Vintage Veronica (14 page)

“The Nutbuster?”

“You know. Shirley the Squirrelly?” Zoe does her impersonation of Shirley, who, come to think of it, does hold her hands out in front of her like a squirrel begging for an acorn or something. That’s where the resemblance stops. Her body is not unlike that of a
Tyrannosaurus rex:
a broad rear tapering up to a tiny torso and spindly arms. Zoe’s impression of her is particularly funny now that I’ve actually met her victim.

“Been and gone,” I inform them.

“She has?” gasps Ginger. “Oh my God, what did she say? Did she say anything about D.B.W. and Claire?”

“No,” I tell her.

“Wow, that’s weird,” says Ginger. “’Cause she totally came sniffing around the floor. Asking us all these questions about the inventory and taking notes. We were totally sure she was onto them.”

“I told you, she doesn’t know shit,” says Zoe.

“That is so not what you said downstairs, Zo. You said …”

“Nice snake,” says Zoe, changing the subject smoothly. She taps the glass with her long black fingernails.

“Holy shit!” says Ginger. “Is that real?”

“It’s not mine,” I tell them. As soon as the words come out, I regret them. I see the conversation spinning out in front of me.
“Where’d you get it?” “Uh …”

“Oh, yeah?” says Zoe suspiciously, putting her nose up to the glass. “Somebody consign it?”

“Sort of,” I say nervously. Without really thinking, I tell her, “Anyway, I have to get rid of it.”

“For real?”

I shrug. “Nutbuster’s orders.” That makes them laugh, and I have that same jolt of surprise and excitement. I’m still so unaccustomed to having people laugh with me instead of at me.

Zoe puts her nose right up to the glass. “Shit, I’ll take it.”

“Zo!” exclaims Ginger. “Are you crazy?”

Zoe tosses her hair. “Maybe,” she says.

“Seriously, Zo, Maureen is going to totally shit a brick if you bring home a snake.”

“Who’s Maureen?” I ask.

“Zoe’s mom,” Ginger tells me.

“Who says she has to know about it?” says Zoe angrily.

This is news to me. I always figured Zoe and Ginger shared an apartment or lived with boyfriends or something. It has never occurred to me that Zoe might have a mom, much less still be living at home.

Zoe turns to me. “You’re cool with this, right?”

Jesus, no. Of course I’m not. There’s no way I can let her take Len’s snake. But then again, I can’t tell her that it’s Len’s snake. And, in a way, it’s actually my snake. I mean, he gave it to me. And now that Shirley’s told me to get rid of it, I need to find someone to take it. So, in a way, Zoe would be doing me a favor
.

Wouldn’t she? But what about what Len said? “She’s evil;” “She can’t be trusted.” But how well does he know her? I mean, I thought all kinds of awful stuff about Len before I got to know him, and it turned out I was wrong about him. Maybe he’s wrong about her
.

That’s what goes through my head. But in my heart, I know that it doesn’t matter what I think or what I feel. This is Zoe, after all. And with Zoe, there’s only one thing to say.

“Totally,” I tell her.

nce they’re gone, my hand instinctively flies toward the buzzer. I’ve got to tell Len about this unexpected development.

But then I pause, pre-buzz.

I know I should probably tell him, but I just can’t do it. I mean, maybe I’m being silly to worry? It’s sort of mine now, right? So why should he have a problem with me giving it to Zoe?

Well, for starters, because he cares about it
. And also, maybe, because he cares about me. Which is probably why he gave it to me.

Fuck
.

I think about going downstairs to try to get Dep back from
Zoe. I could tell her something, make up some excuse. Maybe just say,
I changed my mind, all right?
I doodle a bit, thinking. I draw a platform shoe, open-toed; then I ink in a snake sliding through it. I hear the door open and for a second I allow myself to hope that it’s Zoe, bringing back Dep.

No such luck—it’s just a consigner showing up for her appointment lugging three overflowing Hefty bags. I can tell by what she’s wearing that ninety percent of what she’s bringing me is going to be unacceptable. There’s a long, printed list of what we don’t take—wedding dresses, maternity clothes, stuff like that—and the consigners all have to read it and sign it when they start. But the truth is, some days I’m just not in the mood to say no. I figure I can always dep the stuff later and let some lucky Picker think he hit the jackpot.

The consigner is gone and I’m up to my eyeballs in stained maternity clothing when Len comes back. For a second, I try to remember what I buzzed him for. Then I remember what I didn’t buzz him for.

“Hey,” he says. “You busy?”

“Uh, yeah,” I tell him. “Sorry, now’s not so good.”

“Okay,” he says. “We’re pretty slow downstairs. Want me to stay and, uh,
help
?” He says the word “help” like it’s our private code word, which gives me a momentary thrill. Unfortunately, I’m still a little preoccupied with the whole snake situation.

“Yeah, no. That’s okay. Thanks,” I say, ignoring his tone and scrutinizing a purple nightgown with bleach spots. I can’t look at him. It’s only a matter of time. And not much time, I’m guessing.

“Where’s Dep?” he asks.
Bingo
.

“Dep?”

“The snake. Dep the Snake?”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, remember how I told you The Nut—I mean, Shirley—said I had to get rid of him?”

“You sent him down the chute??”

“No!” I almost laugh at the thought. A snake in The Pile. Now, that would liven things up in boring old Dollar-a-Pound. I imagine Bill holding his seltzer bottle out in front of him like a fire extinguisher. “Back it up, snake, man!” he’d yell, defending his precious Pile by soaking the snake and everything in sight.

Len is not laughing. He looks pained.

“Well, then, what did you do with him?”

“I, um, I found someone who was willing to take him.”

“Who?” demands Len.

Dreading his reaction, I say quietly, “Um, well, you know that girl Zoe?”

“You’re kidding,” he says, a look of alarm crossing his face. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“I told you I’m not good with slimy things,” is all I can bring myself to say.

He stares at me in disbelief, then shakes his head and turns to leave without saying anything else. Of course, he moves like a wounded turtle, so I’m actually able to walk over and cut him off. I touch his arm and try to catch his eye.

“Len, hey? Look, it was a bad idea,” I say.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“I just—I dunno. I just thought …”

“I thought I could trust you.”

“You can!”

Len makes an angry snorting noise.

“Look, I screwed up, okay? But I can fix it. Let me fix it.”

“Don’t,” he says sharply. “You’ve already done enough.” And then, more quietly, “I really thought you were different.”

His bangs shield his eyes. Angrily, he shakes me off and pushes past me. Though I could catch him again (twice, probably) before he gets to the freight elevator, I let him go. He presses the button, then waits, his back to me.

“Len!” I yell across the floor, causing the Lunch Ladies to look up in unison like a flock of startled sheep.

Len doesn’t even flinch.
Goddammit
. I know it wasn’t probably such a great idea, but the intensity of his reaction surprises me.

He says nothing, doesn’t turn my way, and just boards the elevator when it comes. I have this funny lurching feeling as I watch it go down. It’s almost like part of me is riding with him. I feel my stomach jumping up into my head on the way down.

Look, something happened and I need the snake back
. That’s what I’m going to say to Zoe.

When I find her.

I want to fix things with Len badly enough that I’ve decided to venture down to The Real Deal for what I hope will be a quick snake repossession, no questions asked. However, Zoe seems to have vanished. I check the dressing rooms and the cash registers. She’s not in the wig section or over by the
thigh-high vinyl boots or by the rainbow curtain of feather boas. She’s not under the motorcycle that hangs from the ceiling or next to the rearing unicorn statue. The decade racks—Fifties, Sixties, Seventies, Eighties, and “Contemporary”—turn up nothing but a bunch of Florons I don’t recognize. A few of them look like Zoe—dark blunt-cut hairstyles, fishnet stockings, Glam eyeliner. But none of them are six feet tall.

I listen intently for Ginger’s nervous laugh. I probably wouldn’t hear it over the sound system blasting The Cure, but I strain for it anyway.

Goddammit. Why the hell did he give me his dumb snake in the first place?

Maybe this is for the best, I realize. I mean, let’s face it. Zoe and Ginger aren’t dumb. They’re going to put two and two together sooner or later and figure out that something’s up between me and Len. And when they do, they’re going to have a field day. I’m not going to be their cute, funny Spy Girl anymore. I’m going to be one of the store’s many freaks to them, like Bill and Len and Shirley. You know her, that freaky fat girl who’s hot for the Dead Boy.

But that doesn’t have to happen, because now, without even meaning to, I have clearly offended The Nail to the point where he won’t ever talk to me again. Which is good, right? Problem solved, trouble averted.

Then why am I headed down the stairs instead of up?

Oh, right. Because, without actually meaning to, I kind of fell for Len with the inexplicable swoon that I usually reserve for particularly quirky pieces of Bakelite jewelry. The boy just
got
to me. So now, even though I’ve somehow flubbed things to the point of providing myself a convenient out, I don’t want to take it.

“Hey, Bill.”

“Veronica, hey! What’s shaking, baby?” Bill’s T-shirt du jour reads
REALITY IS FOR PEOPLE WHO CAN’T HANDLE DRUGS!

“Not a lot.” My voice is flat, no-nonsense. “You seen Zoe?”

Bill looks crestfallen. He shakes his head.

“All right. Thanks,” I say, heading back toward the stairs. Bill calls after me.

“Hey! She might’ve just gone out to the Mooks. I think I saw her, but that could’ve been a while ago. It’s been like a revolving door down here, man. Lenny punched out, this one’s on break, that one’s on break. All play and no work around here today.” Bill scratches his chin thoughtfully. “Actually, I could use a smoke myself. If you want, you could go with me and, like, check for her?”

“Yeah, okay.” Like I have a choice. Bill nods to this guy Earl, who also works on Dollar-a-Pound.

“Going out for a while, man,” Bill tells him proudly. Jesus, you’d think we were off to the freaking prom.

Earl scowls back to show this is fine by him. He looks like he’s been to prison. He’s bald, with a thick neck and a mustache like an upside-down version of the handlebars on one of those banana-seat bikes. Once I noticed there were letters tattooed on several of his fingers, but I’ve never gotten close enough to read the words. Earl calls out as Bill holds the door open for me.

“Yo, Bill! Get me an apple fritter.”

“Ten-four, good buddy,” says Bill, sounding pleased to serve as Earl’s foot soldier. As if this makes him tough by extension.

We walk down the block, Bill smoking and chatting away. He tells me about how Earl’s parole officer came by the other day, but she came while Shirley was on Dollar-a-Pound, so Earl freaked out and hid in The Pile. On account of how it was okay for parole to know he had a job at the store, but it was NOT okay for the store to know he was on parole.

“Aw, man, I just about lost it, you know? It was so funny! But meanwhile he was seriously losing his shit. You know?”

“Seriously,” I agree, even though I’m not really listening. I’m looking at the crowd out in front of Mookie’s, lots of people clustered like there’s some kind of fire drill going on. Just then there’s a siren, and from around the corner a cop car comes flying.

“Shit, man,” says Bill, stopping suddenly. I know Bill’s feelings about the police well enough to know he’s not going any farther. I stand there with him and watch in total disbelief while the cops go in and come out a few minutes later.