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Sirenz Back in Fashion © 2012 by Charlotte Bennardo and Natalie Zaman.
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To the real Estelle Eberhardt, a fashion maven in her day. See you on the other side of the River … xoxo
—Char
For my dear Miss Emma Coleman, who always encourages, dispenses advice both practical and fashionable (and fashionably practical), and gave me the perfect person to man the counter of New York’s finest sweetshop.
—Nat
Meg
Odd Couple
“What do you think, Meg, chartreuse or lime?”
I finished the paragraph I was reading and turned my head slightly. Shar towered over me in spiked heels and yellow and green striped PJs. She held up two hangers; the dresses on them looked nearly identical, as did the colors.
“Lime,” I said, and went back to my page.
“You didn’t even look!”
“Yes I did.” I kept my eyes on my book; I had to finish reading another act of Julius Caesar, and this had to be the ninth ensemble she’d put together that required a second opinion. Each one was a different shade of green, the “it” color for spring, or so she said. At least she’d settled on what shoes to wear. Some things never change.
“I know,” she said brightly. “You can do a reading for me! That’ll help me decide.”
I take it back. A lot has changed.
Experience and I had made a believer out of Shar; she’d added an astrology app to her phone and carried more lucky charms than a gypsy in her purse. I warned her that overdoing it could be counterproductive—less is more—but she was a newbie in the world of the occult and still dazzled by its mysteries.
“Shar, you don’t do a tarot reading to pick an outfit,” I said as she went over to my desk and started fishing through the litter of books, papers, highlighters, and pens.
“Fine.” She plucked the tarot deck in its black drawstring bag from behind my laptop. “Don’t tell me what to wear. Tell me what’s going to happen today. Then I can narrow down my choices.”
I gave her a droll look. “You’re going to meet a stranger and fall deeply in love. Go for the lime green.”
She ignored me and pushed the deck into my hands.
“That’s really what’s going to happen—I don’t need to do a reading to tell you that,” I offered hopefully, but Shar pouted. Only a reading or a thorough analysis of her extensive wardrobe would appease her, and I didn’t feel like discussing the finer points of boot-cut versus flared jeans. Not today; I needed to finish my homework before we went downtown.
I slid the cards out of the pouch. Shar, here’s what’s going to happen this afternoon: we’re meeting Jeremy and Ian for lunch. I get to see Jeremy, and you get to meet Ian, and we’re all going to live happily ever after. The End. I flipped through the deck quickly, then handed it to her.
She proceeded to shuffle the cards, touching each one carefully just like I’d taught her. Her lips twisted into a self-satisfied grin, pleased she’d gotten her way.
“Remember to focus on the question,” I sighed.
Shar’s features quickly knit into an expression of fierce concentration. While she worked at forcing her will into the cards, I gazed past her and out the window. Our room was on the third floor of the dorm that housed seniors like Shar and me—talented students chosen for the Academically Independent High School of New York’s Fourth Year Live-In Program. It overlooked a tree-dotted courtyard, but from my vantage point on the bed, all I could see was the dull brick wall of the opposite building. In fact, unless I walked right up to the window and leaned out, there wasn’t much else to see. Scenery-wise, the window was useless. Nothing like the view from that posh pad we’d lived in while working for Hades …
Damn!
It had been just about two months since we’d kissed the Siren life and Hades goodbye, and I thought that with every day that passed, the experience would become more and more distant and eventually fade into a hazy memory. The world, however, was full of reminders. Inevitably, I’d walk down the street and pass someplace where Shar and I conspired, planned, or shopped. Then there were the mornings when I’d pull an impossibly priced top or jacket out of my closet—something that, in my normal life, I could never afford. The simple act of taking the subway—the place where it all started—conjured memories of the deal we’d made with the Lord of the Underworld. He’d tricked us into becoming his Sirens. I’d never felt so stupid in my life, but it all happened so quickly …
I shut the thought out of my mind.
It was done, over, finis, and Shar and I were back to suffering through boring bagged lunches, pinching pennies until they screamed for mercy, and settling back into our old odd-couple life in the Live-In dorm. It was hard to believe senior year was almost over. We only had a couple of months left until graduation. Then summer. Then college. It felt like we’d only just started.
“Okay, I’m ready.” Shar straightened the cards into a neat stack and placed them on the smooth stretch of coverlet between us.
“What’s going to happen … later today?” She said the last words in a Hollywood-mysterious voice.
Shar wasn’t the only one looking forward to this afternoon—I was too. Now that my boyfriend Jeremy was free of Arkady Romanov—our Siren assignment and his over-demanding employer—he was re-enrolled at NYU, and between his classes and mine, we saw less of each other than when his doomed boss had kept him on a short leash. Our meetings were few and fleeting, and no longer seemed to pass in slow motion like when we’d first met. Still, I always counted the minutes until I saw him
, and right now there were about 246 left.
Shar hadn’t met anyone who interested her since we’d come back to our normal lives, but hopefully that was about to change. Jeremy told us he met Ian in film class and said he was nice, good-looking enough to have done some modeling work, and most importantly, unattached. He suggested the four of us do something together. After hearing this, Shar promptly embarked on a crusade to find an “I’m meeting a former model that I could possibly start dating” outfit.
I turned the first card over, revealing a picture of a heart being pierced by three swords.
Shar picked up the card and peered worriedly at it. “That doesn’t look happy.”
“That’s the past,” I said, taking it from her and placing it back into position. “Broken heart, love triangles.”
She nodded grimly—we’d both been interested in Jeremy when we first met him. And then, of course, Hades tried to recruit her to be his spring-slash-summer lollipop and she’d been caught between him and his wife, Persephone. Still, Shar looked doubtful as she said, “Makes sense … you sure that’s the past?”
“Yes. It’s what your experiences were, not are or are going to be.”
She nodded and tapped the next card. “Good. Moving on.”
I flipped it over. Death.
“Oh, great!” Her shoulders slumped.
“Shar,” I started. We’d been through this before—many times. “Remember what I told you about the Death card. It means—”
“Sudden change,” she said, cutting me off. “But couldn’t they express it in a different way? Why all the skeletons and dead people?”
“Look past it,” I said with a dismissive wave. “You want change, don’t you? Never be afraid of the Death card.”
“Next,” she grumbled.
I flipped the card over and Shar let out a little squeal. The Lovers.
“Interesting,” I mused.
“Obvious!” she bubbled. “Do you think I’m runway ready? Maybe I’ll have an actual date for the Spring Fling.” She got up and twirled around, catching her stiletto heels together and nearly falling over.
“Better work on that twirl, Naomi,” I said, trying not to laugh. Shar was usually graceful in everything from sky-high stilettos to chunky wedges, but she was giddy, and when she was giddy, she got clumsy. “Remember the Death card? Things aren’t always what they seem to be, so don’t take them at face value. I wouldn’t pick out his ’n her towels just yet.”
Her lips squished together into a tight and disappointed pucker.
“It’s not bad,” I said. “The Lovers indicates that there’ll be choices to make.”
She brightened. “Like what to wear!” She got up and sashayed over to her dresser. She pulled out another green … something. I couldn’t tell what it was. Please, no more outfits! I have to finish my Lit reading!
“Does abrupt change call for skinny jeans and flats or a mini-dress?”
“I’d do the jeans,” I said as seriously and with as much authority as I could. “If you fall down you won’t embarrass yourself.”
“As if!” she huffed, pulling a few more things out of her dresser: a scarf, a different top. She arranged the things precisely on her bed, smoothing out wrinkles, adjusting the position and angle of a sleeve, a collar.
“Perfect!” she said, stepping back and surveying her work. Despite myself, I looked up again. Shar had put together a pair of form-fitting dark jeans and a slinky blouse the color of new grass. With a pair of fierce bronze heels and a stack of glittery bangles … um, wait a minute …
A chill breeze flitted through the window, which was open a crack to compensate for the baseboard heaters; Maintenance must’ve cranked the temperature up to 90 degrees. Shar grabbed a bathrobe and kicked a neon pair of pink flip-flops out from underneath her bed with her toe.
“Going to take a shower. Are you done with the bathroom?” She looked me up and down with a critical eye. “We’re going to be right by Century 21 and—”
“I know, you want to stop in before we meet the guys,” I finished for her. “I showered earlier, just have to get dressed. I promise I’ll come up with something that meets with your approval.”
She nodded and whooshed her way out of the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. I leaned over and squinted at my laptop; the little clock on the bottom read 9:47. I guessed I should get ready. Getting up, I stretched and sauntered over to the closet. Without thinking, I slid the door open to my half, and a pile of shoes, boots, CDs, and clothes gushed out, making a little swamp of stuff around my feet.
“Crap,” I said aloud.
We usually kept the closet door shut in fear of an
avalanche; this situation was more the result of our indulgent Siren shopping sprees than my general lack of tidiness. I kneeled down and scooped up an armful of things from the pile, then paused for a moment and surveyed the room. For the most part it looked as it had from the beginning—a kind of yin-yang, my brooding darkness against Shar’s perky lightness. Her coordinated bedding was bright and neat, her desk clear, her dresser orderly. On my half of the room clothes hung out of every drawer, and the desk was a burial mound of textbooks and half-finished papers. But here and there were tiny signs of welcome intrusion—rosy scarves draping my bed, a glittery cat bank with a raised paw watching over Shar’s workspace like a guardian. I felt a surge of comfort wash over me. Shar and I were the same people who had met back in September, but now we were friends.
I got dressed: black skirt, semi-clingy black tee, a denim jacket. Out of the mess of my top drawer I got some glittery socks. I pulled them on and started looking through the jumble of stuff on the floor for my shoes when Shar breezed in, her hair done up in a towel turban.
I could see her, out of the corner of my eye, sizing up my clothes.
“A little predictable, but I guess it’s all right. I like the socks—a nice jolt of bling.”
The muffled tones of a synthy electronica song came from her bag. She sighed and walked over to the purse that rested at the foot of her bed.
Digging out her phone, she said “Alana” and slid it open to read a text.
“She wants to go out later.” Shar tapped in a reply and tossed the phone on the bed, then took the towel off her head. Almost immediately the song started up again.
Shar read the new text and shook her head.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Going out with your vampire roomie again?” she read.
Shar, Alana Dean, Kate Jones, and Caroline Cerillo were known as the Fashion Foursome; all of them were going to the Fashion Institute of Technology after graduation. They weren’t thrilled when Shar had the unlucky fate of being paired up with me last fall. I hadn’t been too pleased with the situation either, but when we returned to school after winter break—and our alliance with Hades—Shar tried to bring me into the fold. But it just didn’t work. Slowly, she cut down on hang-time with her former BFFs in favor of studying, shopping, and hitting the occasional club with me, the vampire roomie.
Shar grinned as she replied to the message.
“What’d you tell her?” I asked.
“That I can’t go out because I’m meeting a former model for a lunch date and hoping it’ll turn into something.”
I brushed aside a twinge of hurt that Shar didn’t mention me in the message, rationalizing that if she had, it might have resulted in Alana coming down to our room for a “talk,” like she did when things first started getting back to normal. None of my friends would do that, but then, I wasn’t part of a posse where if one member went astray, eyebrows were raised and questions were asked.
As if on cue, the music started again. Shar looked at the message and nodded. “Go for it, girlfriend! We want a full report!” she read. “That means I won’t be hearing from her again today, bu
t watch out tomorrow.” She started getting dressed.
I found my shoes at the bottom of the heap and started strapping them on.
“Oooo!” Shar cooed when she saw them. “Are those … ”
“Vivienne Westwood.”
“Where did you get them? How did you get them?” She picked up the shoe I hadn’t slipped on yet. “They look like you’ve had them forever.”
“Vintage store. They were cheap because of the nick on the side here,” I said, turning it so she could see.
“Ewww! Foot germs! I would not wear someone else’s shoes!” Her hand jerked away.
“But they’re designer!”
She squinched up her face. “At least it’s a leap up from all your previous choices. With such decadence, how can you live with yourself?”
“They’re old,” I started, putting on the other shoe, “but even if they were new, they’re not made in the third world, so I know the person stitching them together is being paid a living wage. And—”
“That’s enough!” Shar raised her hands. “They’re Westwood, they’re awesome. No one needs to know their life story.”
“And they’re black,” I concluded. “So it suits me, being a vampire and all.”
The dig wasn’t lost on her.
“Meg,” she said, coming over to my bed and sitting down next to me. “I’m sorry about Alana. Things are different. But I couldn’t … ”
I pictured Shar trying to tell the abandoned trio about the subtle change in their and our relationships: Meg may be a little on the strange side, but she’s really cool when you get to know her … No. Not happening.
I nodded. “I know. Come on, finish up and let’s get out of here.”
An hour later, we were browsing the top floor of Century 21.
“Tell me again why we’re here?” I asked. Shar was digging through a rack stuffed with jeans, not listening to me. I touched her arm. “Haven’t you bought enough clothes?”
She looked up from her search. “I really thought there was some hope for you, rocking those shoes,” she sighed, shooting a glance at my feet. “But you still don’t get the whole shopping experience. You’re still in mourning colors. And”—she leaned in closer to me—“don’t you want to get something that doesn’t remind you of … him?”
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