Time-traveling Fashionista (9780316180580)

by Turetsky, Bianca

  The shop was dusty and bursting with armoires, racks of old clothes, and tall columns of hatboxes precariously piled to an alarming height. The woman named Marla was partially hidden behind a mahogany rolltop desk in the back corner. The desk was a disorganized mess, covered in papers and fabric and leather-bound books.

  “Oh, wonderful,” Glenda chirped as she plucked the card from Louise’s hand and, without bothering to look at it, nonchalantly tossed it over her shoulder onto the floor.

  Glenda had red frizzy hair fastened in a messy chignon with black enamel chopsticks. Her dress was simple black wool, shapeless, almost monastic. She was exceptionally tall, an intimidating feature accentuated by her black Victorian lace-up boots with three-inch stacked heels.

  “Please have a look around. Sorry for the clutter, but this space is temporary. We’ll be moving soon,” the woman named Marla announced.

  She had emerged from behind the desk, small and mousy. Her stringy chestnut-colored hair fell limply to her shoulders. The one distinguishing feature adorning her unremarkable face was a wart the size of a peanut that had planted itself on the tip of her nose. Louise noticed that the two women were both wearing matching oval-framed pictures of a black poodle that hung around their necks by heavy gold chains.

  Louise hated being the only customer in a store. The attention made her self-conscious as she began looking through the tightly packed racks of clothes. The two overbearing women didn’t make it any more comfortable as they followed a few paces behind her, pausing when she stopped to examine a swishy powder blue dress more carefully.

  Luckily, Brooke burst into the store before things got too uncomfortable.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she panted, looking around the room in awe or horror, Louise wasn’t sure which. “Where are we?” she asked. Her eyebrows furrowed. “I never knew this existed.”

  “I know. It’s cool, right?” Louise gushed, trying to sound enthusiastic, but already pretty sure that she would not hear the end of this.

  “Dahling, do you have an invitation?” Glenda asked, giving Brooke a thorough once-over. She was wearing her weekend uniform, a blueberry-colored Juicy Couture terry tracksuit.

  “She’s with me,” Louise said protectively.

  “Well, I suppose that’s fine,” Marla replied, circling Brooke suspiciously.

  “You suppose?” Brooke raised an eyebrow, and started looking through the clothing racks. “You owe me one,” she said under her breath.

  There were no prices listed on anything, and when Brooke asked about the cost of a black cocktail dress, Glenda and Marla glanced at each other with a look of surprise, as though the question of pricing had never crossed their minds.

  “Well, oh dear, I don’t know. One dollar. Is that reasonable?” Glenda asked, rummaging through a stack of papers on the desk.

  “No, no, no. Things have changed, Glenda. Inflation, deflation, extortion. One million dollars? Is that fair?”

  Louise and Brooke laughed. The black satin dress was in the style of the 1960s. It was classic yet flirty and looked like something the famous American designer Halston would have made for Jackie O to wear at a White House dinner party. But for one million dollars, they would have to pass.

  “Oops. Too much?” Marla blushed.

  “Let’s forget about money for now,” Glenda decided. “So corrupting, so unnecessary among friends. We’ll figure it out at a later date. Let’s just worry about finding something pretty for your friend.”

  “But what about me?” Brooke asked, not used to being overlooked.

  “I’m sure you’ll find a nicely overpriced Marc Jacobs number at the mall later today,” Glenda said and winked, much to their surprise. Wow, these ladies were good.

  Glenda and Marla began rummaging through the store, unzipping garment bags, throwing unwanted items like mink stoles, wrap jersey dresses, and brightly colored silk scarves into piles on the floor. They created a cloud of dust with their excited motions. Completely caught up in their own chaos, they gave Louise and Brooke a moment of privacy to look for themselves. Louise quickly combed through the garment racks.

  “Hors d’oeuvres?” Glenda asked, pronouncing the word like oars-duh-voors.

  She had reappeared carrying a silver platter with a mound of lumpy, bright orange dip. Saltine crackers were scattered around the tray. Louise looked at the food with trepidation.

  “Crab dip!” Glenda announced. “Marla is absolutely famous for it.”

  “I’m allergic to shellfish,” Brooke exclaimed, lying through her teeth. “It could, like, kill me.”

  Glenda pushed the platter toward Louise.

  “No, thank you,” Louise said politely. “I’m not really hungry. I just ate lunch.”

  “Oh, have a taste, dear,” Marla urged. “We have very little patience for young ladies who are afraid to try new things.”

  Glenda gave Louise a hard, disapproving look.

  “But why is it that color?” Louise asked nervously, taking a cracker and dipping it tentatively into the foreign substance. The dip had a crusty outer shell that almost broke the cracker in two, as if it had been baking all day in the sun, developing an armor to protect itself from probing crackers and girls with adventurous palettes. She didn’t want to seem rude. She would just have a little.

  “A generous sprinkling of sweet paprika,” Marla said with a wink. “That’s the secret ingredient. Don’t tell.”

  “I won’t,” Louise promised. This was one secret she would be able to keep.

  She popped the cracker into her mouth and chewed quickly, without breathing through her nose, and swallowed. She still tasted the creamy and fishy mush, and although she didn’t like it one bit, she thanked Marla and told her that she could see why everyone loved it so much. This appeared to be one of those instances where lying was the appropriate response.

  “Thank you, sweetie,” Marla replied, beaming.

  Marla picked a cracker from the tray and scooped out a generous amount of dip and ate it in one large bite. “Mmmm. That is truly scrumptious.” She wiped the salty crumbs from her noticeable chin hairs.

  “Now, please, back to shopping.”

  Louise carefully opened the door of an ivory-colored wardrobe that was slightly ajar. The armoire was filled with leopard print coats, high-heeled shoes, and fabulous gold-and-silver sequined gowns. A slight glimpse of iridescent pink caught her eye from the depths of the closet, and Louise pushed aside the fur coats and sparkles to get a better look.

  The dress made her gasp. It was the perfect powdery pink gown, a long, draped skirt that flowed out from an empire waist, intricately detailed with shimmery gold thread and tiny silver beads. It was delicate and feminine, and Louise knew that no one at Fairview Junior High would have anything like it. She quickly plucked it out of the closet and announced that she had found The One.

  Glenda and Marla rushed over to her, eyes gleaming, excited to see what she had picked out.

  “Are you sure you want to try that one on, dear?” Marla asked Louise hesitantly.

  “Of course she is,” Brooke said with a nod. “Lou, that is fabulous. I mean, for vintage.”

  “Oh yes, I love this one,” Louise cooed, pressing the cool, silky fabric to her cheek. “Please, can I try this one on?”

  “What do you think, Glenda? Oh, I don’t know, I just don’t know….” Marla stammered, nervously playing with the poodle necklace around her neck.

  “Please, I’ve never seen a gown like this before. It’s so special.”

  “You have no idea, sweet pea,” Glenda muttered. Her voice was husky and low—what Louise imagined was the raspy result of a lifetime of unfiltered cigarettes and too much champagne.

  “Isn’t this the Traveling Fashionista Vintage Sale?” Brooke asked. “How are you supposed to sell anything? As far as I can see, we’re your only customers!”

  Louise clutched the gown protectively to her chest. She wanted this dress.

  “Touché. No need to be rude, princ
ess.”

  Louise examined the tag in the dress to try and deduce what designer made it. The label itself was ripped out, or probably had just fallen off after decades of handling. However, the very edge of the tag was still sewn in. She could still make out the faint traces of a cursive embroidered L.

  “It even has my initial in it,” she protested. “This was obviously meant for me.”

  The two women exchanged amused looks at Louise’s persistence.

  “You know, Marla, I think it would fit her marvelously. It seems like she and Miss Baxter were exactly the same size.”

  “Miss Baxter?” Louise questioned distractedly, her eyes drifting back to Marla’s nose and that goober of a wart balancing on the tippy-tip. She wondered why Marla never had it removed. Weren’t there dermatologists for that sort of thing?

  “Why, that’s Miss Baxter’s dress, sweetie. Didn’t we mention that?” Marla asked, breaking Louise’s wart-induced reverie. She took the dress from the girl’s arms to examine, holding it up for size.

  “No, I don’t believe so. Who is Miss Baxter?” Louise asked.

  “Yes, yes, yes. This is just perfect. You and Miss Baxter could have been sisters. Your proportions are similar. I think she should try it on, Glenda. What do you think?”

  “Oh, wait, look, it’s damaged,” Brooke remarked, running her thumb and forefinger along the hem. “It looks like it was torn.”

  “That can be fixed! A little stitch here, a stitch there. It will be as good as new. Well, not new—but it is vintage, you know! Yes, you must try this on.” Glenda clapped her hands.

  Louise held the fabric up to her nose. She cringed, looking perplexed. “It smells fishy.”

  “Well, nothing a little Febreze can’t freshen up. Glenda, where is the Febreze?”

  “It smells salty and damp, like the ocean.”

  “Dear, why would it smell like the ocean? You’re being silly. Try it on! The color is simply divine.” Marla handed Louise a flute of sparkling liquid and pushed her toward the toile-patterned changing partition.

  “Loosen up! Have a cocktail—don’t worry, sweetie, it’s only cider. I think you’re the only other person who is destined to have this dress,” Glenda encouraged.

  “And don’t you have a dance next week?” Marla piped in.

  “Umm, yes. But how did you know that?”

  Louise let herself be pushed by Marla behind the partition. Her excitement at finding the perfect seventh-grade-dance dress had turned into something a bit more nerve-racking. She slowly began unlacing her dirty Converse sneakers, the nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach making an audible rumble.

  “Dear, is everything all right in there?” Glenda called from the other side of the Japanese screen. “Do you need help? Marla can button you up. She used to be the personal dresser and stylist for all of the big starlets. Louise Brooks would simply not get dressed without her.”

  “Who?” Louise asked.

  “Nothing, dear. Come out and show us!”

  “I’ll be out in a minute.” Louise took a gulp of the sweet sparkly liquid to calm her churning stomach and felt the bubbles go straight to her head.

  “Are you sure this is only cider?”

  “Ha, ha, ha. Of course, sweetie,” Marla reassured her.

  Louise took off her jean jacket, pulled her navy and white polka-dotted sundress over her head, and stood for a long minute in her camisole and socks on the cool hardwood floor. She slowly pulled the garment off of the wooden hanger and held the dress in front of her body while she looked at her image in the dusty and cracked mirror.

  The dress was the perfect shade of pink: cotton candy, bubble gum, and Marilyn Monroe. She felt like she looked truly beautiful. She smiled a great, big, open smile, and saw reflected back at her a mouth crammed full of shiny metal braces, abruptly grounding her in the depressing reality that was her twelve-year-old life.

  With a sigh, Louise picked up the pink dress and pushed her arms through the puckered sleeves and let it fall over her body like a curtain. She heard the swishing of the fabric as it slid down around her, she felt the soft silk and the itchy taffeta netting brush against her skin, and as soon as the garment had moved into place she felt light-headed, spinning, dizzy… and then everything went black. Louise crumpled, unconscious, to the floor on a pillow of rose-colored silk.

  “Miss Baxter. Miss Baxter. Wake up, Miss Baxter.”

  Louise opened her eyes. Her eyelids were crusted together as if after a long night’s sleep. Her head was pounding, and her mouth felt like it was filled with bitter-tasting cotton balls.

  “She’s awake! Wow, Miss Baxter, you gave us all a scare!”

  A bright light blinded Louise, and she immediately closed her eyes again. Her head was killing her, the ground was spinning, and why did it sound like this man’s voice was calling her Miss Baxter? She needed to stop the spinning feeling in her head. Where was she? Louise tried to concentrate. She felt a cool breeze; the air smelled fresh and briny.

  “Miss Baxter? Please open your eyes again, have a sip of water.”

  Louise obeyed the voice. She was looking up at an unfamiliar man with salt-and-pepper hair, a full white beard, and rosy cheeks. He was hovering over her, fanning her face with a newspaper. A man holding an old-fashioned camera with a big flash was standing alongside him. Behind them was a crowd of concerned faces, framed by an expansive bright blue sky.

  “Miss Baxter, you gave us quite a scare for a minute there,” the strange man said again, in what Louise detected was a British accent. He was wearing a white, buttoned-up uniform with gold braiding.

  “Are we… are we moving?” Louise asked. She felt like she was lying on something hard and splintery.

  “Well, I should hope so,” he replied with a chuckle. “If we’re ever to make it to New York City.”

  “New York City?”

  “Yes, we’re on our way to New York City. Don’t you remember, Miss Baxter?” he asked.

  “Please stop calling me that,” Louise pleaded. “Who is Miss Baxter?”

  The uniformed man whistled. “This is worse than I thought.” He once again offered Louise a glass of water and continued fanning her with the folded newspaper. Louise accepted the drink, hoping to wash out the unpleasant taste that coated her parched mouth.

  “You are Miss Baxter, Miss Baxter,” he replied cheerfully.

  Louise thought that if he said that name one more time, she would scream.

  “And who are you?” she asked, completely baffled.

  “Well, there, Miss Baxter. You don’t remember me, either, do you?”

  Louise shook her head. No, she most certainly did not.

  “I’m Edward Smith.” He pointed to his gold nameplate. “I’m the captain of this ship.”

  “We’re on a ship?” she asked. The rocking motion started to make a bit more sense.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied matter-of-factly. “We left England this morning. Mr. Miller had just taken a group photograph for the Times, and as soon as the flash went off, you collapsed here on the A Deck. The bright light must have startled you.”

  “England?” Louise repeated incredulously. She must be dreaming. That was the only logical explanation.

  “Yes, Miss Baxter. Don’t worry, though; we’ll be picking up Mr. Baxter at the next port in Cherbourg, France.” Omigod! There was a Mr. Baxter?! This was worse than she thought. She needed to wake up now. Louise closed her eyes tightly and pinched herself, hard, on her right arm. It hurt.

  Looking down, she saw that she was lying on a slatted wooden deck chair. She was wearing a pink evening gown and no shoes; her painted red toenails peeked out from under the fabric. Louise tried to prop herself up, becoming a bit self-conscious about the small crowd staring at her.

  “Please don’t move, ma’am. We don’t want any more fainting spells. And I don’t want you to cut yourself on the broken glass,” the captain said, gesturing to the floor next to Louise’s chaise. “William! Get someone to c
lean up this glass immediately.”

  “Yes, sir,” a voice from the crowd answered.

  Louise glanced to her left and saw a shattered champagne flute in pieces on the blond wood deck.

  “William will help you back to your stateroom just as soon as you feel strong enough.” The captain nodded with authority. “I must get back to my post.”

  “Ummm… Thanks… Captain…” Louise whispered, squinting her eyes to try and make out the name, which she had already forgotten, on his polished shiny nameplate.

  Confused, Louise grabbed the newspaper from the captain’s hands and unfolded it to the front page.

  And with that news, she promptly fainted once again.

  Louise felt like she was nestled in a cloud, wrapped in something delicate and silky, and she didn’t want to open her eyes and end this wonderful dream.

  After lying still for a moment, she heard a rhythmic clicking noise and felt as if someone was staring at her. It was an uncomfortable, penetrating feeling that forced her to open her eyes to see who was disturbing this heavenly moment.

  “Ma’am, are you awake?” a girl’s British-accented voice asked hesitantly.

  Louise made a grunting noise, the sort of noise you make when you’re half-awake, but you want to pretend you’re still sleeping.

  “Thank goodness. Oh, Miss Baxter, I was worried sick,” she squeaked.

  When Louise heard the name Miss Baxter, she immediately snapped back to her present reality. Now she remembered quite clearly her last lucid moments. On a ship’s deck; she was on board some boat… one hundred years ago. I must still be dreaming, she thought hazily to herself.

  Louise was tucked snugly into a comfortable feather bed, under a pile of royal blue and purple quilts that made it hard for her to sit upright. The four-poster bed she lay in was draped in rich burgundy velvet.

  She was not alone in the room. A pretty teenage girl with piercing blue eyes was sitting in a wooden chair at the foot of the bed, knitting. A simple gray dress in an old-fashioned style adorned her slender figure, and a white shawl was tied around her shoulders. Her strawberry blonde hair was pinned back into a tidy bun. Something about her features was weirdly familiar.