I’ll be ready.
The letter is on the nightstand. I sit down, the mattress sinking beneath my weight. It’s an old mattress. I’ve had it as long as I can remember. Kind of hurts my back. That’s something I miss about my apartment, the memory foam twin I have in my room. Chester hops up next to me.
I grab the letter, turn it over. There’s no return address, but my name and address look like they’ve been written in crayon.
I’m intrigued. What is this? Could it be a love note from Lola? That’d be something, her knowing we were going to have a wonderful night and her dropping it off before I ever got home—
No, I’m daydreaming. Silly. Being a giddy schoolgirl again.
I can’t help smiling when I rip open the top of the envelope. There’s just a single sheet of folded paper inside. The purple ink has bled through the page. I think there’s a smell, too—perfume I’ve never smelled before. Not the Chanel No. 5 Lola wears.
“A love note?” I say to Chester. He meows halfheartedly. He just wants me to pet him. “Or is this note for you? Has Dad been letting you out again?”
I unfold the page.
The script is jagged, hasty, the handwriting of a person who’s just learned their letters.
My eyes glaze over the single sentence in purple ink, my head not really registering what I’m reading.
Then it hits me like a freight train. My heart seizes, detaches, and falls down into my stomach. I can almost hear the splash.
The sentence: You two look cute together. :)
-M.M.
Twenty-Three
Klonowski takes us to the same room he interviewed me in five years ago.
The letter and the envelope sit before us in a clear bag marked EVIDENCE.
“Who all touched it, Melanie?”
I’m at a loss for words. My throat is dry and scratchy. I feel like I could burst into a coughing fit at any moment.
When I read those initials—M.M.—in my room about two hours ago, my body went into shock. All the times I’ve tried to hype myself up, tell myself that he wasn’t targeting me, watching me—those were all for nothing.
I am so stupid to believe he wasn’t.
So stupid to believe the outfit on the mannequin was only a coincidence.
Anger hits me, feels like jet fuel coursing through my veins. Not exactly anger at anyone in particular, just anger at myself.
I find words to speak. “Should I be worried now?”
Klonowski shakes his head. Not at me, but at the absurdity of this all. He says, “Mel, it could just be a hoax. Walk me through it again, how you found this note.”
I tell them what my parents said: It was in the mailbox with the rest of the mail on Saturday. I don’t know if it was delivered by the postman or not.
“The letter was on my nightstand, where my dad put it. In an envelope.”
“What time did you open it?”
“Why does that matter?” I bark. “All that matters is there’s a psycho stalking me right now.” A tinge of sarcasm in my voice.
“Mel, relax, okay? Relax. He’s not going to hurt you. My team and I will make sure that doesn’t happen. I can get round-the-clock surveillance on your street. This is a big case, so it won’t be a problem. For now, I think it’s better you stay with your parents. There’s safety in numbers.”
“What about work?”
“You got any vacation days?” He arches an eyebrow and smiles. This is obviously a joke. I don’t find it funny. I’m too in over my head for jokes. When I don’t answer, he says, “Sorry. I don’t think it’s a good idea that you go into work until this all blows over.”
“Blows over? There’s a crazy serial killer on the loose and he’s fixated on me, Roger.”
“We’ll get him. You don’t have to worry.”
I doubt this. He’s been killing for two decades, maybe longer.
Klonowski continues, “Now, tell me about the kerfuffle you got in at the Lounge last night again.”
I tell him, but I’ve told him once already since I’ve been here. Still, he makes notes on his little pad about the serial killer obsessed drunk.
Twenty-Four
For the next two days, I shut myself in my old bedroom. This is weird, but I avoid the spot where the letter was. I’m completely on the opposite side of the bed.
Lola texts me a few times. I’ve told her about what happened, the letter. She’s not the least bit perturbed about it, either. She tells me not to worry, that it’s probably just some punk messing with us. I wish I can say she is probably right, but I can’t. Not anymore. All optimism is gone.
My phone lights up now. Another text from Lola.
When’s our next date? You already canceled on me once!
I want nothing more than to reply with Tonight? but I don’t respond. I’m content with lying in bed for the rest of my life. At least here I’m semi-safe.
I type back: I don’t know.
She sends me back a frowning emoji.
I go to sleep not long after that. A dreamless sleep, thank God.
I wake up late the next afternoon. There’s that moment of pure bliss when I open my eyes and all the bad things that have happened and that are happening are gone. I wish I could savor this feeling for the rest of my life.
The next thing I notice is a smell wafting upstairs. Garlic. My stomach growls. I look at the clock. It’s just past four p.m. and my mother has always been adamant about having dinner at five. This smell, though, it brings back strong memories. Her famous spaghetti and garlic bread. A meal I haven’t had since before mom was diagnosed with cancer.
I’m starving.
I go downstairs. Dad’s watching bowling on ESPN. There’s no beer in front of him.
Mom’s in the kitchen. She wears her usual apron and a bandana over her head. The apron’s a little baggier than it used to be, but it looks right at home on her. Her hair’s grown back an inch or two, so she doesn’t really need the bandana to hold any loose strands. Old habits, I guess.
She stands in front of the stove, stirring a steaming pot. The spaghetti. The oven light’s on and I see her world-famous garlic bread turning bronze, almost in real time. Sauce bubbles in a pan next to the pot of noodles. Her brow shines with sweat.
Chester sleeps under the kitchen table, oblivious to the war my mom’s waging on this Italian meal.
She hears me and turns around. “Oh, you’re finally up!”
She’s acting like everything’s normal.
Mom’s always been strong, though. I don’t know if it’s because she’s a professional at burying things that bother her deep down in her psyche, or what. When she was diagnosed with cancer and given six months to live, she didn’t shed one tear in front of my father or me.
“Help with the sauce! Stir it while I chop up the onions,” she says.
I take the wooden spoon, stir. Onions. Cutting onions is possibly the only time my mother cries.
“I have good news!” Mom squees. “You have to guess.”
I’m not really in the mood. Sarcasm is usually my defense mechanism in scenarios like this. “I don’t know, we’ve achieved world peace? Solved the energy crisis? Made contact with Martians so advanced that they passed on the secret to ending world hunger. Is that it? Am I close?”
Mom’s hands are on her hips. “Oh, you’re so funny, Mel.” She hits me right back with the sarcasm.
“What is it, Ma?”
“I invited your little girlfriend over tonight.”
I drop the wooden spoon. Sauce splashes my hand, burns me. “Fuck!” I say.
“Mel! Careful!”
“You invited Lola?”
Smiling. “Yes. A nice girl and a lovely name.”
“How did you even get ahold of her?”
“Well…you were sleeping, and your phone rang. I may have…answered it.”
“Mom!”
“What? It was short notice. I wasn’t planning on a Spaghetti Night. I had to go out with your father and
get all the stuff. I had to clean up a little. You know, the whole shebang.”
We begin a staring contest, our gazes burning hot enough to melt the walls. The age-old standoff between mother and daughter.
“That’s not cool, Mom,” I say. “Not cool at all.”
Then, our stony expressions just shatter as we burst into laughter.
“Come here,” Mom says. I go over to her and we hug each other. I could be more pissed, I could yell and make a fuss, but my mother’s a walking miracle and I won’t take that for granted.
“I’m sorry, Mel. I shouldn’t have done that.” She kisses me on the cheek.
“So when is dinner? Five?” I ask. I need to get ready. I look like a zombie.
“Yes,” Mom answers. “But…”
“But what?” Oh no.
“Lola should be here any min—”
Just then the doorbell rings. Shit.
“Why didn’t you wake me up earlier?”
Mom lays her hand on my forearm. I’m suddenly aware of everything wrong with me. My breath is terrible, mouth sticky; my hair makes a rat’s nest look like the Taj Mahal; I have no makeup on. I need to shower, shave my legs. And oh hell, what am I going to wear? I skipped laundry day because of the letter.
“Mel, you look perfect.”
Footsteps behind me. Lola walks into the kitchen, my father trailing her. “She’s right. You look beautiful, Mel.” She’s holding a bottle of wine. I don’t know wine well—besides the kinds that come in boxes—but it looks like it definitely costs more than a few bucks.
“Oh don’t look at me.” I’m covering my face, my mouth, afraid my morning—or rather, late-afternoon breath will knock Lola out.
“Go on and freshen up,” my mother says. “Dad and I will keep Lola company.”
“Yeah, it’s not even close to July Fourth, but we’re definitely going to do some grilling,” my father says with a wink.
I shake my head. Lola’s smiling out of politeness.
I retreat upstairs, walking backwards because I don’t want Lola to see the sweats I’m wearing. SWAG is printed across my ass. It was a gag gift, but damnit if they’re not the most comfy sweatpants I own.
“Can I help you?” Lola is saying to my mother as I’m taking the steps up two at a time, mentally debating if I can go three at a time and then deciding I’ll probably wind up flat on my face with a busted tooth if I try.
I shower as fast as I can. Chester sits on the sink. He looks like he’s disappointed in me for not being prepared. When I get out, I flick a little water at him and he shakes his head and hops down, tail snapping back and forth in annoyance.
Luckily, I’m able to find clothes. A navy button-up that smells like the inside of my closet and a pair of jeans I haven’t worn since my freshman year of college. They still fit me. That’s good. I’ve been worried I might be gaining weight.
When I come down, Lola and my father are drinking some of that expensive wine. My mother isn’t. She’s never been much of a drinker. Her go-to dinner drink is Diet Pepsi over three ice cubes. She says it takes the edge off the pop. I’ve always thought that was funny.
My dad’s laughing at a joke he’s probably just cracked. Lola’s laughing, too. Her laughter seems genuine because my mother is shaking her head. That means it must’ve been a dirty joke. I just hope it wasn’t one about lesbians. My father’s sweet, his heart’s in the right place—most of the time—but sometimes he’s not the best at gauging situations and keeping things appropriate. Like having his daughter’s girlfriend over for dinner.
The table’s set.
Mom’s gotten out the floral tablecloth we only use on Christmas and Thanksgiving. She sees me looking at it, almost in awe, and gives me a wink. She’s letting me know that she realizes how important this is to me now. Which is funny because she should’ve given me fair warning about Lola being the guest of honor in the first place.
Oh well, I’ll chalk it up to the meds she’s been on for the last six months, some of which she is still on despite being in remission.
Lola turns toward the landing. Smiles. “Now you just look stunning. Geez, Mel.”
I can’t help but smile back. I’ll admit, I did clean up pretty nice, considering the circumstances. In record time, too.
“Yeah, you do, Mel,” my father says. He looks on proudly.
“Gorgeous,” Mom says. “What the heck were you worried about?” I roll my eyes at her. She rolls them back. It’s one of the many mannerisms I’ve inherited from her side. “Well, come on, let’s eat!”
A large bowl of spaghetti is the table’s centerpiece. There’s a basket of my mother’s world-famous garlic bread next to it. Spotless plates and gleaming silverware at each of the four placemats, which depict a beautiful spring meadow and matches the tablecloth and my mother’s dress just as well. A deep bowl of my mother’s sauce sits to the left of the spaghetti, a ladle submerged more than halfway, and a dish of meatballs to the right.
Yes, my mother usually goes overboard when it comes to food. This means we’ll be eating leftovers for the majority of the week. Of course, that’s not a bad thing at all. She’s a hell of a cook.
“Looks delicious, Mom,” I say. “God, I’ve missed this.”
Mom does a curtsy. “Oh me, oh my. You’re too kind.” Her face goes serious. “But the meatballs are store-bought. I didn’t have enough time to make my own.”
“Mom’s always had special balls,” I say.
Dad bursts out in laughter, raises his hand for a high-five, and my mother shakes her head more vehemently than when Dad had cracked his joke. She does smile, though, and I’ll tell you, that’s a great sight to see, my mother smiling over a table full of food. Not to mention we’re all sharing the table with the woman I may be madly in love with.
The food is delicious. Lola doesn’t falter at all when my father does his “grilling.” My mother asks most of the hard questions, and even these are not that hard. Still, I hold my breath anytime one of my parents open their mouths.
One of the exchanges between my mother and Lola:
“So, Mel tells me you’re in graphic design.”
Lola nods, dabs her napkin at the corner of her mouth. She swallows down the food she’s chewing, covers her lips. “I am. I work at Environmental Planning Inc. in downtown Akron.”
“I’m not familiar with that kind of work. Does it pay well? Do you like it?”
“Pays pretty well, and yes, I love it.”
“So what, you paint pictures of forests and rivers and the environment, stuff like that?” My mother’s deliberately playing stupid. I shoot her a look that tells her to ease off. She ignores it. She’s good at that.
“Not exactly. It’s more like business graphics.”
“Like what?”
“Let’s see. I do so much, actually. Almost too much.” She laughs. “Um…oh, yes! Just this last week I had to design a bunch of merchandise for a trade show the company would be at on Saturday. So, like banners, pamphlets, freebies.”
“Freebies?”
“It’s the stuff we give away with the company’s name plastered all over it, like how banks always have pens with their logos and numbers on them and pizza places have magnets. That type of stuff,” Lola says.
I smile. I’m proud. I can tell my mother’s easing up already. Her face has noticeably relaxed.
I’m hoping that when this is over, my mother will tell me I’ve definitely picked a winner.
Twenty-Five
Lola goes home after the meal. My mother offers games —Scrabble, Password, Family Feud After Dark—but Lola declines. She says she has to get up early tomorrow and she should really hit the hay. I walk her to her car.
“That went really well,” I say. “Surprisingly well.”
“What did I tell ya? I’m a professional.”
“I guess you are.”
She winks at me. “You’ll get there, kiddo. In a few more years, you’ll be amazed at the social skills you possess.”
“God, don’t call me that. I’m an adult. I mean, I can go home with you if you want. I don’t have a curfew. I know I live with my parents and all—”
Lola laughs. “No. Geez, you’re cute. I really do have to get up early in the morning. Without me, the company would implode.” She laughs again. “We’ll have plenty of time to replicate what we did on our last date.”
My body tingles at the mention of that.
“Okay,” I say, trying to stay cool. I really do want to go home with her. I’m divided between that and finding out what my mother and father thought about Lola. But I can read the signs: Lola’s not interested in another late night of sexcapades. She wants rest. And I can respect that. “Well, thank you for coming over for dinner—even though I didn’t approve it.”
She reaches through the window and brushes a thumb down my jawline. “Even better. I caught you in your natural habitat. What better way to get to know someone, right?”
I nod, but I also roll my eyes, like my mother is so apt to do.
“Good night, Melanie. Thank you for the food.” Lola leans forward, her lips puckered. I can’t resist.
I kiss her.
Smiling, I say, “You’re welcome.”
Then she’s started her car, backed down the driveway, and out of the neighborhood, her taillights fading in the darkness.
I suddenly remember it’s probably not a good idea for me to linger out here, with the Mannequin Man potentially stalking me.
As if on cue, a police cruiser creeps by.
Klonowski’s got many eyes on the house, on account of me.
I raise a hand in their direction. I can’t see if they wave back. It’s certainly not Klonowski. He doesn’t ride in a cruiser. He has his own car. And he’s probably at home, drinking beer and watching the Indians or something.
I go back inside, feeling safer.
My parents are waiting for me, both of them smiling like they’re in a cult.
“I like her,” my mother says. “She’s a sweet girl.”
Plastic Girls Page 8
