mine too.”

  “Wha, wha, what? I’ve known you for how long? I thought you were an only child. Why am I just hearing about this brother?”

  I suppose out of sight is truly out of mind. Since starting Manhattan School of Art and Design, I’ve gone to my father’s less than a handful of times. I’d like to say I missed them, but that would be like saying I would miss my braces when they finally came off. A bold-faced lie.

  For as long as I can remember, I have made people uncomfortable simply by being me. The only time I didn’t feel that way was at home, with Mom.

  “Johnny is my stepbrother. Jordan and Joy are my half-sisters.”

  “All names starting with a J, huh?”

  Yet another reason I’d always felt like the odd girl out.

  “Except yours,” she acknowledges out loud.

  Apparently, I take too long answering because Stella laughs, “Well, fuck them.”

  I suppress a laugh.

  “Say it with me, Natasha, fuck them.”

  Now I do laugh.

  Sitting on the couch, sandwiched between Mom and Autumn, red leather journal in hand, snacks littering the coffee table in front of us, and the movie Crazy, Stupid, Love on the TV, I glance over at Autumn’s list.

  Suit and Tie.

  What about casual days? Can he wear chinos? Pajamas to bed?

  Taller than me, preferably towering.

  Shrek.

  Fit. Bulging arms and shoulders I can sink my teeth into.

  Gaston, from Beauty and the Beast meets Edward from Twilight.

  Chiseled features.

  Too harsh.

  Six pack abs.

  For what? To wash clothes on?

  Tattoos.

  Gross.

  Gentleman on the streets, freak between the sheets.

  Huh?

  Oral AF

  Oh. My. God.

  I feel Mom nudge me and when I look at her, she’s trying not to smile. She whispers, “What are you imagining?”

  Autumn answers for me, “We have different taste in men.”

  “I… I… I…” Stop, I scold myself.

  Mom reaches over and snatches her book.

  “Busted,” Autumn fanes irritation, but her eyes appear mischievous.

  I watch Mom glance over the list and her eyes widen when, I assume, she gets to the last two.

  “Autumn,” she scolds.

  “What?” she tries to suppress a smirk.

  “You know what,” she snaps at her.

&nb
sp; Autumn snatches Mom’s book. “Let’s see what Sister Angela desires.”

  She immediately begins reading, “Character, dependability. Kindness, faithfulness.” Autumn attempts to stifle a laugh, “Moral Integrity and fatherliness?”

  Mom defends, “All very important character traits.”

  “Well, Father O’Dell is a perfect match.” She laughs.

  Moms eyes narrow. “All things you’d want for your daughter.”

  I sit back watching them exchange words and take a drink.

  “Sure, fine, but what about sex?”

  Choking, the mouthful of water flies all over the blanket in front of me.

  Autumn erupts in laughter, and then Mom does too.

  After I’ve recovered, and changed my pajama top, I resume my position between them, shaking my head as I sit.

  “So, what is it you want?” Autumn asks.

  “To not worry about sex, when I haven’t even kissed anyone yet.” I shrug.

  “Perfect, let’s start there and work our way from Eskimo, to Australian,” Autumn giggles.

  “Huh?” I try to act like I’m unaware of what that means when I do.

  “Kissing,” Mom tries to remain calm as she shoots Autumn daggers.

  “Lady and the Tramp spaghetti style, alley kiss would be a great place to start.” I smile sweetly at my mom.

  She and Autumn let out a collaborative, “Aww.”

  I continue, “Not planned, not even really a kiss, just a moment where it becomes clear they mutually want it to happen.”

  “Perfect,” Mom sighs.

  “That’s not a real kiss, for God’s sake. Don’t you want something like this?”

  Autumn points at the TV. The movie is playing, but we aren’t paying attention anymore. “He’s a player, so no.”

  “Keep watching,” she winks.

  So I do.

  When I see Hannah yell at Jacob, I smile because he deserves it. When I see her kiss him, I gasp. When I see her and him leave the bar, I shake my head back and forth. “No way.”

  “Keep watching.” Autumn wags her eyebrows.

  “I’d never fall for it. He’s a jerk. He was so mean to poor Cal.”

  “He was honest. Keep. Watching.”

  And I do. I get wrapped up in it and then… the big move.

  “Oh my goodness,” I whisper.

  I feel my journal being ripped from my hand and pay it no mind, because I kind of like this movie. It’s sweet, and she’s asking for what she wants. And, even though he’s a jerk, he’s giving it to her.

  When the movie ends, I look down at my journal and see Autumn has written in it.

  The Kissing List

  Chapter Five

  Natasha

  Monday after classes, I received my schedule. Before I even had the chance to look at it, Stella snatched it out of my hand.

  She sighs. “Saliva isn’t first? Oh hell, and right before Aaron.”

  “She’s that bad, huh?” I ask finally looking over the schedule.

  “Worse.”

  With three sessions down, all in English Lit, and luckily all three freshmen are reading the same book, I look down at my phone. Five thirty-nine, nearly ten minutes late, on the first day.

  Great.

  When she walks into the library, she isn’t alone. Behind her, three other girls who look almost like her. Perfect beach waves, flawless skin, and I’d dare guess they all had implants giving them perfect C cups.

  All are wearing six-inch stilettos, crop tops, miniskirts, and way more accessories than necessary. In other words, clearly overdressed and obviously seeking attention.

  I stand and extend my hand. “Silvia, I’m Nata-”

  Her icy cold tone cuts me off. “Nat.”

  “Natasha,” I correct.

  “Whatevs. Anyway,” she reaches in her bag and pulls out a folder. “My class login information is in here and the syllabus.”

  “Okay?” Yes, it’s a question.

  The three near clones laugh, and so does she. “If you think I’m actually going to spend time here,” she pauses and makes a nasty face, “With you, you’re nuts. All my tutors just do the work, that’s what they're paid for. Follow suit, scholarship kid. Little Nat.”

  She thrusts the folder at me and I don’t move. I also don’t tell her I’m not a scholarship kid even though, one, I’m not and two, because so freaking what if I was.

  “Take. It. Nat.” She speaks slowly and deliberately, as if I may not understand her.

  Taking in a deep breath, I pull out the chair beside me and sit back in mine. “Helping you with calculus doesn’t require-.”

  “Did you not fucking hear me?” she spats in a whisper.

  “I heard you just fine,” I whisper back. “But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here so you can get some extra help with your studies. Isn’t that what you’re here for, extra help?”

  I have no idea where I came up with the guts to say what I just did, but when her face passes by the fiery red shade I expect, and hits purple, it feels… empowering. I can’t help continue, and not just for me, but for all of those I am sure she’s made feel small, insignificant, like a ‘gnat.’

  “I might have misjudged, but by the looks of you, you appear to like everything, extra. So please have a seat, we have a little over fifteen minutes left of our time.”

  She tosses the folder and I catch it before it hits my face, then she turns around with all the dramatic flair of an actual runway model, and I swear the theme music for the Wicked Witch of the West begins.

  I use every bit of strength to hold back the growing bubble of laughter inside of me as the other three… her monkeys, mimic her move and follow her out of the student study center.

  Once they’ve left, I quickly cover my mouth as the bubble bursts and the laughter falls out.

  It’s quickly quelled when I hear clapping from behind. I jump up and turn around in time to see Aaron Esposito walking around one of the floor to ceiling bookshelves, in all his perfection, clapping his hands, and smiling a perfectly white… and spinach free… smile at me.

  “You're early,” I say in shock.

  “No, Natasha Petrov, I think it was perfect timing,” he winks.

  Dear. God.

  He turns the chair across from me so the back is to the table and straddles it. His smile is perfect, teeth absolutely perfect, and I don’t realize how hard I must be staring until he closes his mouth and rubs his tongue over them.

  I look away quickly, down of course, as I sit.

  “Something in my teeth, Fancy Face?”

  My immediate reaction is to bite my upper lip to hide it. He looks at me curiously, then he looks away at his phone.

  He holds it up and smirks, “Nothing in my teeth. Nothing on my face. So, tell me, Fancy Face, what–.”

  “Why are you calling me that?” As soon as I finish speaking, my lips are again between my teeth.

  “Because you’re flawless.”

  Wha... wha… what? My thoughts must show on my face because he chuckles.

  “And when most girls are trying to look cute for me, they tend to bite their bottom lip, not—””

  “I’m not trying to look cute for you.”

  His head cocks to the side and looks at me with confusion, then purses his lips. When a smile tugs at the corners, I feel myself begin to blush.

  Damn it.

  I begin thinking of ways to turn this back around, but thankfully I don’t have to, he does.

  “After overhearing your conversation with-.”

  I blurt out, “Your ex-girlfriend.”

  He smirks. “Girlfriend is a bit of an overstatement.”

  “Meaning?”

  His eyes narrow. “You really need me to explain?”

  “Well no.” I rub my lips, which causes him to look at them. Stupid habit. “It’s none of my business. Let’s talk Macbeth.”

  He lets out a soft chuckle and then speaks, “She’s not bullshitting you. Most tutors
just do the work.”

  “I’m not most tutors.”

  His eyes sparkle and I’m reminded of, “As much of a pain in the ass as that’s going to be, I think I’ll enjoy the challenge it holds.”

  Challenge?

  “Glad to hear it. Now tell me what struggles you’re having with Shakespeare?”

  He looks at me with slight confusion.

  Adding intelligent as number one on my list of characteristics tonight, I think before explaining, “He wrote the play, Macbeth.”

  He squints his eyes, chuckles at himself, and sighs, “Right.”

  When the door to the study center flies open, I look up, and the music starts again in my head.

  She glares at him, then at me. Then visibly composes herself; yet that ‘I just ate poo’ look is still on her face. “My time’s not up yet.”

  She plops her bag on the center of the table. I recognize it immediately as de la Porte’s last season’s IT bag. A black Italian leather tote. I remember it being sold out everywhere within a week. It was their very first, and at nearly three thousand dollars, it still sold out.

  I look at her, stunned because she’s back. And I see a little bit too much delight in her eyes from it all.

  With all the girl power BS you hear these days, it’s lost on me. Completely and totally lost. Men… boys can overstep, be sexual, even be pigs at times. You see it on the streets, you see it on TV and hear about it everywhere. But in my minimal amount of interaction with girls my age, and what I have witnessed in passing or the presence of others, it is sometimes easier to take a catcall than a bitch bite.

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  I don’t know what it is with me today. Is it possibly the slight sense of satisfaction I gain from knowing I’m good at something? That my hard work and focus on academics has paid off and empowers me? Is it that I get a feeling if I do let it fly, Aaron is here, and for some reason, I don’t think he’d let her physically attack me?

  On the tip of my tongue, a bitter bite boils. But what would that do? I mean, aside from giving me that one moment to be as offensive to her as she has been to me, what good would it really do?