Queen of Babble (29 page)

“It’s quite obvious,” Dominique says, putting the Tums back where she found them. “At first I was not alarmed because…well, look at you.”

Like the total jerk that I am, I actually do look down at myself. There are now approximately eighty-five thousand bits of white lace stuck to my black dress. I’ve pulled my hair into a haphazard ponytail and lost my shoes somewhere under all the folds of material lining my floor.

“But I know he’s…fondof you,” Dominique says, lifting her pointed chin.

Yeah. Well. Maybe at one time. Now? Not so much, I suspect.

“He thinks of you, I think, like a big brother thinks of a funny little sister,” Dominique goes on.

Great. The way Blaine thinks of Vicky. Just great.

Although it’s better than hating me, I guess.

“He tells you things, I think.” She’s found one of my many book lights and lifts it up to examine it. “I’m wondering if he has said anything to you about his uncle’s offer.”

I feign ignorance. What else can I do? I can’t let on that I was eavesdropping. Even though of course I was.

“Offer?”

“Surely you heard? A job in Paris with Monsieur Thibodaux’s very exclusive firm. Making a great deal more than he is making even now. Hasn’t he mentioned it to you?”

“No,” I say. And for once, I’m not even lying.

“How odd,” Dominique says. “He’s acting so strangely.”

“Well,” I say conversationally, “that can happen. You know, when a lot of money suddenly gets thrown
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your way. People freak. Look at what happened to Blaine.”

“Blaine?” Dominique looks blank.

“Right. Blaine Thibodaux.” When Dominique continues to look blank, I explain, “His band got signed by a record company, and Blaine’s girlfriend left him. Because she says he’s too rich now. Like I said.

When it comes to large amounts of money, some people just…freak.”

Dominique looks startled. My book light sits forgotten in her hand.

“Record companies pay that much?”

“Well, sure,” I say. “Plus, you know, Blaine just sold the rights to one of his songs to Lexus. For a commercial.”

Dominique’s eyes narrow. “Really.” She puts down the book light. “How interesting.” Her tone suggests she finds it anything but. “Then you don’t know why Luke is acting so strangely?”

“I have no idea,” I say. Because I really don’t. At least, not why he’d be acting strangely toward Dominique . Unless she, like me, accused him of being a liar. Then, of course, I’d understand.

“Well,” she says. And starts for the door. “Thank you. Good luck with the dress.” Her mouth twists at one end into something like a smile. “It looks as if you’ll need it.”

Then she’s gone, before I can even say “Thanks.”

Oh well. If that’s the kind of woman Luke prefers—tall, naturally skinny, artificially inflated in the chest area (I’d stake Grandma’s life on it), and obsessed with money, more power to him.

Although, you know. I can sort of understand why he might prefer that kind of woman to one who accuses him of being a liar. Even if he is one.

And that doesn’t seem like something Dominique would do. She’s way too crafty.

Crafty enough to have gotten me to commit to a project there’s no way I’ll ever complete on time. At least, not to anyone’s satisfaction. By the time the toasts start downstairs—I can hear the clink of spoons on crystal, then a lull, then appreciative laughter—I’ve denuded Vicky’s gown of lace.

And found that what the lace was covering is actually worse-looking than the lace.

I’m standing there asking myself if I should just put the lace back on and admit defeat, or possibly pack up all my things and just make a run for it, when the door to my room opens and Shari comes in, without knocking. In her hands is a plate of food.

“Before you open your mouth and make things even worse than they actually are,” she says angrily as she sets the plate on top of my dresser, by the book lights, “I want you to know that I got my period today, and like a fool, I forgot to bring any tampons. So I came in here to look for some, because I know you always pack like you’re going to Mount Everest and won’t see civilization for weeks, even for an overnighter. And that’s how I found the notebook you’re writing your thesis in. I mean, you left it open, right on your bed. There’s no way I could avoid looking at it. I thought it was your diary. And I had PMS. Ihad to read it, obviously.”

I stare at her openmouthed.

“I know it was wrong,” she goes on. “But I read it anyway. And that’s how I knew you hadn’t actually graduated. Luke didn’t tell me. Although may I just take this moment to say I can’t believe you told Luke, a man you only met a few days ago, and not me, who has been your best friend since kindergarten?”

I feel something rumble beneath me. At first I think it’s the floor. Then I realize it’s my entrails, clenching.

“Luke didn’t tell you?” I ask in a weak voice.

“No,” Shari says. She flops down onto my bed, heedless of the piles of lace there. “So it was really nice of you to accuse him of it. He seems to really appreciate it. And you.”

“Oh God.” Clutching my stomach, I sink down on the bed beside her. “What have I done?”

“Fucked up,” Shari says. “Big time. I mean, considering you’re in love with him and all.”

I glance at her miserably. “Does it show that much?”

“To those of us who have known you for eighteen years? Yes. To him? Probably not.”

I collapse back against the bed and stare with tear-filled eyes at the raftered ceiling.

“I’m such an idiot,” I say.

“Yes,” Shari replies. “You are. Why didn’t you just tell me about your thesis in the first place?”

“Because,” I say, “I knew you’d be mad at me.”

“Iam mad at you.”

“See? I knew it.”

“Well, come on, Lizzie,” Shari says. “Just because your education was free doesn’t mean it’s all right for you to squander it.History of fashion? As a major?”

“Well, at least I didn’t have to kill any rats!”

The minute the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. Because now Shari’s eyes have filled with tears.

“I told you,” she says. “I had to kill Mr. Jingles. A scientist has to be able to distance herself.”

“I know,” I say, sitting up and wrapping my arms around her. “I know, and I’m sorry I said that. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m just…I’m just a mess.”

Shari doesn’t hug me back. Instead she looks across my room and says, “Youare a mess, and you’ve gotten yourselfinto a mess. Lizzie, what are you going to do about that girl’s dress?”

“I don’t know,” I say sadly, surveying the damage. “It actually looks worse than before.”

“Well,” Shari says, “I didn’t see it before. But I don’t see how it could look worse than it does now.”

I take a deep breath.

“I’m going to fix it,” I say. And I’m not just talking about Vicky’s dress, either. “I don’t know how. But I’m going to fix it. If I have to stay up all night.”

“Well,” Shari says. And she gets up off the bed and goes to retrieve the plate from the dresser. “Here.

Peace offering.”

She puts the plate in my lap. On it is an assortment of some of the food from the rehearsal dinner—what appears to be Cornish game hen, some kind of vegetable gratin, a salad in a vinaigrette, assorted chunks of cheese, and…

“That’s foie gras,” Shari says, pointing at a blob of brown on the edge of the plate. “I know you wanted to try some. I didn’t get you any bread, because I trust you’re still doing the low-carb thing—croissants and Hershey bar sandwiches aside. Here’s a fork. Oh, and here—”

She goes to the door to my room, opens it, stoops down, and retrieves something from the floor outside.

It’s an ice bucket. She lifts the lid to reveal—

“My diet Cokes,” I say, fighting back a new wave of tears.

“Yeah,” Shari says. “I found them wedged way back in the fridge, behind the Nutella. I figured you could use some if you were going to pull an all-nighter up here. Which”—she glances at the remains of Vicky’s wedding dress—“is what it looks like you’ll be doing.”

“Thanks, Shar,” I say, starting to sniffle. “And…I’m sorry. I don’t know why I didn’t stay more on top of things with school. I was just too wrapped up in Andy toward the end there, I guess, to really pay attention to what was going on.”

“That’s not it,” Shari says. “I mean, that’s probably part of it, but let’s face it, Lizzie. School was never your thing.” She nods at my sewing basket. “Thisis. And if anybody can fix that ugly dress, well, I guess it’s you.”

My eyes well up again. “Thanks. Only…I mean, what am I going to do about Luke? Does he…does he really hate me?”

“Hate might be a strong word for it,” Shari says. “I’d say he’s more…bitter.”

“Bitter?” I wipe my eyes with my hands. “Bitter’s better. I can deal with bitter. Not,” I add quickly, seeing the curious look Shari darts at me, “that it matters. Since he’s already got a girlfriend, and he lives in Houston, and I’m just coming out of a dead-end relationship, and I’m not interested in starting something new and all.”

“Right,” Shari says with one eyebrow raised. “Okay, then. Well, get to it, Coco. We’ll all be eagerly awaiting your creation in the morning.”

I try to laugh, but all that comes out is a hiccupy sob.

“And Lizzie?” she asks as she pauses on her way out the door.

Uh-oh. “Yeah?”

“Is there anything else I need to know?” Shari asks. “Any other secrets you might be harboring from me?”

I swallow. “Absolutely not,” I say.

“Good,” Shari says. “Let’s keep it that way.”

And then she stomps out of my room.

The thing is, I don’t feel at all bad about not telling her about the blow job. There are some things even your best friend doesn’t need to know.

When the Germans invaded Paris in 1940, fashion as the world knew it came to a standstill. The war put an end to the export of couture, and rationing to save resources for the war effort meant that items like silk, which was needed to make parachutes, were impossible to come by. Die-hard lovers of fashion, however, would not give up their stockings, and so stained their legs and drew seams down them to imitate the look of their favorite hosiery. Women who were not so artistically inclined opted instead to wear trousers, a look finally acceptable to a society becoming used to things like air raids and bebop.

History of Fashion

SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS

23

Gossip is news running ahead of itself in a red satin dress.

—Liz Smith (1923– ), U.S. journalist and author

Iwake to find a strip of lace stuck to my face. Also to an urgent knocking on my door.

I look around blearily. A wan gray light fills my room. I realize I forgot to close my drapes the night before. I realize I forgot to do a lot of things the night before. Such as change into pajamas. Wash my makeup off. Or brush my teeth.

The banging on my door continues.

“Coming,” I say, rolling out of bed—then staggering a little as a wicked head rush seizes my temples in a vise. This is what comes, I know, of pulling a diet-Coke-fueled all-nighter.

I make my way to the door and pull it open a few cautious inches.

Vicky Thibodaux, in a pale blue peignoir, stands in the hallway.

“Well?” she demands anxiously. “Are you finished? Did you do it? Could you save it?”

“What time is it?” I ask, rubbing my gritty eyes.

“Eight,” she says. “I’m getting married in four hours. FOUR HOURS.Did you finish? ”

“Vicky,” I say, slowly forming the words that I have been going over and over in my head since around two in the morning. “Here’s the thing—”

“Oh, fuck it,” Vicky says, and throws her full body weight against the door, shoving it open, and me aside.

Three steps into the room, she freezes when she sees what’s hanging from the hook on my wall.

“Th-that…” she stammers, her eyes wide. “Th-that’s—”

“Vicky,” I say. “Let me explain. The gown that your dressmaker used to sew all that lace onto didn’t have enough structural integrity in and of itself to exist on its own without—”

“I love it,” Vicky breathes.

“—all the lace that covered it. In essence, your bridal gownwas lace…and that’s it. So I—wait. You what?”

“I love it,” Vicky says. She reaches excitedly for my hand and squeezes it. She hasn’t once taken her eyes off the gown on the wall. “It’s the most beautiful gown I’ve ever seen.”

“Um,” I say, relief coursing through me. “Thanks. I think so, too. I found it in the attic upstairs the other day. It was kind of stained, but I got those out, and fixed a few tears along the hem, and reattached one strap. Last night I adjusted the fit according to the measurements on your old dress. It should fit, so long as you haven’t shrunk—or grown—in the night. Then I spent about an hour pressing it…thank God I found an iron down in the kitchen…”

Vicky, I realize, is barely listening to me. She still hasn’t unglued her gaze from the glistening Givenchy.

“Um,” I say, “do you want to try it on?”

Vicky nods, apparently unable to speak, and begins stripping off her peignoir without another word.

I gently pluck the gown from its hanger. Vicky’s original dress—the lace disaster—hangs on another hook nearby. I’d put the two side by side in order to let her choose. Her original gown doesn’t lookthat bad—if I do say so myself. I managed to tone down the lace, though there was no way I could remove it all and still have a dress left. Instead of looking like something Stevie Nicks might wear, it now resembled something Oksana Baiul might sport atBarbie on Ice .

But next to the Givenchy, it hadn’t stood a chance.

Which was just what I was hoping.

I find myself holding my own breath as I drop the yards and yards of creamy white silk over Vicky’s
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head. Then, as she slips her arms through the straps, I step behind her to begin fastening the pearl buttons. One by one, they easily close. And she isn’t, I know, holding her breath, because I can hear her excited panting as she looks down at herself.