by Meg Cabot
“Don’t do that,” Shari says sharply.
I blink at her. “Do what?”
“Make it about money,” she says. “It’s not about money. You know if you needed money, you could get money. Your parents would send you money.”
I feel a spurt of irritation with Shari. I love her to death. I really do. But my parents have three kids, all of whom need money all the time. Supervisors at the cyclotron, which is what my dad is, make a comfortable living. But not enough to support their adult children in perpetuity.
Shari, on the other hand, is the only child of a prominent Ann Arbor surgeon. All she ever has to do when she needs money is ask her parents for some, and they fork over however much she wants, no questions asked. I’m the one who’s been working in retail—and before that, babysitting every Friday and Saturday night throughout my teens, thus denying me anything resembling a proper social life—for the past seven years, scraping by on minimum wage, and denying myself life’s more expensive pleasures (movies, eating out, shampoo other than Suave, a car, et cetera) in order to save enough to one day escape to New York, and pursue my dream.
I’m not complaining. I know my parents did the best they could by me. But it’s annoying how Shari doesn’t understand that not everyone’s parents are as forthcoming with cash as hers are. Even though I’ve tried to explain it to her.
“We can’t let ourselves become slaves of New York,” Shari goes on. “We can’t make major life decisions—like moving in with a boyfriend—be about the cost of rent. If we start doing that, we’re lost.”
I just look at her. Seriously, I don’t know where she gets this stuff.
“If it’s just about money,” she says, “and you don’t want to go to your parents, Chaz will float you a loan. You know that.”
Chaz, who comes from a long line of fiscally thrifty lawyers, is loaded. Not just because his relatives keep dropping dead and leaving their financial assets to him, but because in addition to their cash, he’s also inherited their frugality, and invests conservatively while living quite modestly—at least in comparison to his net worth, which is allegedly even more than Luke’s. Not that Chaz has a château in France to show for it.
“Shari,” I say. “Chaz is YOUR boyfriend. I’m not taking money from YOUR boyfriend. How is that any different than moving in with Luke?”
“Because you aren’t having sex with Chaz,” Shari points out with her usual asperity. “It would be a business arrangement, strictly impersonal.”
But for some reason, the idea of asking Chaz for a loan—even though I know he’d think nothing of it, and say yes in an instant—isn’t working for me.
Besides, it’s not really about the money. It never was.
“The thing is,” I say slowly. “It’s not just about the money, Share.”
Shari lets out a moan, and drops her face into her hands.
“Oh, God,” she says to her lap. “I knew this was going to happen.”
“What?” I don’t understand what she’s so upset about. I mean, I know Chaz is no prince and all, with his turned-around Michigan baseball hats and perpetual razor stubble. But he’s really funny and sweet. When he isn’t going on about Kierkegaard or Roth IRAs. “I’m sorry. But can’t we make this work? I mean, what’s the problem, exactly? Is it the triple stabbing? You don’t want to live in Chaz’s place because of the neighborhood? But the police told you, it was a domestic dispute. That will never happen again. I mean, unless they let Julio’s dad out of Rikers—”
“It has nothing to do with that,” Shari snaps. In the glow from the neon Pabst Blue Ribbon sign on the wall beside our booth, her wildly curling black hair has a bluish sheen. “Lizzie, you’ve known Luke a month. And you’re going to move in with him?”
“Two months,” I correct her, hurt. “And he’s Chaz’s best friend. And we’ve known Chaz for years. Lived with Chaz for years. Well, in the dorm, anyway. So it’s not like Luke’s this complete stranger, like Andrew was—”
“Exactly. What about Andrew?” Shari demands. “Lizzie, you just got out of a relationship. A completely fucked one, but a relationship, nonetheless. And look at Luke. Two months ago, he was living with someone else! And now he’s just going to rush right in to live with someone new? Don’t you think maybe you guys need to take it a little more slowly?”
“We’re not getting married, Share,” I say to her. “We’re just talking about living together.”
“Luke might be,” Shari says. “But Lizzie, I know you. You’re already secretly fantasizing about marrying Luke. Don’t deny it.”
“I am not!” I cry, wondering how she could possibly know the truth. And okay, she’s known me for my whole life, practically. But come on. That’s spooky.
She narrows her eyes at me. “Lizzie,” she says, in a warning voice.
“Oh, all right,” I say, slumping back against the bloodred vinyl booth. We’re at Honey’s, a seedy Midtown karaoke bar halfway between Chaz’s apartment, where Shari is staying on East Thirteenth between First and Second Avenues, and Luke’s mom’s place, on East Eighty-first and Fifth Avenue, so it’s equally difficult (or easy, depending on how you want to look at it) for us to get to.
Honey’s may be a dive, but at least it’s usually empty—at least before nine at night, when the serious karaoke practitioners show up—so we can talk, and the diet Cokes are only a dollar. Plus, the bartender—a punky Korean-American in her early twenties—doesn’t seem to care if we order something or not. She’s too busy fighting with her boyfriend over her cell phone.
“So I want to marry him,” I say dejectedly, as the bartender yells, “You know what? You know what? You suck,” into her pink Razor. “I love him.”
“It’s fine that you love him, Lizzie,” Shari says. “It’s perfectly natural. But I’m still not convinced moving in with him is the best idea.” Oh, great. Now she’s chewing her lower lip. “I just…”
I look up from my diet Coke. “What?”
“Look, Lizzie.” Her dark eyes seem fathomless in the dim light of the bar. Even though outside it’s sunny, only being noon. “Luke’s great and all. And I think what you did—getting his parents back together, and convincing Luke to go after his dream of pursuing a medical career—was really cool of you. But as far as you two long-term—”
I blink at her, totally stunned. “What about it?”
“I just,” Shari says, “don’t see it.”
I can’t believe she’s saying this. My best friend—ALLEGEDLY.
“Why?” I demand, horrified to feel tears stinging my eyes. “Because he’s a prince—sort of? And I’m just a girl from Michigan who talks too much?”
“Well,” Shari says. “More or less. I mean, Lizzie…you like to watch The Real World marathons in bed with a pint of Coffee Heath Bar Crunch and the latest issue of Sewing Today. You like to listen to Aerosmith at full volume while you hem fifties cocktail dresses on your Singer 5050. Can you imagine ever doing either of those things in front of Luke? I mean, do you really act like yourself around him? Or do you act like the kind of girl you think a guy like Luke would want?”
I glare at her. “I can’t believe you’re even asking me that.” I’m practically crying, but I’m trying to hide it. “Of course I act like myself around Luke.”
Although it’s true I’ve been wearing my control-top Spanx every day since I got to New York. And that they leave angry red lines along my waistline that I have to wait to fade before I let Luke see me naked after I’ve peeled them off.
But that’s only because I started eating bread again when I was in France, and I gained back a little of the weight I lost over the summer! Just a little. Like fifteen pounds or so.
Oh, God. Shari’s right!
“Look,” Shari says, apparently noticing my stricken expression. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t move in with him, Lizzie. I’m just saying you might want to cool it on the wedding-planning thing. Your wedding, anyway. With Luke.”
I reach up to wipe th
e tears from my eyes. “If the next words out of your mouth are that he won’t buy the cow if he can get the milk for free,” I say bitterly, “I will seriously vomit.”
“Of course I’m not going to say that,” Shari says. “Just take things one day at a time, okay? And don’t be afraid to be yourself in front of him. Because if he doesn’t love the real you, he’s not Prince Charming after all.”
I can’t help gaping at her a little. Because, really. It’s like she’s a mind reader.
“How,” I ask tearfully, “did you get so smart?”
“I majored in psych,” Shari said. “Remember?”
I nod. Her new job is counseling women at a nonprofit program that helps victims of domestic abuse find alternative housing, obtain orders of protection, and secure public benefits such as food stamps and child support. It’s not a high-paying job, salarywise. But what Shari doesn’t receive in financial compensation, she’ll make up for in the knowledge that she is saving lives, and helping people—especially women—to attain better existences for themselves and their children.
Although if you think about it, those of us in the fashion industry do the same thing. We don’t save lives, necessarily. But we help make lives better, in our own small way. It’s like the song says…young girls, they do get weary, wearing that same old shaggy dress.
It’s our job to get them into a new one (or a refurbished old one), so they can feel a little bit better about themselves.
“Look,” Shari says. “The truth is…I don’t know. I’m kind of bummed. I was really looking forward to us getting a place together. I even thought about how much fun it was going to be thrifting for old furniture and then fixing it up. Or borrowing a car and going to IKEA in New Jersey to buy a bunch of stuff. Now I’m going to have to live with Chaz’s hand-me-down furniture from his family’s law offices here in town.”
I have to laugh. I’ve seen the elaborate gold-trimmed couches in Chaz’s living room—the one with the wood floor that gently slopes south, and the windows with the folding gates over them because they look out over a fire escape…the same windows from which Shari saw Julio’s dad go on his stabbing spree.
“I’ll come over and see what I can do about the couches,” I say. “I have a bunch of bolts of material I got when So-Fro Fabrics closed down. When my mom ships my boxes to me, I can make a slipcover for you. And some curtains,” I add. “So you won’t have to see any more stabbings.”
“That’d be nice,” Shari says, with a sigh. “Well. Here.” She slides her copy of the Village Voice toward me. “You’re going to need this.”
I look down at it blankly. “Why? If Luke and I already have a place?”
“To find a job, dufus,” Shari says. “Or is Luke going to support your thrifting habit as well as provide your housing?”
“Oh.” I let out a tiny laugh. “Yeah. Thanks.”
And I flip to the jobs section of the classifieds……just as a dwarf with a long, Gandalf-like staff opens the door to Honey’s, ambles up to our table, looks at us, then turns around and leaves, all without uttering a word.
Both Shari and I glance at the bartender. She doesn’t appear to have noticed the dwarf. Shari and I look back each other.
“This town,” I say, “is very weird.”
“Tell me about it,” Shari says.
Lizzie Nichols’s Wedding Gown Guide
Know your…
Wedding-gown sleeve lengths!
Strapless—no sleeves at all, of course!
Spaghetti strap—very thin straps
Sleeveless—wider straps
Cap—very, very short sleeves, usually just an extension of the shoulder. Not attractive in brides over forty (unless they work out. With weights).
Short—lower edge of the sleeve usually falls straight across the middle of the upper arm.
This length is generally considered too casual for a formal wedding.
Above the elbow—this length works best on brides who are concerned about “chicken skin” beneath their arms.
Three-quarter—this sleeve ends three fourths of the way down the arm, midway between the elbow and the wrist. Flattering on nearly everyone.
Seven-eighth—ends two inches above the wrist. This is an awkward length for bridal gowns.
Wrist length—this length works nicely for more conservative brides, or those trying to hide unsightly eczema on their arms.
Full length—falls one inch below the wrist bone. This is the preferred length for brides favoring a “medieval” or “Renaissance” look to their gown.
LIZZIE NICHOLS DESIGNS™
Chapter 4
Gossip is the tool of the poet, the shop-talk of the scientist, and the consolation of the housewife, wit, tycoon and intellectual. It begins in the nursery and ends when speech is past.
—Phyllis McGinley (1905–1978), American poet and author
Maybe Shari’s right. Maybe I do need to take things with Luke a little slower. There’s no need to start planning our wedding now. After all, I only just got my degree…or not even, actually, since I just turned in my thesis, and my advisor says I won’t technically graduate until January. Not that I’m changing my graduation date on my résumé, because, you know, who even checks that?
Besides, Mom and Dad would FLIP if they found out I took off for Europe—let alone accepted all those book lights as graduation gifts—without actually having finished my degree.
The same way they would FLIP if they found out I was moving in with a guy I met there. In Europe, I mean. I’m going to have to keep my living situation on the DL. Maybe I’ll just tell them Shari and I are sharing a place…except what if they talk to Dr. Dennis? Dang…
Okay, I’ll worry about that later.
Obviously, I need to use this time to concentrate on my career. I mean, how am I ever going to get interviewed by Vogue if I never actually do anything interview-worthy?
Although Shari would look really cute in a cap-sleeved dupioni silk bustier bridesmaid top, with a tea-length skirt in a sort of antique-rose color, like that skirt on the mannequin in the window…
Okay, stop it. Just stop. I’m not going to think about that now. There’ll be plenty of time to design a bridesmaid gown that will look lovely on Shari and hideous on Rose and Sarah. Right now I need to concentrate on getting a job. Because that’s the most important thing at the moment. What am I going to do with my life? I can’t just be someone’s wife. Anybody can do that.
And okay, sure, I bet Vogue would interview me just for being the wife of a prince. Well, a pseudoprince. They do interviews with wives of pseudoprinces all the time. They call them “hostesses.”
I don’t want to be a “hostess.” I don’t even like parties.
No, I have to figure out a way to leave my mark on the world. Something only I can do. Which appears to be refurbish vintage wedding dresses.
Which you would think there’d be a huge demand for. Doesn’t everyone have an old wedding dress in the attic they’d like to have fixed up? The trick is, how to reach all the women out there who need my services, while at the same time being able to support myself? Of course there’s always the Internet, but—
Ooooh, that is the cutest Jonathan Logan red Spanish lace dress…shame about the rip in the lace. Still, that’s an easy fix. How much—oh my God. Four hundred and fifty dollars? Are they insane? We sold one just like this at Vintage to Vavoom in Ann Arbor for one fifty. And this one is like a size two. Who can even fit into something this small?
“May I help you?”
Oh. Right. I’m not here to shop.
“Hi,” I say, flashing what I hope is a dazzling smile in the direction of the clerk in the plaid pants (she’s being ironic), with the multiple facial piercings. “I was wondering if the manager was around?”
“Why do you want to see the manager?”
Hmmm. Multiple Facial Piercings has a bit of an attitude, I see. Then again, seeing as how her shop is on a busy avenue in the Village, she probably see
s all kinds. She probably has to be suspicious. Who knows what kind of crazy creepolas come in here? If they get a lot like that guy I just saw on the corner, with his pants down around his ankles, pawing through the trash can and muttering about Stalin, I can see why she might be a little standoffish with strangers.
“Actually,” I say brightly, “I’m wondering if the store might be hiring. I’ve got years of experience in vintage retail, in addition to—”
“Leave your résumé at the counter,” Multiple Facial Piercings says. “If she’s interested, she’ll call you.”
But something tells me that the manager will never call. Just like the human resources representative from the costume department at the Metropolitan Museum of Art never called. Just like the head of the Museum of the City of New York’s Costume and Textile Collection never called. Just like Vera Wang never called. Just like any of the gazillion places at which I’ve dropped off résumés haven’t called.
Only in this case, I know the manager’s not going to call because she’s seen my résumé and she thinks I’m underqualified for the position, or because there aren’t any openings, or because I don’t have any local references, like all those other places. I know the manager’s not going to call because she’s never even going to see my résumé. Because Multiple Facial Piercings has already decided she doesn’t like me, and is going to throw my résumé into the trash the minute I step out of her store.
“My hours are superflexible,” I say, in a last-ditch effort. “And I have a lot of seamstressing experience. I’m great at alterations—”
“We don’t do in-store alterations,” Multiple Facial Piercings says with a sneer. “If people want something altered these days, they just take it to their dry cleaner.”
I swallow. “Right. Well, I notice this Jonathan Logan you have here has some damage. I could easily repair this—”
