by K L Going
I wrinkle my nose.
“What?” Mom asks. “You don’t like it?”
“Not for the window.”
“Why not? I love this one. I would totally wear this. Look at the way the seams cut in at the waist, and feel this . . .”
She hands me a small corner of the fabric, and she’s right, it’s so soft it’s almost liquid.
“I know, but the back waist buckle is the best feature, and no one will see it in the window.”
“Mmm . . .” Mom is thinking it over when the welcome bell chimes and Ms. Brock comes in. She’s one of our favorite customers. Young and incredibly hip. She’s a personal shopper for some of the richest people in Westchester.
“Ms. B,” I say, “would you buy this dress?”
Mom holds it up so that only the front of the dress shows. Ms. Brock fingers the fabric and traces the neckline with one perfectly manicured fingertip. She glances at me and I shake my head very subtly, then make a whirling motion with one finger. Ms. Brock stifles a laugh.
“Let me see the back,” she says. Then when Mom turns the dress around she gushes. “Gorgeous! The buckle makes a real statement. How unexpected!”
Mom glares at me, shaking her head, but then she laughs.
“Brat,” she says, hanging the dress back where she got it.
I try to look innocent.
“Can I help it if I’m always right?”
I can’t stop thinking about Mom. I want to tell her how much I miss the boutique and the regular customers and the way everything always seemed right when I was there, but she never calls. It’s like I’ve dropped off the planet. I sigh and glance around Eddie’s shop.
“Mom would like this place.”
He looks up, then blushes.
“Really? But Sarah’s boutique is so posh! I went to her opening, you know. I’m sure you don’t remember . . .”
“Actually, I was grounded at the time.”
Eddie pauses. “Oh, sorry,” he says. “It was quite the premiere though. Everything was so minimalist, each piece hand selected. I wish I could do that here, but . . .”
“Of course you can’t. You’re a small-town shop, so your customers need to feel like they can get everything in one stop.”
Eddie pauses. “Well, yes,” he says. “That’s exactly right.”
“Plus, I imagine you have to depend on impulse buying, whereas no one buys anything from Mom’s boutique on impulse. Not unless they’re millionaires.”
Eddie smiles. “That’s very true.”
“Mom would get that,” I tell him. “She’s a pretty savvy businesswoman.”
“Sounds like you’re not so bad yourself. Here . . . come take a look at these catalogs with me. I’m trying to decide what to order for the winter, and I’d love a second opinion.”
For the next hour we stand there flipping through all the latest catalogs, and I have to say, this is WAY better than school. In fact, we completely forget about him taking me home at noon, and by midafternoon we’re having such a great time, I finally work up my courage to tell him about the one thing that’s been bothering me since I walked in.
“Have you ever considered getting new mannequins?”
Eddie ordered us sandwiches and he’s right in the middle of eating his tuna on a pita when I say it. He glances at the two wooden figures in his shopwindow.
“What’s the matter with my mannequins?”
This is delicate. I once told Mom her jewelry display cases were ugly and she burst into tears. Still, she took my advice and we went from selling almost no jewelry to selling a couple quality pieces every month.
“Well,” I say slowly, “for one thing they’re obviously very old and the paint is chipping. Plus, they’re completely white, and most lingerie and swimwear looks best with tan or brown skin tones.” I take the same bra set that’s on the figure in the window and hold it up against my arm to demonstrate.
“Also, the lines aren’t what they could be. See how the boxer shorts bunch at the sides on the male mannequin? They don’t hang the way they’re supposed to, and since the mannequin has no face, you’re not saying anything about the product. They don’t say, ‘sexy,’ or, ‘cool.’ It’s not that there’s anything really bad about them, they’re just not doing what they could be.”
Eddie stares at me, and for a minute I think I’ve said too much. Then he smiles.
“Did Sarah teach you all this stuff?”
I nod. “Yeah. I used to go with Mom on go-sees, and she did a lot of research before auditions so she’d know what kind of look the designer wanted to portray, and then when she got there she’d make sure the clothes had just the right silhouette. She always said, ‘It’s not about the model; it’s about the clothes.’ I think that’s true, don’t you? I mean, it’s not about how you look, it’s about how you make the clothes look, right? Even if you’re a . . . uh . . . mannequin.”
If Dad could hear me, he’d be saying, “They’re clothes, Liam. Nobody saves a life by looking good,” but Eddie stands up and studies his window display. He fingers the boxer shorts where they bunch up, then smoothes a crease in the silk panties. Then he walks outside, stands in front of the window, and studies the whole thing from there. Finally, he comes back inside and turns to me.
“I’ll tell you the truth,” he says. “I looked at those fancy mannequins once, but they are very expensive. I’d rather hire a real person to attract some attention to the store—liven things up a bit—but I don’t see where I’d find someone in this town who wouldn’t mind standing in a shopwindow.”
“Yeah,” I start to agree. “It would be pretty tough to find the right . . .”
Eddie’s grinning. “It would be minimum wage and you’d have to do some stuff around the shop in addition to the modeling, but I could pay you for a full day every Saturday. You could earn some good money.”
Did Eddie just offer me a job?
My jaw drops.
“I’d love to work for you,” I stammer. “I’ll work really hard, I promise. I won’t screw anything up. You won’t regret this.”
Eddie laughs. “I’m not worried,” he says. “I’ve got a good feeling about this.”
I swear, it’s the first good feeling anyone has had about me in a long, long time.
22
NO ONE SHOULD EVER HAVE A GOOD FEELING ABOUT ME.
Wary. Foreboding. Frightened, maybe. But not good.
Things start out okay. But they usually do.
Eddie and I are brainstorming ideas for the window display, and we decide to do a trial run. I try on a pair of boxer shorts, because that’s probably the most risqué thing I could get away with in a small town like this. If we can make a display that works around those, we can probably pull this off.
It’s harder than it looks. There’s not a lot to work with in the shop, but we get an old wicker chair from the storage room and put it in the window. I pull a man’s bathrobe off one of the racks.
“This flannel is a nice red and gold plaid, which offsets the solid red boxers. If I leave it open people can still see the boxers, but they’ll also get a good look at the robe. We could move the bathrobes to the front so people can see them right away when they walk in.”
Eddie grins. “Liam, you’re a genius,” he gushes. “You’re like a fashion Einstein.” He sets down the shorts he’s putting back on a hanger and his eyes narrow. “I must ask,” he says. “Are you gay?”
Unfortunately, I’m used to this. “No,” I say. “Definitely not.”
Eddie puts his hand on my arm. “I know it’s a stereotype,” he says, “but I had to know. You’re just so . . . so fabulous at this! And sometimes stereotypes can be accurate, I mean, just look at me.” He twirls theatrically, then winks.
“Yeah,” I say, “but I’m straight. I just like fashion. And girls.”
Eddie sighs. “All right, then,” he says. “Good for you for being yourself.” I flush, thinking about my horrible outfit and I almost say something but Eddie kee
ps going before I get a chance. “I’m sure you will make some young lady enormously happy. A Greek god and a fashion protégé? Straight men don’t get better than you, Liam.” He notices the fact that my face is bright red and laughs. “I’ll go get the little table from the back so we can set it up beside your chair.”
He leaves, and I stand there thinking about what he just said. I wish it were true. No one has ever called me a genius in my entire life, and I’m damn sure there are a lot of straight men better than me. I feel like a hypocrite.
Still, it feels good.
That is . . . it feels good until Aunt Pete crashes into the parking meter in front of the store.
My first thought is, Oh. Crap. I leap out of the window and tear through the shop toward the dressing room as Eddie hollers about all the clothes I’ve knocked over.
“What are you doing running through . . . the . . . er . . . Petey . . .”
The words fade and all I hear is the sound of approaching footsteps. Heavy footsteps.
“I can explain everything,” I yell, but there’s no time for that.
“Get the hell out here.”
I zip my pants and fling open the door.
“I know this looks bad, but there’s a good . . .”
“Shut the hell up.”
Uh-oh.
Aunt Pete sticks his wrist in my face. “What time is it, Liam?”
“Two o’clock?”
“What time do I get up?”
“Three?”
“What time does school get out?”
“Two forty-five?”
“So, at two o’clock— two o’clock —I should be sleeping and you should be in school. Yes?”
“Yes?”
“Then why aren’t either of us where we’re supposed to be?”
It’s a good question. A really good question.
Eddie is standing just behind Aunt Pete, gesturing timidly. Something about making a run for it? “I could put this all in perspective,” he says, making an effort on my behalf, but Pete whirls around.
“Shut up, Eddie.”
“Right,” says Eddie, “shutting up.”
Pete turns back to me.
“Let me tell you why I am not where I’m supposed to be,” he says, “I am not where I’m supposed to be because the school called at nine thirty this morning to tell me my nephew got kicked off the school bus for smoking and had not arrived. Nine freakin’ thirty. Nine thirty, Liam. Do you know what that means I’ve been doing for the last four and a half hours? Do you?
“Let me tell you what I’ve been doing. I have been driving every back road in Pineville, trying to decide how I would tell my brother, who already thinks I’m an irresponsible loser, that I’d managed to lose his only son. That’s what I’ve been doing. And just when I was about to go home to make that horrible phone call to your parents, I drive past this . . . this . . .”—for a moment Pete can only sputter—“. . . shop, and I see my nephew in the window in his goddamn underwear.” He pauses, then knocks over an entire line of pajama sets. “Aaaaarrrghhh!”
I cringe. This is bad. Really bad. Eddie wrings his hands and we both open our mouths, but Pete doesn’t want to hear it. He holds up one hand.
“Shut up,” he says. “Do not even speak to me until I’ve calmed down. Liam, get in the car.”
I hand Eddie the boxer shorts, and he executes a covert good-bye wave partially hidden by the fabric. I’d like to wave back, but I don’t think it would be the best idea under the circumstances, so I just follow Aunt Pete to the Nissan and climb in the front seat.
“Pete, I . . .”
“Shut. Up.”
“Right.”
We drive the rest of the way in silence, and I can feel myself sinking into despair. It’s clear I’ve compromised my future. Again.
We reach the trailer, and Aunt Pete holds the car door open for me. He runs his hands through his hair, and when he gets inside he leans on the kitchen counter. I’m waiting for the tirade. The pointing and yelling. I’m waiting for him to tell me that he’s just now figured out how worthless I am, and how could he have agreed to let me live here. He looks up.
“I thought something happened to you,” he says. The words are angry—furious—but kind of choked up. He closes his eyes.
“This is why I should never have kids. People warn you about this stuff, but you don’t think it’s true until it happens.” He’s not even talking to me anymore. He’s rambling to himself. “Right away I almost lose you.”
He runs his hands over his face and takes a couple really deep breaths.
“Don’t ever do this to me again,” he says at last. “Don’t you ever do this to me again.”
23
I’M TEN YEARS OLD and I’ve gone to work with Dad for the day. I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks, but he’s been on the phone the whole time. We’re supposed to have lunch together at a restaurant near Dad’s office, but it’s way past noon and every time I ask if we can go, Dad says, “Not yet.” So I wander out to the vending machine down the hall because I’ve got some quarters in my pocket and I’m hungry, but when I get there the machine is broken.
I go to another floor, looking for a different machine, but there isn’t one, so then I go to another floor and another. By the time I find a machine that works and get back on the elevator, I’ve forgotten which floor Dad’s office is on.
I wander around looking for anything familiar, but all the floors look alike and there are forty of them in Dad’s building. My heart beats fast, and I keep looking at my digital watch. Soon it’s been almost two hours. I imagine how mad Dad will be and how he’ll have everyone out looking for me.
I’m trying so hard to get back that I’m practically running around each floor I get off on. That’s when someone’s secretary finally notices me and asks if I’m lost. I tell her who my dad is, and she takes me back to Dad’s office. I walk in all sweaty and sniffly and Dad looks up.
“Did you find your snack?”
That’s when I realize he never noticed I was gone.
“You didn’t even look for me!” I yell. “I got lost and you didn’t even look for me. I hate you!”
Dad looks up at the secretary, and his face gets bright red. He gets up real slow, walks her out, shuts his office door, and heads over to me.
“Don’t you ever do that to me again,” he says.
That night I stay out of Aunt Pete’s way, which is hard to do because he’s cleaning. Well, not cleaning, exactly. More like he’s moving stacks of stuff from one part of the trailer to another, stomping loudly and occasionally dropping things and muttering to himself about how he was not cut out to be anyone’s guardian.
I’m waiting for the news that I’m being shipped off to Nevada. My stomach churns and I can’t catch my breath. Then around six o’clock, Pete slams open my door.
“I want to talk to you,” he says.
My heart starts to pound, and I wonder if it’s possible to have a heart attack at seventeen.
He clears his throat.
“The guys are coming over to rehearse tonight. We haven’t had a rehearsal since you’ve been here, but normally we rehearse every other Tuesday. I’m pretty strict about that, so you’re going to have to deal with it.”
He glares at me. “Now, I don’t know how you feel about our kind of rock and roll, but I don’t want to hear any jokes about our music. No oldies comments. No snickering. When we dress up for gigs, I don’t want to hear any of those clichés about our outfits or men wearing makeup. That’s part of glam, and I love this stuff. You got that?”
I stare at him open mouthed. That’s it?
“No complaining,” Pete says when I don’t respond. “If I have to put up with your shit, you’ve got to put up with mine.”
I lie on my bed listening to the guys arrive and I can’t calm down, so finally I call Mom and Dad and leave a message on their answering machine. It’s a big lie, mostly, but I’ve got to remind them I exist.
&nbs
p; “Hi, it’s me. Just thought I’d tell you I’m doing good here. I mean . . . I’m doing well. And . . . um . . . I got a job today. Or at least I almost did. I got offered a job. I’m studying hard at school. You’d be proud of me, Dad. I’m not Mr. Popularity anymore. I’m making new friends . . . hardly any actually . . . and I’m staying out of trouble and soon—”
The answering machine beeps loudly.
Stupid. That sounded totally stupid.
I flop back on my bed. Out in the living room a guitar screeches and the drums crash. I know I should go out there and show Pete how comfortable I am with the whole band thing, only I can’t help thinking that Orlando is in the band. Not Orlando. Mr. DeSoto. My English teacher.
This shouldn’t be a huge problem. I mean, why should I care if my English teacher is in a glam-rock band if I don’t care that my uncle is?
But I do care. What if Orlando is wearing skintight leather pants? Or sequins? I think about that picture in Aunt Pete’s living room of the guy in the leopard-print spandex. No one wants to see his English teacher in leopard-print spandex.
There’s a surge of music, and then suddenly it’s loud. Really loud. In fact, since my bedroom door is so thin, having it shut makes absolutely no difference. I contemplate climbing out the window but decide I ought to get this over with, so I fling open my door and squint into the living room and . . .
Huh. They’re all wearing jeans and T-shirts. Aunt Pete didn’t even change. Well, now I’m kind of disappointed. I park myself on the couch to watch them practice. Dino’s on drums, Eddie and Orlando play guitar, and Pete’s the lead singer.
“Let’s play that one by the Dolls,” Eddie says when the first song is through, but Pete shakes his head.
“Nah, we always do that one. Liam’s not going to want to hear that.”
“Liam’s not paying us for our gig this weekend,” Orlando says, but Pete is insistent.
“Let’s play some classic Bowie. Your mom’s still a fan, right?” he asks me.
