by Mary Simses
“Really?” I’m getting chills just thinking about it. “I need something fantastic to wear.”
“I don’t have any Hollywood clothes, either,” she says.
“But you’ve got tons of nice things,” I tell her as a car pulls in next to us. And she does. I’ve seen photos of Cluny with Greg at local charity events for animal causes and children’s relief organizations she’s involved in, and she always looks great. I wish I were five foot eight and not five foot six. Then I could borrow something from her.
“What do you think people wear to Hollywood parties, anyway?” she asks.
“I’m not sure,” I tell her. “Maybe the same kind of clothes they wear to movie openings.”
She looks out the window, contemplating this. “I don’t know. You might have to buy something new, then.”
“I’m coming to the same conclusion.” It’s an expense I don’t need right now, but, with the sidewalk sale taking place, maybe I can find something at a good price.
Cluny laces her fingers together. “If you want something a little funky, we should go to Bagatelle.”
Bagatelle. Nice but expensive. I think about my bank account, which is shrinking by the minute. I can’t keep up with Cluny at Bagatelle, but I don’t want to give her any more reason to think she needs to loan me money. “Yeah, okay.”
“I bet they’ll have some good deals,” she adds, reading my mind. “Sidewalk sale and all.”
We walk out of the parking lot, onto Main Street, and make our way through the crowds. I stop to say hello to Mrs. Meisner, who’s been a friend of Mom’s for years. Dressed in peach golf shorts and a matching peach top, she smells like Calvin Klein Eternity, the only perfume I’ve ever known her to wear.
“Come over for a drink,” she says, touching a tanned hand to my arm. “We’re always around at cocktail time.” She winks and walks away.
We pass racks of sweatshirts, sweaters, dresses, and beach cover-ups and weave through piles of jeans, from the darkest inky blue to the palest shade of iceberg. One store has a table overflowing with handbags. I stop to pick up a plastic tote and, almost without thinking, check the inner pocket. There’s only a price tag in there. I put the bag back and keep moving.
Mom once bought a handbag at the sidewalk sale, and after she got it home, she found a little note in the inside pocket, written in Hindi by someone in India. Translated, it meant Good luck to you. She carried that note in her wallet for years. It’s probably still there.
Cluny waves to Poppy Norwich, who’s across the street, loaded down with shopping bags. Poppy went to middle school with us before going away to prep school. Now she’s married and lives in town and writes personal growth books. Her latest, What You’ve Been Doing Wrong All Along, was a New York Times bestseller. I’ve been tempted on more than one occasion to buy a copy, thinking maybe I could pick up a few tips. But then this jealous feeling about Poppy having done so well starts to nag at me, and I opt for a beach read instead.
We make our way to Bagatelle, where women huddle around the racks out front, elbowing one another as they try to lay claim to the best items. Cluny and I approach the racks, vying for space. A young woman, probably a college student, sits at a card table, looking bored and drumming her fingers on a cash box. With her long, tan legs and blond hair flecked with even lighter streaks, she looks like the poster child for summer. The words from an old Don Henley tune, “The Boys of Summer,” pop into my head. I can almost hear the electric guitar notes that sound like the cries of seagulls.
Cluny nudges me. “Hey, check this out.” She holds up a lavender dress with a jeweled top. “Do you think it would look good on me?”
“Yes, it’s gorgeous! You could wear it tonight. Try it on.”
I cull through the racks, but nothing jumps out at me. I want to look perfect for Peter. I want to look pretty and sexy. Years from now I might reflect back on this moment—how I bought the dress for this party and how this night changed my life. I feel as though something magical is going to happen. Maybe Peter will fall in love with me and ask me to move to California. We’ll get married and have a house in the canyon. I’m not sure which canyon, but I’ll be happy with any canyon as long as it’s not the kind that’s always catching on fire or having mudslides.
“There’s more sale stuff inside,” the girl at the table says, giving us a sleepy-eyed look.
Cluny and I walk into the store. While she heads toward the dressing rooms in the back, I scan the dresses in the sale section, quickly eliminating each one in my size—too short, too much spandex, too bright, a neckline that would plunge to my navel. There’s nothing for me.
A saleswoman walks toward me, her hair swept up in a big twist, her face a billboard of makeup. She’s wearing huge false lashes and thick streaks of black eyeliner. Perfume oozes from her—something Oriental, heavy on the sandalwood. She looks around fifty, maybe a little older. “You look like you need some help, honey,” she says, one hand in the air as though something’s about to float down into her palm.
“Oh, no, I’m fine,” I say with a tepid smile. “Just browsing.”
I glance at the women in line at the checkout counter, arms laden with clothes, and I’m about to give up. And then I see it—a rose-colored silk dress, cinched at the waist, with straps that crisscross in the back. Perfect! I grab the hanger just as another arm reaches for it.
“Sorry,” I say as I clutch the dress to my chest and watch as the other woman disappears into the mob. With newfound hope I head toward the back of the store.
“Cluny,” I whisper as I approach the four dressing rooms. “Where are you?”
The wooden doorway of the dressing room on the far right opens a crack, and a waving hand emerges. “In here.”
I slip inside to find her zipping up the lavender dress. “Wow. You look beautiful,” I say as she turns to view herself from the side and back.
I hold up the rose-colored dress. “What do you think about this?”
“Oh, that’s pretty,” she says. “Try it on.”
I’m about to undress when I hear a voice outside the room.
“Let’s see, we’ll put you right in here, honey.” It’s the saleswoman with the big hair. I can smell her perfume even through the wall. “That’s going to look so cute on you,” she says.
A second later there’s another voice. “This is just a li’l ole last-minute thought. There’s a party tonight, and I have something all picked out, but, you know, I’m not dead set on it.”
“Regan Moxley!” I whisper to Cluny.
“Would y’all come in here so you can zip me up when I get this on?” Regan says.
“Sure, honey. Tell me when you’re ready.”
The door to Regan’s dressing room closes, and Cluny and I rush to the adjoining wall to hear what she says.
“This is just like the old days,” Cluny whispers as she steps out of the lavender dress. “When we wanted to be spies.”
“You wanted to be a spy,” I remind her again. I pull off my jeans and T-shirt. God, I wish I had Cluny’s shape. Two kids, and her stomach is as flat as Kansas.
“So, you’re going to a party?” the saleswoman asks.
“Yes,” Regan says. “With the actors in town. You know, Sean and Brittany and…well, all of them.”
“She’s going?” I whisper. “How did she find out about it?”
Cluny shakes her head and steps back into her skirt.
“And listen to how she’s talking about them,” I say as I pull the dress over my head. “Sean and Brittany. As though she knows them.” I can almost feel my veins clog with indignation.
“Oh, honey, you’re so lucky,” the saleswoman croons.
“The director invited me,” Regan says.
Peter invited her?
“We went to high school together,” Regan adds. “I think he was secretly in love with me.”
I gasp. “That’s a—”
I’m about to say lie, but Cluny clamps her hand over my mo
uth. “Shh!”
“I know we would have gotten together,” Regan says, “if his family hadn’t moved away. Luckily, I had a lot of other boys after me.”
Cluny looks at me as she puts on her blouse. “She’s crazy.”
“She barely knew him.” I feel a knot in my stomach.
“Well,” the saleswoman says, “no wonder why he invited you. Maybe he’s still interested, honey.”
“Oh, I think he is,” Regan says. “I can always tell.”
“What a liar,” I say as Cluny zips up the back of my dress.
“Don’t worry,” Cluny says. “She’s not even his type.”
I look at my reflection in the mirror, at the straps that cross in the back, the little gathers at the waist that make the silk fall in a soft way. Cluny nods approvingly. The dress is on sale for a hundred and fifty dollars, a steal in this place. I study the smattering of freckles across my nose, the green flecks in my blue eyes. I pull back my hair to see what it would look like in an updo. Then I let it fall to my shoulders, the loose waves settling back into place. I spin around and watch the dress move with me.
I’m about to tell Cluny I’ll take it when Regan says, “Could y’all come in now?”
“Oh, sure,” the saleswoman says, and I hear the door to Regan’s dressing room open and close. “Oh, my, look at you. You’re going to turn every head at that party. That dress is perfect. Sure wish I had your cute little figure.”
“Hmm,” Regan says. “I think it’s too long. I’m going to have trouble walking in it. And see over here…this kind of puckers out. It’s way too loose.”
“I wonder what she’s trying on,” I say. “Sounds as though it’s something full length. And we’re wearing short dresses. I can’t go in the wrong thing.” I don’t want to make a clothing faux pas at Peter’s party and start things off on a bad note. I’d never forgive myself.
“I’m sure other people will be wearing short dresses,” Cluny says.
Will they? I wonder. I analyze my reflection again. What if Regan is dressed in something so mesmerizing that she’s the one who gets Peter’s attention instead of me? What if he ends up taking her to L.A.? I have this horrible vision—Regan dressed in a long Gucci gown with a neckline down to her navel and Peter, in an Armani tux, seated next to her. They’re in one of the front rows of a huge auditorium. Someone calls Peter’s name, and he stands and makes his way to the stage, where a woman is holding a gleaming Oscar statuette. I’m watching the whole thing on TV, of course, at my parents’ house, because I still haven’t found a job and I’ve lost my apartment for good, due to nonpayment of rent, and the only clothes I have left are my pj’s with the Santas and reindeer on them.
“Oh, we can fix that, honey,” the saleswoman says. “We’ll take it up there, nip it in here. Go on out to the three-way mirror, and I’ll get the seamstress to pin it.”
“Come on.” I grab Cluny’s arm. “Let’s get out there so we can see what Regan’s wearing. She knows what to wear to a Hollywood party.”
Across from the dressing rooms is an area with a small platform, like a stage, surrounded by a three-way mirror, and, standing on the platform, preening and looking at her reflection, is Regan. She is not wearing a full-length dress or a full-length skirt or a full-length anything. And she is not wearing something that needs to be taken in. Regan Moxley is wearing the shortest, skimpiest, tightest dress I have ever seen, made entirely of silver sequins. And she looks terrific.
I swallow, and it feels as though a marble is going down my throat.
Regan sees us in the mirror. “Oh, hey, girls. Y’all doin’ a little shopping?”
“Just looking around,” Cluny says.
“They’ve got a lot of things on sale,” Regan says, although I can’t imagine the dress she’s wearing was marked down. She twirls, admiring her reflection, and I can’t turn away, as much as I want to. Those legs. That body. Then she gives me a long, appraising stare, and, although she doesn’t say a word, I can tell what she’s thinking—that the dress I’m wearing is a dud.
Regan flicks back her hair. “Are you wearing that to the party tonight, Grace?” Then she covers her mouth. “Oh, wait. You’re invited, right?”
“Yes,” I say. “Cluny and Greg and I are all going.”
“Oh, the three of you. That’s nice. What about Mitch?”
“Mitch?” I’m about to ask what Mitch has to do with it, and then I remember he’s supposed to be my boyfriend. “Oh, he can’t make it. He has a…” My mind unplugs for a second, and I can’t think of what to say.
“A bike thing,” Cluny says.
“Yes, a bike thing. A race.”
“At night?” Regan says, giving me an incredulous look. “In the dark?”
I swallow. “Well, yes. It’s, uh, a charity thing. To raise money…for the visually impaired.”
“Oh,” she says with a shrug. “Well, too bad. It should be a fun evening.”
She runs her hands down her sides and hips and continues to view her reflection. I can’t believe how tall and skinny she is. I wonder why such a great body has to be wasted on her. Life is so unfair.
“I’ll just take the dress the way it is,” she tells the saleswoman, who looks delighted. She’s probably calculating her commission.
“Well, I’ll see you there, girls.” Regan throws back her shoulders and moves like a lynx down the platform’s little steps and into the dressing room.
I look at myself in the three-way mirror, and the rose-colored dress looks dull and archaic, like something that would be in the final-sale rack in the back of a thrift shop.
“I’m not taking this,” I tell Cluny. “I’m going back for one more look.”
The crowd at the front of the store has doubled. There must be twenty women hovering around the sale racks, like coyotes feasting on a carcass. They’re pushing and shoving and emitting strange guttural sounds I’ve never heard humans make. There’s so much grabbing and jostling, I’m afraid to get too close. Now I’m in the middle of the store, where nothing is on sale. I look around aimlessly. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I’m just about to give up. And then I see it. Regan’s sequined dress. It’s here. Maybe I’m in the right place after all.
Every piece of clothing in this area of the store has something a little different, a little trendy, about it. I pick up a black one-shoulder dress with two big, rectangular cutouts that would expose part of my stomach and back. Forget it. I keep looking, combing through the racks, and then I spot a dark-green dress. Green was Peter’s favorite color when we were in high school. He had a dark-green baseball cap he practically wore out one year.
The dress is sleeveless, and most of the body is made of a stretchy fabric, except for the accents, which are lace. It looks like a great combination of sophistication and sex appeal. I check the price. Three hundred and ninety-nine dollars. There’s no way I can afford that. I start to put the dress back, but then I see Regan saunter out the door with a little flick of her hair and a bounce in her step, and I can’t let go. It’s as though the hanger has grafted itself to my hand, and I know I have to do this. It’s like an investment in my future. Mine and Peter’s. What could be more worthwhile than that?
“I’m trying this on,” I tell Cluny when she walks up to me.
She throws back her head. “Va-va-voom! Wow. You’d really wear that?”
“Sure,” I say. But now she’s got me worried. “Why? Do you think it’s a little too young?”
“No, no, if that’s what you want to wear, go for it. It’s just different from your usual style. Just because Regan’s wearing that sequined—”
I wave her off. “Regan who?”
She puts up her hand for a high five, and I slap it.
I step inside the dressing room and pull the green dress over my head. It’s tight, but I know it’s supposed to be tight. It’s short, but I know it’s supposed to be short. I suck in my stomach and evaluate my reflection. I put my arms over my head. The dress inches
up a little, but not too much. So far, so good. But the lacy parts are another matter. There’s no lining under them, so you can see right through to my skin. That’s okay for the shoulders and the V-neck. And I can pull in my stomach so it doesn’t pop through the lace diamonds on the sides. But I’m not so sure about the big triangles that go down the outsides of my legs. They start as points, at my hips, and then get wider as they race to the bottom of the dress.
Yikes. That’s a lot of bare leg. And I don’t have the legs of the college girl out front, or of Regan Moxley. I wonder if I can pull this off. And if I’m going to spend four hundred dollars to do it. I draw in my stomach again and take another look. And then, without considering it a second longer, I wriggle my way out of the dress and march to the checkout counter, my Visa card firmly in hand.
Yes, I can pull this off.
Chapter 6
A pronoun takes the place of a noun.
For a moment, she felt certain she was channeling Marilyn Monroe.
I’ll never pull this off.
I stand in front of the mirror in my bedroom, minutes before Cluny and Greg are due to pick me up, and I feel as if I’m dressed in a sausage casing. It might be green and lacy, but it’s still a sausage casing. What was I thinking? The mirror in the store must have been the kind that makes you look taller and thinner than you really are. The mirror in my bedroom is more like the one in Snow White. It doesn’t lie.
I should never have bought this dress. Peter doesn’t expect me to look like some Hollywood starlet wannabe. He expects me to look like the grown-up version of the girl he knew in high school. And this isn’t it.
The doorbell rings, and my heart jumps. It’s Cluny. She’s here. I walk down the stairs, slowly, carefully, in the black strappy sandals she loaned me. When I step outside, she’s standing there in her new dress, the light from the lanterns falling softly upon her. “Wow, you look great,” I say.
“Thanks,” she says. “So do you.”
I glance at the lace panels running brazenly down my legs. “No, I look awful. I’m going back into the house to change.”
