by Susan Juby
While Barbra got Bites, whose reactivity training never quite took, calmed down, Booker presented my grandparents with his usual offering of baked goods. Booker’s my best friend, and he’s great with older people. And younger people, too, I guess.
My grandparents are in their late sixties, but they seem about ten years older. They both worked physically hard, unhealthy jobs most of their lives. My grandma spent the last twenty-five years working cleanup at a fish-packing plant. Grandpa was a welder for his whole adult life. They retired with about twelve serious health conditions apiece: bad backs, bum lungs, arthritis, diabetes, allergies. The whole deal.
Neither of them is supposed to eat sugar or flour, but I was not about to interfere with their crush on Booker and his gifts of highly refined carbohydrates.
“Well, Booker!” I heard Gramps say from his easy chair in the living room. “How’s life treating you? Baking up a storm?”
“Yes, sir,” said Booker.
“Oh, Booker. Cinnamon swirls!” said my grandmother. “And apple Danish. You are a stinker!”
“Damn it,” said Grandpa. “Going to make us fat.”
My grandparents weigh about eighty-six pounds apiece. They weren’t going to get fat at this stage of the game. They go nonstop from about five thirty in the morning. They putter around the house and the yard, meet their friends for coffee at McDonald’s or Tim Hortons, golf, curl, attend meat raffles at the Legion, and do a lot of other activities that appeal to the fun-loving senior crowd. By eight p.m., it’s like someone took out their batteries. They sit in their chairs in front of the TV and don’t move until they go to bed at nine o’clock.
“No, sir,” said Booker. “Not you. Or Mrs. Smith.”
“Hello, Barbra,” said Gramps. “I guess you’re here to keep John on the straight and narrow?” This was followed by a hacking cough and some laughter. My grandparents are extremely okay people. They really are.
My mom and I have lived with them for my whole life, so they’ve basically raised me. In the past seven years my mom has started traveling for her work, which is teaching ESL, so she’s hardly ever here. Now she works in Dubai and only comes home once a year, which is fine. We’re not super close. There’s not a lot of difference between having awkward conversations on Skype and having them in person.
Living with my dad had never been an option. He’s a long-haul trucker who lives on the mainland in an undisclosed location. I don’t go to visit him. Ever. My dad takes his duty to shirk his paternal responsibilities seriously. From him I got my impressive hyphenated name.
All in all, my situation is fine. My grandparents are the best people I know, except for Barbra and Booker. But they’re also sort of tired and let me get away with anything. Which I appreciate.
After the greetings were done, Booker and Barbra slid into my room and closed the door behind them.
Barbra gave me a kiss and then flopped onto my bed.
“I love them,” said Booker. “Seriously. Your grandparents are like the salt and pepper shakers of the earth.”
Booker’s home situation is lousy, and he never misses a chance to admire my grandparents.
“So stay here. They’ve invited you enough times.”
“No can do. My sister left last year. The position of Target-in-Chief falls to me now. My little brother is too young for the job.” He glanced at the paperwork on my desk. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Don’t tell me it’s time for college applications already.” He took the extra chair, turning around in it so he could prop his legs on my bed. He pulled a can of beer and a bag of Doritos out of his knapsack. “I thought we decided to stay working-class heroes forever.”
“I’m not even sure the Salad Stop qualifies as a working-class job.”
“Yeah, it occupies a strange middle ground. All that kale. It’s not right.”
He offered us chips. We both said no.
Booker’s the first one to say he’s got a bit of an eating problem. It gets worse, then better, then worse, depending on how his mother is doing. If she’s stable, he eats like two regular guys. When she’s in one of her dark periods, he eats like a powerlifting team. Booker is big and good-looking, with dark hair that reminds me of early Elvis, and he looks like he couldn’t give a shit, which is deceiving. He cares so much that it takes about five thousand calories a day to keep himself soothed. At least, that’s what he says. His relationships with girls aren’t much better than his relationship with food. Either he gets too attached and the girl pulls away, or the girl is completely wild and ditches him for an asshole.
Barbra and I have been together since we were all in eighth grade, so he thinks we know just about everything there is to know about relationships. He says that if he could meet a nice girl, and by that he means a girl like Barbra, he would settle down. It’s probably true. Barbra has a way of making you feel like the world makes sense. She’s really grounded. If I ever forget how lucky I am to be with her, Booker reminds me, pronto. Actually, everyone does. I basically won the girlfriend lottery with Barbra.
“No, it’s this application for a contest. I’m just rage reading it.”
I sat near the end of the bed, and Barbra wiggled around to rest her feet on my thighs.
“Is it an application to take me on a ten-day cruise to the Bahamas? I think I would enjoy cruising the ocean blue with a few thousand seniors.”
I rubbed her feet.
“No, it’s for that annual scholarship to get into Green Pastures.”
Barbra sat up quickly, jerking her feet out of my hands.
Booker stopped drinking his beer, and his hand froze on its way to deliver a chip to his mouth.
“What?” they said together.
“Is it sculpture this year?” asked Barbra.
“Tell me it’s metalwork, dude. If it is, you’re in like sin!” said Booker.
“Nope. Fashion. And this is the last year I’ll be eligible.”
“Shit,” said Booker.
“Huh,” said Barbra. “You in a fashion competition. Now that would be interesting to watch.”
“Are you saying you don’t find me fashionable?”
“Well, you do have a hate-on for anything that seems trendy, including all stores and most clothes,” said Booker.
“There’s that,” I said.
“Green Fields is a dump,” said Barbra, her brown eyes seeing right through my jokes and into the disappointment. “Their facilities are barely even so-so.”
“Yeah, well, it was a long shot.”
The three of us didn’t talk for a while.
“I found out in Career Tragedies,” I said finally. “You know that girl who wears the funny suits and has that old-fashioned hair? She had the announcement this afternoon.”
“I know that girl,” said Booker, who has made a point of knowing every single girl in school, an impressive feat, since there are nearly twelve hundred people in our school and half of them are girls. “She’s got some serious style.”
Barbra also nodded, recognizing the description.
“I think she looks ridiculous. Well, anyway, she had the flyer.” I gave a little laugh. “I told her I was way into fashion. Said I was going to enter. She looked unimpressed.”
“You should do it just for the hell of it,” said Booker, chugging his beer.
“Please,” said Barbra. “He doesn’t need that place. Can you imagine listening to him complain about all the spoiled kids up there?”
“True. You’ve got us. You’ve got your workshop in the garage. Screw Green Pastures.”
“Just imagine what he would make for a fashion show,” said Barbra, grinning.
“I’m fashionable,” I said, feeling a little stung by their reaction, even though I agreed with them.
“You,” said Barbra, giving me a kiss, “are fashionably unfashionable. Just how I lik
e you.”
I made a big show of crumpling up the application and throwing it in the garbage. But when they were gone, I pulled it out and started to fill it in. I would strike a pointless blow for the have-nots and those of us who are not going places.
Motto: What’s to hate about fashion and fashion people? See quote below.
Never fit a dress to the body, but train the body to fit the dress.
—ELSA SCHIAPARELLI
five
HERE’S AN IDEA © CHARLIE DEAN DESIGNS:
The next time you see a fashionable person, don’t think: that girl/boy/fascinating mix of both was born with all the advantages. Think: that person has made an effort to make my eyes happy. And be grateful to them for attempting to improve your day with their appearance.
DATE: FEBRUARY 8
Days until application is due: 7
I was in the midst of writing about my creative influences for my application and had mentioned Charles Frederick Worth, Madeleine Vionnet, Charles James, Elsa Schiaparelli, James Galanos, Miuccia Prada, Christian Dior, Claire McCardell, John Galliano, Coco Chanel, Jean Muir, Hardy Amies, Cristóbal Balenciaga, and Valentino and was wondering how many more designers I could include and how much detail I should go into when the front door opened and my father called my name from the kitchen.
I could tell from his voice that he was clean. The child of an addict learns to determine such things at a great distance.
With luck he’d gone to the meeting and found a wonderful, stable, male sponsor who would not allow him to be in a relationship for the suggested year or maybe the ten- to twenty-year period I would prefer.
All happy thoughts were banished from my head when I reached the kitchen and saw that my father, Jack, whom I prefer to call Jacques for reasons of Frenchness, was not alone.
He had a ladyfriend with him.
My face may have fallen the tiniest bit. So soon! Couldn’t we have at least a month or even a week without having our lives torn apart? Especially with me about to enter the most important project of my life so far.
At risk of sounding overdramatic, which is a tendency Charlie Dean readily admits in herself, I felt like weeping, screaming, crying, and stamping my nicely shod feet. My father has the worst taste in women of any man, living or dead.
I’m proud to say I hid all signs of the turmoil roiling in my breast from my father and the new lady. This is because I learned about manners from Diana Vreeland, who is said to have had fantastic manners, except when she was unhappy about matters pertaining to design.
“Hello,” I said. “How do you do?” And while I was speaking, I conducted a lightning survey of the new lady in the same way a paramedic or police officer might assess a dangerous situation that was sure to get worse.
Inappropriately young? Check!
Too much leather and denim and unfortunate tattoo work? Check!
At least one accessory featuring the logo of that great fashion house, Harley-Davidson? Check!
Still and all, Charlie Dean felt a tiny flicker of relief because at least this potential paramour did not appear to be actively high. When Charlie Dean’s remaining parental unit comes home with a lady who is already under the influence, it’s time for Charlie Dean to head for the nearest Super 8 because things are going to get hors de contrôle!
Jacques was in high spirits or what passes for high spirits when he is clean. Moderately fine spirits?
“Charlie girl,” he said. “I’d like you to meet Mischa.”
Mischa, who had surprisingly excellent bone structure and unblemished skin with so little color in it she’d be quite striking in makeup, smiled wanly. My father’s women have two smiles: wan and far too wide.
“Doing homework?” she asked, noting the Montblanc in my hand. Points for Mischa! Hardly any of the ladies asked me questions relating to myself. If they asked me anything at all, it was usually the ever-popular “Where’s the bathroom?”; the classic “Can you call me a cab?”; or my personal favorite, “Do you got ten bucks you could lend me?” This was the first time I could recall one asking about my health, wellness, and education.
“I’m filling out an application,” I said, surprised at myself for revealing that much.
“The worst,” said Mischa.
I felt my eyebrows go up. Mischa had filled out an application at some point in the past! I was tempted to glance at Jacques in surprise, but he wouldn’t have noticed because he was staring into our empty fridge. Bless his hopeful heart! My dad may be coming up on nine weeks clean, but we weren’t yet in the full-fridge phase.
“Where are you applying?” asked Mischa. She gripped a shapeless black slouch purse with both hands, as though it might be torn from her grasp.
Again, I surprised myself with my willingness to answer. I don’t like my father’s ladies to know too much about me. When they show up, I become like a distant, antisocial boarder in my own home.
“I’m trying to get into this competition. To win a scholarship to a fashion school.”
Mischa smiled. Good teeth for one of my father’s ladies.
“That’s exciting. You want to be a designer?”
“Charlie’s got an amazing eye,” said my dad.
“Two, actually,” I said.
“She can make anything,” said my dad, undeterred by my delightful repartee.
“Other than stones into soup!” I said. “Believe you me, I’ve tried!”
He closed the fridge and gave me a look.
It’s true that I may carry around the tiniest bit of resentment toward my remaining parent.
I briefly considered offering them some crackers from the private stash of food I keep in my room, but decided against it. If experience told me anything, I would soon need it while my father and Mischa descended giddily into the chaotic nightmarish lifestyle only the truly drug addicted can manage.
“That’s so neat,” said Mischa.
She should probably be in my high school class, not dating Jacques. She couldn’t be more than twenty-five. Oh well. We all have our life path, and mine involves getting out of my present, reduced circumstances and into some much more attractive and fabulous ones. NO MATTER WHAT LIFE THROWS MY WAY! I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that winning this competition could not only secure my future but also save my life. I have had the blues once or twice. It was pure No Fun City. I would never again descend into the depths if I could study fashion at Green Pastures.
My dad and Mischa went into the living room, a tacky man cave featuring faux velvet flocking and a large-screen TV with a crack in one corner making it un-pawnable.
I decided to get back to work.
There was no sense fretting about the new reality: there was a lady. There would soon be a relapse.
I’d survived it before. I would survive it again.
When I sat back down at my desk, I stroked my copy of D.V. She is the person to whom I turn when I need inspiration and strength. My “Here’s an Idea!” lists are directly inspired by her “Why Don’t You” columns, which made her famous. She advised people on how they could make their lives more beautiful. Her suggestions included things like: “Why don’t you put all your dogs in bright yellow collars and leads like all the dogs in Paris?” and “Why don’t you paint a map of the world on all four walls of your boys’ nursery so they won’t grow up with a provincial point of view?”
Isn’t that wonderful? How mind-expanding! In D.V.’s world, everyone has a lot of dogs and boys and nurseries and pays attention to how things are done in Paris.
At the moment I don’t have any dogs, and I’ll probably never have boys, because I don’t care for children, but that doesn’t stop a Charlie Dean from dreaming.
I began to type in the area for personal biography.
Please tell us a little about yourself and your background in fashion.
My name is Charlie Dean (short for Charlene) and I have dreamed of being a designer since I was a tiny child. My father is in the entertainment industry and we moved around a lot for his work.
My mother passed away suddenly when I was nine. Fashion helped me to overcome this early tragedy and has always been my passion, my solace, and my escape. My mother taught me to sew when I was seven and together we made costumes and almost all of my clothes, a practice I continue to this day.
My particular interest is women’s formal wear, and when we’ve stayed in one place for long enough, I have often ended up making prom dresses for girls in my school. My clients have always been very pleased with my work, calling it exceptional.
I have taught myself couture sewing techniques and try to employ them as much as possible. I can drape and make patterns using toiles. I have an insatiable appetite to learn more about all aspects of design and construction, as well as marketing.
I sat back and considered my words. They had to be enough to get me in. After all, I alluded to the loss of my mom without mentioning any of the désagréables details, and I talked about the constant moving without getting into the foster homes and the times we’ve lived in the car. I think it is best not to get too specific about Jacques’s career as a lower-echelon DJ and sort-of songwriter. If I get too honest in the application, the organizers might be worried about exposing the other students to me.
I once attended a school near Red Deer that banned a book because one of the characters smoked pot and did acid. Mon Dieu! I remember worrying that if they knew how we lived, they’d ban me. After all, I sometimes went home to find strangers shooting up in our living room. I’ve called the ambulance more than once when somebody’s speedball-aganza went wrong. There have been no fewer than three locks on my bedroom doors since I was ten because when my father is using, bad people appear as though by black magic. Also, drug-afflicted individuals tend to wander. I didn’t want them disturbing me when I was trying to rest or work. To think that those kids in my old school couldn’t even read about a little minor drug use. Incroyable! Imagine if they had to live with major drug addiction? Who was going to ban that?
