Fool's Gold

by Melody Carlson

  “See,” says Vanessa, “you admit it. You guys do drive on the wrong side.”

  I laugh and realize it’s useless to argue.

  “Watch out!” she yells as I make a left-hand turn and suddenly find myself on the wrong side of the street. I mean the wrong side for real, and there is a car coming straight at us. I whip the wheel, popping us into the other lane, and just barely miss smacking into a gorgeous black Jaguar. The balding middle-aged man behind the wheel yells a bad word, then gives me the middle-finger salute.

  “Wow, that could’ve been quite a bungle,” I say calmly, trying hard to regain some composure, assuming I had any to start with.

  Vanessa is just laughing hysterically now, and it’s hard not to join in, but I’m focusing on the center line, trying to remember to stay on the “right” side of it, as well as watch for traffic signals and remember which way the little shopping mall is from here. It’s all quite unsettling, and embarrassment makes me wish that my cousin had stayed home.

  “Turn here,” she shouts through giggles when I’m nearly in the intersection.

  “Which way?”

  “Right!”

  And I actually start to turn left.

  “The other right!” She points to the right and I quickly readjust, screaming the tires around the corner as I attempt to shift down.

  I grimace and consider pulling over and asking Vanessa to drive.

  “You’re a real wild woman!” says Vanessa. I’m not sure, but I think she’s actually impressed.

  “I didn’t mean to do that.”

  “Okay, it’s about a mile down this street, and then it’s on the right. The other right.”

  That makes me laugh, and I start to loosen up as I check the speedometer and remind myself that it’s miles, not kilometers, so I’m actually going faster than it seems. Whatever the case, I don’t want to get a speeding ticket, and I don’t want to have a crash. I am wound tighter than a spool by the time we reach the shopping mall.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” says Vanessa, but I know she’s just being kind.

  “Thanks,” I tell her. “I reckon there’s room for improvement.”

  She looks at the storefront now and frowns as if she may be regretting her decision, but I just head for the entrance, pushing open a big glass door and pausing in front of a long line of plastic shopping trolleys.

  “Am I supposed to take one of these?”

  She shrugs. “Whatever.”

  So I tentatively remove a bright blue trolley from the end. I’m not even sure why I am doing this. I reckon it’s because the portly lady ahead of me did it. One of the wheels on my trolley seems to be sticking and, consequently, having convulsions as I push it toward a table that’s loaded with men’s wallets and things, going bluppity-blup, bluppity-blup. I look at the sea of clothing and merchandise and wonder where I should begin. I decide to head for the nearest rack and make an attempt to look like I know what I’m doing.

  Vanessa moans behind me, and I turn around to see that her face is growing a bit pale, as if she’s about to chuck up. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  She glances over to where three girls about our age stand looking at a rack of clothes, then quickly turns her back to them as she slips on her sunnies. “I know those girls,” she whispers in a desperate tone.

  “But I thought you said none of your mates — ” “They’re not my mates,” she hisses.

  “They’re girls I used to hang with, before we moved, you know. They still go to my old school and — ”

  “Why don’t you say hello to them?”

  “No way.”

  “Why?”

  But she doesn’t answer; she just turns away and looks toward the door.

  “What do you want me to do?” I ask.

  “Nothing. I think I’ll split for a while. I saw a coffee kiosk down on the other end of the parking lot. Do you mind if I go get a mocha frappé?”

  “Of course not.” Actually I’m hugely relieved. “Go ahead. And take your time.”

  “Want me to bring you back a frappé — you know, after a while?”

  “Sure, that sounds great.”

  So just like that, Vanessa is gone, and I am free to figure out this maze of a clothing store on my own. I quickly discover that not everything here is a bargain. The racks in the front are “designer” clothes. Not Prada or Gucci or Armani, but names like Ralph Lauren and Tommy Hilfiger and Liz Claiborne. And although I find their marked-down prices to be a little steep for my budget, I suspect that people like Aunt Lori and Vanessa would think these clothes were cheap and unimpressive. Although I must admit that I do like some of the Hilfiger pieces, and I vaguely recall Sophie bragging to me that her favorite hooded sweatshirt (sent to her by her grandma from the States) was an “actual Tommy Hilfiger” — not that I ever knew what that meant or even cared.

  But I soon discover the “clearance” racks, where everything is kind of mixed up (not unlike the trash-and-treasure sales we sometimes have at the mission to raise money for special events). I really have to search for the right sizes, but it doesn’t take long before I start unearthing some really cool bargains. I just about shout “Hallelujah!” when I find a terrific-looking pink polo shirt for only $3.99! And then another just like it in pale blue. And then I find some nice black trousers for only $6.99 and a khaki skirt for $8.99, and I honestly think I’ve died and gone to bargain heaven. It’s not long before I realize why I needed this trolley, because by the time I finish up in the clearance section, it’s heaped with all sorts of things. And not only “work” clothes. I also found some bathers — rather, a bikini — that I think looks a lot like what Vanessa wears. I know my parents won’t approve of so much skin exposure, and we’re not allowed to wear anything but one-piece bathers at the mission, but both these bikini pieces are only $15.99 together, and even if I only wear it this summer, I think it might be worth it.

  As I wheel my noisy trolley back to the sign that says Dressing Rooms, which I assume must be change rooms, I reckon I’ve done pretty well. I’ve not only selected some sensible work clothes, but I’ve also collected a few pieces that are a bit like some things I’ve seen Vanessa wearing. And I’m hoping that I’ll emerge with some outfits that won’t embarrass Vanessa and my aunt. To be perfectly honest, I’m hoping I’ll come out looking as stylish as Vanessa, but at a fraction of the cost. I have allotted myself $150 today, so it won’t be easy.

  “Only eight items,” says the short, dark-skinned woman in charge of the change rooms. Her name tag says Mridula, and I’m guessing she’s from India.

  I look at my heaped trolley and then back at her. “You mean I can only purchase eight items?” I ask. “That doesn’t seem quite — ”

  “You can buy the whole cart if you want, but you can only try on eight items at a time.”

  “Oh.” So I quickly grab eight pieces of work attire, take the plastic number that she hands me, and make my way back to the crowded change rooms. I hear women talking and laughing back there. Several speak different languages, but then I’m used to that. For some reason it comforts me that Southern California has so many different cultures. Maybe it’s because I’m reminded that I’m not the only one here who might feel like a reffo.

  I slowly work my way through the pile, going back and forth to the Indian woman and taking back eight items at a time until I’ve finally decided on several suitable work outfits, the orange-and-turquoise bikini, two pairs of shorts, a short denim skirt, some just-for-fun T-shirts, and what I heard another girl calling a “tank top.” I mentally tally the total and realize that I am barely at $100 — about half the price of Vanessa’s Prada T-shirt. And I realize, as I wheel my thumpity trolley through the crowded shop, that I may actually be gloating. I glance around, checking to see if Vanessa has returned, but I still don’t see her anywhere. However, I notice her three mates, or rather ex-mates, standing over in a section that seems to be for shoes.

  Shoes? I hadn’t even considered this. So I head on
over and it’s not long before I’ve found a pair of pale pink rubber thongs for only $4.99, and they even have sparkles on them! And then I find some nice leather sandals that I reckon will be good for work, as well as a pair of shoes that are open like clogs in the back that I hear a woman calling “mules.” I think it’s funny to name shoes after a mule, but they are very comfortable, and the woman tells me that they go well with pants. So I decide to get them. And as I am leaving the shoe section, I come across the purse section.

  Can you believe it? There is a pink plastic purse that looks identical to the Prada one that Vanessa so proudly brags about, and despite myself, I am pulled in. I pick up the shiny bag and examine it closely, and although I don’t see the name Prada on it anywhere, I cannot decide if it’s real or not. It sure looks authentic to me. Then I notice a similar purse, only this one is orange — the same color orange as one of my new T-shirts. I decide to check the price and cannot believe that the tag is marked down to only $9.99. Why not? After all, when in Rome, do as the Romans do, right?

  So I toss the bright orange purse into my trolley and head for the cash registers, still glancing around to see if Vanessa has come back. But I think she plans to lay low until her old mates shoot through and consequently make the coast clear for her. I glance at my watch, and by LA time, I have spent only a little over an hour here — about a third of the time that Vanessa managed to waste yesterday — and yet I have about ten times as many items as she bought, at just a fraction of the cost. To say I’m feeling quite pleased with myself is a bit of an understatement. As I set my purchases on the counter, I forget myself and slip into my old Aussie greeting and say, “G’day!” to the middle-aged Asian checkout chick. She looks at me curiously but just starts adding up my purchases, then finally proclaims, “$148.76.”

  I extract the strange-looking green notes from my wallet and carefully count them all out, hoping I got the right ones since they all look almost identical to me. “I think that’s right,” I tell her.

  She looks at me curiously. “Where are you from?”

  “Papua New Guinea,” I tell her, waiting for her reaction. Most people don’t even know where it is, so I usually have to explain that it’s the largest island in the South Pacific and is near Australia.

  “My mother used to live there,” she says in a matter-of-fact voice.

  “Really?”

  She nods as she hands me my change.

  “Her family left mainland China during the war. Somehow they ended up in New Guinea afterward. They ran a shop in Port Moresby Some of them are still there.”

  I smile at her, then reach across the counter to shake her hand. “It’s a small world.”

  She returns my smile as she bags up my purchases. “Yes, I guess it is.”

  As I’m telling her good-bye, I see Vanessa rock up. Still wearing her lime-green sunnies, she discretely glances around. I yell her name and wave.

  She gives me that look, the one that suggests I am doing the wrong thing once again. So, pretending to act like a spy, I creep toward the door with my bulging gray plastic bags in hand, glancing over both shoulders before I whisper, “I think it’s safe to leave now.”

  She makes a noise that suggests she’s fed up and then darts out the door like a cut snake. I hope I haven’t made her too mad. “Wait, Vanessa,” I yell after her. “I’m sorry.”

  She turns and looks at me now, temptingly holding out a big mocha frappé. “You act like that . . . and after I got this for you?”

  “Sorry,” I say again. “I didn’t mean to start a row with you.”

  She almost smiles now. “Okay, here’s your frappé. I hope it’s not all melted.”

  “Thanks.” I unlock the Jeep and toss my packages into the back, pausing to dig through a lumpy plastic sack. “What are you looking for?”

  “I want to put on my new thongs.”

  “Right here?”

  “Huh?” I finally unearth the sparkly pink thongs and hold them up.

  “Flip-flops,” she says in a corrective voice. “Those are called flip-flops, Hannah. I’ve already told you that like a hundred times. Flip-flops go on your feet, and thongs are underwear.”

  “You thought I was going to change my knickers right here in the parking lot?” Now it is my turn to laugh. Of course, I don’t mention that I don’t even own any “thongs” or that I reckon they’re the skimpiest excuse for knickers imaginable.

  Now she’s poking around my packages with curiosity. “What else did you get, Hannah?”

  “Clothes,” I say happily. “Lots and lots of clothes. But let’s jet. I can show them to you when we get home.”

  She groans as we get into the hot Jeep. “This cannot be good,” she says as she buckles up. “No way can this be good.”

  five

  AS IT TURNS OUT, VANESSA ISN’T TERRIBLY IMPRESSED WITH MY NEW clothes. Neither is my aunt when she comes home from her lunch date. I ask them what the problem is, but their answers are vague, and they seem slightly embarrassed for me, as if they reckon I’m a bogan or a plain old no-hoper.

  “I just don’t understand what’s wrong with these things.” I hold up a T-shirt that looks a bit like the one Vanessa is wearing right this minute.

  “Besides everything?” Vanessa drops my new orange purse as if it’s a hot potato. It lands with a thump on the pile of clothing that’s heaped on the sectional.

  “Oh, they’re not that bad,” says Aunt Lori in what I’m sure she thinks is a consoling tone, although I think it’s patronizing. “And the clothes you got for work should be just fine.”

  “But really,” I persist. “What’s wrong with the others? Like this purse, for instance.” I pick up the cast-off orange bag that’s actually beginning to grow on me and loop it over my arm as if I’m going somewhere.

  “It’s a cheap knock-off,” says Vanessa. “Anyone can see that.”

  “What’s a knock-off?” I ask.

  “An imitation of the real thing.”

  “Oh.” Then I set my purse on the coffee table next to her purse and am amazed at how similar they look. “I just can’t see it,” I say.

  She points out some imperceptible details and then just shrugs as if I’m hopeless. “It’s not your fault, Hannah. It takes time to develop an eye for these things.”

  To be honest, I think if the items I purchased had overpriced tags and were wrapped in fine tissue and tucked into fancy bags, no one would be the wiser. But maybe I’m really confused.

  Now Vanessa is flipping through the telly channels, so I decide to collect my purchases and stow them in my room before my stylish cousin deems them suitable for the rubbish bin. But while I’m in my room, I hold up the items of clothing, one by one, and peer at them in the mirror. Maybe I am a complete loser, but I honestly think they look alright. And I wonder what the big deal is anyway. Maybe Vanessa is just jealous that I got so much for such a good price. Who knows? So I decide to put on my new bathers — rather, my bikini — and take the shark book down to the pool and just kick back. My midsection, while long and trim, is painfully pale — the color of milk. I don’t think this part of my anatomy has ever seen the light of day. Even more reason to head for the pool and get some sun.

  I swim for a bit, then zonk out on a lounge chair until I wake up and discover that my tummy is getting fairly well baked. I press my finger into the spot just above my belly button and see a white spot emerge beneath the pink. Not a very good sign. I’m afraid I’ve gotten rather burned.

  I put a shirt on, wrap the towel like a skirt around my legs, and head over to a side yard that I recently discovered. It’s like a tiny secret garden where this lovely vine with purple flowers climbs over a trellis. The trellis covers the tiny stone patio and a concrete bench tucked into the corner. It’s cool and shady and perfect for reading. I’ve actually convinced myself that no one really knows about this place. Well, other than the yardman. Every square inch of this yard is maintained to absolute perfection. Before long I am lost in the shark
adventure again.

  “Aren’t you going to the birthday party with Vanessa?” my aunt asks, making me jump and breaking the peaceful silence of my little getaway. I look up from my book to see my aunt’s concerned face looking down at me.

  “What’s that?” I ask, as if I haven’t heard that Elisa is having her seventeenth birthday party tonight.

  “Aren’t you going with Vanessa tonight?”

  I shrug. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Well, Ron and I are having a few friends over . . . I suppose you could join us if you’d like.”

  “No,” I say quickly. “I’m good on my own. I can just read in my room or something.”

  She frowns now. “I’m going to speak to Vanessa.”

  “Nah, it’s cool,” I begin, but she is already leaving, and now I’m getting a bit cheesed off. I hate feeling like I’m such a bother to everyone, and I wonder yet again why my parents had to go and dump me here in the first place.

  Finally I decide that it’s no use to worry about things I cannot change, and so I go back to the shark book. I’m nearly finished with it and want to find out if the cocky fisherman is going to become dinner for the shark or not.

  I’m just reading the last page when Vanessa makes an appearance, but I hold up my hand for her to wait as I finish the last couple of paragraphs. “The shark won,” I tell her, closing the book and looking up to see her wearing her expensive blue T-shirt and a short skirt just a few shades darker.

  “Well, you certainly scrub up nicely,” I say brightly. “Have fun at Elisa’s birthday party.”

  “That’s why I’m here. Mom thinks I should take you along — ”

  “I told her that I was fine on my own.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want you to come,” she continues. “But I’m worried you’ll feel . . . well, you know, left out.”

  “Right. I don’t expect your mates to take me in just because I’m your cousin. I know how it works.”