“That it’s being handled,” Neve said, slinging her purse over her shoulder.
“Do you know, like, a specific time or anything?”
“Not yet.”
“Maybe just a window?”
“Sorry.”
“Are you coming back after the appointment?”
“No, it’s four already and the appointment is all the way in Oakland, and with the commute traffic . . .” She looked at me. “Listen. We try our best. Sometimes we make mistakes. Sometimes we let people down even though we really don’t want to. He has this huge order for a longtime client to get through for tomorrow, and then he has this one banner for a new client, and I don’t know if it’s all going to get done. He’s trying. I can’t promise anything.”
Then they were gone, and I was alone in the downstairs of Print Shop. The front door was locked and the Open sign faced in. Twitter was quiet for a moment, besides the occasional ping of someone following us back. I had more tweets scheduled but I pushed them out a couple of days so that our bad publicity would have time to die down.
I clicked on @LaurenInRealLife’s profile again and scrolled to see what I could learn about her. I saw a lot about school and principals, so I tried to find where it all started. There it was, three months back. Thanks for electing me to be student rep for the hiring committee for our new principal! I promise to ask tough questions & be your voice. There was a photo attached and I clicked to expand it, and as soon as it filled the screen I was bowled over. This girl. Short shaggy hair and no makeup. A confident grin and a shirt with a picture of John Muir on it, which some people would find so nerdy but I found irresistible. In fact, to my surprise, as I scrolled, I found nearly everything about our worst Twitter nightmare irresistible. There were tweets about the final candidates for her school’s new principal, urging people to come to the final interviews to weigh in, asking for issues that are important to her classmates. Then there was the announcement: Couldn’t be more excited to introduce Alhambra’s new principal. Dr. Joyce Hope will join us at the end of summer! And in between all of these, there were other tweets, pictures mostly, of hikes she’d taken, close-ups of flowers and plants, blurry bunnies as they hopped across a trail, even a family of foxes. I’ve read some of John Muir’s essays—he had lived in our town, so his books are strewn through the cafés and everyone’s houses—but I don’t come from an outdoorsy family. Looking at her feed made me want to try walking the hills he used to walk. I wanted to try it with her.
I knew we hadn’t met.
But I recognized this feeling.
A DM appeared across the screen as I was learning all I could about her.
Have I been forgotten?
No, I shot back. Not at all. I’m working on it. Will you try back in a couple of hours? I’m really so sorry.
Suddenly she had answered all the swarming questions from Neve and Eduardo’s departure. I would stay past five o’clock. I would stay as long as it took, and it didn’t matter if Alexander didn’t know my name yet. It was up to me to make this right.
But I still didn’t know how to do that. I figured all I could do for now was wait. He’d have to emerge eventually. I kept scrolling to find out more about Lauren. I found more pictures of her and they made my hands shake and my stomach ache in that glorious, lovesick way. Then I made myself do something else. I wasn’t even on the clock anymore, so I looked up hiking trails and then John Muir quotes. I set up more tweets even though I technically shouldn’t have been working, because something I like about myself is that I care about the things I do. I know Print Shop’s Twitter got off to a rough start, but I felt optimistic for its future.
And then, much later, the phone rang.
“Print Shop,” I said.
“Hey, this is Lauren.” Her voice against my ear. My throat seized up. I tried to say hi but nothing came out. “I’m the one who ordered the banner. I’ve been tweeting with one of you about this.”
“Right, that’s me,” I said. “My name is Evelyn. Evie.” Why was I telling her both versions of my name? She had no idea who I was and no reason to care.
“Oh.” She sounded surprised or thrown off or something, and I wondered why. “Well, I’m sorry for my rudeness. Just please tell me that my banner is going to be finished tonight. It’s already late and I know you guys are closed and it’s just . . . it’s really important to me. It’s for something I’ve been working on for a long time and if I don’t get it tonight I won’t be able to use it at all.”
“I’m so sorry about all this,” I said. “This is actually my first day? Everyone else left except Alexander. He’s the printer. He’s working upstairs still. I’m actually supposed to have left, but I’m trying to see if I can get this taken care of for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Sure. I’ll let you know when I know more.”
As soon as I hung up, the phone rang again. Breathless, I picked it up, expecting it to be her. Instead it was a man’s voice. “What a surprise! Who is this?”
“Evie,” I said. “May I ask who this is?”
But he just sighed. “Usually I call and let it ring to remind him what time it is. But if he has reinforcements at this time in the evening, things must not be going well. I assume he’s holed up upstairs, but if he emerges, please remind him that his husband has dinner ready.”
“I will.”
He sighed again and hung up.
Then a DM came through.
There was more that I wanted to say but forgot to. So here it goes. I chose your company over other more affordable ones because I believe in local economies, and in supporting businesses whose values reflect my own. I wanted to choose a business right here in town, where my school is and where I live. I wanted to choose a queer business. I wanted to choose an independent business. An established one. Not some trendy new one where I upload an image and they send it to me printed on glass or some shit and delivered via drone like two minutes later and it’s great for the welcome party and then goes straight into the recycling. This banner you guys made is really beautiful, and it would be perfect if what I was talking about were the principle of hope and not a woman named Hope who is going to be our principal. I know it’s late now and maybe you’re the only person left there and maybe you can’t do anything. But I need to say that just now when we talked it was the first time I felt truly hopeful about this all day. If there is any chance this can still work out, I would really appreciate it. I’m working at my school tonight to get ready for the welcome party in the morning. I will be here for hours. So no time is too late for me. Okay. Good night for now.
Something in her good night made me blush all over again. The intimacy of it. Of course I couldn’t know for sure, but I doubted she would have chosen that phrase if she thought she was tweeting to Neve or Alexander. But then I felt foolish for hoping because she had no idea who I was, or that I went to high school a few miles away from her, that we were the same age, that we both liked girls, that the first glimpse of her picture sent a current up my spine, sent my blood rushing, made me think immediately about being kissed by her. It was only my voice, and only for a few moments. I banished the fantasy that my hello sent some kind of spark through the phone and reread her message.
I decided to be brave.
— — — —
The stairs to Alexander’s studio creaked as I climbed them, and I couldn’t help but think of Neve going up and down with her huge belly each day. I didn’t blame her for not returning that night. The door was closed and I heard the rustle of a sheet of paper inside. I knocked, loudly enough that I wouldn’t have to wonder if he’d heard me.
“Yes?” I heard from the other side.
I opened the door to the studio. I had imagined a room full of metal and paint and machinery, but I had not expected this. I didn’t know how the floor of the loft could hold it all. There were so many machines, so many papers, so many tubs of paint, so many metal alphabets in different fonts and sizes. I’d stepped
into another world. I felt it. A giant clock on the wall said what I already knew. It was eight o’clock and getting dark, and Alexander was deep in a more important project, and we were running out of time.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Evie.”
“Yes, our new hire. Our last new hire was a decade ago. Momentous day, this one.” I couldn’t tell if he was joking. Nothing about my arrival seemed momentous to him, but being the first employee to join them in so long must count for something. He looked out the window instead of at the clock. “It’s far past closing time. Yet you’re still here.”
“I’ve been dealing with Lauren . . . She ordered the principal banner? I know it seems like we’ve missed our chance to get it to her, but it’s not too late. She’s still working, and I will bring it to her when it’s finished.” He was still looking at his current project and not at me. He hadn’t even so much as nodded in response. So I took another deep breath and said, “I know I’m brand-new and this isn’t my place to say, but I just need to say it. Please forgive me in advance. But the way I see it is that we accepted this girl’s job, and we took her money, and we gave her something with a major error. She needs it by tonight, and we need to fulfill our obligation to give her what she ordered and paid for.”
Alexander ran a hand through his silver hair. His glasses reflected the lamp on his table and then he tilted his face toward me and the reflection was gone. And I could see his eyes. And they were smiling. “Ah,” he said. “A straight shooter. I like that.”
He glanced at his watch. “Do me a favor. Call Terry—our home number’s on the bulletin board—and tell him I’ll be home late. Later. And then let our disgruntled young customer know that we will have her banner to her by eleven.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes.” My eyes burned and I didn’t even feel stupid. I felt like I’d done something right. I made someone listen. And not just anyone, but Alexander. Radical, cranky, brilliant Alexander, who believed in art. Who believed in living up to your promises. Who didn’t even know what “the Twitter” was but wanted to do the right thing anyway.
“I’m going to need a hand,” he said, “after you’re finished with your phone calls.”
Terry listened to my bad news and then said, “Could have called that one,” and hung up.
I picked up the phone to call Lauren, but then lowered the receiver. In a few hours, I was going to meet her. I didn’t want to waste any more of our introduction on phone calls. So I DM’d her instead. Let me know where to find you at 11, and I will be there, new banner in hand.
Really??? THANK YOU. South parking lot of Alhambra High. Text me when you get here. THANK YOU AGAIN.
And then she gave me her phone number. I copied it into my contacts, full of hope that I’d be using it for a long time, not only later that night.
— — — —
Alexander gave instructions like he’d been teaching all his life. We started by finding the stencil he had cut out of a long but paper-thin sheet of metal. He looked at the Principle and laughed, hands on his head, for a full minute, then had me cut and iron a piece of cloth while he cut a new stencil to replace the wrong word with the right one. Finally, we lay the fabric on one of his massive worktables and he laid the stencil over it, the new Principal fitting in a space he cut out of the old one. He taught me how to open a can of paint and how to mix it. The most brilliant grass green, the richest blue, the happiest yellow. In the midst of it all, Terry showed up with dinner. Coq au vin for three on ceramic plates with silverware and cloth napkins. Alexander said he was too busy to eat but sat down anyway. Terry asked me questions about myself and I tried my best to sound interesting enough to be worthy of their company. The food was delicious, and I wondered how many nights Terry cooked that way only to walk the few blocks from their downtown Victorian to dine in the dusty shop.
And then we were finished eating and Terry had collected the dishes and left. Alexander made some final touches and placed the banner under hot lamps. I watched the paint change color as it dried. At one point I reached to touch the tip of a letter to test it, but Alexander barked, “Not yet!” It was ten fifteen, but it would only take me a few minutes to get to Alhambra. Each time I thought of parking there and finding Lauren, my heart raced.
Finally, Alexander declared it dry. It was truly beautiful. Like something from the past. Something that would last, just how Lauren hoped it would. I could see it hanging in the new principal’s office forever, reminding her of how she had been chosen and the importance of her work.
He folded the fabric into a square. I could see that he still had more to do for his other order, and I understood that this was because of me. The banner printing had taken longer than I thought it would.
“Do you want me to come back and help with the rest?” I offered.
He smiled at me. “I can’t afford that much overtime.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Just joking. The rest is easy. Drive carefully through the night and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’m not scheduled again until Tuesday.”
“Then I will see you on Tuesday.”
The drive to Alhambra High School took less than ten minutes, but my concept of time was off. The red lights were brighter than ever. The sky was dark and the trees rose tall around me. I could hear my own breath. I was aware of everything. And then I was pulling into the south parking lot like Lauren told me to. As soon as I parked and turned the car off, I saw a figure in a lit doorway. Her figure.
I climbed out of the car, banner in hand, and headed toward her.
— — — —
“So that’s how it started,” I say.
I’ve left out some of the details, of course. Like just how carefully I studied your photos and how they made me feel. But I don’t want to hold back too much. I want to give this all I can. So I dare to touch the hem of your shirt and add, “I saw this in one of your Twitter pictures. I love John Muir.”
You cock your head. “You looked through my profile?”
“I was curious about our disgruntled customer.” I can hear the nervousness in my voice but I tell myself it’s okay that I’m nervous. It’s okay if you can tell how it feels to be this close to you.
I look into your face, allow my gaze to linger. And I see something register in yours: a moment of surprise in your eyes that turns into a shy smile of your own.
“So I should be heading back in. Thanks again.”
I nod. You take the folded banner from my hands, take a half step backward toward the bright classroom. And before my disappointment has time to register, before I can wonder if this is all there will ever be between us, you say, “You’re coming with me, right?”
Hourglass
— — — — — —
IBI ZOBOI
Now
“YOU THINK YOU’RE better than me?” I say while standing outside of Geraldine’s, the only fancy dress boutique in town. I’m staring at a mannequin wearing a fitted white sequined dress and she’s looking down at me, over the tip of her nose, with a stupid smile on her face like she thinks she’s all that.
I look the mannequin up and down, with her bent leg meant to show off the sexy slit in her dress, and those high-heeled shoes that don’t even fit. Her hand is held out as if she’s supposed to be holding a cocktail or a glass of champagne. Her wig is the worst thing about her. Dolores, the salesgirl, didn’t even bother to brush and style it, so this mannequin looks a hot mess.
“Can you please come inside, Cherish?” Stacy says, poking her head out from inside the boutique.
I open the door to the sound of wind chimes, and the scent of cheap perfume and steamed dresses. I inhale because it smells like Stacy’s whole house. Her mother’s been shopping at Geraldine’s since we were both little. My own mother has never bought a thing from here, and neither have I, not even my prom dress. I don’t plan to, either.
But Stacy’s been dragging me here all week, trying on dress afte
r dress. And I’m her designated photographer. She posts the pics and asks her followers to vote on their favorite look. So, naturally, she gets all the haters who comment on every single wrong thing about her body, face, and hair. And once, even her toes that were poking out from beneath a long gown. But she takes it like a champ. She doesn’t care. My best friend, Stacy, has enough ego for the both of us.
“Okay,” she says, standing back against the dressing room mirrors in the far end of the boutique. “What about this one?”
The black dress is sleeveless, fitted at the top, flares out at the bottom, and barely covers her legs. “Didn’t you wear something like that for the fifth-grade dance?” I ask.
“I sure did. So you think I should be more risqué? I am eighteen, you know. So do I show more boob or my butt? Or both?” She holds out two different dresses in each hand. “I got more likes on the pic I posted wearing this one.” Without a body to fill them in, one looks like a spiraling slinky and the other looks like a fishing net.
“Stacy, just pick a dress and let’s go!” I say, annoyed.
She rolls her eyes and goes back into the fitting room, shaking her booty at me. As the mirrored door swings open, I catch a glimpse of myself wearing a plain T-shirt and jeans—tall, wide, frumpy, and sorry. It’s noon on a Sunday and I really did just roll out of bed to shop with Stacy. She wanted to get here before the other girls came into the store.
The prom is next Friday, so mostly everyone at Kingsbridge High has their dresses, tuxes, and limos all set up. But Stacy wants to make it a whole fashion show where she dares herself to find the perfect dress in a small town at the very last minute—and still be the best at everything for the prom.
I turn to the snooty mannequin in the store’s window. She has her back to me now. I notice the clearance rack in a far corner of the store and a sign that reads Plus Size. A long burgundy gown is displayed in front of the rack—something a great-aunt would wear to her sixtieth-birthday dinner. I’ve never dared to look through those dresses for something in my size. None of them are like a slinky or a tube or have a slit up the side. None of them hit above the knee or drop down low at the neckline. None of them ooze “hot” or “sexy.” None of them are anything I would wear while standing remotely close to Stacy, who is a shaped like an actual mannequin, a straight-up Barbie.
Meet Cute Page 4
