“Hey, Louise!” he called, coming to a stop a little in front of her. “What about those french fries? Josh, Tiff, and I are going to the food court after school Wednesday. Wanna come?”
Josh? And more important, Tiff? Okay, so the “date” she had been imagining and mentally planning her outfit for since Brooke’s birthday party was actually a group thing. With Tiff, no less, the blonde California transfer student Todd had been spending a lot of his time with. Louise was annoyingly jealous. Maybe she’d misread the whole thing and he just thought of her as one of the guys after all.
“Ummm… maybe?” Louise responded. She didn’t have the time to think about it. She had so many other things boggling her mind right now. Like her mother. Like Peter and his French connection.
“Cool. Text me!” Todd said casually, pushing off on his skateboard and gliding down the hall.
“Come on, Peter. I have history next, but I’ll show you to your class,” Louise said, taking off toward the gym.
“I love history,” Peter replied as they ran through the now empty corridor. Peter was new, so he had an excuse for being late, but Louise was going to have some explaining to do—unfortunately to Miss Morris, whose class had recently become a lot more interesting.
After her elderly teacher’s lecture about the Titanic, Louise soon found herself on board that ill-fated ship; and after a lesson on the French Revolution, Louise had somehow become a member of Marie Antoinette’s inner circle in eighteenth-century France. She couldn’t wait to see what possible adventures were in store for her next, and she had a feeling that Miss Morris’s upcoming lesson might have the answer!
“As you can see, I am not Miss Morris.”
“That’s for sure!” shaggy-haired Billy Robertson, class clown and Louise’s nemesis, yelled from his seat at the back of the room. The whole class snickered. Since the beginning of the school year, Billy had made it his personal mission to annoy and embarrass Louise on their twice-daily bus ride, mainly about whatever vintage outfit she happened to be wearing that day. She knew she shouldn’t care what he thought, but it still made her insecure about her fashion choices. It wasn’t the most inspiring way to start the morning, to say the least.
“My name is Miss Jones, and as I was called only this morning to take over the class for the rest of the term, I don’t have a lesson planned for today,” the substitute continued, pushing her big, round reading glasses up into her curly red hair.
“The rest of the year? Is she, like, dead?” Billy asked as the class laughed again, but nervously this time. Considering how old Miss Morris was, that question didn’t seem so funny.
“It’s a bit odd, but it seems that your teacher has decided to start her summer vacation early and take a little trip. She said something about wanting to walk among the pharaohs and heading off to see the Great Pyramids. Rather peculiar, but in any case I am your new history teacher. I graduated last year from Brown University, where I majored in world history with a focus on antiquities. I’m excited to get to know all of you with the little bit of time we have left before summer vacation.” At the mere mention of the words summer vacation, a new, excited energy was injected into the otherwise lifeless room. “Now quiet, please. Why don’t we go around the class and you can tell me your name and something special about yourself.”
Louise felt her face already start to flush with anxiety. Miss Jones was young and optimistic, the kind of teacher who thought these getting-to-know-you games could actually help you get to know anyone. In Louise’s opinion, they were just embarrassing.
Hi, I’m Louise Lambert and I’m a Traveling Fashionista. If people actually told the truth about themselves, it could be a really scary game. My name is Louise and I’m on the swim team and I like vintage fashion, she rehearsed in her head. That was easier; that made sense. Even if at Fairview Junior High, vintage clothing was still considered a little weird, particularly to Billy, whose fashion sense didn’t extend beyond the same baggy jeans and dirt brown or navy pullover sweater he wore practically every day.
“Why don’t we start in the back of the class,” Miss Jones said, putting back on her oversize glasses, which made her look like a giant bug.
“I’m Billy Robertson. I love history and I was Miss Morris’s favorite student.” Everyone giggled. Judging by the amount of time he spent in the principal’s office, Billy wasn’t any teacher’s favorite student.
When it finally came around to her turn, Louise lost her nerve. “My name is Louise Lambert and I’m on the swim team,” she said quickly, her cheeks burning hot. It was true she was a good swimmer, but that wasn’t really the defining thing about her. Louise looked down at a pencil sketch of a Grecian-style dress she had absentmindedly drawn on a blank page in her notebook. Why was she unable to admit that she liked vintage clothing? She couldn’t be the only one who was afraid of being a little different, afraid of Billy making one of his trademark mean comments from the back of the room. But it felt that way. Moments like that made her realize her self-confidence was hanging on by a thread.
After the whole class had taken turns and told some inane half truth (or flat-out lie), Miss Jones looked up at the large clock above her desk.
“Well, I guess we still have time to begin the movie. As the school year is almost over, I am going to start prepping you for next year’s social studies curriculum, where you will learn about ancient civilizations. I thought we would start with one of the greatest epics of all time. Can someone get the lights, please?”
The fluorescent lights snapped off, and Miss Jones wheeled a squeaky television cart to the front of the room. The blue screen sent an eerie glow throughout the classroom. “How do these things work?” she mumbled under her breath as she fiddled with the old DVD player. “Can someone give me a hand?” No one moved. “Anyone?” Bethany MacMillan reluctantly got up from her seat in the front row and pressed play, and the screen went black.
The sound of a grand marching orchestral score filled the now quiet classroom as the movie opened with black block-letter credits, which Louise knew was what films used in the old days.
“Is it over already?” she heard Billy snicker.
Louise got excited as she saw the names of some of her favorite Old Hollywood stars flash up on the screen. Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Burton… Directed by Joseph L. Mankiewicz, Costumes designed by Irene Sharaff. Louise wrote Irene’s name down in her notebook—she’d probably want to Google her later. If this movie was anything like the ones she’d watched with her mom, the costumes were going to be amazing!
Eventually, as the camera panned over remnants of a battle scene, the music was replaced with the deep booming voice of a narrator announcing the triumph of Caesar. Thousands of extras with towering plumes protruding from their bronze helmets brandished swords and were dressed in armor over red-and-brown military uniforms that looked like kilts. “Nice skirts!” Billy shouted at the screen, and before they had so much as glimpsed Elizabeth Taylor, the school bell rang to signal the end of class.
“Read Chapter Eleven in your textbook for tomorrow, please!” the frazzled substitute yelled as the class rushed for the door. “And you should know that I am not averse to pop quizzes!” No one slowed down. They had a sub who was about to show them an epic movie that could take them through the remainder of June in school movie time. To Louise, who loved classic movies anyway, the end of the school year just got a whole lot better.
That night, when Louise returned home from swim practice, which was remarkably less fun without her best friend there to crack jokes between the long, exhausting sets, she immediately ran up to her walk-in closet to check that she hadn’t made up the whole thing in her head. These days she wasn’t sure what was real—she needed to see the physical evidence again with her own chlorine-irritated eyes. She opened the creaky old trunk, tossed her secret stash of Barbie and Ken dolls onto the hardwood floor, and pulled out the poodle necklace. The black metal charm was still cold and very real. Clasping it around her neck,
she noticed that the pendant felt strangely warm and comfortable on her chest, as though it had been there all her life. Amazed, she once again examined the antique photograph of Mrs. Lambert that was curling at the edges. She needed to talk to her mom about this, stat. Wearing the necklace over her pale green polyester dress, her curly brown hair still damp and tied back in a bun, Louise headed downstairs for supper. Whatever her dad was cooking smelled so mouth-wateringly delicious she almost couldn’t believe she was in her own house.
Mrs. Lambert, looking perfectly poised in a cornflower blue cashmere sweater set, was already sitting in her usual seat at the long mahogany dining table, while Louise’s father, again wearing the starched white apron from breakfast, now over a striped button-down shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, bustled in and out of the kitchen. A crispy roasted chicken was proudly displayed in the center of the table. Louise fingered the poodle necklace nervously, unsure of how her mom would react to her new accessory.
“Dad, this smells amazing.”
“Thanks, chicken,” he said. “A chicken for my chicken,” he teased, setting a platter of rosemary potatoes on the table and giving her a kiss on the top of her drying and frizzing hair.
“Any luck on the job front?” Louise’s mother asked Mr. Lambert nervously.
“How could I possibly cook supper and look for a job at the same time?” he responded, winking at his daughter. “And I kind of like this Mr. Mom business. I think I could get used to this.”
Her mother half smiled and clutched the strand of pearls tautly around her neck, one of her many nervous habits. “How was school today? I saw you missed the bus,” she said, turning toward Louise. Her eyes dropped down to Louise’s throat, and her face turned a pale white. “Where… where did you get that?” she stammered.
“Do you like it? Is it yours? I found it in your old steamer trunk with my Barbies. Is it okay if I wear it?” The string of questions tumbled out of Louise’s lips.
Mrs. Lambert opened her mouth as if to respond, but no sound came out. Her distracted, faraway look masked whatever was going on right below the surface. “I… I suddenly have a headache,” she eventually replied. “I’m sorry, but I’m not hungry. I think I need a rest.” She shakily stood up from her high-back chair and placed her unfolded ivory linen napkin on her empty Wedgwood china plate. Without another word, she walked out of the dining room as though in a trance, leaving Louise and a befuddled Mr. Lambert alone with an untouched and perfectly roasted chicken.
The next morning, Mrs. Lambert was out of the house again before Louise sat down to another gourmet breakfast, this time of challah French toast with fresh berries, enthusiastically prepared by her attorney father turned Iron Chef. It was starting to feel as if her own mother was avoiding her.
“Where’s Mom?” Louise called over to her dad, who was cleaning the griddle.
“She went shopping. The Pattersons are having a dinner party next week to welcome the Moreau family to Fairview and introduce them to a few local folks, us included,” her dad explained as she speared a juicy blackberry and popped it into her mouth. “I think their son Peter is in your school. It’s a dress-up event, and I know you like that sort of thing.”
“Ooh, I do,” Louise said with her mouth full, excited that she had another Fashionista Sale coming up. That would be the perfect place to find a dress!
“Your mother decided to get an early start since I’m home now to get you off to school. And I was given explicit instructions as to what time the bus leaves, so you best be on your way,” her dad said, grabbing her syrupy plate and shooing her to the door. “Have a good day at school! I have a pork tenderloin to tackle.” Louise noticed a gross slab of raw meat on the counter as she ran out of the kitchen to catch the school bus.
“Brooke, do you want to come?” Louise asked, handing her best friend the embossed lemon yellow stationery with the Fashionista Sale details, which she pulled out of the front pocket of her scuffed-up backpack. They were sitting in their usual seat on the bus, third from the front on the left.
“Sorry, Lou. Kip and I have plans on Saturday,” Brooke said, briefly glancing down at the invite before going back to her science textbook. She was always scrambling to finish up the last of her homework assignments during the fifteen-minute ride to school, and Louise was accustomed to supplying her friend with some of the answers. “I promised him I’d go to his lacrosse game.”
“You’re choosing a boy? Over moi?” Louise asked pointedly, raising her eyebrows in mock surprise.
“It’s not like that. I mean, you didn’t even invite me the last time—your mom had to tell me where you were! I guess I should feel privileged that you even want me to come.”
Louise turned away and looked out the dirty, streaked bus window. Sometimes a few sarcastic words from her best friend were more painful than a whole year of Billy Robertson’s teasing. Not that it was an either/or situation. As if on cue, Billy popped up in the seat behind them as though he had been waiting for his opportunity to butt in.
“Nice dress, Louise. When did they make that one, 1950?” he asked, cracking up. Louise protectively wrapped her favorite navy cardigan around her blue-and-red plaid minidress with the white butterfly collar, which she thought looked like something a librarian from the sixties would wear—but in a good way. Leave it to Billy to make her feel embarrassed by one of her favorite vintage outfits. “Is that, like, a Salvation Army special?” he continued, refusing to let up until he got some sort of reaction from them.
“Ugh, get a life,” Brooke said, rolling her eyes at Billy. “Go back to whatever cave you crawled out of and leave us alone. Louise, have I mentioned how much I love your dress?” Her friend always confidently stood up for her when Louise just wanted to slink under the seat and hide. Then, sensing Louise’s dejection and returning to their previous topic of conversation, Brooke asked, “Can I bring Kip?”
“No,” Louise answered quickly. The Fashionista Sale was private. If anyone else from her school knew about it, she felt as if the magic would be ruined. And that Marla and Glenda might never come back to Fairview.
“Okay, fine, I’ll meet you there after the game. Don’t forget to text me the address. And, Lou, please try not to contract any food poisoning or get a concussion before I get there,” Brooke joked. Each time Louise had visited the Fashionista Sale, she seemed to have some unfortunate and potentially life-threatening incident occur. In more ways than her friend even realized. But considering the amazing adventures she’d had, not to mention the most unbelievable selection of vintage clothing she had ever encountered, going again was totally worth the risk.
The girls had shared and overanalyzed every minuscule detail of their lives up until this point, but when she had tried to show Brooke a photo taken on the A deck of the Titanic of her with the Astors, her friend just grinned and nodded as though she were humoring a mental patient. So what if the photo was a little blurry—Louise knew it really was her. And after her decadent and dangerous time hanging out with Marie Antoinette during prerevolutionary France, Louise decided it was best to keep the unbelievable stories to herself for now. The only person who could understand was Stella, which was exactly why Louise needed to find her again. Louise had first encountered her fellow Fashionista in the body of Adelaide, the portly daughter of King Louis XV, who had acted strangely suspicious of her. But after she’d caught a glimpse of “Adelaide” in the palace’s Hall of Mirrors, Louise had discovered she was actually an eighth-grade girl from Manhattan with pink elastics on her braces! Stella was the only person who knew what Louise was going through.
“I’ll try,” Louise said, smiling. “Thanks.”
“Of course.” Brooke gave her friend a reassuring look. “That’s what friends are for,” she sang as the bus pulled into the manicured circular driveway of Fairview Junior High, dropping them off for another humdrum day of school.
Later that night, over the perfectly cooked pork with homemade applesauce that Mr. Lambert ha
d been slaving over all day, Louise once again tried to broach the subject of the poodle necklace.
“Mom, can you please tell me where you got this necklace?” she asked, fingering the charm around her neck, which she had put back on again when she got home from swim practice. “It’s, like, vitally important.”
“Hmmm…” Mrs. Lambert paused, looking down at her plate as she nibbled on a string bean. “I’m not sure, but I can’t wait to show you the dress I bought from Nordstrom for the Pattersons’ dinner party. And it was on sale! What are you going to wear, Louise?” her mom asked, completely avoiding the subject. “They had such good deals at the mall. Maybe we should go shopping together.”
“I don’t know. I thought I could get something at the next Fashionista Sale,” Louise replied, hoping to get some sort of reaction from her once-again perfectly controlled mother. “There’s another one this weekend that I really want to go to.” She could have sworn she saw Mrs. Lambert’s shoulders tighten just a bit, as though she had a momentary, nearly imperceptible muscle spasm. Her mother’s typical faraway gaze seemed to settle on the portrait of Louise’s great-aunt Alice Baxter, which hung opposite her on the deep-red walls with the rest of their ancestors, gloomily gazing down at them with their fixed, oil-painted stares. In the painting, her great-aunt must have been at least eighty years old and looked nothing like the gorgeous actress whom Louise had embodied on the Titanic. It was hard to believe she was even the same person.
Louise heard Stella’s voice replaying in her head: “Isn’t it in your family, too?” That was it—Stella! Maybe Stella could give her some answers. There actually was another Traveling Fashionista out there, and Louise needed to find her!
The Time-Traveling Fashionista and Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile Page 2
