Vintage Veronica (13 page)

“No. I mean, this one boy goes to my school. I mean, he did.”

“A boy?” Immediately, I wish I hadn’t brought him up.

“Yeah.”

“Is he one of your friends?”

“Yeah. I mean, kind of.”

“And do you and your friends get together after work? Do they invite you over to their houses?”

Get together after work?
I picture me and Len on the couch. I feel my cheeks getting hot. Not quite what she has in mind, I’m sure.

“I mean, yeah, uh, I guess,” I stammer. “Not a lot. Okay? Jeez, what’s the big deal? I thought you wanted me to have friends.”

“I do want you to have friends, Veronica. You know that. It’s just that …”

“What?”

She sighs. “Sweetie, I just worry about you. I’ve just seen you get hurt before. It’s just, well, you know. Girls can be cruel.”

“Yeah, well, like I said, one of my friends is a boy.”

She gives me a really serious look. “Boys can be worse. A girl like you needs to be careful, Veronica.”

“A girl like me?”

She looks impatient. “Veronica, look. I have nothing against boys. Some boys are fine. However, some boys know
that a girl who hasn’t had a lot of attention before will do anything to get it. And so they take advantage of that. Do you know what I’m saying?”

“This boy’s not like that, Mom,” I say, rolling my eyes and trying to sound nonchalant.

“I hope so,” she says.

She doesn’t sound very convinced.

In my bedroom, I stay awake for hours, playing and replaying every little detail of the evening in my head. The way he leaned in when he kissed me the first time. The way I kissed him back. Did I know, on some level, where things were headed when I told him he could help out? Did I actually want him to kiss me? And if I did, did he know I did? Yikes, did he think I was coming on to him with that whole
“You need to try these pants on”
business? I mean, I wasn’t. But if he thought I was, did he kiss me just because he thought it was what I wanted? Or because the way I was acting made him think I’d let him?

Good God, could my mom be right?
Did I seem like I was just trying to get his attention? Like I was desperate for his attention?

No way, I tell myself. Jesus, he was as nervous as I was. Maybe more. Plus there was all that stuff he said. About how I looked. And how I could trust him.

But he had his eyes closed. A lot. And it was dark. Was that because he didn’t want to look at me? Oh God, why did I let him talk me into putting on that stupid sausage casing of a dress? And why did I wear that ridiculous pointy bra to work today? I mean, I didn’t know when I put it on that
anyone would actually
see
it. But I must have looked like such a freak to him.

But then I think about how he looked at me. How he kissed me—right on my stupid bomber bra even. How he seemed so genuinely grateful that I let him near me.

I turn onto my side, close my eyes, and start to drift off to sleep. With one finger tracing up and down my bra strap and the other hand tucked between my legs, trying to trick my mind into believing that my hand is his.

The next morning, I wake up early, no alarm. I start to put together one of my usual aggressively idiosyncratic outfits, but I just can’t help myself. Instead, I pull out my favorite dress. It is a peach taffeta prom dress, with rhinestone spaghetti straps and a frothy, multi-tiered tulle skirt. It didn’t fit when I got it, so I ripped out the side seams and added contrasting accent panels of salmon taffeta. It is the goofiest, sappiest thing I own, and yet my love for it defies reason. I put on a men’s T-shirt underneath it to hide my bra and my flabby upper arms, the part my mother refers to as “mermans” (even though her own arms are chiseled) after some fat dead singer who had them. I have this pair of peach Bakelite combs that match the dress and that I always consider wearing with it but generally decide not to because they’re a little too matchy. Skipping my usual pigtails, I shove the combs into my hair and stand before the mirror.

I practice smiling at myself, then make a face.

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

I’m dressing up for The Nail, for God’s sake.

I brush my teeth twice, sniff my pits a thousand times, consider and reject the idea of dipping into my mom’s makeup supply. By the time I get out the door, I’m running late. Not hideously late, but late enough that if I actually had a boss, I’d be in some minor amount of trouble.

I stalk down the block at twice my usual pace. My tulle layers whoosh-whoosh against my legs as I march along. In my head, to the beat of my stride, I suddenly hear that old refrain, only with new words:

Kiss-ing The Nail, kiss-ing The Nail, kiss-ing The Nail …

Gonna kiss that Nail, kiss-ing The Nail, kiss-ing The Nail …

Despite myself, I can’t help smiling at the thought.

When I get to the store, I scramble in through the loading dock, successfully gambling that Zoe and Ginger will not be around but will have left the door propped open in flagrant disregard of the sign. This saves me the fifteen minutes I usually spend trying to extricate myself from conversations with Bill, Zoe, and Ginger on the lower two floors. Instead, I can clomp straight up two floors to Employees Only!

My mad dash comes to a grinding halt when I arrive at the Consignment Corner. Because when I get there, I immediately notice that someone is already there, waiting for me. Waiting on the couch, specifically—Len and my couch from last night.

At the sight of me, she rises and extends her hand.

“I’m Shirley,” she informs me. “You must be Veronica.”

Shirley has an inch of bright blue eye shadow over each eye, an upswept hairdo crowned with a giant clip shaped like a butterfly, and no chin, just a ski slope from her mouth to her neck. She’s dressed in a military-looking polyester suit with a constellation of brass buttons. It’s lime green, so she looks like a giant pear in it. I’m not exactly one to talk, but she has an extremely wide butt.

Zoe, who likes to be an authority on everything, will later describe Shirley as, and I quote, “batshit crazy.” But when I meet Shirley, I don’t know this. Due to where she’s sitting, I assume that Shirley is the new Claire. After all, Claire is now Long Gone (much of her personal stuff—several plastic trolls, a grass skirt and a flower lei taped strategically to her computer monitor, the bust-of-Elvis lamp—remains in place as a sort of shrine to her memory), though the reasons for her leaving have never been shared. At least not with me. I no longer expect Claire to reappear, but it has crossed my mind that at some point the Powers That Be might send someone upstairs so I don’t have to keep doing her job as well as mine.

But Shirley turns out not to be the new Claire. She explains that she is a floor manager (I immediately think:
Floron
manager) and that Claire will be replaced “shortly.” She then turns the conversation to another topic: efficiency. She has a way of emphasizing certain words with her index fingers. Sort of like a flight attendant pointing out the exit rows.

“You may not be
aware
of it,” she tells me, pointing to both sides, “but the store’s
efficiency
is at an all-time low. If
improvements
are not made, there may need to be
oversight
to
determine the causes of inefficiency and to address the
exigencies
of the situation.”

I nod. I have no idea what she is talking about.

Eventually, I realize that it comes down to this: she’s bugging me to move the consignment goods faster.

How? Shirley is full of opinions.

“Dep this!” Shirley says briskly, plucking a windowpane lace blouse I rescued and tagged during the marathon session Len and I had with the backlogged intake. “In fact, dep the whole rack.”

“O-kay,” I say, startled to hear someone other than Claire and me use the word “dep.” I suddenly realize that Shirley’s mannerisms seem so familiar because she must be the manager I’ve seen Zoe impersonating. Having her come to Employees Only! is unsettling. By definition, Florons, and the managers of Florons, never leave the retail floors. Plus, Shirley’s clearly oblivious to the fact that I spent the better part of yesterday evening carefully culling the very items she’s now telling me to toss down the chute.

She starts digging through some of the trash bags Len and I didn’t get to when she quickly stands up.

“What on earth?” she says.

I look, fearful that I’ve left my sketchbook out.

But no. She’s looking right at The Nail’s snake.

“That’s not … really mine,” I tell her, which probably sounds about as stupid as any lie I could have made up.

“Really?” she says, dubious. She peers inside. “What kind is it?”

“I have no idea.”

“Hmmmm …” She smiles. I don’t. “Problem is, the health department is supposed to make an unscheduled visit this month, so I’m afraid you’ll have to dep the snake.”

“What?”

Shirley smiles, her non-chin slipping into the abyss. She has these gray smoker’s teeth. “Just get the snake out of here, okay?”

After she leaves, I buzz Len. Repeatedly.

He finally emerges, wearing the tuxedo jacket (I insisted he keep it) over a dark gray hoodie sweatshirt I’ve never seen him wear before. He looks ridiculous, since it is about a hundred and ten degrees up here. But also bulky and cute, sort of like a kid whose mom has made him wear extra layers to go play in the snow.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he echoes. “Wow. Nice dress.”

“Yeah?” I say, wrinkling my nose. I want to tell him that it’s actually my favorite, but I suddenly feel self-conscious, so I don’t. “Nice jacket.”

“Thanks.”

He pats my fluffy skirt lightly.

We both grin like idiots.

It’s bizarre. I can almost convince myself that nothing happened last night. That things are the same as they ever were. But they’re so not. And just knowing that gives me a little charge that makes me want him to kiss me again, right now, in front of the Lunch Ladies and everything.

“What’s with the hoodie?” I ask.

“Huh? Oh, I got it from Bill.”

I cringe. Now’s probably not the best time to tell him not to take fashion suggestions from Bill.

“Look, we have a problem.” I tell him about Shirley and how she said to “dep the snake.”

“Hey, that’s it,” he says.

“What’s what?”

“The name we’ve been looking for. ‘Dep.’ Dep the Snake?”

“Len, seriously, you’ve got to take it home. I could get in trouble.”

Len grins.

“Guess I’d better not let her find out about this.” He moves the side of the kangaroo pouch over to reveal that inside it he is cradling Violet, her nose and one nubbly black foot protruding from her pink vintage flannel snuggle sack. Her eyes look crusty.

“Len?!” I yell.

Len looks guiltily over his shoulder, though none of the Lunch Ladies are paying any attention to us.

“Are you crazy?” I ask him, lowering my voice to a whisper. “What if someone saw you? Plus, is that even good for her?”

Len covers her up with the pocket again. “I read somewhere that they do this kind of stuff for, like, babies that are born too early? And this zoo in Australia has started doing it for immature bats, too.”

“Yeah, okay, but last I checked, Violet’s not a bat.”

Len sits down at my desk and sighs. “I’m just not sure
what else to do for her. I don’t think she has that much longer.”

Just then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the door to Employees Only! open. From behind it peek two heads: one high up, with jet-black Cleopatra hair; the other, much lower down, with long white-blond, pink-streaked ponytails.

“Len, listen, you gotta go. I’ve got work to do. Here, take this rack downstairs.” I grab a Z-rack and yank it away from the wall.
“Come back after,”
I whisper.

I practically shove the Z-rack at him, cringing as I do because as soon as it is in motion, I realize that if I knock him off my chair, Violet’s health may become even more compromised. Luckily, Len blocks the rack with his arm, then uses it to pull himself off the chair.

“Later,” I say, though not in a snotty way. As he lurches across Employees Only!, pushing the rack, Ginger raises her eyebrows at Zoe and they practically run across the floor to my corner.

“Oh my God, D.B.W.! Yikes! What did he want?!” Ginger practically drools at this development.

“Um, it’s, like, his job? To get stuff from me? He’s the store runner?” I try to sound nonchalant, but my heart is racing. Even though my head insists,
They don’t know; they can’t know
, I can’t help but worry,
Yeah, but what if they do know?

“Yeah, but did he ask you about anything? Does he know we’re onto him?”

“Uh, no. He’s, like, the definition of clueless.” The snide comment rolls off my tongue, but it leaves a bad aftertaste in my mouth.

“Totally,” agrees Ginger. “What a freak.”

It would be a good moment to say something in Len’s defense. Maybe I could just kind of say something and stick up for him without quite letting on what happened last …

“Ooh, nice dress,” says Ginger, admiringly, pinching my skirt and holding it out. “Turn around.”

I obey, twirling in place. The moment to rush to Len’s defense evaporates—poof!—just like that.

“Not bad,” says Zoe. “The fleas?”

“Yeah, but it needed a little, you know, fixing up here and there.”

“You did that?” asks Ginger. “Get out! You’re so creative.”

“Mmm-hmm,” agrees Zoe, nodding.

Just then, Ginger shrieks. “Zo, oh my God! Check this out! Did I tell you?” She reaches up to admire the flag dress.

Zoe ignores her and looks around carefully, sizing things up.

“So this is The Land of
Cun
—I mean, Consignment.”

“Yeah. What are you guys doing up here?”

“What, you’ve never seen a Floron off the floor before?”

I feel my face get hot. Zoe grins and waves a finger in my face, scolding me.

“Didn’t know we knew your bitch of a boss calls us that, eh? Live and learn, honey. Miss Zoe knows all.”

Ginger grabs my arm urgently. “Vee, we came up here to warn you. Something’s up, and I think you’re about to get a visit from The Nutbuster.”