Vintage Veronica (12 page)

“I’m not,” I tell him. “Seriously, you look good.”

“Oh, yeah?” He looks me right in the eye.

“Yeah,” I say.

“So this is fun for you?”

“I guess so … yeah.”

“Okay, then,” he says, returning to where we dumped out the bag and digging through the contents.

“What are you doing?”

He pulls out something long and shiny and holds it up.

“Your turn,” he says.

This is ridiculous.

I don’t have to do this.

I should just tell him to leave.

There’s no way I’m going through with this.

“Veronica?”

I poke my head out from behind the rack. “Look, forget it. It doesn’t fit, okay?”

“Let me see.”

“I told you, forget it.”

“I won’t laugh. I promise.”

The dress Len selected is a floor-length red satin sheath. In it, I feel—and probably look—like an overstuffed sausage. And that’s without even getting it zipped up. I take a deep breath and try the zipper again. It moves a millimeter and bites me.

Fuck
.

“Veronica, come on out. There’s no one here. Except me, and I’m wearing chaps, I think.”

I laugh and the zipper retreats some more, so my whole back hangs out. Then I take one more deep breath and grab a burgundy smoking jacket off the rack I’m crouching behind. I belt it tightly around me, then I emerge.

“Those are not chaps,” I explain. “Chaps are worn over pants.”

“Let me see,” he says.

“No,” I tell him, biting my lip, but he’s watching my eyes, not my mouth. Slowly, he comes up to me and undoes the silk rope belt.

I know I could stop him with a look. Or a touch.

But I don’t. I look down and see his hands spreading the lapels and exposing the tight, shiny, bulging front of the gown. Instinctively, I jump when I feel the slightly clammy touch of his hands as they make it to my lower back, where the gown gapes open like a canyon. I feel my body tense up as his hands travel up my back, exploring the soft, squishy terrain. I brace myself for the laugh that I know is coming any moment.

He lets out a long breath.

I look up at him, narrowing my eyes protectively.

His bangs swing forward as he leans in and closes his eyes and I realize a second before it happens—

Oh my God oh my God oh my God

shit yikes The Nail oh my G—

—that he’s going to kiss me.

There’s this sudden rush in my chest, which I assume is
because, even with the dress unzipped, it is cutting off my circulation, and also, between my legs, there’s a warmth, sort of, and my mind of course is racing, racing. My thoughts are still screaming,
Oh my God oh my God oh my God oh my God!

This is so weird
.

The Nail is kissing me
.

Holy shit. The Nail
.

And how much weirder is it that I kind of don’t want to make him stop?

I kind of maybe even want to kiss him back.

I somehow manage to keep the freaking-out in my head.

And my lips sort of unfreeze and start to move against his in a way that I hope does not seem robotic and weird.

I want to lift my arms because I’ve seen that in movies and it feels right to do that, and I also really, really want to touch his hair to see if it is as soft as I’ve always suspected, even though I’ve never consciously thought about it. But I’m afraid the dress will rip right down the side if I do, so I leave my arms at my sides …

… and luckily there’s the fringe right there … … so while we stand there and kiss and kiss, my hands are twiddling, twiddling away at the soft tendrils of leather.

Did I mention he’s just the right height?

For kissing, that is.

And his hair is, yes, that soft. Even softer.

I find out about his hair when we take a breath and then move to the old couch, where Rags often sleeps. He takes the tuxedo jacket and spreads it out over the part where you can see the springs.

“How chivalrous,” I say, which sounds like something my dad would say, which makes me think of my dad, which makes me decide to try not speaking for a while.

Instead, I lower myself carefully onto the jacket and fold my arms across my chest. My heart is going
boom, boom, boom
, keeping time with the
chung, chung, chung
of the industrial ceiling fans. I cross my legs, wrapping the robe around my knee and tucking it under my top thigh.

“Len, I …,” I start to say.

“Shhh …,” he says. He closes his eyes and puts one arm around my shoulder. “Listen.”

Uneasily, I lean into him, keeping my hands firmly positioned so the robe won’t flap open when my weight shifts. My head is against his shoulder and I smell the mustiness of the couch mixing with the smells of his soap, his sweat, his skin.

“To what?” I ask.

“It’s so quiet,” he whispers.
Chung, chung, chung
go the ceiling fans, like giant propellers revving for flight.

“Phhh,”
I hear myself exhale awkwardly.

Chung, chung, chung
. Like we’re taking off.

“Close your eyes,” he says.

Reluctantly, I close my eyes.

Chung, chung, chung
.

We sit so still, just breathing, listening to the fans. It’s almost like I’m dreaming, because I feel myself growing smaller and smaller, nestled there beside him. Lighter and lighter, like a bird under another bird’s wing.

Chung, chung, chung
.

Keeping my eyes closed, I slowly unclench one hand.
Timidly, I reach out until I find the warmth between his arm and his T-shirt.
Chung, chung, chung
.

I feel him turn and kiss me again. My forehead this time. Then my nose. Then my mouth again.

And just like that, we take flight.

en works his way down some more. The top part of the smoking jacket parts and the straps of the dress shift because the back of the dress is wide open. Before long, the top of my vintage bomber bra peeks out. Len’s bangs brush against my neck and he kisses the tiny embroidered rose that sits smack at center stage. He looks up at me and cautiously traces one finger back and forth along the lace edge of the cups.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

“Shut up,” I tell him.

“Why does that embarrass you?” he asks.

“Because I’m not, okay?” I say quietly, snapping out of the moment for a second. “And I’m actually kind of okay with that. So do me a favor and just don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” he tells me. “I wouldn’t do that. You can trust me.”

I want to tell him that I
never
trust people. I just don’t, okay, and it has worked out pretty well for me so far.

But then he kisses me again.

“And,” he whispers, “I think you’re beautiful.”

I open my mouth to protest.

And then I shut it again.

And I close my eyes.

And kiss him back.

When I get home, much later, I ease the side door closed behind me and tiptoe through the kitchen.

I glance around the counters for a note. No note. I can’t hear the tinkling strains of her yoga music, so I know she’s not teaching. She could be asleep, but I doubt it. It’s not that late. And she can’t be out, because there would be a note. Still, maybe she just ran out for a minute? If I can just get to my room …

“Hi, sweetie.” No such luck. Her posture immaculate, her ponytail like an actual pony’s tail, my mother sprints into the kitchen.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Long day, huh?” She consults her sports watch.

“Uh, yeah.”

“They’re really giving you a workout, huh?” This comment comes with a big grin. She clearly loves the idea of her slothlike daughter getting a workout of any kind.

“Uh, yeah.”
You have no idea
. I hide my blushing face in
the fridge, looking for something edible I can pluck and take with me to my room. “You’re not teaching tonight?”

She reaches past me, grabbing a bottle of water. “Nope. I had a last-minute cancellation.” She sits and removes her scrunchie, shaking out her hair. Then she redoes her perfect ponytail while launching into a monologue. “Actually, it’s sort of funny. Paula, you know Paula, has this dog named Kimba. Is it Kimba? Maybe it’s Simba. At any rate, she was thinking she might be sick, because she was sleeping so much. The dog, that is. And the next thing she knew, the dog climbed into a basket of clean laundry—clean white laundry—and had puppies! Can you believe that?”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice a conversational flyswatter.

“Not just one or two, either!” continues my mom, her voice darting away and buzzing just out of reach. “I think she said there were six of them. Anyway, she cancelled her lesson because someone’s coming over to look at them.” She sighs like this is a major tragedy. “But even if she finds homes for one or two, the rest may have to go. Dorothy’s is a no-kill, right?”

“A … what? Who?”

“Dorothy’s animal shelter. You know. Dorothy Milner?
Your boss?
”

My boss? Oh, no.
Shit, shit, shit!
I knew I shouldn’t have blown that whole thing off. It was so obvious it would come back to bite me eventually.

“I … uh …”
Deep breath
. “Look, I know you’re going to be mad.”

“Mad? Why?”

“The thing is … um, I don’t work there … anymore.”

“You don’t? Since when?” Her voice is as crisp and frosty as a frozen french fry. Which we haven’t kept in the house since Dad moved out.

“Okay, it’s just that … I didn’t actually get that job.”

“I don’t understand. Dorothy said she’d hire you even without …”

“Yeah, see, I got this other job instead,” I interrupt her, talking fast. “And I’ve been going to work every day, honest. I kept meaning to tell you, but I just …”

“What kind of job?” she asks suspiciously. You can tell she’s envisioning me working at the Mooks, or worse.
Well, Mom, I’m an ice cream tester. Yup, they pay me in ice cream, and my job is to sit there on my butt and eat ice cream all day long
.

“It’s at a store. The Clothing Bonanza?”

“The
used
clothing store?” she says, incredulous. You’d never know from the way she says it that she used to embroider smiley faces on the worn-out knees of my overalls and take her most worn-out pairs of jeans and sew on corduroy triangles to turn them into skirts. “The one with the dirty clothes all over the floor?”

“Vintage clothing,” I correct her. “And that’s Dollar-a-Pound. I don’t work on the Dollar-a-Pound floor.”

“You’re working as a …
salesgirl
?” She says it like it’s a synonym for “prostitute.”

“No, I work upstairs. In the Consignment Corner? That’s where people bring clothes that they …”

“I know what consignment is,” she snaps.

“Oh.”

“Do you mean to tell me they actually hired you? Off the street, with no experience, no references, nothing? Do they have any idea how old you are?”

“Yes!”
Well, actually, no
. “Jesus, Mom, I’m not a baby. Lots of kids my age have summer jobs.” I know because I see them all over—the boys who rip tickets at the movies, the girls who walk the summer camp kids around town on those long wrist-leash ropes.

My mom looks like she’s trying real hard not to burst a blood vessel. “Veronica,” she says carefully, “I’m sure you’re doing a
fine
job. I just don’t see why you felt the need to lie to me.”

“Well, gee, let’s see. Could it be because you’re always so busy trying to run my life that I can’t get a word in edgewise?”

“Veronica, that’s not fair.”

“Come on. You decided on this dumb pooper-scooper job for me and you didn’t give a damn what I wanted.”

“I was trying to help. You’ve never had a job before.”

“Yeah, well, I have one now. A good job, something that interests me. The work’s good, the people are good …”

Her radar goes off. “What people?” she says.

“You know, the people I work with.”

“Other girls?”

“Yeah, Mom. I know that sounds impossible, but I actually have friends at my job.”

“Well, that’s great. I know this has been a hard year for you, socially.”
Year?
Try “life.” “Do you know them from school?”