by C. J. Skuse
I got up. I went into the bathroom and checked the mirror. My hair was an insane asylum of knots. I needed to get it cut. I had a little cluster of zits on my chin and bacon grease stains on my T-shirt. I turned out the light and went back to bed.
“Shit,” I said. I got back up. “Shit,” I said again and went to the door. My hand hovered over the handle. “Shit.”
I walked out into the bright sunlight. And Paisley was standing right there, waiting for me.
“Took your time,” she said.
PAISLEY
FIFTEEN
HEADING NORTH ALONG THE STRIP,
OUTSIDE BILL’S GAMBLIN’ HALL,
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
It’s just like in that song. People really are strangest when you’re a stranger. Everyone does look ugly when you’re on your own.
I couldn’t remember who sang it but I knew my dad used to say it was a classic. And it was so true. I hadn’t had one nice thought since we’d lost Dad in the crowds. I hated everything. The cowboy fathead who stood right in my path to gaze at the pirate ships in the water. The dwarf in front of the mall who called me “babe” and asked me if I wanted a bottle of cold water. The woman in the baseball cap who handed me a flyer for a strip show. The skinny blonde with her phone on a diamond chain and her heels the height of pencils who looked like she was headed for a strip club audition. She was pole-thin. I looked down at my stomach. We had only been in Vegas six days, but there was a definite new bulge that hadn’t been there when we’d arrived. I pulled my T-shirt out over it, regretting the half-eaten pack of M&M’s in my bag. And the Rainbow Twizzlers in my pocket. And the giant Peppermint Patty.
After checking out the Caesars Palace Jumbotron area for Dad again, we headed for the mall next to the Treasure Island hotel complex. I had decided we needed uniforms.
“You mean a more cohesive statement of fashion sense while we rob people left, right, and center?” Beau had said. The whole way there he laid his guilt trip on me. He was right as usual, and I needed to feel better about what we were doing.
“You know, I’m not fully on board with this whole robbery thing, Paisley….”
“Yes, Beau,” I sighed, trying to yes him to death till he shut his pie-hole.
“I mean, it’s just such a—”
“—brilliant idea of yours, Paisley?”
“—such a long shot. Think about it for a second. If we get caught, we could do time. Juvey. Or prison for real, Pais. You know what they do to guys like me in prison.”
“That was in the olden days. They’re more like summer camps now. You might get to do canoeing and stuff.”
“I don’t care, I don’t wanna find out. I don’t wanna get caught.”
“We’re not gonna get caught.”
“How do you know? Something could go wrong. Someone could get shot.”
I was sweating. “Beau, for the eighth time, it is not loaded.”
He squinted in the sunlight and screened his eyes with his hand to look at me as we walked. “How do you know they’re not going to hit back? Everyone carries a gun these days. What if they pull a gun on us, what’s the big plan then, huh?”
“So the guy who works part-time at Licky’s Ice Cream Parlor is gonna pull his Glock out on me just ’cause I don’t pay for my soft serve? Gimme a break, Beau. I told you, they won’t be expecting it.”
“You don’t know for sure.”
I knew one thing for sure: I had about one nerve left, and he was getting on it. But I couldn’t help noticing this tiny little sting somewhere inside me. Beau was right, and I knew he was right. And him pointing out all the itsy-bitsy things that could go wrong had kinda weirded me out. If I was on my own, I wouldn’t be thinking twice. Beau made me think twice.
“We’ll cross here,” I told him, stopping at the light.
“If you say so,” Beau mumbled.
The mall was a little farther up the Strip on the other side of the street, and by the time we got inside, I had managed to steer the conversation over to what outfits we were gonna wear in order to rob people.
“Jeans and T-shirts just make us look like your average teenage thug,” I told Beau. “I’ve been thinking about maybe a black-and-white theme, to pick up on the whole Eclipse thing of the gun.”
“Genius,” he mumbled, looking down at his feet as we went up the steps to the huge mall entrance.
I looked at him. “It is, actually. We wanna get noticed, we gotta wear stuff that stands out. Jeans and T-shirts just won’t cut it. Bonnie and Clyde had an image.”
“We are NOT Bonnie and Clyde, Paisley. We’re not carrying guns, you are.”
“Whatever …”
“And Bonnie and Clyde killed people. We’re not gonna kill people. And anyway, their image wasn’t an image, it was just how people dressed in the twenties.”
“Thirties,” I corrected.
“How do you know?”
“It was one of Dad’s favorite films. It’s one of mine, too.”
Beau looked away. I just wanted to shake him and say, Look, we’re doing this whether you like it or not, so just DEAL WITH IT. But I didn’t. Somehow I reined in the old Paisley tendency to shout first, ask questions later. I ignored the urge and tried to bolster my argument instead.
“Look at those guys who climbed the Lincoln statue. Remember that story? The dads who wanted to see their kids. They got their message across. They were dressed as superheroes. We gotta have a ‘thing.’ An image.”
Beau pushed the door and went in first. I heard him mumbling again, but I chose to ignore that, too, before steam started shooting out of my ears.
I thought a mall in Vegas would be different from one in LA or Jersey, but it wasn’t. I don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe more casinos, maybe some circus act on a high wire, zebras on skates, or a roller coaster weaving in and out of the stores. But there was none of that. It was like every other mall you ever saw. Cool relief from the heat, all white and marbled. Cleaning people who swept up your candy wrappers the second they hit the floor. Hip-hop pumping out of electronics stores where happening hot guys checked out the merchandise with blonde bobble-heads with Juicy written across the asses of their velour sweats. Chain bookshops or generic clothing stores lulled customers in with soft jazz and cream faux suede couches. Naked gold mannequins and snakeskin purses in the windows of Neiman Marcus and Bloomingdales told me I shouldn’t even darken their doorsteps, while Nathan’s Famous and KFC were ready to welcome me with open arteries.
The mall entrance was on the third floor. We stopped at the balcony overlooking the second-floor event area with its fashion show runway.
“Okay, meet you down there by that runway thing in two hours.”
“We’re not shopping together?” Beau asked, looking mildly hurt.
“No. I’m gonna trust you to get your own stuff.”
“But I don’t know …”
“Black-and-white theme, Beau. Use your initiative. Here …” I riffled through my pocket and pulled out the wad of cash left over from chumping Steve, the Texan pervert. I handed Beau roughly half of it. “Black and white. Stylish. Cool. Go with that. Okay?”
He had this heavy brow thing going on and wandered off, turning back to me, confused, as I shooed him away.
“Two hours,” I called out. He didn’t look back again.
I needed to not be with him. He was pissing me off to the nth degree with all his guilt-tripping. I wanted to be on my own, figure out stuff in my head. I wasn’t stupid. I knew what we were doing was risky, not to mention a long shot. Even if Dad did see us on the Jumbotron outside Caesars, how the hell was he gonna get to us? I just wanted him to see me, even if I couldn’t see him.
I went down to the first floor to a store called Little Madams, and they had just what I needed. A sleeveless white sheath dress that buttoned at the shoulders. I already had on my long-sleeved black T-shirt, so I slipped the dress over it and took my skirt off. My fishnet thigh-highs and black Doc Martens set
the whole thing off, and I picked up a pair of white-framed shades from a little display case beside the cash register. I paid for it all and still had tons of money left. I mooched around the first floor for a while to kill time. Checked my e-mail on a display netbook in the Sony store. Mostly spam. Tried some lip balms in The Body Shop. And just wandered. It was kinda boring without Beau. Even though he irritated my ass off sometimes, I felt wrong without him. Like in school. It was just wrong when he wasn’t there. I went into a bookstore to check out the novels in the teen section. A blonde girl about my age with black streaks in her hair was checking them out, too, with her dad. He was going to treat her to one. They all seemed the same to me, though, so I left.
I headed next door to this pet shop, lured by the sound of yapping puppies. There were other animals around, too, birds in cages, white mice on wheels, kittens all nestled into their mom in a small sheepskin pod, but I just sat and watched these little pups, about ten little yellow guys in a large glass case. There was one lying down in the corner, not yapping at all. His head rested on his outstretched paws, just looking up at me, his brow peaked as if to say, What are you lookin’ at? I’d plagued the life out of my dad for a puppy when I was little.
I thought to myself, Go on, buy it. What’s stopping you now? No Dad to stop you, no school ties anymore. Buy that sad chubby one in the corner. Pull the Eclipse on the salesgirl and demand that dog. It’d be something to love.
But it didn’t feel right. We’re on the road. We’re planning robberies. We have to be fast on our feet. It wouldn’t be fair. He’d be a big responsibility. Who was that talking now? They weren’t my thoughts. Must have been Beau’s creeping in. Or Dad’s. Or they could have been mine. I didn’t know anymore.
I got out of there and made my way to the runway area and a nearby smoothie cart. All Shook Up, it was called. I bought a Blueberry Hill Power Pulp and sat down on the marble seat to drink it and wait for Beau. The Eclipse felt awkward in the deep front pocket of my new dress. It didn’t like it when I sat down. It needed to be straight against my body. I put my green jacket on and zipped it up in case the gun fell out.
Scatt’s House was directly across from the bench, so I had no choice but to focus my attention on it. Scatt’s was this supposedly übercool clothes store for preppy assholes, and half the stuff looked like it had come from a thrift store. I guessed it was made to look like that: distressed. I was distressed just hearing the music they were playing. Some rapper shouting. Not my kind of music. I liked the stuff my dad used to listen to. Timeless rock bands. Classic guitar riffs. Melodic geniuses. I didn’t give a shit about gangstas and bitches and bling.
There was a topless male model in stonewashed jeans just outside the entrance, welcoming people in with squirts of cologne. It was a while before the smell hit me, but then I got it. The dry, clean, aftershavey scent of lemons and drywall. I inhaled and closed my eyes. I knew that smell. I inhaled again. I felt funny. Like an open gate waiting for water to come rushing through. And right then it all came pouring back through me.
Me and Beau were in the basement of our house in Jersey. We were about five, I guess, and Mom had locked us down there. We always seemed to be doing stuff that pissed her off. I remember we’d hidden her purse once, and we both got hit across the backs of our legs when she found it in the washing machine. Another time she chewed us out for drawing on our newly painted bedroom door, and she dragged Beau across the room by his arm until he’d cried. I yelled and yelled back at her, but she kept hitting him. I got so angry I pushed her. Not hard, but enough. She fell back against the door.
It was real dark in the basement, and stank of mold and mildew and old broken furniture. Beau was scared of the dark—had been for, like, forever—so for a while we just sat together on the bottom step and held hands. I remember not wanting to move into the darkness in case I fell down a hole. I told Beau I wasn’t scared.
Anyway, Dad came home early. He called out for us.
“We’re here, Dad, we’re down here!” we yelled out, and then we heard him jiggling the lock. We ran to the middle of the stairs, and he was there at the top.
He ran down to us and squished us both tight.
“Oh, guys, I’m sorry,” he kept saying. I can still hear it. He sat down on a step, me on one knee and Beau on the other, and looked at our faces. His tears were streaming down, even though he was smiling.
“How long you been down here, kiddos?”
“I don’t know, Dad,” I said, hugging him again.
Beau put a little hand up to his cheek and smoothed away a tear. “Naughty tear, you go home now,” he said, and wiped it on his jacket.
Dad laughed. “Is that right?”
“That’s what you always tell me,” Beau said.
I buried my face into Dad’s stubbly neck and clung on. And there it was: the smell of aftershave. The dry, clean smell of safety.
My straw slurped against the bottom of my cup. I tossed it into a nearby trash can and went on over to Scatt’s House.
The half-naked cologne model spotted me through the little clique of schoolgirls who had gathered to worship at his impressive pecs. The smell was stronger. I couldn’t get enough of it. “Would you like to try some, miss?”
I looked at him. “Uh, isn’t it for men?”
“No, it’s unisex.” He sprayed the cologne on a white card from a distance, then handed it to me. It wasn’t exactly the same smell. It wasn’t exactly Dad. But it was close. And I loved it.
“On sale. Ten percent off. Today only …”
“No thanks,” I frowned, walking past him into the store. I didn’t want him thinking I was one of his groupies, though I did want to buy a bottle. Just a little tester size that I could smell whenever I wanted.
I sought out a salesperson and walked right up to this short woman folding pink T-shirts at a table full of folded pink T-shirts. The shouty music was deafening and the place reeked of the not-really-Dad cologne the model was spraying.
“Excuse me, what’s the name of that cologne …?”
She didn’t even look at me, just kept on chewing her gum and folding her T-shirts. “We don’t have anything black here.”
“What?” I said.
She still didn’t look at my face, she still kept on chewing. Smack smack. “And you can go tell your little Goth friends outside that if any more of you come in here looking for their wrist-slitting outfits, I’ll call security.”
“Oh …,” I said, totally stone-faced.
“Mm-hmm,” she smirked, looking me up and down before going back to folding her T-shirts. Smack smack.
Okay, so I was wearing black fishnets and combat boots, but my dress was white and my jacket was green. And my hair was blonde. How fucked up is that? And anyway, how rude was she? If I had been a Goth, I would’ve bitch-slapped her good and plenty.
I decided to leave, turning around and mumbling about her being in the wrong job, when I stopped. I couldn’t let it slide. I turned back. “What’s up with the attitude?”
She actually looked me in the eyes then, still smacking her gum. “All day I’ve had kids coming in here asking for black this and black that. I’m tired of it.” Smack smack.
“I’m wearing white. And I don’t wanna slit my wrists. I just want some of the goddamn cologne that Brad Pitiful is spritzing out front, if you don’t fucking mind.”
Her face dropped like a bag of wrenches. I followed her eyes. My green jacket had shifted. My gun was sticking out of the pocket at the front of my dress.
I smiled. “This what I gotta do to get some respect around here?”
She stared at me. She gulped something down. Her gum.
“Now, where’s the cologne?”
She didn’t take her eyes from the gun and stepped backward, scrabbling around for a small box on a display table near the cash register. The T-shirt she had been folding dropped to the floor. She handed a box to me. “Take it.”
I took it. “Thanks. Try to be a little more f
ucking helpful next time, huh?”
“Please don’t …”
“And ask your manager about getting some black stuff in here. Seriously. If that many people are asking for it, maybe you got a little gap in your market.” I motioned to the cologne. “Thanks bunches.”
So I strode out, giving the model a dirty glance as I did, and went back up to the third floor, feeling mighty pleased with myself, bolstered by the Eclipse once again. As I reached the top of the escalator, I saw Beau coming out of Dude Wearhouse.
He looked unbelievable. Like some kind of model, strutting out of there with his jacket slung over his shoulder and one hand in his pocket. Confident. Deadly sexy. Ugh. He was my brother! But he looked absolutely not like my brother. To kick things off, I could actually see his face, because he’d got a haircut. It was slicked back and flicked out a little behind his ears. He looked super-stylin'. White shirt, black vest, black pants. New Chuck Taylors. His skin glowed. We’re talking GQ. We’re talking rock star.
He spotted me at the top escalator and headed up.
“Oh … my … God,” I said, smiling. “What did you do?!”
He smiled back. “What do you think? Is this what you had in mind? I tried to be mostly black but my shirt’s white. I got some new white laces, though.” He looked behind him in a store window to check his hair.
“Beau, it’s so … not you.” I couldn’t think of what else to say. He put me to shame a little, what with my thrown-together-in-under-five-minutes ensemble from Little Madam’s. And I already had the black fishnets, so all I’d really bought was my white dress and the shades. He’d had an extreme freakin’ makeover and then some.
“I got the full prom king treatment at this salon on two. And the guys in there”—he raised a shopping bag in the direction of Dude Wearhouse and chuckled like a little kid—“fixed me up with a three-piece suit and tie. I kinda spent a lot, though.”
