Wing Girl

by Nic Tatano

  “A great idea? Having some guy insult me like that?”

  “We already know you need help,” said Serena. “But we really needed a man’s opinion. Rox said she knew her cousin would help out, and you two might actually hit it off.”

  “Vincent was just doin’ what I asked. You’d like him if you took the time to know him. He’s really a great guy.”

  “Yeah, a regular Mr Wonderful,” I said. “He’s just so … so … ”

  “Honest?” said Roxanne.

  “And suppose I’d really liked him? It wasn’t real.”

  “It might have been if you’d given him a chance,” said Roxanne.

  “You’re a reporter,” said Serena, clicking her pen again. “Did you learn anything from that interview?”

  I played with my wine glass, swirled what was left before I downed the whole thing. “Yeah, you all think I’m a total loser.”

  Ariel wrapped one arm around my shoulder. “You’re a winner, Wing Girl, and tomorrow we’re going to start showing the world.”

  ***

  Most people go to church on Sunday mornings. Since sermons have bored the hell out of me since I was a little girl and I am ruled by Catholic guilt, I donate my Sunday mornings to a good cause. I figure it’s better than sitting in a rock-hard pew like a member of the parish undead.

  As mentioned before, I love cats. So I help out at the local cat rescue shelter every weekend for a few hours, play with my furry friends and deal with things like cat food and furballs.

  Cats don’t judge me, especially shelter cats. They don’t have homes yet, so they appreciate any attention they can get.

  And after last night, I felt the same way.

  “Morning Belinda,” said a cheery Diane as I opened the door to the shelter, jingling the little brass bell hanging off the top. She’s the petite blonde middle-aged millionaire animal lover who runs the place, often working weekends since more kitties get adopted on those days.

  “Hey, Diane. How’d the week go?”

  “Pretty good. Two in, five out. Somebody even took that huge tabby.”

  “Great,” I said, heading toward the back of the building where the kitties lived. “Jabba the Cat was eating us out of house and home.”

  “Oh, hey, we’ve got a new volunteer who started today. He’s just about to leave so go introduce yourself. Name’s Scott. Cute guy, Belinda.” Her voice went up as she said my name, like a suggestion hanging in the air.

  Like I’ve got a shot. I’m wearing old torn jeans, a ratty New York Giants sweatshirt with frayed cuffs, didn’t sleep a lick last night and have a full set of Samsonite under my eyes.

  Not that it would make any difference if I were dressed for a ball. I’m unapproachable, remember?

  I headed down the long mauve hallway to the back and heard a man’s soothing voice float around the corner.

  “Oh, yeah, there it is. That’s the spot. Ooooh, you like it when I rub you like that, don’t you?”

  Sounded like some dialogue from a porn movie, but I realized it was a man talking to a cat. If only one would talk to me that way. “Hey, baby, come home with me and I’ll make you purr … ”

  I turned the corner into the shelter area and saw a man sprawled on the floor, scratching the belly of a purring Siamese who was obviously in cat nirvana. The man looked up at me and smiled. “Hey.”

  “Hi. I see you’ve made a friend.”

  “Yeah, she’s a sweet cat.” He got up off the floor, brushed off the cat hair and extended his hand. “I’m Scott.”

  I shook it. “Belinda.”

  He didn’t have what I call the look. The one that tells me he recognizes me from television, the one Wing Girl gets when we’re out on the town. The smile looked sincere. He was maybe five-ten, slender with broad shoulders, tousled brown hair, deep-set hazel eyes. Classic anchorman’s jaw with a little cleft in his chin, one day growth of stubble. Maybe thirty-five. More cute than handsome, but he had that boy-next-door thing going along with nice-fitting jeans, a button-down blue oxford and docksides with no socks. An old-money look, like many members of Ariel’s family.

  I smiled back. “So, you’re new here.”

  “Yeah, I decided it was time to give something back instead of just writing a check.”

  “Most men don’t like cats.”

  “My mom was a vet. She had a practice that only took cats. You could say it’s in my blood. I just like their independence. And they’re self-cleaning.”

  Cute line. Cute guy. This bears investigating.

  “To a point. They don’t have hands.”

  “Yeah, I already did the cat boxes.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “So, you been volunteering here long?”

  “Every Sunday for the last four years. Ten till noon.”

  “I signed up for the same hours but I have a wedding to go to today, so I got here at nine and Diane sorta gave me a quick orientation. But I guess we’ll be working together.”

  I nodded. “Guess so.”

  He glanced at his watch, then fished his car keys out of his pocket. “Well, I gotta run and get cleaned up. See you next week.” He headed for the hallway.

  “Yeah. See ya.”

  So much for that.

  He stopped, turned and looked at me. “Hey, maybe we could go for lunch afterward.”

  I said, “That would be nice,” before I even had a chance to think about it.

  He pointed at me. “Belinda, right?”

  I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “I’m bad with names. Just wanted to make sure. See ya.”

  I’m bad with names too. We had something in common.

  But for some reason I wouldn’t forget his.

  He disappeared down the hall, obviously having no idea about the superhero known as the Brass Cupcake who prowls the streets of New York making life safe for women and children while repelling the hell out of men.

  Meanwhile, I just got asked out to lunch looking like absolute shit.

  Now I’m totally confused.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The salon was dimly lit and quiet, as Roxanne had opened it up on Sunday afternoon just for me. (I always thought “Foxy Roxy’s” was kind of a throwback name, with the term “babe” having replaced “fox” sometime back in the eighties. On the other side of the coin, I believe “skank” has serious staying power and could be eternal.) Tomorrow being Memorial Day and a day off since Harry doesn’t waste me on slow news days, I was to be dragged kicking and screaming by Ariel and Serena for shoes, clothes, contacts, makeup and God only knows what else. But I was in a good mood, as a seemingly nice guy who liked cats had asked me to lunch despite the fact I was wearing the spring collection for the homeless. Still, after I related the story to Roxanne, I was confused about what had happened.

  “It’s a subconscious effect,” said Roxanne, as she worked the thick conditioner into my hair. I caught a faint whiff of avocado, which Roxanne said made this the perfect conditioner for someone with hair that could be used by someone playing the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz.

  “What the hell does that mean?” I asked, my head leaning back in a royal-blue sink. It was kind of odd looking at her from that angle, and gave me a new perspective on her terrific eyes and flawless creamy skin.

  “It means that what happened last night sank in to a degree, and you were so tired you didn’t have time to think about it. You were in a situation where you didn’t expect to be asked out, so you didn’t have your force field and death stare at your beck and call.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask. Is the death stare really that bad?”

  She stopped working the conditioner in for a moment. “Honey, when you use that thing on a man you look so possessed I think I need to call a priest.”

  “Hmmm.” I closed my eyes as she resumed the scalp massage.

  “Okay,” said Roxanne, “I think that’ll do it. Geez, I got sandpaper burns.”

  “Funny.”

  She turned on the faucet and began to
rinse out the conditioner, as she ran the warm water and her fingers through my hair. “When’s the last time you wore your hair down?”

  “Eighth grade, I think.”

  She finished the rinse, then wrapped my head in a thick, fluffy red towel and began to dry it. She finished drying it as I sat up, ran her fingers through my hair to fluff it out, stood back and flashed a sinister smile with a gleam in her eye. I knew that look as her being “up to something.”

  “What?” I asked, as I looked in the gold-framed mirror behind her and saw a drowned rat.

  “I’ve got so much to work with. You’re like a blank canvas. This is gonna be fun.”

  “Don’t do anything drastic.”

  She waved her hand. “Pffft. Honey, drastic is already in the rear-view mirror.” She led me out of the shampoo room and over to her station, where I took a seat. It wasn’t the typical black-lacquer-everything you see in many salons that resembled a hangout for a coven, but rather a cheery sea foam green cubicle always accented with fragrant fresh roses. The large mirror was bordered with photos of celebrity clients.

  My picture wasn’t up there. Geez, I wonder why.

  She draped a purple smock over me and clipped it behind my neck. Then she did something that scared me to death.

  She swung the chair around so my back was to the mirror.

  “Hey, I wanna see what you’re doing,” I said.

  She shook her head. “Sorry, no backseat driving on this.”

  “Roxanne, if I come out of here looking like some freak on the subway … I do have to work on TV, you know.”

  She kneeled down and looked at me. “Will you please trust me? Half the movie stars in this town do. And I’m going to make you look like one of them.”

  ***

  Two hours later she shoved the comb into a pocket in her smock, stood back, crouched down, and moved her head side to side as she checked out the finished product.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “Shhhhh,” she said, putting one finger to her mouth. She moved around behind me. I felt her fingers lightly touch the back of my head, fluff my hair a bit, then she walked around where I could see her. She looked at the top of my head, then the sides, without ever looking in my eyes. Like I was some inanimate object. She put her hands on her hips and smiled. “My work here is done.”

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”

  She leaned forward and swung the chair around so I faced the mirror. She stood behind me, then handed me my glasses.

  I put them on and my vision cleared. I didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror.

  My hair shone like a beacon, with shimmering highlights amidst my strawberry red. The soft tangles lightly dusted my shoulders. I lifted my hand and touched it. It was as soft and thick as the Persian I’d petted this morning.

  It had never looked so good in my life. Sorta slutty, but really good.

  “You like?” asked Roxanne.

  I couldn’t stop staring. “It’s spectacular,” I said. And right then and there I knew my trusty black-rimmed glasses had to go.

  She reached into my purse, pulled out my sizable collection of hairpins and shook them at me. “And if I ever see you with your hair up again, I’ll stab the shit out of you with these.”

  ***

  The contact lenses were surprisingly comfortable, as there had apparently been great improvements in the past fifteen years.

  But they didn’t conceal the fear in my eyes as I stepped out of the changing room in my bra and panties.

  “Okay, hop up,” said James, the bald, green-eyed wizard known as New York’s best fashion consultant from its most expensive department store. A tiny man around forty, he probably weighed less than I did.

  I wrapped my arms around my waist as I stepped onto the pedestal in the middle of what had to be the largest fitting room in the city. No bathroom stall-sized cubicles here: this was at least twenty-by-twenty, complete with a beautiful cream-colored sofa, a few matching chairs and a credenza filled with champagne, a bowl of fresh fruit salad, and a large silver tray of cucumber sandwiches.

  “Stand up straight, honey,” he said, as he whipped out a tape measure. “Arms down.”

  “Just relax,” said Ariel, sipping a glass of champagne. “There’s no one else here. This is a private fitting room.”

  I shivered, but not from the temperature. James deftly swung his tape measure around my chest, waist and hips, then wrote something down on a clipboard.

  “You are blessed with a perfect body, young lady,” he said.

  I scrunched up my face. “Huh?”

  “Classic hourglass, perfect size four.” He picked up my stretch pants from the chair in the changing room and looked at the label. “Why are you wearing a size seven?”

  “I like things baggy. More comfortable.”

  He shook his head, rolled his eyes and tossed the pants into the trash, then turned back to me and patted me on the stomach. “Those toned abs are to die for.” He moved behind me, slid one finger under my waistband, pulled, took a look inside and snapped my underwear.

  “Hey!” I slapped away his hand. He’d better be gay.

  “And such a spunky little ass under the granny panties. Goes well with the attitude.”

  “Thank you … I think,” I said.

  He ran the tape measure inside my leg, getting my inseam.

  Ariel put up her hand. “Please, James, no more pants.”

  “You already told me. But she will need some jeans. I’ve got a line that will make her ass really pop.”

  A knock on the door startled me. I wrapped my arms around my chest and lifted one leg in front of me like a flamingo as the voice came through.

  “It’s Serena!”

  “Come on in,” said Ariel.

  The door opened and I relaxed as I saw Serena’s face. “So, how we doing?”

  “I apparently have a spunky little ass,” I said.

  “Good to know,” said Serena, giving me the once over.

  James finished writing notes on the clipboard, picked up the phone and gave whoever was on the other end a laundry list of items I apparently needed. Then he hung up and handed me a thick terry robe with a gold crest. “Have some champagne. Your new wardrobe will be here shortly.”

  ***

  The lacquered blonde makeup artist with the ice-blue eyes had been working on me for twenty minutes, slapping stuff on my face that had never been there before. Mascara, foundation, eye shadow, you name it. Her brush danced around my cheekbones as my audience surrounded the high chair upon which I was sitting. Once again I’d been wrapped in a smock, white this time. I twisted my ankle to get another look at the bottom of my brand-new, four-inch heels. “I still don’t understand why these shoes with the red soles cost so damn much.”

  “Because,” said Serena, “they’re Christian Louboutins.”

  “And the shoes you were wearing looked more like they belonged to Christian Bale,” said Roxanne.

  “Who the hell cares what color the soles are?”

  “They stick out,” said Ariel. “Get you more attention. And men love red.”

  “How is anyone gonna see the bottom of my shoes?”

  “Well,” said Roxanne, “if you’re sitting on a chair like this one in a bar, swinging your leg a bit, that red is going to catch the eye.”

  “Be cheaper if I just wrote my phone number on the soles of a pair of sneakers,” I said.

  The young makeup girl, who in my opinion looked as though she’d put on foundation with a trowel, leaned back, smiled, and turned to my friends. “What do you think?”

  “Excellent job,” said Ariel.

  “Yes, terrific,” said Serena.

  “Really spectacular,” said Roxanne.

  “Uh, could I have a look?” I asked.

  “Oh, sorry,” said the makeup girl, who handed me a heavy silver mirror.

  The face I saw in it was a stranger, but a beautiful stranger. I looked like a magazine ad. Vincent was right
about one thing. I could do eye makeup commercials. The pale-green eye shadow had turned me into an Egyptian goddess. “Wow,” I said, looking at the makeup girl. “You’re a true artist.”

  “You’re very kind,” she said.

  Ariel reached into her purse and slipped the girl a fifty.

  “Thank you!” she said, and pulled off my smock. “You’re good to go.”

  “Great,” I said. I hopped off the high chair and started to reach for one of the many shopping bags, but Roxanne playfully slapped it away. “We’ve got these.”

  “We’re going to do a little experiment first,” said Serena.

  “I thought I was done. What now?”

  “We’re going to prove to you that you are now one of the most desirable women in New York,” said Ariel. “Well, physically, anyway. Still got a lot of work to do on the attitude.”

  “If I look as good as you say I do, I can now get away with being a bitch, right?” I asked.

  “But you’re not,” said Roxanne. “You are as beautiful inside as you now are outside.”

  I rolled my eyes. “We gonna hold hands and sing Kumbaya now?”

  “Again with the attitude,” said Serena, raising one finger. “But one thing at a time.”

  “So here’s what you’re going to do,” said Ariel. “I’m going across the street and I want you to wait till I get there, then I want you to cross the street.”

  “What, I’m learning the principles of jaywalking?”

  “I’m going to shoot a video with my cell phone and show you the reaction you get with your new look.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Trust me, honey, you’re gonna get a reaction,” said Roxanne.

  “Ohhhh … kayyyyyy.”

  Ariel took off and headed out the door of the department store. I started to follow, teetering in my heels that took me up to five-nine, a little wobbly as I hadn’t gotten my sea legs yet. The short skirt was a bit tight, restricting my normal gait, which Ariel said reminded her of her Connecticut mailman walking uphill in a snow drift. Roxanne and Serena followed, loaded down with my haul from the day.

  We reached the door and walked outside, greeted by a cool breeze and the sound of New York’s heartbeat; horns and sirens. My spunky little ass felt cold, not being used to a skirt, especially one that ended several inches above the knee.