Louise rolled out of bed. She changed out of her soft, cotton, oversized Gap nightshirt into her favorite, vintage, lavender cashmere sweater, with only one tiny moth hole on the elbow, her perfectly broken-in Levi’s, and neon pink Converse sneakers. She pulled her hair tightly back in an elastic-secured bun, not letting any curls escape.
She snapped another Polaroid, labeled it April 15, and watched the gray film slowly dissolve into focus. Nothing. No changes, except for two dark rings under her eyes that gave her face a haunted expression. The day had hardly begun, and she was already exhausted.
Like every morning, she ripped off a page on her daily Virgo horoscope calendar hoping for some exciting predictions: “You will embark on an interesting voyage. Stay true to yourself and enjoy the adventure!”—maybe she’d get asked out on her voyage to school? The bus would be arriving in twenty minutes.
“Good morning, dear,” Mrs. Lambert cheerfully greeted Louise, in a tone that was remarkably chipper for that time of day.
Louise’s mom insisted that her daughter eat breakfast each morning, and she was vigorously stirring a clad-iron pot on the stove with a wooden spoon when Louise shuffled into the stately old kitchen. Louise was never hungry at 7:30 AM, and each bite of oatmeal was its own special torture.
“Morning,” she mumbled as she took her seat at the breakfast nook and began to absentmindedly poke at her fruit plate with a fork. Her father was already at the table, dressed in his pressed Brooks Brothers suit and striped tie, drinking coffee and reading the New York Times. If you looked up “lawyer” in the dictionary, there was probably a picture of Robert Lambert, with his neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He just looked the part.
“Good morning, chicken,” he said, glancing up briefly from his paper. Louise had no idea how that nickname started, but somehow, to her bewilderment, it stuck.
“Eating breakfast every day is good for your memory,” Mrs. Lambert explained yet again as she noticed Louise gagging on a piece of cantaloupe. “They’ve done studies.” Mrs. Lambert liked to justify all her unjustified rules with “they’ve done studies.” Who “they” were Louise had no idea, and she was pretty sure her mother didn’t, either.
“I know, I know,” Louise said. “With all the breakfasts I’ve eaten by now, I’ll be remembering things that have never even happened.” She moaned audibly, not sure how she was going to manage another bite.
“Don’t be smart with me, young lady,” Mrs. Lambert retorted, a little smile cracking through her tough façade. “Okay, good enough,” she decided, wiping her hands on her apron. “Go get your books. You don’t want to miss the bus again.”
Louise sat at the table for another moment, too full and sleepy to move.
“And if your memory is so sharp,” her mother continued, “you will recall my taxi rates have gone up. I now charge ten dollars for a school drop.”
Her daughter bolted from the kitchen.
“Class, do you know what day it is today?” Miss Morris asked the sea of expressionless faces. Miss Morris had been teaching at Fairview Junior High for eons; even Louise’s father had suffered through her history classes. Everyone was pretty sure that she hadn’t changed her lesson plans since then. She was a tiny old lady with legs as thin as Number Two pencils and a tight white bun that never a stray hair escaped from.
“Anyone?” she asked in a tone that revealed she had given up hope of her students answering her years ago.
Silence. Click. Click. Click. Louise never realized how loud these institutional school clocks actually were until she had Miss Morris for history.
“Today is exactly one year from the one-hundredth anniversary of the RMS Titanic disaster.” Miss Morris paused for a dramatic moment, or to catch her breath, and waited for some reaction. She was wearing a steel gray, boiled-wool dress that looked extremely itchy and hot for this time of year. Apparently Miss Morris’s wardrobe was not affected by the change of seasons.
Click. Click. Click.
She was probably old enough to have been on the Titanic herself, Louise thought, already bored. Miss Morris had an uncanny ability to make even the most interesting subject matter as dull as a Lambert meatloaf recipe.
“Can anyone tell me anything about the Titanic?”
“The movie blew,” Billy Robertson said from his seat at the back of the classroom. Miss Morris ignored him, or perhaps didn’t hear. Louise could never be sure, but Miss Morris never reacted to Billy’s sarcastic remarks.
“The Titanic was by far the most luxurious ship to ever cross the ocean,” the white-bunned teacher began in her monotone, though by the somewhat sparkly look in her otherwise cloudy brown eyes, she seemed to at least be entertaining herself. “She was the largest passenger steamship in the world at the time of her sinking.”
Louise looked around at the rest of her fidgety classmates. Mostly everyone had already tuned out, so she focused her attention on sketching fantasy dress designs in her loose-leaf notebook. This came to be a problem before every test when she’d open her notepad, praying that miraculously there would be some actual notes, and would inevitably find a sketchbook that would be useful only to someone studying for an entrance exam at the Fashion Institute of Technology.
What were they wearing on the Titanic? Louise wondered, and without overthinking, she let her wrist relax and started drawing what she imagined was the fashion at the time. She sketched a long, softly draped ankle-length skirt with a high, empire waist and intricate lace detailing. The skirt was wide at the hips and got narrower toward the feet. She drew a pair of high, slightly curved heels with straps crisscrossing at the ankles, peeking out of the hem. A beautiful lace blouse with a modest neckline sat below a hat with a wide, face-shadowing brim so she didn’t have to draw the facial features. Louise wasn’t sure where she got the idea or how historically accurate it was, but on closer examination, she smiled, satisfied with how it turned out.
She was abruptly awoken from her dress-designing daydream when the bell rang and announced the end of another forgettable history class.
By the time Louise realized that Todd Berkowitz was waiting for her outside of the classroom, it was too late. Did he have her schedule memorized or something? Wasn’t that considered stalking in some states? When she stepped out into the crowded hallway in a Miss Morris–induced stupor, he rushed over to her and accidentally knocked her books out of her hands.
Louise watched in seeming slow motion as the sketches she had just been working on fell out of her notebook and scattered on the puke green linoleum tiled floor.
“Sorry, Louise,” Todd croaked, his face turning as crimson as his oversized red polo shirt. He knelt down to pick up the collateral damage.
“Cool, these are really good,” he said, examining the drawings.
Louise scrambled to hide the images on the loose-leaf paper; she wasn’t ready to show them to anyone yet.
“Oh, thanks,” she mumbled. “They’re not finished.”
“So anyway,” he started, getting to his feet. “I was just thinking, maybe if you weren’t, you know, like, going with anyone to the dance…” He trailed off, nervously spinning the wheel of his skateboard.
Was that a question? Louise waited. She looked at him and didn’t want to be able to look him directly in the eye. She wanted him to be taller.
“You know, maybe we can carpool together or whatever. Save the environment.”
Carpool together or whatever? How am I supposed to respond to that? I don’t know what to do!
For some inexplicable reason, the only thing she could think of suddenly was to walk as fast as she could in the opposite direction without uttering a single word. Halfway down the hall, she looked back over her shoulder and saw Todd shake his head in confusion, get on his skateboard, and ride off in the other direction, almost taking down Miss Morris in the process.
Louise let out a long breath, and then sighed again.
“Louise? Louise, are you even listening to me?
” Brooke asked in an annoyed tone.
Louise was standing in front of her closed locker, absentmindedly spinning the dial of her combination lock, completely lost in her own thoughts, imagining she was blonde fifties movie icon Marilyn Monroe, wearing that iconic white halter dress at a fabulous Hollywood party. Daydreams were the only way she could get through another day that seemed exactly like the previous one at Fairview Junior High.
“Sorry, what did you say?” Louise snapped back to reality, Marilyn’s image instantly transformed into the pretty, familiar face of her best friend.
“I said,” Brooke repeated, “Michael just asked me to the dance. But I don’t want to say yes, because what if Kip asks me?”
Louise rolled her eyes. This was a typical problem for Brooke. She was naturally, genetically blessed model thin, with dirty-blonde hair that cascaded halfway down her back in perfect, frizzless waves, wide, pale blue eyes, and a cherry red pout. Kind of like Marilyn Monroe, if Marilyn were into Juicy Couture and seriously anorexic.
In other words, Brooke Patterson was very popular. She also happened to be Louise’s best friend, due mostly to the fact that they had been friends since they were practically babies. Their fathers had been in the same fraternity in college and now worked at the same law firm. Louise secretly hoped that she and Brooke would end up like that someday, best friends, with their kids being best friends, too.
“I think you should just say you’ll think about it, and then if Kip asks you by tomorrow you can still go with him,” Louise rationalized. Somehow giving advice to her friends was easy, but in her own life, she did ridiculous and embarrassing things like running away from the one guy who was trying to ask her to the dance. She was too mortified to even talk about it with Brooke yet. “Keep your options open a little longer.”
“Right, good idea,” Brooke replied and grinned. “So what are you going to wear?”
“I don’t know yet.” Louise pulled out the Fashionista Vintage Sale invite from her backpack and handed it to her best friend. “Maybe I’ll find something here.”
Now it was Brooke’s turn to roll her eyes. “Louise, why don’t you come to the mall with me after school? We can get something normal. I think Nordstrom just got a shipment of Marc Jacobs. I mean it’s like you’re permanently trapped in another era. It is 2011, you know.”
Louise had finally freed the combination lock and opened her locker.
“See? I rest my case.” Brooke sighed. Louise’s locker was decorated much like her bedroom at home. Black-and-white photographs of a young Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty from the set of the chic gangster movie Bonnie and Clyde, and Twiggy, the Kate Moss of the 1960s, smiled back at her from the inside of the metal door. They were a little reminder to her that there was more to life than junior high, and that a more glamorous world was waiting for her somewhere out there, even if it was just in her imagination at this point.
Louise felt her cheeks get a little flushed. Maybe it was a bit pathetic. Maybe she should wake up and start living in the twenty-first century.
“But that’s why I love you and all of your quirky charm.” Brooke gave Louise a quick hug. “See you on the bus,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m late for earth science review.”
As she bounced down the hallway, Louise was left alone staring at her time capsule of a locker.
The rest of the school day dragged on, as Friday afternoon classes tended to do. Louise showed the vintage sale invitation to a few of her friends in eighth-period English lit class. She was curious if anyone else had received an invite in the mail. Strangely enough, she seemed to be the only one.
Louise and Brooke were both a bit mortified by the fact that they still had to take the bus in the seventh grade, but at least they were on the same bus route.
“Do you ever wish you were someone else?” Louise asked, flipping through a dog-eared copy of Us Weekly. The bus was loud and crowded with hyperactive sixth graders, and a few unlucky kids from seventh and eighth. Brooke and Louise always sat together in the same seat on the left, three back from the front, and everyone on the bus knew better than to sit there. That little show of respect and seniority was the only redeeming feature of their otherwise torturous ride.
“No, not really,” Brooke replied honestly. “God, what is she wearing?” she asked, peering over Louise’s shoulder as she flipped past a photo of Renée Zellweger in baggy sweatpants and Uggs waiting in line at the supermarket.
“There’s no magic anymore,” Louise said with a sigh. “Why do they insist on showing everyone that ‘Stars Are Just Like Us’? I liked it better when you could imagine they weren’t. Like they woke up looking fabulous.”
“And their morning breath smells like strawberries,” Brooke added sarcastically. “Get real, Louise. People are people.”
Brooke had an open compact in one hand and was trying to apply lip gloss with the other, in between potholes. At that moment, the bus hit a particularly deep rut.
“Darn,” she said and looked over at Louise. A frosted pink streak connected her lip and chin. Louise laughed.
“Well, I wish I was someone who didn’t have to ride the bus,” Brooke said, wiping off the gloss with a tissue.
“I don’t mean someone else entirely,” Louise clarified, “but more like you, but in a different life.”
“Hey, Louise,” Billy Robertson called from across the aisle, before Brooke had a chance to respond. Billy’s mop of brown hair covered his eyes like a limp curtain so that she had to wonder how he saw anything at all. They had been in the same class since kindergarten, but for some reason this year he had singled Louise out and made it a point to be as annoying and embarrassing to her as possible.
Leave me alone, Louise silently begged. Whenever Billy said anything, especially to her, it was generally rude and obnoxious.
“Why do you always wear those old, ratty clothes? We all know you live in that big old giant house—you trying to pretend like you’re poor or something?”
Louise looked down at her favorite cardigan. The tiny tear in the elbow now seemed like a gaping hole. Why did she like vintage clothing so much? Her life would probably be a lot easier if she at least looked like she fit in.
“Oh, shut up,” Brooke responded without missing a beat. “If you knew anything about fashion—which, looking at that horrendous dirt brown sweater you wear all the time, you clearly don’t—then you’d know she only wears vintage. All of the celebrities do these days,” she concluded, flashing him a picture of Blake Lively photographed wearing a funky oversized magenta sweater and skinny black leggings while carrying a ginormous Starbucks coffee.
Billy looked down at the ugly, pilled pullover that he had also worn yesterday, and likely the day before, and his ears turned a hot red. “Whatever,” he replied gruffly.
Brooke gave Louise’s hand a quick squeeze, and Louise smiled back gratefully at her friend. “Don’t worry about him. That’s his caveman-like way of flirting,” Brooke whispered. “I’d like to go to that Fashionista Vintage Sale with you tomorrow,” she announced to Louise, throwing Billy a pointed look.
“Great!” Louise exclaimed with a smile. “Maybe we can both find old, ratty dresses for the dance.”
She got off the bus at the next stop, promising to call Brooke tomorrow after lunch to make a plan to go to the mysterious sale. Hopefully, the perfect new/old dress was awaiting her.
On Saturday, after an early morning swim practice and a quick chicken salad lunch, Louise rode her bike downtown to meet Brooke at the sale. The day was overcast and windy. She wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her dark denim jacket, and kept pedaling against the wind.
She never had to think about where to turn; her bike wheels would just turn. Fairview, Connecticut, was a typical, small suburban town, and Louise had lived there her whole life. The closest mall was three towns over; the movie theater had two screening rooms with screens the size of bedsheets and films that had basically already come out on DV
D. To do anything that was even remotely interesting or cultural you had to get on the Metro-North train and ride forty-five minutes through the trees and fields into New York City.
When she was younger, she’d ride her bike through the streets trying to get lost, looking for an adventure. But she could never get lost. The town was too small. No matter how hard Louise tried, or how many hours she rode around, she always ended up at home.
The sign for Chapel Street beckoned and she leaned her bike up against an old oak tree, double-checking the address on the invitation. Number 220 Chapel Street was a nondescript brick building. Louise must have walked by it a thousand times without ever noticing it. Brooke was nowhere in sight. Maybe she had reconsidered her offer now that she wasn’t defending her best friend from Billy.
There was nothing but dust and cobwebs in the showcase window, and Louise wondered if she’d fallen for some kind of hoax. From the street, the store looked closed and deserted. Perhaps the Traveling Fashionista Vintage Sale had already packed up and left town?
She decided to try the door anyway. To her amazement, it swung open with only the slightest touch, and Louise stepped hesitantly into the darkness.
“Welcome! Welcome! Marla, we have a customer, what fun!” A crimson-haired woman with bright poppy-colored lipstick and a wide nose popped up from behind a rack of clothes and led Louise by the arm into the dark, stuffy room.
“Do you have your invitation, dear?” an unidentified female voice called from the depths of the shop. “Glenda, do check that she has an invitation.”
Louise extracted the embossed, lilac-colored invitation from the front pocket of her backpack and presented it to Glenda.
The shop was dusty and bursting with armoires, racks of old clothes, and tall columns of hatboxes precariously piled to an alarming height. The woman named Marla was partially hidden behind a mahogany rolltop desk in the back corner. The desk was a disorganized mess, covered in papers and fabric and leather-bound books.
The Time-Traveling Fashionista Page 2
