“This!” She shoved the disc into the CD player. The opening chords of “Bust a Move” thumped through the car’s ancient speakers. “Bust it!” Myra shouted, laughing. “Oh, come on! Don’t pretend like you don’t still love this song!”
“‘Love’ is kind of a strong word,” I said, laughing, “but I do remember most of the words.”
Myra bounced around in her seat while she drove, stumbling over the words as she sang along. She was so comfortable with me, and even though I knew it was because she thought I was someone else, her level of comfort made me feel comfortable. When the song got to the part about Harry and his brother Larry, I chimed in with Myra until our singing degraded into a fit of giggles.
The song ended, and we fell into a lull of looking out the window. It must have been a mix CD. The next song was that weird one by Crash Test Dummies. I hadn’t heard it in years. The fog had cleared and there was a mountain on the horizon where I hadn’t even imagined a mountain would be.
“So, he really dumped you at the airport,” Myra said.
“Yeah,” I said, watching for more surprise mountains as we got closer to a giant Tully’s sign at the edge of the city. “There’s someone else.”
“But you’re Jessie Effing Morgan,” Myra said, adamantly. “Doesn’t he know that?”
“Apparently not,” I said. I bit at the tough skin on the side of my fingernail without thinking about it. It was a bad habit, but I almost never did it in front of other people.
“I’m sorry. I won’t make you talk about it,” Myra said.
“It’s fine,” I said, sliding my hands under my thighs. “It’s not like pretending it didn’t happen is going to make it go away.” I shouldn’t do this, I thought. I shouldn’t use this girl to work out my problems. But I couldn’t stop myself. “The thing is—I’m not sure I know who I am without Deagan. I never wanted to be one of those girls, you know? The kind who plans her whole life around some guy.”
“But you thought he was so much more than some guy,” Myra said, waving her right hand around enthusiastically. “I know. I’ve been there.” She sighed. “Remember John Hayes?”
“No,” I said, forgetting completely that I was supposed to be Jessie Morgan.
“Yeah, I guess maybe you wouldn’t. We didn’t really get to be friends with him until after you left. But, oh my God, the summer after graduation, I fell so hard. I gave up a scholarship to the Fashion Institute in New York for that boy. I went to school here instead.” She shook her head. “He said all the things I wanted to hear, you know?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I do know!”
“He said he wanted to marry me. We got engaged. I had a ring. And then right before junior year, he said he was bored. He decided he was going to transfer to Fairleigh Dickinson, and he moved to New Jersey without me, like he wasn’t even leaving anything behind.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said.
“I told him I’d try to transfer, so I could move with him. And he said—get this—he said, ‘I think things have run their course.’”
“What an ass!” I said. “Run their course? What is it with guys and their stupid breakup statements?” I told her about Deagan and his exploratory mission.
Myra laughed. “Don’t they realize that the stupid shit they say when they dump us will live in our heads for all eternity?”
“They must be completely oblivious,” I said. She was right too. For the rest of my life, whenever I thought about Deagan, all the memories I had of us would be replaced by the image of him in bed with Faye, wearing a pith helmet, exploring.
“I can practically still hear it. ‘I think things have run their course.’ Like I was all chewed up and ready to be spat out.”
I wondered why Jessie Morgan wouldn’t know anything about Myra and John—why she left Mount Si right after graduation. She didn’t even stay for the summer. And if they were such good friends, why didn’t Myra call to tell Jessie about her heartbreak?
“He’s coming to the reunion,” Myra said, her voice wobbling. “He’s bringing his wife. I mean, I know I should be over it. It was a long time ago now, but whenever I think about having to see him, I just get angry.” She wiped the corner of her eye with her sleeve. “I gave up too much for him. And then, of course, he came home for the next two summers, and I was stupid enough to think, both times, that it would last longer than just the summer. Like he’d actually stay for me.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. I thought about how I would feel when I got back to Rochester, running into Deagan and Faye at Wegmans. Seeing them out at the Lilac Festival, holding hands and sharing a funnel cake. I felt the dread in my stomach. Everything about me, all my friends except Luanne, revolved around being Deagan’s girlfriend, and I felt so incredibly stupid for letting that happen.
“And I can’t act like it still stings all this time later,” Myra said. “That would be completely pathetic.”
“Maybe he’s bald,” I said. “Or fat. Or smelly.”
Myra laughed.
“Maybe his wife is bald and smelly too,” I said. “And, hey, she married him. That’s far more humiliating than getting dumped by him, right?”
“Thank God you’re here.” She looked over at me and smiled. She had the nicest smile. Her eyes sparkled and her dark red lipstick framed her perfectly white teeth. One of her incisors was crooked, but even that looked like a stylistic decision on her part. “I’ll simply be too busy with my dear old friends to bother with John. Even Fish has promised to completely ignore him.”
“Fish?” I wished I had studied the yearbook pictures in the reception room better. Although I was sure I would have remembered seeing a picture of someone named Fish. It had to be a nickname. I tried to remember if I’d seen Fish written in marker or a drawing of a fish next to any of the pictures, but I couldn’t.
“Oh my God! He’s going to die when he sees you. I’m not telling him you’re here. I told Heather, of course, but I think we’ll surprise Fish.” She had the hugest grin. “Ah! Thank you so much for being here, Jessie. I mean, I know you’re not here just for me, just so I have the full group to face John with—but what a relief, you know?”
“It’ll be fine. And you look fantastic,” I said to her, for lack of anything else to say. “Isn’t that the best revenge?”
“Yes,” Myra said. “Plus, I still have all my hair.” She lifted her arm and sniffed her pit. “And I’m not smelly either.”
Myra parked on a side street. “I can’t wait for you to see this,” she said, beaming from ear to ear as we walked to the corner. “Ta-da!” She held her arms out like a game show hostess when we got to the storefront.
Over the window was a sign that said “Aberly Cadaberly” in big block letters on a plain white background.
“Is this yours?” I asked, thankful that I’d noticed Myra’s last name on the reunion posters.
“Yup,” Myra said, opening the door with a grand “after you” sweep of her arm. “I have my own boutique line, but then I feature other local designers and some vintage stuff too.”
“You have your own store and your own line?”
“I do!” Myra said, lowering her eyes modestly and shoving her hands in her pockets. “Hi, Nancy!”
The girl behind the counter was on the phone and writing something in a notebook, but she smiled, mouthed “hi,” and waved at us. She had dark hair and thick bangs like Myra, and a pretty little blue star tattooed at the outside corner of her left eye. It was hard to keep from staring at it.
The store was gorgeous. White walls and thick, warped floorboards painted bright teal. The racks of clothes were grouped by color. Black faded into gray, and blue gave way to green and yellow. The reds and pinks packed a big punch of color in the row across from a rack of white and beige. In the back of the store, big mirrors had borders painted with black curl
ing flourishes like picture frames. A gorgeous old chandelier hung from the ceiling, with necklaces and earrings draped where crystals would have been. Myra’s red lipstick was like a carefully chosen accent color in the backdrop of the store. She fit perfectly.
Even though we weren’t really dear old friends, I was proud of her, like I was already on her team. We were roughly the same age, and she’d already accomplished so much. It was fascinating. It was wonderful. “Myra, this is gorgeous!” I said, my eyes getting just a little bit misty, as if she actually were my long-lost friend.
“Thank you,” she said, blushing. “Okay,” she pushed me into a changing room. “Let’s get you dressed!”
I heard the click of hangers being scraped across the rack, and then she threw a thick pile of dresses over the top of the dressing room door.
The first one was a gorgeous, bright red dress with a spaghetti strap on one side and a wide strap on the other that continued past the neckline and wrapped across the front of the dress. I tried it on. It had a dangerously low neckline and a flirty, asymmetrical hem.
“Let’s see,” Myra said.
I opened the dressing room door. Myra squealed. “It’s perfect!”
I turned around and looked at the back in the mirror. It made me look thin and curvy at the same time. Daring and sexy and dangerous. I noticed the tag hanging from the seam. A thick piece of white paper with “Jessie by Myra Aberly” written on it in calligraphy pen.
“You designed this for—” I caught myself before I said “her.” “For me?”
I flipped the tag over to look at the price, out of habit.
Myra reached over and covered my hand, but before she completely obscured it, I caught a quick glimpse of the price. The dress was a hundred and twenty dollars.
“Don’t even look,” she said. “It’s for you. It’s a gift.”
I’m not just bending the truth anymore, I thought. I’m conning her.
“I can’t take this, Myra,” I said, shaking my head. I have to tell her, I thought. I can’t take it this far. This is like stealing.
“Please,” she said. “Seeing you in this dress, having it look exactly the way I thought it would. It’s like magic. It makes me feel like a real designer.”
I stared at myself in the mirror, and stood on my tiptoes to see what it would look like if I wore heels. Never in a million years would I have chosen a dress so red, so attention grabbing. I was the girl who wore a tasteful and conservative black dress for every possible occasion. The person in the mirror looked like the me I’d always wished I could be, not the person I really was.
“Myra?” Nancy called from the register. “I have the buyer from Blackberry Boutique in Portland on the phone. I think she wants to carry your winter line.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Can you talk with her?”
“Oh my God!” Myra said, jumping up and down. “Do you mind, Jessie?” She grabbed my arm. “This is huge! I’ve been sending her lookbooks for the past three seasons.”
“Of course I don’t mind,” I said. “Go for it!”
“I’ll take it in my office,” she yelled to Nancy before running to the back of the register and disappearing behind a mirrored panel that was actually a door.
I went back to trying on clothes. I needed more than just a dress, and if Myra wouldn’t let me buy the Jessie dress, I could at least buy some clothes for my conference from her.
Of course, everything in the store was flashier and edgier than anything I would normally wear. But it’s not like playing it safe had ever really worked for me anyway.
I hadn’t bought anything new in such a long time. Deagan and I were saving up for a down payment on a home. Or at least I thought we were. We’d scrimped and pinched and budgeted to work the trip in, but otherwise we were trying to save up to put twenty percent down on a house when we were finally ready to buy. I’d been bringing my lunch to work, wearing my tired old sweaters, and making coffee at home, so I could pull my own weight. My salary was much less than Deagan’s, and I hadn’t wanted to be a mooch.
I undid months of frugality in about twenty minutes.
“No,” Nancy said, when I tried to push the red dress along with a few skirts, a pair of dark jeans, a blazer, a couple of camisoles, a cardigan, and the most adorable beaded vintage sweater I’d ever seen. “I heard Myra. That one’s a gift.”
“First one’s free,” I said. “Right? This store is addictive.”
Nancy laughed. “You’ll have to tell Myra that.” She smiled at me, like we were sharing pride in the store. In our friend. “I’ve never seen anyone work so hard. She’s amazing, isn’t she?”
“Yeah,” I said. “She really is.”
Nancy wrapped up my clothes in silver tissue paper and put them in a big teal shopping bag.
I was about to hand her my credit card when I realized the name on it would give me away. That’s not how Myra should find out.
“Oh! You know what?” I said, practically shouting. “I’m on this new financial plan. I need to pay for everything in cash. Is there an ATM nearby?”
“Right across the street,” Nancy said, pointing toward the door.
“Right back,” I promised.
I dashed across the street and used my card to get a thousand dollars in cash from the machine. I had to take the money out in three transactions, because my bank wouldn’t allow me to withdraw the whole amount at once. I wouldn’t be able to use my credit card at all in front of Myra, so I needed to have cash. I was going to tell Myra as soon as I could. The money was just in case the right moment didn’t present itself immediately.
I ran back across the street with my purse full of cash, trying to avoid thinking about just how crazy all of this was.
“All set,” I said, breathlessly handing Nancy a wad of bills to pay for my new clothes.
“I think this call is going to be a really long one,” Nancy said. “You just missed Myra. She darted out to tell me that Blackberry is ordering an entire custom-designed line from her.”
“Really?” I said. “That’s amazing!” It was weird, the way I was so honestly excited for Myra. “And I can fend for myself. I have more shopping I need to do. If you could just point me in the right direction . . .”
“What do you need?” Nancy asked.
“Makeup, shoes, underwear,” I said.
Nancy wrote walking directions to Nordstrom on the back of an envelope and gave me a business card for Aberly Cadaberly.
“Call if you get lost.”
I gave Nancy my cell phone number so Myra could call me when she finished up, and left my shopping bag behind the counter, but only after swapping my salad-dressing-stained shirt for a brand-new camisole made from recycled silk neckties.
When I got to Nordstrom, I noticed that my cell phone only showed one bar inside the store. If Myra called, there was a good chance she’d go right to voicemail, where my message clearly stated that the caller had reached Jenny Shaw and I was unable to answer. I walked back outside and called my voicemail, changing the message to say my phone number instead of my name. I was going to tell Myra—I promised myself. I’d tell her and give back the dress and stop this whole stupid, crazy charade. I had to. But my voicemail wasn’t the right way for her to find out either.
There were four messages from my mother. I didn’t listen to any of them. For just a little while, I wanted to forget me.
I bought a fancy, navy blue leather “boarding tote” to bring my new clothes home in. It cost more than a week’s worth of groceries, but I did it anyway.
I splurged on makeup. It had been a long time since I’d bought any. My mascara was so old that it probably harbored flesh-eating bacteria, and I’m pretty sure I’d been using the same blush since college. It was gross and embarrassing and as soon as I bought new makeu
p, I couldn’t believe it had been so long since I’d made an effort to do anything nice for myself. I let the woman at the Origins counter remove the remaining smudges of old mascara I was pretending counted as eyeliner and put a brand-new face full of makeup on me. She used products I didn’t even know existed. Eye-shadow primer. Lip primer. Cheek color that comes in a tube. And, apparently, as long as the undertones are blue, I can completely and totally pull off red lipstick. Who knew?
When the makeup-counter lady was finished working her magic—smoky eyes, sculpted cheekbones, perfectly lined lips—I actually looked like someone who belonged in Myra’s red Jessie dress.
I bought all of it. I handed her my credit card (since she didn’t think I was really Jessie Morgan) and didn’t even look at the total amount when I signed the slip. It’s what Jessie Morgan would do, I told myself. She didn’t look like a girl who had ever played it safe.
Then I hit the shoe department and tried on the highest, sexiest black pumps I’d ever seen. They had toe cleavage. I didn’t even know that was a thing, but the saleslady told me it was sexy, and I chose to believe her. Jessie Morgan was obviously a toe cleavage kind of girl. They were black, so I rationalized the cost by thinking that maybe when I went back to my everyday life I could still pull them off. Although, as I modeled them in the mirror with my suit pants rolled up so I could get a good view of the way they made my ankles and calves look long and lean, I had a hard time honestly believing I’d ever go back to my old life. What was left for me there? What was the point of being a faithful, loyal girlfriend who put all her time and energy into planning for the future and supporting her boyfriend, only to have him run off with some remedial volleyball player? What was the point in living for tomorrow instead of today, of putting faith in people who would only let me down? Really, what was the point of being Jenny Shaw?
“I will take these shoes,” I said to the saleslady, handing her my sensible black loafers to box up. “And I will wear them now.”
Why Can't I Be You (9781101602843) Page 4
