Vintage Veronica (10 page)

I am such an idiot. I really should have said something when I started at the store. Now she was looking at me, waiting for details. I had to say something.

“There was this snake,” I finally said.

“Oh?” she said. “They have snakes?”

Shit, why did I say “snake”? Now, if she ever runs into that dumb shelter lady at the farmers’ market again, she’s going to say something, and what if they don’t have snakes? Of course, snake or no snake, if she runs into her former student again, I’m screwed no matter what because she’s bound to thank her for giving me the job
. I pictured my mom confronting me, her face all pinched and red with anger … anger and embarrassment:
“She said you never even bothered to go to the interview!”

I winced at the thought.

“Not usually,” I stammered. “Just this one. It was no big deal. It just took a while to, uh, deal with it …”

I was about to say more, but thankfully the doorbell rang. My mom’s face flooded with relief, and it was immediately apparent that talking to me was nothing more than something to check off her list. Like watering a plant.
Done, check
.

“Oh, that must be Ken.” She consulted her watch, a tiny thin strap encircling her tiny thin wrist. “He’s early tonight.” Ken being her eight o’clock yoga student, I presumed. She paused for a second, clearly wanting to say something else to me by way of smoothing over the exit she was about to make.

“You look good, sweetie. I’m really proud of you.”

“Oh, yeah?” I ventured. Her compliment took me by surprise. Was it that obvious that working at the store had been lifting my spirits and helping to erase my grim memories of the dreary school year that preceded it? Could she tell that making a couple of friends had been an unexpected benefit of taking this job?

“Yes!” she replied. “Sticking to your points is hard work, but it seems like it’s really starting to pay off. Keep up the good work!”

And, with a broad smile, a flip of ponytail, and a flash of thong-clad behind—good Lord, Mom—she was gone.

Namaste, lady
.

I flipped through my sketchbook and found the sketches I’d done of Len and Violet that afternoon. Even if I’d splurged on some fancy colored pencils, I probably couldn’t have done justice to her sunset shades. I pulled out a regular pencil and began shading Len’s hands holding her. But I couldn’t get it
right, and it ended up looking like he was all tensed up, afraid of dropping her, which was all wrong. He cradled her with a confidence and gentleness that I was only then realizing as I became frustrated by their absence in my sketch. I’ve never been good at hands or faces.

Yet another reason I’ve pretty much stuck to drawing clothes, until now.

When I see the snake on my desk, I consider buzzing The Nail and getting him to just take it away. But I don’t. I’m not going to take it home, because my mom would ask questions. Instead, I do nothing, so it spends the morning on Employees Only! There’s no one there to protest. Claire’s been missing for almost two weeks now, a development that seemed bizarre at first but which now seems to support Zoe’s theory about her being a klepto. I consider asking the Lunch Ladies if they know anything about what happened to Claire. The fact that they don’t speak English makes me rule out this idea.

It’s funny—I never would have thought I could do this job by myself. When Claire was here, she was so busy, bustling around depping stuff and barking orders at me. Now I can do things at my own pace and in my own way. True, not everything is easy. I can’t log new items in by computer because Claire never revealed the inventory system password. But I started keeping my own written log, which seems like an acceptable substitute. That way, if a consigner calls, I can usually track down an item and rattle off how it was categorized, where it ended up, and what the sale price was.

At noon, Len stops by to say hi. I still think of him as The Nail, but pretty much only when he’s not around.

“You don’t have to keep it,” he says.

“I’m not.”

“Oh. Okay. So I’ll take it home after work today.”

“Nah, that’s okay. It can stay.”

“So you’ll keep it?”

“No, I didn’t say that. I said it can stay.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Len’s mouth twitches like he’s confused but amused. I pull some grocery bags of intake (consignment clothes I haven’t sorted through yet) off the spare chair and offer him a place to sit.

He sits and takes the little snake out of the cage. I go through some of the intake and we don’t talk for a while, which is surprisingly comfortable.

“What about Potato Two?” he finally says.

“What?”

“Potato Two,” he repeats. “After your cat.”

“Spud,” I correct him. “Not Potato. And no.”

“Okay, then what? You can’t just call it ‘It.’”

“Spot,” I suggest.

“He doesn’t have spots.”

“Duh. It’s an ironic name. Like calling a poodle Spike or something?”

“My grandma used to have a poodle,” he recalls.

“Yeah, mine, too. I think when you become a grandma, they issue you a poodle.”

“That and a boomerang table,” he adds.

“Exactly,” I say.

Len smiles, transfers the snake to his left hand, and brushes his bangs out of his eyes. They don’t quite reach his ears, so they immediately fall back down in front of his face, like a curtain. His hair is almost the exact color of sand. Holding one hand higher than the other, he pours the snake from hand to hand like he’s emptying a pitcher of water in slow motion. When the top hand releases, he raises the other hand and uses the first one to catch the flowing snake again. Then he cups his hands and the snake curls itself up inside. With a free finger, he strokes the snake’s head.

“I like it up here,” he says. “It’s so … peaceful.”

I look around. The Lunch Ladies are having lunch, yelling at each other over the rumble and grind of the folding and pressing machines and the dull roar of the giant exhaust fans.

“Yeah, peaceful. That’s how I’d describe it,” I say.

“It is,” says Len, allowing the snake to travel slowly through his hands again.

“Actually, I know what you mean,” I admit.

“Must be nice,” says Len. “Being left alone. The girls who work downstairs can be awful. You have no idea.”

“Oh, yeah?” I say.

“There’s this one girl, Zoe? Do you know her? She’s the really tall one with the black hair?” He holds one hand way over his head to suggest her height.

“Uh … no.” I don’t know why, but I can’t bring myself to tell him that not only do I know her, I’m sort of her friend. Maybe.

“You should seriously steer clear of her. She is pure evil. She cannot be trusted.”

“Oh, yeah? Like how?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead he says, “A lot of the girls that work downstairs boss me around. The customers can be just as bad. ‘Hey, you! Get me these shoes in a ten and a half!’”

“Seriously?” I wish he’d get back to Zoe.

“And then there’s my favorite part of the job: cleaning up puke.”

“You have to clean up puke?”

Len smiles down at the snake. “I’m the store runner, remember? I have to go get lots of things. Including, on occasion, the mop.”

“Ugh. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’ve had to deal with worse things.”

“Like what?”

“I’ll tell you some other time.” Len looks up and extends his hands toward me. “You want to hold him?” he asks.

“Nah, that’s okay,” I say, stepping back.

“Okay,” says Len. He gets up to put the snake back.

“You can stay,” I say noncommittally. “You know, if you want.”

“You sure?” asks Len. “I don’t want to be in the way.”

“You’re not,” I tell him, hoping he’ll get back to talking about the Florons. But he doesn’t, and somehow it doesn’t feel right to ask. Considering I’m trying to stay off that topic myself.

The next day, he comes by at noon again. This time he’s carrying a brown paper bag.

“Lunch?” I ask.

“Yup,” he says, pulling out a plastic bag from inside the paper one. Inside are light brown crickets, hopping all over each other.

“Um, I’m
so
out of here,” I say. “Sorry, I just …”

“It’s okay. Give me ten minutes.”

I make a Mookie’s run to avoid having to witness the carnage. Clearly I’m not cut out to be a real snake owner, and I’m grateful that The Nail’s willing to do my dirty work. So much so that I decide to bring him back a donut.

I peek out the back door, and once I’m sure Zoe and Ginger aren’t out on the loading dock, I slip out this way. “Slip out” being an inaccurate description, since hoisting myself off the loading dock requires hitching up whatever I’m wearing (today, a long black flamenco skirt with three asymmetrical tiers of ruffles—red, orange, and yellow) and vaulting myself over the edge. Still, it beats the alternative: walking across The Real Deal. The more I hang out with Len, the less I want Zoe and Ginger to know.

Unfortunately, I forget to prop the door open when I leave. Which means that on my return, I either have to swim through a sea of Pickers or attempt to navigate The Real Deal without being noticed. I opt for the latter, walking fast and looking down.

“Hey, Spy Girl!” calls Ginger. “Any news?”

“Nada,” I say, glancing over but not stopping.

“C’mere, Vee,” orders Zoe.

I freeze in my tracks. Reluctantly, I walk over.

“Ooh, goody. You got me a snack,” she says, reaching out and snatching the waxed paper Mooks bag out of my hands.

She unwads the top and peers down into it. “What is that, a lemon log?”

“Oh!” I say, surprised. “Actually, I … uh …”

Zoe rolls her eyes and makes an irritated face at me.

“Relax,” she snarls. “I don’t want your stinkin’ cruller.”

“Oh, right.”

She rewads the bag and hands it over with mock disdain. Then she smiles big.

“You’re not used to being fucked with, are you?”

“I, uh,” I stammer.

“Too cute!” she says, reaching out and, I swear to God, pinching my cheek. “Love the skirt. Very cha-cha-cha. Stop by later, a’ight? We’ll hang.”

“Sure,” I say, practically crashing into a display of two mannequins in matching Nehru jackets and love beads in my haste to get to the stairs.

As I leave, I can’t help wondering if Zoe is saying anything to Ginger about me behind my back. Or not saying anything. Just giving her a look, and Ginger giggling and nodding back like,
I know
.

It’s not like that
, I remind myself.
They actually like you, that’s just how they act. They’re diamonds in the rough, remember?
I know I’m right, but I’m tempted, just the same, to look back over my shoulder and see.

But I don’t. Because the thing is: if I’m wrong, I don’t want to know.

When I return to Employees Only!, only two pitiful crickets remain in the cage. Len kindly removes them so I don’t have to watch the inevitable afternoon snack.

Len gives me a confused look as I hand him the Mookie’s bag. He peers inside, then brightens.

“People don’t usually bring me stuff,” he says.

“It’s not for you,” I say.

“Oh … okay.”

“Len? Hello? It’s a joke?”

“Oh! I thought you … Never mind. Thanks.”

Carefully, he takes the donut out of the bag, sets it on my desk, and studies it.

“Wow,” he says, and I have to agree. A Mookie’s lemon log is a sight to behold: a pale yellow ruffle of icing along the top, and shiny buttons of the darker yellow filling at each end. “I thought donuts had to be round.”

“Live and learn,” I say.

He picks it up and turns it admiringly. Then he pinches its waist and holds out half.

“Here,” he says.

“No, it’s okay,” I say, instinctively waving him off. “I, uh, I had a big lunch.” He takes a bite, then closes his eyes and sort of moans.

“Oh my God,” he says.

I grin, pleased. “I know, right?”

“What do you call this?”

“It’s a lemon log. You like it?”

“It’s sublime.”

He proceeds to devour the rest of his half.

My heart is kind of pounding, but I don’t know why. It’s not like I made the donut, for God’s sake. But still, I feel sort of thrilled to have introduced him to lemon logs.

“Come on,” he urges. “You gotta have a bite. Please?”

I look at him and he gives me this little-boy look. Truly pathetic.

I roll my eyes for emphasis, even though I’ve been hungry for it all along.

“Oh, all right,” I say. Taking a bite, I think of the cafeteria motto of the Sunshine School: FOOD TASTES BETTER WHEN YOU SHARE IT
. Sure it does
, I used to think.

But damned if it isn’t the best lemon log I’ve ever had.

y the end of the week, I find myself looking forward to Len stopping by at lunchtime. And not just because the alternative is catching crickets for the snake myself. I still think of it as just “the snake,” and I still won’t touch it. But I like watching Len hold it, and I like to sketch it when he’s holding it in his hands.