At center stage, the mounds and the creases of K.T.’s fake fur catch the light, disguising the stacked mattresses. The flats that form the corduroy create a dark crimson chamber, intimate and somehow ominous now that it’s the color of blood. Her room is exactly as it should if Desdemona slept there and Othello came to her, jealous and ready to take her life.
“Wow!” I’m not the only one who reacts to K.T.’s set, but I’m the loudest.
K.T. stands next to Jamal at the control panel, shifting her head in time to that mystery tune. “All it takes is talent,” she says and bows to everyone on stage, her magenta-tipped hair catching the lights.
“Places,” Mr. Smith calls.
With the long skirt, I’m clumsy climbing onto the fake fur. Once on the bed I lie down and close my eyes. I know all the lines, my cues and how to look afraid. I’ve practiced in front of the mirror until I’ve convinced myself I’m about to be killed. To get that look exactly right, I’ve thought first about K.T. and then Chico or Anthony. Over these weeks, I’ve become very convincing—more so every day that I hae to deal with that bunch.
“‘Yet I’ll not shed her blood,’” Juan’s voice becomes deeper when he gets into his part. As he approaches, I listen to the way he forms words like “monumental” and “alabaster,” words that enter the room like broad-shouldered men. Shakespeare wrote them, but Juan Pacheco gives them life.
I feel his lips brush mine.
“‘She wakes.’”
That’s my cue. What am I supposed say? I knew when I climbed onto the mattresses, but I don’t now. Opening my eyes, I stare into Juan’s face, and the only part of me that I feel are my lips.
“‘Who’s there?’” He feeds me the line. “You know, kind of like the second part of a knock-knock joke.”
I’d like to strangle him, but I can’t. Instead he does me in and the big scene ends as it always does, with poor Desdemona begging for her life. One day I’m going to rewrite that scene. It’s time to turn tables on this big jealous bully.
Chapter 35
As I ring the Franklins’ doorbell, my stomach ripples like it does when I drive too fast over highway dips. Sean’s at the door before the chime fades.
“Yahoo!” He shouts and scoops me into the air and twirls me around. “You’re just the girl I want to see.” He presses his cheek against mine and leads me into the kitchen, his arm around my waist.
Feeling him close, my stomach settles and I’m delighted to be here.
“Aunt Corky left us some of her healthy snacks, but I wrangled a couple of cheeseburgers from Sam’s Shack just in case yogurt and carrot sticks aren’t enough.”
“She’s not here?”
“No, but you have a job all Sunday afternoon. Here’s her note.”
“Carlie, Please be here by 2. We’ll be out until at least 8.” At the bottom she’d written: “No more of those candy sprinkles for the children. I have my rules.”
Mrs. Franklin is all about rules. No snacks at bedtime for the kids; only free-range chicken. Nothing except organic, triple-washed, quadruple-checked anything in her fridge. How did anyone think to name her Corky? That name has such sparkle and fizz.
Sean takes the wrappers off the cheeseburgers and puts each one on a plate. I’ll have to do without food all day tomorrow if I eat this, but he’s set the kitchen table with place mats, flatware, and water with lemon slices. I can’t exactly say, “No thanks.”
“Milady.” He pulls out my chair and snaps my napkin across my lap.
I can never quite figure this guy out. It’s like he majored in nineteenth-century etiquette.
“So why the great need for cash?” he asks, sitting across from me.
“College. Mostly.”
“Okaaaay. Now tell me what you're really saving for.” He bites into the cheeseburger.
I’m such a bad liar. As I look across at Sean, I remember Dad—how he held my face between his hands and said, “Carlie love, you are the worst liar in the world. Your face is a map to your heart, so give it up sweetheart and tell me the truth.” So I did and he forgave me, and now I can’t remember what it was about; only the lesson stayed with me.
“Okay, I lied, a little. I am saving for college, but right now I need a new dress.”
“A-ha! The Spring Fling.”
“How do you know?”
“Sam’s Shack. Lots of gossip flying around that place—like, you’re double dating with Lena and Eric Peterson.”
I peel off the top of the bun and bite into the open-faced cheeseburger. I want my mouth full because I’m close to saying, Why didn’t you ask me first?
“Let’s go shopping. The stores are open until ten.”
“You are the most confusing boy I’ve ever met.” Being with Sean is kind of like being with Lena, but without everything centered on him, and without moody seismic tremors that cut trenches between us. With Sean, everything is about having fun together. Still I wish he’d be a tiny bit jealous about my date with Nicolas. “I’d love to go shopping with you.” I stack my plate in the dishwasher—a old habit from so many babysitting stints here.
I put my arms around his neck. “You are my favorite burglar, Sean.”
“And you are my favorite girl.” He kisses my forehead and briefly presses his cheek to mine. I close my eyes and lift my face, my mouth waiting for his lips, but he steps away. “We’d better go,” he says.
I try to cover my hurt and embarrassment by grabbing my glass and chugging water while Sean clears the rest of the table.
Once we’re at the mall, he takes my arm as if I’m his steady girlfriend, and I let him because it’s nice to pretend that I am.
“Where to shop for the perfect dress is the question.” He stops in front of the store guide display and runs his finger down the list of Women’s Apparel.
“There’s a Dress Mart at the end of the mall, but I don’t think they do formals,” I say.
Sean wrinkles his nose, as if the words Dress Mart, smell bad. “This is the Spring Fling, Carlie, not Sadie Hawkins. Come on. I have a friend whose mother who just happens to work in the best couturier department in Channing.”
“Think budget,” I say, but Sean’s already spearing his way down the center of the mall, dodging oncoming pedestrians. I run to catch him, saying, “Seriously, Sean. I’m broke. Really.”
“Budgets are out the window when it’s a special occasion like this one.” Sean turns sharply and strides through elegant entrance of Très Elégant, the most exclusive shop in town.
The jazzy mall music fades inside the store, where a live piano concerto floats across the displays. I grab his arm. “I cannot afford this store. I can’t even afford to breathe the air in here.” I’m tugging on him now because something has to make an impression. My words sure aren’t. “Let’s go,” I beg.
“Not to worry,” Sean says as he steps onto the escalator. “Come along. We’re going to the second floor— Designer Evening Wear.”
“Oh man,” I say, watching him ascend. He might as well be heading to the moon for all the good going up there will do him. I so can’t afford this place!
“Well?” he says, looking down at me from the escalator, then disappears.
This is nuts. I can’t afford something from the recycling bin outside and he’s talking about designer formals. My favorite French swear word is on my lips, but I keep quiet. I hop on the escalator and I’m on my way to the moon.
When I catch up to Sean, he’s already talking to a woman seated behind a desk.
“This is she?” The woman speaks as if she towers over both of us.
Sean nods. “Carlie, meet Miss Lily.”
I attempt a pale smile. It’s the best I can do to look happy about what Sean is up to.
“Enchanté.” Miss Lily says as she extends her hand.
What am I doing here? How much is this going to cost? Well, it doesn’t matter because if it costs more than fifty-five dollars I can’t buy it. The sample spray at the cosmetic counter c
osts more than that in this store. What part of broke doesn’t Sean understand?
“So we are looking for something sleek and elegant, but youthful.” Miss Lily looks up from under dark eyelashes. “Turn, s’il vous plaît.” She twirls her hand at me.
I do a slow one-eighty.
“Huit.”
The way Miss Lily says the size, it’s engraved on a stone tablet. Miss Lily has declared me a size huit, so eight it is. No diet is ever getting me into a six before the dance.
“Come.” Miss Lily says, then parts the dressing room double doors and ushers us in.
I’ve never seen a dressing room like this one. It’s bigger than my Channing bedroom. The floors are dark polished wood. A rich ivory-colored leather couch is against one wall. A tall palm nods over the seat at one end, and an oval coffee table holds a single orchid— white with a tiny crimson center. The walls are glass panels, and, at the back, hangs a thick leopard-patterned curtain.
“What did you have in mind?” Miss Lily asks.
“Red. Strapless?”
She frowns.
“Red?”
Again she frowns.
“Strapless?”
“No. But slender straps, of course.”
“Of course.” I shoot a look at Sean, but he’s got his nose in the orchid blossom.
“And because this is a spring event, a pink. Not pale, but hot with pizazz,” she says.
“Pizazz,” I repeat.
Miss Lily separates the leopard curtain and leaves us seated on the couch.
“What are you thinking?” I hiss.
Sean pats my hand like I’m a pet poodle. “Trust me.”
When the curtain parts again, a girl only a few years older than I am, glides into the room. She wears a deep pink dress that shimmers under the lights. It curves around her breasts, nips in at the waist and slides deliciously over her hips. It’s gorgeous and I can’t breathe.
Sean tilts his head from side to side, considering.
As the first model struts back through the curtain, a second enters. This time the hot pink dress flows against the model’s thighs like water washing against her skin. Small rosettes form narrow straps and each rose glitters with a tiny crystal at its center.
“Now that’s pizazz,” Sean says. “What do you think?”
“I can’t.”
“Good.”
Miss Lily returns.
“We’ll take that one.” Sean says.
I collapse against the back of the couch.
Chapter 36
Huit fits almost perfectly. With a small adjustment to the straps, the gown looks as if it has been tailor made for me.
“Return Monday, Carlie. It will be ready then.” Miss Lily embraces Sean. “I am so pleased you are to live here after graduation. Michael speaks of your plans to share a dorm room at Elmhurst. He’s very excited.”
When is Miss Lily going to ask me to pay? She hasn’t even mentioned money. There was no price tag, and I don’t have the nerve to ask. Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? Wait until I get Sean Wright alone. I’m going to wring his fabulous neck.
Once we are in the main mall again, I get in his face, both hands braced against his shoulders. “Just how do you think I’m going to pay for that dress? I told you—”
“You get so worked up over everything, Carlie. I made a deal. It’s good for Miss Lily and even better for you.”
“What deal, and when did you make it?”
“When you were getting dressed, that’s when. And anyway, the deal is you tell all your friends where you bought that drop-dead gorgeous pizazzy dress and she loans it to you for the night.”
“She can do that?”
“Some of her clients wear a dress once and return it. The store policy is: ‘Never Question the Customer.’” He leads me down the crowded walkway. “All you have to do is look stunningly beautiful, which you will, and return the dress in good condition, which you will. Okay? Now come on.
By the time we walk out of the mall, it’s nine-thirty. Sean says, “Thanks for the great time, Carlie.”
The feel of his hand at my back is wonderful and suddenly I can’t say a word. I haven’t got a single clear thought to express.
At my car, he says, “High school’s been a major drag. I’m ready to join the real world.” He opens my car door. “You’re a great friend, you know?”
“Me? You’re the one giving all the special help to the down-and-outer. All I do is hang with you.”
“That’s what I mean—you hang with me. That’s very—I appreciate it.”
My skin simmers under the spot where his fingers brush against my arm. I wish he’d say something, like, “I hate that you’re going to that dance with another guy.” Maybe I have to say take me to the dance.
“I want pictures, okay? I have to see you in that dress, your hair very—” He scoops my hair between his hands and piles it on top of my head. “Yes, up like this and with pink orchids in it—make them small. You’ll wow ‘em and Lily will love you for it.” He kisses me as he always does: lightly on the cheek.
I can’t get more confused about the guys in my life than I am right now. Sean excites me, but treats me like a pal. Juan infuriates me, but his face keeps appearing like some dark, haunting vision that supercharges my heart. Nicolas is awesome, but he’s totally into himself.
When I pull into the Franklins’ driveway I get out of the car and walk around to stand next to him. “Sean . . .” Now what, Carlie? Are you going to say, I want you to take me to the dance, not Nicolas? Are you going to beg and say, “Please really kiss me? I gaze down the street without saying anything.
“This sounds serious,” Sean says.
In my head, I hear Dad’s voice: “Carlie love, you can't expect people to read your mind. When you don't understand what someone means, ask them to explain it, then really listen to what they say.”
I look Sean in the eye. “Is something wrong with me?”
He tips his head on an angle and seems puzzled. “Wrong?”
“You . . . treat me like a, a sister. I don't want to be your sister. I want—”
For a moment he seems unsure, as if he hasn’t heard me. Then he pulls me to him and wraps his arms around me. I'm melting and our hearts are beating against each other’s chests.
He's telling me there's nothing wrong with me and I'm listening, Dad.
“You aren't like a sister to me. You’re a special girl in my life.”
I can't breathe. I'm waiting for the shooting star to cross the heavens and hear his next words: I love you.
“If I could love a girl, Carlie, I'd love you.” He steps back, puts one hand on my shoulder, and lifts my chin with the other. “But I'm in love with Michael, Miss Lily's son. I thought you . . .” He looks away as if he’s thinking what he can say next.
My shooting star fizzles as the light comes on inside my brain. All this time, I thought I had to keep him away from Las Pulgas or he wouldn’t love me. He wouldn’t love me if I lived in a mansion. He wouldn’t love me—ever. “Oh. Uh. I didn't understand.”
“And now that you do?” His face reflects the anxiety in his voice.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Suddenly I have no words.
“Carlie?”
“I—need to get home. Uh, I’ll call you. An you call me. Uh—I’m sorry.” I start to get into the car. “Sean, thank you for . . . tonight. I—
But he waves over his shoulder without turning to look at me, then walks silently into the Franklins’ house.
Chapter 37
I wonder if you can be arrested for driving while sobbing? During the trip from Channing to Las Pulgas, I follow the familiar route, trusting more to memory than eyesight. I should have said it didn’t matter he was gay, but that isn’t true. “It friggin’ matters a lot!” I say out loud.
At the stop sign, I pound the steering wheel with both hands and my horn blasts. A motorist passing me jams on the brakes and the car behind him screeches to a sto
p. I speed away—I have to get home before I cause an accident.
When I reach the carport,I sit for a while and press my finger against my swollen eyelids. I don’t want to go inside the apartment all red-eyed and with a runny nose. Then Mom will freak and Keith will have some clever comment that’ll make killing him my only option. When I open the driver’s door, the overhead light flickers on and I check my face in the rearview mirror before double-timing it through the pool area. This has become a dangerous route and I want to make it to the apartment fast. I take the stairs two at a time and look down toward Apartment 152. The windows are dark, and so are the ones at #148. Nobody’s here? I jam the key into the lock, but it won’t turn.
At the sound of someone climbing the steps, I look around. It's Anthony. My skin erupts in a million icy pin pricks of ice as I twist the key hard, but still it doesn’t turn. Jiggling it and using both hands doesn’t open the door either. When I try to yank the key free it won’t budge.
“Locked out?” Two words in Anthony's voice and I’m freezing into a panic.
“No—it’s the key. It’s stuck. I can get it.”
But he’s already next to me, smelling of sweat, with his Las Pulgas track shirt sticking to his chest. He brushes against me as he reaches for the key. I fall back, but he closes the distance and braces his hands on the wall, locking me between them.
“So are you and Pacheco doin’ it?”
I almost ask, “Doing what?” before my brain thaws. “No!”
“Hmm. That’s not what I hear.”
“I hate Juan Pacheco. I hate—” I start to say, I hate everybody in that school, but I swallow those words. This isn’t the time to tell Anthony anything that might set him off. He’s scaring me, but so far he’s not hurting me.
“Whaddya hate? Las Pulgas? Maybe I could change your mind.” He bends his arms and brings his face close.
The Princess of Las Pulgas Page 15
