“The middle of the country more toward the left or the right?” Morgan asks.
Ack, a little lost here. It’s a fifty-fifty shot, and I’m a gambling girl. “The left.”
“Wrong!” Poppy and Morgan say in unison, falling into giggles. It’s a big joke that I can find any alley in the City, but I cannot tell you how to get to Nevada, our neighboring state. Since I don’t own a car, it doesn’t get me into much trouble.
“I meant if you were facing south.” I raise my eyebrows and cross my arms.
Morgan throws a pillow at me, “You are so full of it, Lilly.”
“I’ve got my facial appointment now.” Poppy stands up and grabs her spa robe that comes with the room. There’s only one esthetician at Spa Del Mar, so we have to take turns. “How was that reenergizing mask, Lilly? Should I get that one?”
“Energizing. Not sure about the re part, but doesn’t my face look like that battery bunny? Pink and moist? I just keep going and going…”
Poppy rolls her eyes. “You need your curls back. Only you would complain that you don’t have money for a decent vice and then pay to have your hair straightened like a wet dog. How can you have such good taste in couture and such bad taste in your coiffure?” She slaps her knee. “Hey, I made a rhyme!”
“I thought you had a facial.”
“I’m going.” Poppy exits, and Morgan breaks into giggles again.
“She’s right. You do sort of look like a wet dog.” Morgan wrinkles her nose. “I’ve always wondered how you can notice the difference in stitching on a dress, but can’t see that your hair looks glued to your head in that style. You have great hair, but you pay for bad hair.”
People who have manageable hair always say things like this. It doesn’t occur to them that when your hair enters a room before you, it’s not a good thing. Most likely, they can use a barrette without their hair exploding out of it. They don’t need an industrial strength comb to brush their hair.
“It will fill out a little. It’s freshly straightened.” I shrug. “Take your shampoo commercial hair away from me.”
But Morgan’s not letting up. “You know how on The Swan they put those same hair extensions on the girls, and it makes them sort of look like cross-dressers?”
“No, I don’t get that channel,” I lie.
“But you know what I’m talking about. They make the girls all look the same with bad, fake hair dye and long hair. Like all women should have long hair. It’s so neanderthal.”
“More neanderthal than just major surgery to enter a beauty pageant, you mean?”
“I like that part,” Morgan says in all honesty. “I like knowing there are women in society willing to undergo torture to look good. It’s interesting to see how much pain is involved. I don’t know if I’d do it.”
“You’re sadistic.”
“Like you don’t watch. I know you get that channel. They give all those girls the round water-balloon chest—you know, the 1980s chest. Implants have come a long way, baby. Someone needs to tell them you don’t need to look like you’re going to tip over.”
“Excuse me, darling, but I couldn’t help but notice that your implants are entirely out of fashion,” I say with a fake, hoity-toity English accent. “Don’t you know natural is in?”
“I’m serious.”
“You would totally do plastic surgery, Morgan. You’ll do it, and you’ll be the first to lie about it. By the time we’re fifty, you’ll have that surprised look all the time that says, ‘Lilly, did I invite you to dinner?’ when you answer the door. There isn’t a vainer person on earth, and when that first wrinkle appears, you’ll be clambering to the front of the line at the top plastic surgeon’s office. Shocked that life should leave any sort of mark on you.”
She throws another pillow at me. “I’m vain? Vainer than spending five hours in a salon chair to look like a wet dog, you mean?”
“Like those highlights of yours are real. How long do those take?” I ask. “In human hours, not dog hours!”
Morgan’s mouth tightens. “None of your business.”
“See, you’re totally vain. What other woman would keep it a secret from her best friends that she gets highlights? Like we couldn’t tell anyway? You think because you hide out in those exclusive salons you can put something past Poppy and me? Ha! Chunky blond highlights do not occur in nature on someone older than three years of age. Not even for you, Morgan.”
“I’m not trying to put something past you, Lilly. I was just taught you don’t discuss private things.” Morgan rises and glides across the room like she’s on a runway.
We laugh at our discussion. The fact is, we’re both vain. Only Poppy is free of society’s preoccupation with looks. If there was one hairdresser left in San Francisco with one good treatment left in him, Morgan and I would probably battle to the death for chunky blond highlights or straightening.
“I have your care package. Although I’m not sure I want to give it to you. You deserve to wallow in bad soap and cheap shampoo.”
I jump up. “Please give it to me! I’ll be good, I promise.”
Morgan puts together a luxury-item basket for me whenever we see each other. Shampoos from luxury resorts she’s stayed in, toss-off cashmere sweaters she’s tired of, and fancy chocolates she may have been given. Her figure is actually affected by such things, but when you have the figure of your standard thirteen-year-old like I do, not so much.
Morgan brings out a hat box covered in shopping bag design, and I can hardly wait to tear into it. “Ooh, what did you bring me?” This is better than gifts from Santa. This is stuff I can actually use!
“Calm down, it’s nothing special.”
She always says that. And it always rocks! “I’m calm,” I say, though I’m practically panting like the dog they say my hair resembles.
She opens the box and hands me my first freebie, a small sampler of Jane Iredale mineral foundation. “Ah!” I scream. “I so love this stuff! Where’d you get it?” I hold it up to the mirror, and it matches my tone perfectly.
“They gave it to me when I was looking for a darker color for summer. It was too dark. Okay, next. A Mac lipstick that was too brown for me.” She hands it over.
“Wooo-hooo! I love this stuff too!” It sticks like glue, and you never have to reapply.
Morgan proceeds to take out endless items from her magic bag of tricks.
Small bottles of Bed Head shampoo: “My hairstylist gave it to me for my birthday. It flattens my hair.” Not a problem for me. Perlier honey Italian bath soap: “I don’t have time for baths.” I’ll make time. Lancome perfume: “It smells too citrusy for me.” Bring on the lime! And the piece de resistance: a Marc Jacobs pebbled pink leather handbag!
I grab the bag and begin dancing with it. “No way! You’re getting rid of this?”
“I’m done with it.”
“Must I hurt you?” I clutch the bag close. “I was just lamenting how my job didn’t let me afford a Marc Jacobs bag, and God provided!” I hold the purse in front of me and inspect it, not finding a single flaw. “Did you even use this?”
“I did. It wasn’t structured enough for me. I like a more structured bag.”
“Look at this stitching!” I kiss the bag.
“I’m sure when you get to heaven, God will be quite satisfied to know your Marc Jacobs prayer was answered, Lilly.” Morgan rolls her eyes.
“You have not been given, because you have not asked,” I say, paraphrasing Scripture. “God knows I’m materialistic and a wee bit shallow. He’s working on me, but in the meantime, He totally got me a Marc Jacobs bag! My God rocks! Oh, I’ve got a present for you too.” I rummage through my bag, now lightened since the Diet Pepsi and pickles have been destroyed. I pull out a pair of long-legged deep blue jeans. “I made these for you. I noticed your jeans were too short last time I saw you. When you have those legs, you should definitely take advantage and show them off.”
“Lilly!” She holds up the jeans, and I can j
ust tell they’re going to be a perfect fit. I smile confidently. She’s going to stop traffic in those. “They’re perfect. I can’t believe you can make a pair of jeans. They’re just as soft as a baby’s bottom. What are they made of?”
“They’re stone-washed, and hand-hewn. The material was left over from these awful things Shane is making, so I took the scraps and dyed them a decent color.”
“They’re gorgeous. Thank you.” She pulls the jeans to her chest. “Listen, Lilly.” Morgan’s tone turns serious, and when I look at her, she’s lost all traces of her smile. “I have something to ask you.”
I feel my way down to the bed. “What?”
“I heard at the gym that my dad owes someone. Just whispers, it’s probably nothing more than gossip, but I need you to ask Sara about it before you decide to leave.”
“You think she’d know anything?”
“That Union Square merchants’ group is really tight. She might. He’d never tell me if it was true, and I don’t want to find anything out from the Chronicle, if you know what I’m saying.”
“Sure,” I say.
“I just didn’t want you to get on bad terms with Sara before you got a chance to ask.”
“Bad terms? What makes you think I’ll be on bad terms with her?”
“Has anyone ever quit that she didn’t try to ruin?”
I open my mouth to recite a list of Sara Lang protégés who’ve made it, but the realization strikes me: there are none.
Morgan nods. “There are some women you just fear for good reason. I think she’s one of them.”
“I can handle Sara Lang.” I feel my back straighten even as I say it. I imagine that’s what Superman thought before he came into contact with kryptonite too.
chapter 5
Some girls just develop later,” my Nana used to say. Here’s the rest of that advice: “Some girls don’t develop at all. Some girls stay stick-straight and will S only require a training bra for the rest of their natural-born lives.”
That’s me.
But let’s make it complete. Top this little-boy figure with a mop of wild, frizzy curls, and add the nickname “Q-tip” to the recipe. Send her to school in homemade miniskirts from the clearance polyester fabric bolts, and be sure and plop big, ol’ brown clodhopper shoes on her, so her toothpick legs can get the full brunt of junior high ridicule.
Before it sounds like my youth was no more than a tale of utter woe, there is a silver lining to my billowy, gray cloud. In the fashion industry, they covet the woman’s boyish figure. Granted, you have to be about five inches taller than I am, but still, I felt like I glimpsed my future when I saw an emaciated model with a dress hanging off her like an elegant sheath. (This was before the era of emaciated bodies plus enormous fake implants, à la Jessica Rabbit, so I was given hope without the desire for plastic surgery. I’m not big on pain.)
I wanted to look like the gaunt models in Vogue and wear tweeds and silks and be proud of my gangly frame. But first, I had to cover it up with something more than a miniskirt.
When I created my first pair of jeans, I knew I’d found my calling. Denim was my friend—it took my scrawny legs and swallowed them from visual range. When the jeans got too short, I added cool plaid cuffs. Eventually, I cut the jeans at the knees and made capris fashionable at school. There was simply no end to my freedom with fabric. Fashion was my saving grace until Nana introduced me to Jesus.
Speaking of my Nana, my heart beats rapidly. Spa weekend came to its glorious conclusion, and now it’s time to explain to her that I’ve been offered a real job where I actually use my degree again (the easy part). And that I’m turning it down (the hard part). I’ve brought the Marc Jacobs handbag just to prove I have everything I need right now.
I pause on Nana’s landing before actually knocking on her door. She’ll understand, I tell myself. She just wants me to be happy. But then I think back to those large, leather brown shoes with the miniskirt and wonder if that’s true.
Nana lives in a lower apartment of a single journalist’s home. She’s in one of the swankiest parts of the City, the Marina. The area was ravaged in certain parts by the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989. I figure that’s how the journalist must have afforded it. He probably bought it condemned in 1990. Max Schwartz is a television critic for the San Mateo Times. In other words, as long as people can still read about television, Nana has a home.
I knock on her door. Nothing.
Knock again. Nothing.
Banging now. I think Nana is going deaf. “Nana!” I shout.
“Are you looking for Mildred?” A voice from overhead calls after me. It’s the TV dork. He’s typical for what you imagine a journalist might look like. Fairly small in stature with a goatee trying to make him appear so anti-establishment; dark, closely-cropped hair; over sized glasses. But his strong, straight jaw is somewhat unexpected. He appears intellectual, but of course, he writes about today’s television shows. Since critiquing America’s Top Model doesn’t exactly attract the Pulitzer Prize Committee, he’s got a steady nine-to-five and not much opportunity for advancement. We have that much in common. A life without passion, but a job like the other drones in the Bay Area. The biggest difference? He’s got a majestic view of the San Francisco Bay and a job after Monday. “Do you know where my grandmother is?” I shout up at him.
“She’s up here. I’m getting ready for the new television season.”
Sigh. And my Nana is up there—why?
“She’s making a roast chicken,” Max adds.
Of course she is. “Can I come up?”
“Yeah.” He buzzes a gate, and I gain entry to his elitist iron staircase. At the top of the stairwell, he rubs his hand through his hair, then thrusts it toward me. Noticing his faux pas, he wipes his hand on his jeans and tries again.
I take his hand. “Good to see you, Max.”
“You too, Lilly. Your grandmother was just talking about you. Saying you’re still trying the fashion thing.”
“Yep, still working at it. Rome wasn’t built in a day and all that.”
“How long do you think you’ll give it?”
I open my mouth, but nothing good will come out, so I snap it shut. I walk into Max’s house, which is one-fifth living area, four-fifths television screen. My Nana is bent over the stove, a big commercial Wolf one, which is entirely strange, but considering the television, I question nothing. Nana has two oven mitts on her hands and props the chicken on the stovetop.
“Nana, what’s going on? I pounded on your door.”
“What do you mean, what’s going on? I wasn’t home. It’s August. Nearly time for the new fall preview schedule. Do you live in a hole?”
“I just don’t watch much TV.” I shrug to Max. “The rabbit ears, you know. It’s not really a season at my house.” I look at Max, and he winks at me. Oh brother.
“Look at that television.” Nana waves a wooden spoon out of the salad bowl towards the enormous flat screen that could double for a drive-in should they ever come back into vogue. “The paper bought him that. Isn’t that incredible? Our Max, he knows how to watch television.”
What a gift.
“Lilly, have you met Valeria?” Max asks as a tall, lithe figure emerges from the living room easy chair. She’s got that exotic look, perhaps a mixture of Indian and something else. She could model if she didn’t have such an expansive chest. Sigh.
“Nice to meet you.” I smile at Valeria, rhymes with malaria, trying not to gaze down at my own chest. Or lack thereof. I suddenly feel very deflated and for more reasons than just Sara Lang.
“Your Nana has makes me right at home here in San Francisco. She makes me to learn to cook.” Valeria’s broken English only makes her that much more exotic.
She’s in her early twenties, I would say. Max is in his mid-thirties—and a geek. Have I mentioned that? This is the inequity in the world that makes you want to give up on the male species altogether.
“Really?” I say to gorgeous Vale
ria. “Nana’s helping you cook?” Just what the world needs, a goddess who can cook. “Where are you from?”
“I am Russian. My father was Indian,” she says with the accent you expect from an übermodel.
“Wonderful. Glad to have you here.” I grab my grandmother’s arm. “I need to speak with you about something.”
“After dinner. Sit down, it’s ready.”
“I’m not hungry, Nana. It’s sort of important.”
“That’s why you’re so skinny; you never eat. Don’t be rude. It’s been ages since Max has seen you, and I don’t want Valeria to think I didn’t raise you right. Max always asks what you’re up to, don’t you, Max?”
“I’m skinny because of genetics,” I explain to Valeria, as if she has any interest or desire to know about my DNA structure.
She smiles condescendingly. Like we don’t have a complete lack of eligible bachelors here in the City, we have to import beautiful women from other countries to completely throw our chances out the fifty-fourth story window? Melting pot, my foot! The immigration laws should definitely say something about being homely or married. It’s one or the other, people! Good-looking? Available? No entry. I mean, doesn’t the Statue of Liberty even say that? “Give me your tired, your poor, your homely…” Something like that.
“It’s good to eat and enjoy; that’s what Solomon says in Ecclesiastes. He was the wisest man in all the Bible,” Nana continues as she puts more dishes on the table.
Valeria whips out a new place setting, and I sit down. I know when I’m beat, and my education has nothing on Solomon. I don’t need the sermon to that effect. If I want to have a conversation with my Nana, I will be eating.
“I’m here every Sunday night, Lilly. If you ever came to see me, you’d know that. Max, do you want wine?” Nana is poised with a bottle opener.
“No, thanks. Valeria might.” Max sits down and grabs Valeria’s hand.
“Is Valeria old enough to drink?” I ask, and everyone stares at me. Apparently, this was not the choicest of commentary. Here I thought I was doing well avoiding her statuesque figure.
She's All That Page 5
