“Ohhhh, I don’t know. I owe my little sister Connie a favor, and she still hasn’t even been to a concert. This would be a treat for her.”
Aldo was looking down at the floor. “Oh, sure. I bet.”
I kicked his combat boots. He insisted on wearing nothing but his combats even when he attended formal occasions like this dance or a wedding. At least, he had worn a suit with a super-thin tie, harking back to his favorite era of music, the eighties, and the New Wave bands who had made the look popular. He slicked back his dark brown, shoulder-length hair. Except for his piercing black eyes, he could’ve passed for U2’s Bono from their Joshua Tree album days.
“You know I wouldn’t dream of taking anyone else to the concert! Why are you even playing this stupid game?”
“Yes! You’re the best! I knew you wouldn’t let me down! Oh my God! We’re going to see The Cure! The Cure!” He grabbed my hands and twirled me around.
I was excited about the possibility of seeing The Cure in concert, too. But I would’ve been more thrilled if Michael had asked me to go with him. I looked toward where he’d been standing earlier with Mr. C. and Ms. Vicelli, but Michael was no longer talking to them. I searched the room, but couldn’t spot him. Maybe he’d left. I felt my heart sink a little that I wouldn’t see him again. I was secretly hoping he’d ask me for a second dance.
Aldo and I hopped into a cab after the dance was over. I lived within walking distance of school, but Aldo lived on Upper Ditmars Boulevard and was too tired to walk all the way back home. The cab let me out at the corner of my street instead of making the turn, saving Aldo some money in cab fare. “ ’Bye, Vee! I’ll call you in the morning for brunch.”
“Forget it, Aldo! It’s almost midnight. I’m not waking up before noon!”
“That’s why it’s called brunch! Noon is actually early. Later!”
“Whatever!” I stuck my tongue out at him. He stuck his out, too. We both laughed. Aldo waved one last time and rolled up the window as the cab pulled away.
Aldo had a way of making me feel good when I needed it. I knew I hadn’t fooled him tonight with my act, and he’d sensed I was blue.
Although my neighborhood was extremely safe and you always saw people walking late at night on Ditmars, I still decided to walk fast in my three-inch pumps. My feet were absolutely throbbing from all the dancing Aldo and I had done. I stopped suddenly. A couple was leaning against the wall of a driveway, making out. I tiptoed past them, trying to get closer while stealing a glance. The light from the street lamp shone on the girl’s backside. She was leaning into the boy, whose back was up against the wall. They were kissing. The girl was wearing a super-tight mango-colored cocktail dress, which was bunched up around her waist. The boy’s hands were running up and down the back of her exposed thighs. There was something familiar about that dress. I looked away and kept walking when it hit me where I’d seen that dress. Tracy was wearing it at the dance! How could I forget? Every guy’s head was spinning in her direction. Her dress pushed her cleavage way out of its bodice, and every curve in her butt showed. I was afraid the seam on the back was going to burst open.
Though Tracy Santana was my best friend since grade school, we were very different. Unlike me, school didn’t come easily for Tracy. She tried very hard and studied, but the best grade her efforts produced was a C. Her mother hit her with a belt when she brought home poor grades. She often showed me and our other friends the pink welts that stood out on her paper-white skin. Her super-straight, thick hair was jet black and hung down to her hips. Tracy’s mother was always on her case about cutting her hair short, whereas my mother encouraged me to keep mine long.
With her very fair complexion and raven-colored hair, Tracy reminded me of Snow White. But instead of having an evil stepmother, Tracy’s own mother was the witch. My parents, on the other hand, never laid a hand on me. Sometimes, I felt as if Tracy envied me for my good grades and for having parents who didn’t punish me with a belt.
We became best friends when we were in first grade. After that, we spoke every night on the phone, sometimes for as long as two hours. She only called me after her mother left for her night job and after Tracy had prepared dinner for her father and brother. I cringed when I called her house and her mother answered.
Now that we were in high school, the differences only seemed to be growing between us. She had no problem showing off her figure to the point where she might as well have been walking around in her underwear. I didn’t mind looking sexy, but I also believed in the old adage, “Leave something to the imagination.”
Tracy wasn’t as afraid of her mother anymore and seemed to rebel more with each passing day. She flirted heavily with the boys, whereas my shyness prevented me from even talking to the boys unless they approached me first. Tracy was a size zero and wore a super-padded bra to amplify her A-cup breasts. Her green eyes, which stood out in stark contrast to her dark hair, were her best feature. And Tracy used them to full advantage when talking to boys, squinting her gaze to give herself an extra sexy allure. I’d seen the less-confident boys quickly look away when she stared at them, but the more cocky guys stared back, looking completely mesmerized.
Tracy was more outgoing than I was. Her good sense of humor attracted everyone to her, but her lies always caught up with her and would eventually alienate all the friends she’d made. Throughout grade school, she often lied to mutual friends of ours and told them I’d said things about them when I hadn’t. I always forgave her. I don’t know why, I just did.
A stray cat darted into my line of vision, bringing me back to the present. Who was Tracy kissing? Amazingly, she didn’t have a boyfriend at the moment either. It seemed that she went from guy to guy within a day after one relationship ended. It was as if the boys were on a waiting list to date her. Tracy’s last boyfriend had broken up with her just three days before the dance. But this time, she bravely chose to go alone. You wouldn’t have known it, though, since she’d managed to find a guy to dance with her to almost every song.
My curiosity was getting the better of me. I knew I shouldn’t be snooping, but I had to see who was with her. I quietly walked up the front steps of the house whose driveway they were in. I crouched down behind a rosebush, hoping it would be enough to conceal me. Suddenly, the guy spun Tracy around so that her back was now up against the driveway’s wall. The light shone on his profile.
Michael!
My hand flew to my mouth as I gasped. Luckily for me, they were too caught up in themselves to have heard me. No! Not my Michael. It was dark. I must not be seeing right. I stood up higher to get a better look. It was definitely Michael. He removed his mouth from Tracy’s and began kissing her neck. At this point, I was standing to my full height, forgetting that I wasn’t concealed anymore. I just kept staring at Michael. Aldo was right! He was acting just like every other guy would. I felt so stupid. Tears stung my eyes as they spilled down onto my face. I finally glanced over at Tracy, and my heart stopped. Her eyes met mine dead-on. Her lips turned up into the most wicked smile. She then lowered her head and kissed Michael. Her eyes shot open again while she was kissing him, staring right at me. I turned my head away and ran down the steps, not caring if Michael heard me. If he did, he didn’t care, since I didn’t hear my name and no one was chasing me.
How could she? She knew how I felt about Michael. Besides Aldo, she was the only other person I’d confided in about my crush on Michael. She’d listened to me tell her how I hoped, some day in the future, we’d end up together. She had sympathized with me and even told me, “Don’t worry, Vee. He’ll be yours someday. He just needs to sow his wild oats before he comes to you.”
Apparently, she was helping him sow those oats.
I ran as fast as I could down the block to my house. All I could think of was Tracy’s twisted little smile as she stared at me. She looked happy that I’d caught them. She didn’t care that she’d just stuck a knife right into my heart. I could feel the pain pressing against my chest.
I couldn’t stop crying. Why would my best friend do this to me? How could she?
I got to my house. My mother was probably waiting up for me. I searched frantically in my purse for a tissue. Not finding one, I wiped my eyes with the back of my hands. I unlocked the door. There was a box of tissues on the foyer table. Pulling a few out, I patted my eyes. My reflection stared back at me in the hallway mirror. Pools of mascara swirled around my red eyes.
“Valentina! Tu sei?”
“Si, Ma.”
I ran into the bathroom down the hall, just as my mother entered the hallway.
“Sta bene?”
Behind the bathroom door, the tears started racing down my face again. I knew if I answered right away, she’d hear the sobs.
“Valentina? You okay?”
I flushed the toilet, trying to buy some more time. I quickly swallowed and turned on the sink.
“Yeah, Ma. I’m okay. Just had to use the bathroom really bad.”
“You have a good time?”
Ugghhhh!!! No matter how many times I told my mother I couldn’t hear her well while I was in the bathroom with the water running, she always continued to have a conversation with me.
“Yeah, it was nice. I’ll tell you about it in the morning. I’m going to get ready for bed. I’m really tired. Did Baba go to sleep already ?”
“Si, si. He knew you were in good hands with Aldo. I did, too, but you know me. I still worry when one of you girls is out late. Ahhh! Va bene. Buona notte, fighita!”
Fighita had been my mother’s endearment for me since I was a kid. It meant “dear one” or “sweet one.” I started crying even more.
I washed my face with cold water. Making sure my mother really had gone up to bed, I listened behind the bathroom door. Deathly still. I cracked the door open an inch. Only the nightlight was on near the stairs leading to our bedrooms. I took the stairs two at a time, which was hard to do in my snug dress, though not as snug as that tramp’s who was kissing the love of my life. As I passed my parents’ bedroom, light streamed from underneath their door. I could hear Ma’s low whispers as she prayed. Pausing for a moment behind her door, I tried to hear what she was praying about but was unable to. I began to raise my hand to knock but dropped my hand back to my side and tiptoed to my room. No matter how much I wanted her to help me feel better, I just couldn’t bear to see the hurt in her eyes when she’d see how pained I was. Besides, she didn’t know about my feelings for Michael.
I took off my dress. When I had put it on earlier in the night, I was so proud of it. My mother had made it for me. It was a deep emerald green with black tulle and lace trim throughout the dress. It had a square neckline with a V-cut in the center, giving a tiny peek to my cleavage. I had worn one of my minimizer bras out of fear of showing off too much cleavage.
When my sister Rita saw me, she said, “What a shame to hide those magnificent tits!” I scowled at her. You’d think she was years older than me and more experienced, the way she talked.
Before taking off my dress, I stared at myself in the full-length mirror that hung on my closet door and remembered how earlier in the night I’d wished that somehow Michael could’ve seen me in it. My wish was granted when he showed up at the dance. But my hopes that the sight of me in this dress was all it would take to convince him I wasn’t a little girl anymore were crushed—first with his mention of getting the concert tickets for a friend and me, and then seeing him making out with my girlfriend, who was quickly becoming the town tramp.
I threw the dress onto the floor. Stupid! How stupid could I have been? Aldo had nailed it exactly when he said that I saw Michael as this perfect guy and above the lousy frat-boy behavior his peers often exhibited. What did I know about him anyway? Not much. I was basing my knowledge of Michael’s worth just from that day he’d saved me at Li’s Grocery Store. I was still that same kid looking up to her idol, who could do no wrong in her eyes.
I sank into bed with a heavy weariness. Pulling the sheets close to my chin, I promised myself that night I would forget Michael Carello once and for all. But keeping that promise would prove to be much more difficult than I ever could’ve imagined. For over the summer, my world was about to shatter. And Michael would prove to be my knight in shining armor once again.
The snow that is now falling shakes me back to the present. I fight back the memories from that summer and take a deep breath of cold air, letting it cleanse my lungs and spirits. I quicken my steps along Ditmars Boulevard.
New York City is having a record amount of snowfall this winter. We’ve had three major snowstorms already, and it’s only mid-January. February often packs the biggest wallop of the season where the cold and snow are involved.
The pink sign of Sposa Rosa soon comes into view as I round the corner of Ditmars and 38th Street. I can still feel that thorn pricking my side whenever I look at the shop’s name. Leave it to my mother to choose “pink bride” as the name of the bridal boutique that she’d opened ten years ago. I still remember the battle I had with my mother as if it were yesterday.
“But, Ma, hardly any bride wears pink unless you’ve been married five times, and even then some people still prefer to wear white!”
“Basta, Valentina! The name is going to be Sposa Rosa, and that’s that. It’s memorable. It rhymes. And it’s different. When I die, you can call it “Always White” or some other unoriginal, boring name. But right now this is Olivia DeLuca’s shop, so the name stays. Finito!”
My sisters Rita and Connie giggled in the background. They knew Ma was teasing my traditional tastes. When we were kids, Rita had nicknamed me “Plain Jane.” I guess I couldn’t blame her. I ate my pancakes without maple syrup and my hot dogs and burgers without ketchup or mustard. I liked more classic styles when it came to my clothes. But that didn’t mean I always chose to be conservative. My mother and sisters were in for a shock later today when I would unveil my wedding dress to them.
Sposa Rosa was famous for copying couture designer dresses but offering the dresses at a significantly reduced rate. As I was telling Paulie Parlatone, Brides magazine recently did a story on our—I mean, Ma’s boutique. Although the shop was in Ma’s name, we all thought of it as ours, and we knew it would be our mother’s legacy to us after she died. Anyway, the article in Brides mentioned the store’s custom of featuring a different couture designer dress every month. Brides had also paid us the highest compliment by stating, “Attention to detail is flawless, and the dresses are made so well that even the designer might not be able to tell which is the original and which is the knockoff.”
Ever since the article was published, more customers were swinging through Sposa Rosa’s doors. We were all thrilled even though we were exhausted by the time Sunday rolled around.
With fewer than six months to go until my wedding, I’d been fretting over completing my dress. After all, everyone knows the dress is the most important detail of the wedding. With the shop being so busy, it was hard to devote more time to my dress and overall wedding planning. My family helped any way they could, but I admit it, I was guilty of wanting to micromanage my wedding.
I’ll also be the first to acknowledge that I can be guilty of a few Bridezilla moments, but my temper tantrums have been mild compared to some of Sposa Rosa’s clients. From witnessing so many monsters, I made a promise to myself a long time ago that I would never resort to being one when it was my turn to get married. It’s been annoying having to put Sposa Rosa’s clients’ dresses before my own, especially when it’s for a Bridezilla. But this is my career and passion; it comes with the territory. Whenever I remember how lucky I am to have the skills to be able to design and sew my own wedding dress—the dress of my dreams that no one else will have—my frustration lifts. And today, I would finally have my first fitting!
I decided to model my wedding dress after one of our featured dresses of the month from last spring. It was an Amy Michelson design that sported a lace bodice and halter neckline. One of my favorite features of th
e dress was its plunging back. A champagne-colored sash wrapped around the waist and tied into a loose bow just above my derriere. But I put my own mark on the gown by adding pearl beads to the lace-covered bodice. Another twist was the detachable organza skirt that gave the appearance of a full ball gown skirt, but once removed, the dress was transformed into a body-hugging, sexy sheath with a daring shorter hem that fell just below the knee. The shorter front hem of the dress was visible even when the detachable organza skirt was attached to the gown. But no one would be able to detect there were two separate pieces. The skirt of the dress was bare and did not feature any of the lace or beading that was on the bodice.
The suspense of showing the dress to my mother and sisters was giving me heart palpitations. I just couldn’t wait to see their faces. They knew I had chosen the Amy Michelson design, but they had no idea I’d altered it. Although beautiful in its original, more simple design, the Amy Michelson dress was now a bold gown that screamed, “Look at me!” I didn’t want a dress that so many others would have. I wanted my own unique dress.
The thought of the dress makes me even more anxious to get to the shop. Arriving finally at Sposa Rosa, I unlock the doors and turn on the lights. Even after being in business for ten years, I am still in awe every time I walk in. Ask any girl, and she’ll tell you there’s something magical about a bridal boutique. It all starts with the glittering, beautiful dresses in the storefront window, which catch your eye and lure you to step inside. Then there’s the excitement in the air when customers are trying on their dresses, and teary-eyed family and friends are looking at the bride-to-be as if she’s the Madonna. Okay, I know that’s a stretch for our times, but you know what I mean.
The marble floors, imported straight from Italy, shine immaculately. My mother mops them every night before we lock the store. The walls are shades of celestial blue and creamy eggshell. Sketches of our bridal designs hang on the walls, along with black-and-white photographs of brides, some of whom have bought their dresses over the years at Sposa Rosa.
Bella Fortuna Page 3
