In front of her: a mass of sweaty bodies. They didn’t look like the students she was used to socializing with at NYCU. They were punk all the way, with more tattoos than she could count, hair dyed every color of the rainbow (one guy’s mohawk was actually dyed to look like a rainbow), and piercings as far as the eye could see. Joanie had to laugh—at the Delta house, they called her sister Michele the “punk” sister, but the sisters had no idea what punk truly was.
“Joanie Cunningham,” she heard a voice call out from the bar, and she realized that she was still standing dumbly at the entrance to the club. “How’s Chachi?”
Joanie knew the voice before she saw his face. He was at the end of the bar over on the right, smiling like the Cheshire Cat, taking shots with a guy who had a pair of drumsticks in his back pocket. They chased the shots with beer, and then motioned for the bartender to pour another round of shots.
“Hey, so have you seen Mel?”
Danny didn’t respond. He took another shot, washed it down with his beer, and then pointed his bottle towards the other side of the bar. Joanie’s eyes traveled all the way to the other side, at the opposite end of the club, close to where the stage was set up. And there she was, the woman Joanie came to see.
It wasn’t easy, teetering in her mother’s three-inch heels, but Joanie moved as quickly as she could through the crowds of people trying to get a drink at the bar. Despite her calls of “Excuse me!” and “Pardon me!”, no one budged. Joanie hugged the wall, trying to find some empty space to squeeze by.
She couldn’t take her mind off the task at hand. She would find Mel. She would find out the truth about her sister.
But by the time she reached the end of the bar, Mel was already gone.
Twenty-Four
The seamstress
Paris, 1958
Her voice barely a whisper, Rose said: “Yes.” She put her hands around the arms of the chair and got ready to hear Diana’s big secret. What could it possibly be?
Perhaps this was it. The moment she and Julien had feared all along. Perhaps Diana knew that Madame was not helming the design of her wedding dress. Diana would out Rose and Julien as liars, and the atelier would be forced to close down in scandal.
But they’d been careful, hadn’t they? If Rose didn’t know the truth herself, she wouldn’t doubt Julien when the words came off his lips, smooth as silk. And Rose’s work was good. Very good. Insecure as she was, even she had to admit that. It wasn’t at the level of a master like Madame Michel—that took a lifetime of practice to achieve—but still, she felt that the design she had created for Mademoiselle Laurent would have made Madame proud.
“Come closer,” Diana said, as Rose shifted her chair towards her. “I don’t want my brother to hear.” Diana nodded her head in the direction of Robert, who sat on a longue in the front of the atelier, reading the newspaper.
Rose looked in Robert’s direction and felt a pull in her chest. He was handsome, so incredibly handsome, but it wasn’t just that. There was something about him, something in the way that he held himself, that drew Rose to him. It was as if they’d known each other, as if they’d been made for each other, and it was merely fate holding them apart. She was meant to be with him, she felt sure of it, but how could that be the case when he was engaged to another woman?
Robert looked up from the newspaper and smiled at Rose. The edges of his eyes crinkled, and his entire face lit up. Rose quickly looked back down at the table. She grabbed a charcoal pencil and held it over the wedding dress sketch, busying her hands so that her mind might follow.
“Well,” Diana began, careful to be sure that she had Rose’s full attention. “I don’t even want this big wedding that my family is planning. My fiancé, Bertram, doesn’t either.”
“I don’t understand,” Rose said, and she truly did not. How could any girl not want a big, beautiful wedding? Surely she was misunderstanding Mademoiselle Laurent’s intent.
“My dream, my secret dream, is that Bertram and I run away together and elope. He wants the same thing, you know. All we want is each other. The marriage. The relationship. This big wedding is all for our fathers. For their political allies.”
Diana went on about her father’s political career, and the importance of appearances, but Rose was in disbelief.
Rose would give anything to have a wedding like what was being planned for Diana. And Diana didn’t even want it. If the gossip papers were to be believed, there would be over four hundred guests, a fourteen-piece orchestra, a dinner with five courses. Who wouldn’t want such an affair thrown in her honor? To be surrounded by four hundred people who wanted to celebrate her happiness. A family who loved her enough to throw such a thing. Love. Money. Security.
Rose looked to Robert. Perhaps she had underestimated this family. Perhaps the money and the political connections had blinded her to who these people truly were. People who were spoiled. Who didn’t appreciate what they had in life. Who took their lives and their luck for granted. Maybe she was destined to surround herself with people like Julien, people who’d been abandoned. Who could understand where Rose came from. Because from what she was hearing, the girl who sat before her didn’t appreciate a thing.
“I would never do it, of course,” Diana said, taking a careful sip of tea. “I could never do that to my mother. Or my father, either, but mostly my mother. It is her dream to dance at my wedding. You see, Bertram and I both believe that family is everything. Do you agree?”
“I don’t have any family,” Rose admitted, too taken off guard to realize that she’d revealed too much. Her eyes flickered to Julien, who was pretending to busy himself with paperwork, even though Rose knew that he’d been listening to every word. He offered a small smile to Rose, and she continued. “I’m an orphan. I lived with my aunt, but she died when I was sixteen.”
“Oh, that’s simply too awful,” Diana said, drawing Rose towards her for a hug. Even though Diana was thin as a twig, her hug was still warm and soft. “My friends are just like family to me,” Diana whispered in her ear.
“You are very kind.”
“You know,” Diana said, “I may not want the big, fancy wedding, but I do want the dress!”
“I should hope so,” Rose said, smiling back at Diana, laughing nervously.
“And the groom, of course. That’s what I want more than anything. I’m completely, utterly, and madly in love. I suppose that’s why we’re in such a rush to get married. Have you ever been in love like that?”
“I have not.” Rose’s eyes drifted across the room to Diana’s brother. And then, just as quickly, she brought her attention back to Diana. “I suppose love isn’t for people like me. Let’s get back to the dress, shall we?”
Twenty-Five
The bride
Brooklyn, 2020
All eyes were on Amanda.
All eyes were always on Amanda. Sweet, beautiful Amanda. Girly, flirty Amanda. Rocky was used to it, really. Anytime she was with Amanda, it was as if she, herself, became invisible. But Rocky learned to use it to her advantage. In fact, growing up in Amanda’s shadow had taught her to relish it. Underestimate me, she often thought. That’s when I do my best work.
“I love the lace,” Amanda said, and Rocky could have sworn she saw two different salespeople fight over who would start a fitting room for her.
“Pretty.”
“This is fun, isn’t it?” Amanda said to Rocky. “Just the two of us.”
Rocky could not think of anything less fun. She would rather be a million other places than dress shopping with her sister. Maid of honor dress shopping, that is. Amanda was acting as if she was shopping for her own wedding gown (as if she would ever settle down and get married), the way she was giving this such an air of importance. Amanda would later tell her that it was all for her benefit, that she was taking dress shopping so seriously because of the love and deep respect she
had for her sister, because of the love and deep respect she had for this solemn occasion, but Rocky would not believe that for one second. (She would laugh in her face as she said it.) Because everything in Amanda’s world was always all about Amanda. The girl couldn’t help herself.
“So, seeing as how you now embrace pink,” Amanda said over her shoulder, motioning to Rocky’s hair, newly dyed baby pink, to clarify. “What do you think of this one?” She held out a very, very shiny, very, very sparkly bright pink gown.
“I think I need a pair of those glasses you wear when there’s an eclipse,” Rocky said. “That dress is hurting my eyes.”
Amanda laughed and went back to the rack. Rocky caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror—it was nearly impossible not to, as almost every surface in the store seemed to be reflective, which was, perhaps, why Amanda liked it there so much—and couldn’t help but compare herself to her sister, the way they’d been compared all their lives. Even with the pink hair Rocky was sporting that week, Amanda was still the princess. But if Amanda was the fairest one of all, where did that leave Rocky?
A memory: sitting in Dr. Kind’s office, family therapy. Rocky in first grade, Amanda in third. Her mother on edge, always on edge when discussing Rocky’s anger issues. Dr. Kind was focusing on Amanda that day, the central conceit of the whole thing being that it was family therapy, and not just therapy for Rocky, even though that was exactly what it was. Amanda was talking about an incident at school, how she had yelled at her teacher when she received a punishment.
“And why do you think you got so upset with your teacher?” Dr. Kind asked Amanda.
“Because I shouldn’t have gotten in trouble,” Amanda said, her lower lip thrust out, as if to prove her case.
“And why not?” Dr. Kind asked her.
“Because I’m the good one,” she said, as if the answer were obvious.
“In the class?” His brow furrowed as he snuck a furtive glance at Joan.
“In the family,” Amanda explained, matter-of-factly. “Rocky’s the bad one and I’m the good one.”
“There’s no good one and bad one in our family,” Rocky’s father quickly said. “We all have things we need to work on. For Rocky, it’s her anger. And for you, dear Amanda, it’s your vanity.”
“What’s vanity?” Amanda asked, only to be interrupted by her mother.
“It’s the dressing table in your bathroom,” Joan said, throwing a dirty look in her husband’s direction. “Now, what were you saying about that mean teacher of yours?”
When the appointment was just about over, as Rocky and Amanda picked out their prizes from the treasure chest for having a good session, Rocky overheard Dr. Kind explain to her parents: “It’s common for children to try to fit themselves into roles, to define things in black and white.”
I’m the good one. Rocky had never forgotten that. Never fully got over it. If Amanda was the good one, then what, exactly, did that make her?
“What’s your color scheme?” a well-meaning sales associate asked Rocky.
“I’m not sure I really have one yet,” Rocky said, her mind still fuzzy from the memory.
“She likes black.” Amanda ran her hands along Rocky’s outfit of the day as proof of concept: black skinny jeans, black leather bolero blazer, with a dark gray T-shirt underneath.
“I love this one,” the sales associate said, pulling a dress out from the rack.
“Oh,” Rocky said, wondering what a dress like that was doing in the bridesmaid selections. She could not think of one bride who would want her bridesmaid wearing such a dress. If you could even call it that. It looked more like a slip, with its delicate spaghetti straps and bra-like detailing on the bodice. It was cut on the bias, which meant it would hug Amanda’s curves even more than a regular dress would. And the best part (or worst part, depending on your view of things) was the waistline, which had triangular cutouts with lace insets.
“It would look amazing on your figure,” the sales associate said suggestively to Amanda. Flirting or just doing a hard sell? Rocky wasn’t sure.
“It looks cheap,” Amanda said under her breath. And then out loud: “I don’t think our mother would approve of that.”
“She most definitely would not,” Rocky agreed, laughter in her voice. She could just imagine her mother’s reaction to a dress like that. I’m not sure that’s appropriate, she would gently remark, and the girls would immediately know how she truly felt about it: that it should be set on fire and never mentioned again. Rocky felt a pull in her chest at the thought of her mother. All the things she couldn’t say. That she didn’t say.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Amanda asked gently. Rocky could tell she was feigning nonchalance, looking at the dresses instead of looking her in the eye. Casual. Like an animal trainer at the zoo—Do not challenge the animal, do not assert dominance.
“Didn’t you once date a girl named Penny?” Rocky flipped through the dresses, too. She would feign nonchalance like her sister.
“I can always tell when something’s on your mind. If you want to talk,” she said, bumping her hip into Rocky’s, “I’m here.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Rocky said. “Same goes for you, you know.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Seeing Slo—”
“I’m good,” Amanda said, tugging another black dress off the rack and showing it to Rocky.
“You know, just because I wear a lot of black doesn’t mean that I want the color scheme of my wedding to be black.”
Amanda laughed in her face. “Yes, you do. You just know that Mom wouldn’t approve of it.”
Rocky felt a flush cross her face. Amanda was probably right. And it made her angry—Amanda had no right to know her that well. “Okay, fine,” Rocky conceded. “But Drew wouldn’t like it, either.”
“Middle ground: what about charcoal gray? It’s sort of like black, but it’s black’s impossibly chic cousin,” Amanda said, grabbing a dress from the rack. It was strapless with a lace overlay and the skirt was tea length, A-line. As Amanda held it up to her body, it fell perfectly, just a few inches above her ankle.
“I love it,” Rocky said, without thinking. “Try it on.”
Amanda reached over and enveloped Rocky in a hug. Rocky hadn’t quite been expecting that, so she stumbled as Amanda grabbed for her. It was barely detectable, but they both heard it at once: the sound of the fabric ripping as Rocky stepped on the hem.
Rocky held her breath—did this mean they had to buy the dress? Surely a salon like this had one of those you break it, you buy it policies? Or perhaps the fact that they had an on-site seamstress meant that a little rip didn’t really mean a thing. They could have it repaired by the time Amanda had her clothes off, ready to try it on. Rocky puzzled over what to do: Tell the truth? Or try to get out of it? But before she could gather her thoughts, she heard Amanda addressing the salesperson in her honey-sweet voice. She would later tell Rocky that she didn’t lie—not outright anyway—because what she said had actually been the truth.
“We love this one,” she said, which was true, “but it appears to be damaged?” Also true, but not the whole truth.
Not like Amanda cared.
Twenty-Six
The mother of the bride, as a bride herself
Long Island, 1982
Gone. How could she already be gone? Joanie sank down onto a bar stool. She’d missed her chance. Her chance to see Mel again. To find out what really happened to her sister. Her chance to learn the truth.
Joanie put a hand up to get the bartender’s attention, but it was no use. It was as if she was invisible.
When the bartender finally walked over, it was not to take Joanie’s drink order. She pointed to the stage. “The singer is totally singing to you.”
Joanie had completely forgotten about the band. She spun around to see Jesse�
�s band, Dead Dream, on stage. Their music was loud, but were they good? Joanie couldn’t tell. It wasn’t exactly her type of music. “No, he’s not.”
“He is.”
Joanie brushed it off. “Soda water, please,” she said, but the bartender was still staring past Joanie. Joanie turned again to see what she was looking at.
The music got louder. And the bartender was right. Jesse had jumped off the stage and was walking towards the bar. He made his way through the crowd—which parted for him like the Red Sea—and made his way towards Joanie.
“He is singing to you.”
“No, he’s not.” But it was undeniable. He was singing to her. He made a beeline towards Joanie and perched himself on the bar stool next to her. The spotlight blinded her, and she squinted to make out Jesse’s face. Joanie could feel the eyes of all of the girls in the bar burn into her. The music was so loud, Joanie could barely make out the words to the song.
“We’re Dead Dream,” Jesse said into the mic as the song finished up. “We’re going to take a quick break and be back in ten.”
Someone materialized from out of nowhere to grab the mic, and Jesse turned to face Joanie.
“We meet again.”
“So we do.” Joanie didn’t mean to be flirting. “You guys were great.”
He grabbed at his chest, to where his heart would be. “You mean that? Man, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Joanie fingered her single strand of pearls. Her neck was hot to the touch, sticky. She twirled her engagement ring around her finger, as if to remind herself that it was there.
“What are you drinking?” With a flick of the wrist, the bartender came to their side of the bar.
The Grace Kelly Dress Page 10
