Retail Therapy

by Roz Bailey

  “That is ...” he sucked his breath in between his teeth, his dark eyes nearly closing, “so good when you touch me there.” He lifted his hips to stab at my hand, and his hard penis seemed to pop out of his pants.

  So Antonio had skipped the underwear phase tonight, too. He’d anticipated something like this. Knowing that gave me a boost of confidence. He wanted to make love to me. Antonio Lopez wanted me. That thought alone gave me the tingle of preorgasm.

  I felt my muscles squeezing tight for him, wanting him inside me, here and now. Impossible, I know, especially with the news that photographers were lurking about. But the heat coursing through my blood didn’t heed common sense, and Antonio didn’t seem to care much that his pants were open under the tablecloth.

  What can I say—passion is crazy.

  “Listen,” I whispered, grabbing him hard. “I want you. But not here.”

  He moved his fingers along my inner thigh, up along the zipper, then tugged at my belt buckle. “We have to go,” he said. “Will you come to my place?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, confident that I would be saying that word to him time and time again. There would be a lot of yeses in our future.

  There were knowing smiles from my friends as Antonio led me around the dance floor to the door. I smiled back, loving that everyone in the club had their eyes glued to us. We were the celebs of the night.

  As we stepped out into the parking lot, a man popped out onto the sidewalk and Antonio tugged my hand. “Hilly! Paparazzi!”

  I pretended to duck a little, but really I was moving a little closer to Antonio, thrilled to be photographed with him. Who cared if our picture appeared in Soap Opera Rumors? We were soap opera stars engaging in a real life love story, and I wasn’t at all ashamed of that.

  OK, I admit that we had sexual chemistry, but with Antonio it was about more than sex. I was beginning to feel as if his every touch were transforming my life.

  This was the stuff soap opera dreams were made of.

  28

  Alana

  It takes me about five minutes to rate the crowd at any given event, whether red-carpet or beach party. There’s your snubbish faux-punk fashion crowd, the commercial fashion crowd who are still snubbish but much more buttoned-down, the downtown antichic kids who think they’ll defy fashion by wearing truckers’ hats, the blue-blood debs who have the misfortune of premature aging caused by dry skin and unfaithful men, the television crowd who long to become film people, usually mixed with the film people who protest that television is trash driven by corporate sponsorship. . .

  Please! Add in a few Broadway stars and billionaire entrepreneurs and you’ve got more egos than even Freud could handle. And the killing part is that most of them don’t know how to dress. Sad, isn’t it?

  Unfortunately, the crowd at the club that night was none of the above. Aside from Antonio, who was now long gone, Marcella and I quickly established that there was not a worthwhile man under the roof. Furthermore, most of the college girls who’d turned out that night looked as if they’d applied their foundation with paint rollers.

  Clearly we were not going to make any new best friends, and with Xavier and Trevor ensconced at the bar, engaged in deep “guy” conversation, Marcella and I really had no choice but to dance.

  “It’s a shame,” I said as Marcella and I moved to the edge of the dance floor. Here I’d worn my popping red bustier and would probably never wear it again, and no one worthwhile had even seen it. “Another wasted night.”

  “Didn’t I tell you? Don’t expect to meet anyone worthwhile out at a club, honey. You’ve got much better prospects in other places. How about that guy with the boat you met on the beach today?”

  “Not my type,” I said. “But sweet.”

  “Well, I liked Donovan. Do you know he’s worked for Pierre Cardin and Barney’s? We’re going to have lunch in the City sometime. But someone like Donovan wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this. He was going to a private party tonight. A house party. That’s the way to go.”

  “I need another drink,” I said, heading over to my cousin and X.

  “What you need is a good night’s sleep. Save yourself for better things, honey. Tomorrow, I’m going to work the beach and get us an invite for a party that’s worth our time.”

  “It’s never worth it,” Trevor sputtered, his eyes bleary. “Never worth the time.”

  “Somebody’s been hammering at the booze,” Marcella said, sidling up to the bar between Trevor and Xavier.

  “Do you think I’m drunk?” Trevor asked. “Because I’m just getting started. Bartender ...” He motioned for another round.

  I noticed that Xavier had a pint glass of seltzer with lemon. “Easy on that stuff, pal,” I teased, taking the empty barstool beside him. “You don’t want to lose control. Oh, wait, that’s right. You’re always in control. In control and controlling.”

  “I’m driving,” he said.

  “In control and in the driver’s seat,” I added. “Unlike my cousin, who never misses an opportunity to lose control, whether it’s with women, alcohol, or drugs.”

  “Don’t be a bitch. I’ll get you all home. And Trev, just leave him the hell alone. The brother’s got some shit to work out.”

  “Please! How many times have I heard that one? Poor Trev! He’s shooting up and he sold his gramma’s jewelry for drug money, but let’s not talk about it because poor Trevor has things to work out. Issues.”

  “Would you cut it out?” X said quietly.

  “Hey!” Trevor piped up, lifting his head. “You talkin’ about me?”

  “Yes, I am, cuz. But you can go back to sleep. Don’t want to wreck your buzz.”

  “Fuck that.” Trevor pushed back and teetered off the bar stool. “This party’s dead. I’m getting the hell out of here.”

  “OK, good night, sweetie!” Marcella called after him. “Safe home and all that.”

  “Go ahead,” I told Xavier. “Go on after him. It’s your job to save him.”

  “He won’t get far.” X turned around to watch Trevor weave through the stragglers. “He’s got no car keys, and most of the other bars have closed for the night. He’s probably just going to the men’s room.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not rushing out to hold it for him,” I said.

  Behind X, Marcella mouthed an “ow!” at my words, then turned toward the bar to ask the bartender something.

  “Why do you think I’m responsible for Trevor’s problems? Am I the reason he’s all fucked up? Yeah, you can blame me if you want, but is it really about me?”

  “If we knew the source of his suffering, maybe it could be healed,” I said. I knew this wasn’t the time or place to discuss Trevor’s personal situation, but Xavier had drained his quota of my patience. “The truth is, Trevor coddles his pain. He doesn’t want to get better, not really, and if he’s not going to champion his own recovery, then we can all beg and cajole and baby him till the day we die, but it’s not going to make a bit of difference. So excuse me if I’m not the voice of sympathy, but I’ve been down this road with Trev a time or two.”

  “Oh, have you?” Xavier scowled. “Because honestly, Alana, you are totally clueless about Trevor’s world. Step out of your bubble, girl. Maybe you should spend a little less time sitting in judgment and just think, think about the personal demons this man is trying to fight.”

  “Demons! How can I feel sorry for a man who’s got it all but time and again tries to trash it?”

  “Honey, I don’t know about demons,” Marcella interrupted. “But right now I think there’s something bad going down for Trevor.”

  We swung around to see. Trevor leaned against the wall and peeled bills out of his wallet as he spoke to someone standing behind a divider.

  “Oh, no.” I didn’t want to believe it. For all my harsh words, I wanted to believe that Trevor was past the worst of his addiction, that he was just hiding in the legal addictions—sex and alcohol—until he could pull his head
up out of the dirt. “Is he buying drugs?”

  “Fuck!” Xavier bolted from his barstool and marched to the back of the bar. Marcella and I flew behind him.

  “What the fuck you think you’re doing?” Xavier slapped a packet out of Trevor’s hands and pushed him against the wall.

  Trevor’s eyes opened wide in shock. “Easy, bro.” He seemed angry, then the fight left him as his head lolled against the wall, his eyes closing.

  Xavier spun left and shoved at the other guy, a heavyset white brother with a Santa beard and receding hairline. Bad Santa stepped back, rubbing the shoulder of his leather vest. “Get the hell away from him!” X shouted. “What’s your problem?”

  “No problem.” Sweat beaded on his forehead from the effort of trying to bend down over his belly and pick up the packet of coke. “It’s cool, OK? Just keep your hands off me.”

  “Excuse me?” Marcella pushed between Trevor and X and planted both hands on the dealer’s chest. “You think it’s cool? You think this is OK? Because let me tell you, pea-head, this is not cool at all. What do you think you’re doing selling this crap—and to my friend?”

  He tried to edge away. “Lady, look ...”

  “Don’t give me no crap.” She pummeled his chest. “Do you know what you are? Let me tell you. A waste to society. A monster! Does your mother know you’re out dealing drugs?”

  Bad Santa shot Xavier and me a desperate look. “Will you take your friend and go?”

  It was time to get Trevor home, but Marcella wouldn’t be silenced. “Do you want to know what I think? I think you should get the hell out of here before I call the cops. Actually, why don’t you stay, and I’ll get them here right now.” She pulled out her cell phone and punched in some numbers.

  “That’s not necessary,” the dealer said, edging toward the rest rooms. “No harm done, right?” And he raced down the hall to the exit.

  “What an asshole,” Marcella said.

  “He wasn’t so bad,” Trevor said groggily.

  Marcella scowled at him. “Not him, sweetie. You!”

  Despite my criticisms of Xavier, I was glad to have him around that night. Besides the fact that he was the only one still sober enough to drive, he managed to get Trevor up to bed with no problem and promised to sleep in the same room to keep an eye on him.

  Pulling back the old freedom quilt on my bed, I realized I was exhausted. Through my anger, I still loved my cousin, still wanted to help him, though it felt as if my hands were tied.

  During the car ride back, he’d leaned on my shoulder and cried real tears, blathering apologies over and over again. He was sorry for being a problem, sorry for messing up. He begged me not to hate him, begged forgiveness.

  “Come on, Trev, you know I don’t hate you,” I told him repeatedly. “But I can’t watch you fuck up again. You’ve got to make a change.”

  And as Xavier drove us down pitch black country roads, Trevor kept promising that he would change, kept promising he was going to straighten up and live right.

  “Not for nothing, honey, but he won’t remember any of this in the morning,” Marcella told me. “Trevor, shut up and go to sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Not gonna talk, I’m gonna do something! Do something with my life!” he shouted.

  It hurt me to see Trev that way, crying and broken.

  For the first time, I guess I realized how real his pain was. I couldn’t relate. In some ways Xavier was right. I had lived my life in a safe bubble, a bubble that Trevor had popped tonight.

  Tonight I had realized that Trevor could not go on this way. If he didn’t change his life, this addiction was going to kill him. It seemed so obvious. So why couldn’t he act on it?

  I didn’t want to lose him, but I didn’t know how to help him.

  I slipped under the quilt and pulled it around my shoulders, hoping to squeeze some familiar comfort out of it. This had used to be my room when Dad first bought the house, and most of the items had remained intact—the old collection of CDs, my four-poster bed with canopy, my quilt, and my stuffed tiger.

  I hugged Tigee and went back to the old days, the squirt-gun booth at Adventureland where I’d won Tigee when I was seven or eight. Trevor was there, his ankles popping from the jeans he was always outgrowing. Aunt Nessie let us get soaked on the water ride, then we feasted on corn dogs outside on benches overlooking the Ferris wheel.

  “I’m not goin’ up there,” Trevor always used to say. The Ferris wheel frightened him. Too high to go when you can’t fly.

  I guess he’d forgotten that rule.

  Turning on my side, I pressed my face against the soft-worn pillow sham and tried to come up with a plan. What could I do for Trev?

  He loved his neckties. I would buy him a fabulous tie at the outlets tomorrow. A small gesture, but at least it was something positive.

  The outlets ... that was another problem.

  After the bill at the club, I was down to a hundred and sixty dollars. (Yes, we should have skipped the last two rounds!) How could I find anything with one hundred and sixty measly dollars?

  I noticed a stack of old magazines from my youth on the night stand. Teen People. Mademoiselle. Eek! I went to push them off, then saw that they were combined with a stack of junk mail. The cleaning crew had probably just dumped this stuff in here, since it was my old room.

  It’s amazing, the quality of junk mail these days, the paper stock, the airbrushed art. I picked up one envelope with a photo of a dad building a sandcastle on the beach with his kids. Build your SUMMER dreams! the caption said.

  What a sweet thought. Vigilant about protecting my hands, I used an emery board to open the envelope and unfolded the letter, a light blue wash set against a border of effervescent royal blue bubbles.

  A lot of fine print with boring numbers, but the headlines were appealing.

  Make a splash with your new, limited time 0% APR!

  Not sure of the difference between APR and April, but whatever.

  Your credit is preapproved.

  Well, I liked the sound of that.

  Hot Days! Cool Cash!

  Liked the sound of that even more.

  OK, time to read the fine print. What was the catch? The astute shopper knows there’s always some snag.

  Now’s the time to dive in and enjoy all that the warm weather has to offer—especially since your new National Bank of Integrity Viva account gives you easy access to the funds you want. Your new, low 0% Annual Percentage Rate (APR) ...

  Well, there, I just learned something, though I still don’t know what it means ...

  ... features instant checks, ATM withdrawals, and cash advances. Summer cash to use however you like.

  Now there’s an abbreviation I understood. ATM! ATM!

  Use your credit line to travel to a vacation hot spot and cool off oceanside—or cool down in the Great White North.

  It was all too good to be true! The only snag—when I flipped through the enclosed papers, there was no shiny plastic card enclosed. I checked the envelope and confirmed that yes, it was addressed to me. This nice bank meant for me to have this card. And the 800 number printed in large, boldface type was hard to miss. I yawned. Would they still be up at Bank of Integrity?

  I tried calling, and a very nice person named Val assured me that my bank provided customer service twenty-four/seven. Val helped me through the application process, a piece of cake, really. The only thing that made me hesitate was household income.

  Hmm. The card was for me, and I didn’t really have an income, but you’d have to count the money Daddy pays for the co-op. Something like three thousand a month.

  I was about to answer when Val coached, “They mean, the total income of all the people living in your household.”

  I sat up in bed. That included Mama and Daddy—that’s what Val said. “Well, I’m not exactly sure, but let me give you a low estimate.” My parents’ salaries, plus interest from investments and annuities ... “I’m guessing thirty thousan
d?”

  “A year?”

  “A month.”

  “Oh! OK, then.” Cheerful Val needed a minute to run it all through, then she came back with a warm welcome to Bank of Integrity. Not only were they sending me a card with a white dove on it, but Val would give me my account number so that I could start “cashing in on summer fun” right away!

  Considering the bond I’d formed with Val, it was hard to say good-bye, but I knew she’d be there twenty-four /seven just in case I ever needed her. I turned the light out and lay down with a smile. Maybe I couldn’t fix the problems of the world overnight, but I’d made progress. I’d awoken that morning with a measly two hundred in my pocket, but I was going to sleep with a healthy twenty-thousand-dollar credit line.

  I slept like an angel.

  29

  Hailey

  “I have never found a pair of sunglasses I really love.” I was turning a rack at the Sunglass Shack outlet, having tried a few and dismissed them all. “What is it about sunglasses? They make such a strong statement.” I tried a squarish pair. “Bossy. Aggressive.” An oval pair. “Nerdy.”

  Marcella nodded. “Schoolmarm.”

  “Try these.” Alana handed me some crescent-shaped tortoiseshell frames, which made us all laugh. I fanned my fingers past my face, Travolta-like. “OK, give ’em back,” Alana said. “Why is it that they look fine on me?”

  And they did.

  “On you they say ‘intellectual, astute, artistic.’ On me, they’re like ‘did you get a message from your planet yet?’ ”

  Marcella placed a pair of rhinestone frames back on the carousel, then nodded. “OK, ladies. Let’s move on. Banana Republic?”

  “But we didn’t buy anything.” Alana handed Marcella a pair with neon frames. “We just got here.”

  Marcella tucked the neons back on the rack. “Don’t you have sunglasses?”

  “Sure. But I like these tortoiseshell frames.”