The Princess of Las Pulgas

by C. Lee McKenzie

  Chapter 39

  That afternoon I pull into the mall’s underground parking, turn off the ignition, and sit in the quiet car. Lena’s “paw through the shelves” and the way she said it still runs through my head. Mrs. Knudson uses that small undercurrent of spite in her voice sometimes. The first time I remember was after I’d won the eighth grade poetry contest and Lena came in third. When I showed her the ribbon, Mrs. Knudson parted her lips enough for her even little teeth to show. “How sweet, Carlie. It’s a nice little keepsake.” The word, jealousy, flits through my mind as I recall the incident.

  At the time, when I’d asked Mom why Mrs. Knudson didn’t like, her exact words were, “Remember, you have a terrific imagination. Keep the real world separate from the imagined one, Carlie.” I wonder what Mom would say now, if I told her what Lena’s mom had said last Saturday about my dress for the dance. I didn’t imagine one bit of that conversation. But they used to be friends, so maybe Mom didn’t see what I did.

  When I reach the main gallery, Lena is ahead of me, texting. She ends her message and holds out her arms when she sees me. Her expression’s like the old Lena. I feel ashamed for thinking my friend would turn spiteful on me.

  “We haven’t done the mall in a hundred years. I’m so into shopping today and it’s double fun now that you’re here. I’m, like, totally in need of a break from my schedule which you have to know is intense. I’m doing Spring Fling decorations, arranging for the DJ, and trying to sleep occasionally. I have news and more news!” Lena links her arm through mine without stopping for a breath. As we enter Très Elégant, her cell chimes the French national anthem and she answers it.

  “Hi. What’s up? That is so awesome. Right. Bye.” Lena texts, then shuts down her cell again.

  “That was Paula, you remember her— the exchange student from Paris? She, like, sent to Paris for her Spring Fling dress. I am totally green. Imagine a new dress all the way from France.” She scans the marquee. “Accessories, second floor. There’s a really awesome purse just over our heads and it’s all mine.”

  I step onto the escalator behind Lena. “Oh, before I forget—she chatters on, “you have to text or call me on my cell. My computer crashed. We think it’s the hard drive. Can you believe it? I’m getting a new one when my dad comes back from South America, but that’s two weeks. He says I can . . .”

  Lena is on and on, but I’ve tuned to another station.

  I seem to have a BFF who babbles, who never asks about how I feel or what's happening in my life. What should I do, just listen and listen and listen to talk, talk, talk?

  Lena steps off the escalator and looks over her shoulder at me. “So where do you pick up your dress?”

  I point to the couturier section of the store.

  “Oh, couturier. Do you want to do that first?” The mean undercurrent so like Mrs. Knudson’s is back in Lena’s voice.

  “How about if I pick up my dress while you ‘paw through the shelves.’” Talk about undercurrent. “I’ll probably finish first; then I’ll find you.”

  “No way, Carlie. We are together on this mission. Come on, couturier first.” Lena leads the way to the desk. Without being asked, she speaks for me. “We’re here to pick up a dress for—”

  “Carlie. I am so happy to see you again.” Miss Lily comes from behind her desk, and I’m the recipient of the two-cheek European-style kiss. “Your dress is ready, but I want you to model it for us first. I’ve told all of my ladies how amazingly beautiful you are in it.” She takes my hand. “Come.”

  The dressing room is still as glamorous as I remember. I flash back to Sean sitting with me, watching the models, helping me choose. A small tornado whips around in my belly. I wish—I don’t know what I wish. Yes, I do. I wish Sean wasn’t gay. Mostly I wish he could be here with me instead of Lena.

  My dress hangs by its tiny rosette straps from a golden hanger and it’s more beautiful than before.

  From behind me Lena gasps.

  “Your friend also appreciates how lovely this is for you.” Miss Lily hands the dress to me. “Here is a pair of heels to use. It will look so much better with the heels. Now try it on and I will gather my ladies.”

  I strip to my underwear and carefully step into the dress. “Can you zip this for me?”

  Lena yanks the zipper to the top.

  “Whoa. A tad rough, mon amie.”

  “It stuck.”

  I step into the pink heels and face the mirrored walls. “Well, what do you think?”

  “It’s fine. Of course, I asked you not to get something pink.”

  “No. You said not to buy a red dress. This isn’t red.” But I’m seeing red. Flames lap around Lena who is now tied to a stake in my mind. I want to scream, “Witch.”

  I’m relieved when Miss Lily returns with two other Très Elégant sales women. Their chatter covers the tension between Lena and my pizazzy pink self.

  Miss Lily boxes the dress, carefully tucking it between folds of tissue paper, then tying it with Très Elégant ribbon. She kisses me again on both cheeks, pressing the box into my hands. “Enjoy a wonderful dance.”

  Lena has her back to us, fingering a chiffon skirt on a mannequin. It was a mistake to do this with her.

  “So what kind of purse are you looking for?” Maybe I can salvage the rest of the afternoon if I sincerely help Lena buy the right accessory.

  “It’s getting late. Maybe I’ll wait.” Lena is already on the escalator, her head descending slowly from view, so I can’t argue.

  “How about a Coke?” I haven’t given up.

  “Sure. The Food Court’s the close.”

  Maybe humbling myself will ease Lena back into a good mood. “I can’t shop today. I’m pretty broke.”

  Lena doesn’t answer, but when we’ve bought our drinks and found seats she says, “Are you broke because of that?” She points at the Très Elégant box.

  “Not really.” I don’t want to get into how much the dress cost. “It wasn’t that expensive. You might say I got a—”

  “Hey! It’s the Des.”

  K.T. and her gang of six encircle us. I almost snatch the box from the seat and hold on to protect it.

  “Being a mall rat is not what I expected of the star.”

  “I do more than act in Mr. Smith’s play, K.T.”

  “When do you do all that fancy writing?”

  It’s in her eyes. All that I wrote about my dad, all that I wrote about how I feel. Why does she have to be here today? Now?

  “Who’s this?” K.T. points at Lena who sits without moving anything but her eyes. These dart between K.T. and the six girls at her back.

  “Lena Knudson. She’s a friend, so be nice.”

  “I’m always nice. You know that.” K.T. grins at the six girls who laugh. “So what you got in the fancy box?”

  “A dress.”

  “Lemme see.”

  I think Lena’s shrinking inside her clothes.

  “It’s nothing special.”

  K.T. fingers the ribbon. “The outside sure looks kinda special.”

  I’m not getting rid of her until she gets her way, so I untie the bow, lift off the top and peel back the tissue.

  “Holy—” K.T. exclaims. “Get your eyeballs ready to pop. Lookit at what Des has bought herself!”

  The gang of six clusters around the table, forming a cave around Lena and me.

  The girl with tightly beaded hair extends a finger.

  K.T. slaps her hand away.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “Touching won’t hurt it.” Picking up my dress has just become an event, instead of a chored to finish so I can escape Lena’s sour looks and ping-ponging moods.

  K.T. sets one hand on her hip and does an exaggerated head shift right and left, so that her dangly earrings dance above each shoulder. “So where you gonna wear this?”

  “She’s going to Channing’s Spring Fling.” I turn around to see if Mrs. Knudson has suddenly appeared, but it’s just Lena, doing her
best imitation of her sarcastic mom.

  “Whoa. Excuse my asking.” K.T. hops back, pretending to be threatened. Her gang moves behind her like a chorus line. “We’ll be travelin,’” she says and leads them away.

  “Thanks,” I call after them.

  K.T. looks back, suspicion in her eyes.

  “Glad you liked my dress.” Glad you interrupted a perfectly horrible conversation is more like it.

  She sticks one hand on a hip and says, “It’d be better in red. And dump those strappy flower things.”

  She can’t let up for a minute, can she?

  Like always, her gang plays its way across the Food Court. Big Teeth shoulders K.T., then K.T. slings her arm around the girl’s back and does a hip-hop move on her rubber heel. I watch until they merge with the crowd. And I’m the girl left behind at the table with her elegant dress and sour-faced friend. Staring after them, I feel lonelier with their every step away.

  Lena slurps the last of her Coke through a straw and crumples the plastic cup. “So what’s all this, ‘Des’ stuff?”

  “I’m in the junior play. That’s my nickname.”

  “For?”

  “Desdemona.”

  Lena tosses her crumpled cup into the trash. “How many nicknames do you have at Las Pulgas?”

  “Two. And one isn’t meant to be flattering.” I don’t want to explain Juan’s to her.

  “How come you didn’t tell me about the play?”

  “It just never came up. I’m sorry, Lena, but you don’t know what kind of mess I’ve been in since my dad died.”

  I’ve played the “Dad Card.” Lena switches from bitchy to sweet. “Can we come? I mean Eric and me?”

  “You want to?”

  “Sure. I saw posters at Sam’s, but I didn’t know my best friend was the star.”

  She’s chatty. She’s happy. As long as the pizazzy pink dress doesn’t enter the conversation, as long as I remain the one with major troubles Lena’s fine.

  “Sure, if you’d like to—that would be, uh, great.” I can almost hear the “ah” escape. It’s like a huge carbonated burp. Finally, I’ve invited Channing to Las Pulgas.

  Relieved?

  Yes.

  Scared?

  Absolutely.

  And here I thought K.T. and the track team were the scariest part of my life.

  Chapter 40

  After Lena leaves the parking garage, I sit in my car without putting the key into the ignition. The Très Elégant box fills the passenger seat and anxiety fills the rest of the space, as I picture Lena and Eric sitting in the Las Pulgas auditorium, staring at me while I pretend to be lovely, innocent Desdemona. On the way from the Food Court, Lena even suggested asking Nicolas to join them—sort of a rehearsal for our big double date.

  I’ll break my leg like K.T. did. Mr. Smith will have to cast somebody else, maybe Dolores. She knows a lot of my lines.

  By the time I reach the apartment, it’s almost dark, but tonight the lights are on in our apartment windows. Clutching the box I hurry up the stairs, grateful that I’ve made it past the pool without having worry for my life. As I hurry past Apartment 147, the door snaps open and Gerald and his wife come out. He doesn’t seem to notice me, but she does.

  “Hi, honey. You’ve got the joint to yourself tonight. Me and Gerald got a date.” She flicks her cigarette ashes over the balcony, then follows her husband down the stairs. “Wait up!”

  Inside the apartment I call, “Mom, I’ve got the dress.”

  She comes down the hall barefooted, still in her gold and brown uniform. “Let’s see it. I’ve been waiting for this all day.”

  I undo the ribbon and hold up the dress.

  “Oh. It’s absolutely beautiful.” Mom’s eyes glisten as she wraps me in her arms.

  “Are you crying?”

  “Yes. And don’t try to stop me. I need this cry.”

  Keith pokes his head out of his bedroom, sees us and ducks back inside.

  Mom steps away and holds the bodice against me. “Try it on. I have to see you in it right now!”

  I change, dig quickly through my closet for heels, and check my jewelry box for the small sparkly earrings. When I pull the dress over my head I’m careful not to snag it on my bracelet. I twist my hair into a knot and pin it in place.

  In the living room, Mom’s waiting, her hands folded in her lap.

  “Carlie—” She presses her fingers to her lips. “I just wasn’t prepared for you to look so— so grown up.”

  Mom’s loneliness is as real and depressing as the room itself. I can almost see a form in the space next to her, where Dad would be sitting, looking back at me, his daughter, in a pizazzy pink dress.

  “Now tell me again about the orchids. What kind should you wear?” Mom blots her eyes with her Las Pulgas Market apron.

  Keith goes into the kitchen without looking at us. He bangs a cupboard door shut, rummages noisily in the refrigerator and clanks a pot onto the stovetop.

  “Sean said he thought I should have small pink ones. What do you—”

  There’s a knock at our door. “I’ll get it,” Mom says. She looks through the small security eye, then unlocks the door for Jeb.

  “Come in. Sorry I haven’t changed for dinner yet.”

  “Who’s this?” Jeb stops in front of me. “Must be a movie star.”

  “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  “Mom!”

  “No—your mom’s right. You are beautiful and she has every right to say so,” Jeb says, then he calls toward the kitchen. “Hey, Keith. Come in here and tell your sister she’s a knock out.”

  “You’re a knock out, Carlie,” Keith says in a monotone.

  “Thank you, Keith,” I reply, mimicking his insincerity.

  After Jeb and Mom leave, I change into my jeans and join Keith in the kitchen.

  “What’s left to eat?” I’m starved after the tense day with Lena.

  “Chicken.”

  I carve some slices from the last of the whole bird Mom roasted Saturday. “So how is it to work for him?”

  “Jeb?”

  “No, King Ludwig of Bavaria.”

  Keith laughs. This is the second time I’ve heard that sound this year, but once Chico and his friends have at Keith, he won’t be laughing at all again.

  “Ludwig’s okay. He doesn’t bug me. Gives me a list of stuff to do, then leaves me alone to do it.”

  “What kind of stuff?” Maybe I could work at Jeb’s, too, then when Mom visits I can make sure it’s really a friendship and nothing else between them. Besides, working in an orchard might be more fun than babysitting for Aunt Corky.

  “I put crates together. Fix stuff that’s broken. That kind of thing.”

  It doesn’t sound very interesting, but I could probably do the crates. “Um. Do you think you could fix something for me?”

  “Like?”

  “My Jack-in-the-Box.”

  He shrugs. “Give it to me. I’ll try.”

  I eat the last of my chicken. “Do you see Quicken?”

  “Yeah. He’s fat and full of all kinds of rodents, including one pesky squirrel.” Keith bites into a chicken leg and chews.

  “Pesky?”

  “Jeb’s word. I think he’s in love with that cat.”

  “I don't care. She’s my cat.” I remember how she wouldn’t sit on my lap at Jeb’s, how she went to him. She was my cat. I go to the sink, wash my plate and stack it in the drainer. My English homework isn’t doing itself, and I’ve got a whole scene to memorize by next rehearsal.

  On my way from the kitchen I stop next to Keith. “What are you going to do? I mean about the track team.”

  He shakes his head. “Nothing. Anthony tells me to wait until next week. I keep thinking he's going to jump me, but all I get are some names insulting our ancestors.”

  “I don't get it. If they start something on campus Bins will suspend them all. Here they could probably get away with pounding on you.”

  “My guess
?”

  I shrug. “Yeah.”

  “It's about showing off. They want everybody to see me get hurt.”

  “Guys are so weird.”

  “Right. Guess you forgot the naked girl fight. I sure haven't.”

  “No boy on campus will ever forget that. See you in the morning.”

  “Carlie.” Keith’s at the sink washing his own plate. “Jeb’s right. You look awesome in that dress.”

  He can’t see my expression because he’s facing away. My mouth is set to reply with a smart comeback to top his usual sarcasm, but there’s no sarcasm in his voice. I head to my room without saying anything. It’s because I don’t know what to say.

  After changing into pjs, I pull the covers around me, then think about how Keith and I sat together and . . . talked—that he said something nice to me. If I weren’t so tired I’d take my journal down from the closet shelf and put something in it about a pizazzy pink dress and my real brother, the one I glimpsed tonight. The one who will try to fix my favorite toy.

  Sleep pulls me inside its dark warmth and I feel something I haven’t felt in a very long time: a speck of stillness in the center of all those funnel clouds that make up my life.

  Chapter 41

  The next day after school, I take a quick peek inside the Très Elégant box and finger the tiny rosettes along the straps. I’ll wait to try the dress on after I finish my homework—kind of a reward. The dance is still two weeks away and if I keep putting Miss Lily’s dress on and taking it off I’ll wear it out before the big night. But it feels so good.

  I finish the chemistry chapter notes that I'm sure Doc did days ago, then I open my notebook and take out my story. I’ve put reading K.T.’s comments off as long as I can. Now I have to do it.

  At the top she writes, “Mr. Smith nailed it. You got to describe the person’s feelings more and let me understand how she gets through the days since her dad died. I liked the story alot. I didn’t find no grammer problems either.”

  K.T. didn’t write any ugly things. She didn’t draw ghoulish pictures like I’d imagined. The rest of the comments are smiley faces or “Here’s where you can put in more about how the girl feels.”