Vintage Veronica (18 page)

“Damn, Mandy,” I hear one say.

“Right?” answers her friend, sticking her butt out a little more and wrinkling her nose, obviously pleased.

Zoe leans in. “Apparently, he came to work with …”

Ginger can’t restrain herself. “With a lizard in his pocket!” she blurts out.

“Oh, no,” I say.
Violet
.

“Oooh, yes,” says Zoe, victorious.

“Zoe heard the whole thing through the cat door!” gushes Ginger.

“Who knew you could stoop so low?” I say.

“I took gymnastics once,” says Zoe proudly.

“Is that the grossest, freakiest thing you’ve ever heard?” crows Ginger, one hand over her mouth.

“It … uh, wow,” I say, my stomach lurching. “So what happened?”

“Uh, hello?” scoffs Zoe. “The Nutbuster does not fuck around. She totally fired his ass.”

“Big-time,” says Ginger.

“That is so unbelievably …” I want to say “sad,” but I’m keenly aware that Zoe and Ginger are awaiting my comment.

“…
nasty
,” is what I finally say.

“Totally,” agrees Ginger.

“I mean, what if he’s been carrying it around for, like, weeks?” I add, trying to keep up my cover, but feeling like the biggest traitor of all time.

“Ewwww!” shrieks Ginger.

“What if it’s dead or something?” adds Zoe.

“Ewwww!!!” Ginger hits a higher note.

“Yeah,” says Zoe, leering. “Think about all those times he’s stopped by to get a rack from you, and meanwhile, while he’s looking at you, he’s got his hand in his pocket and he’s stroking his dead lizard …” She pantomimes the scene, doing Len as a drooling zombie with one hand going a mile a minute against his thigh.

“Ewwwwww!!!!” shrieks Ginger again. And I just can’t help it—when the two of them bust up laughing at Zoe’s ridiculous impersonation, I smile. One of the blond girls looks over at us, and I feel a jolt as I recognize the look on her face. For a moment I feel shaky and scared, but then it dawns on me that
she’s
experiencing the afraid-someone’s-laughing-at-me feeling, not me. I’m over here with Ginger and Zoe, safely sitting pretty on the other side, for the very first time.

“Oh, lizard, lizard!” cries Zoe, plucking a platform shoe from a display and batting her eyelashes at it. She tosses it to me. I catch it, realizing all of a sudden that she is cueing me to perform.

Okay, it is clearly time to put a stop to this. I should just fess up to the fact that not only is Len not the insidious thief they want him to be, he’s actually kind of becoming my
boyfriend. Which is not such a big deal, right? I mean, they’re supposed to be my friends. They could maybe even put aside their disdain for Len and be happy for me?

So I stand up tall, ready to give my speech.

But Zoe and Ginger are staring at me expectantly. Ready to laugh at my antics, ready to sing my praises, ready to weave me tighter into their cozy little web.

Their web indeed
, I realize with a rising sense of dread. Like a spider binds a fly that it is about to devour. Everything’s fine as long as I do what is expected of me. Play their games, laugh at their jokes, echo their opinions. But one false move and I’m lunch.

“I, uh … I mean …” I hesitate. I pet the shoe nervously, which makes both of them start to laugh. I guess they figure this is part of my act. I freeze, unwilling to keep doing their bidding but unable to find the words to make them stop.

Impatiently, Zoe grabs the shoe back. She strokes it furtively. “Oh, my darling, darling lizard,” she cries out. “They’ll never understand about us.” Ginger hoots with laughter, clapping her hands, and Zoe grins from ear to ear. She plants a big fat kiss on the shoe.

It is then that I see Len, whose ass does not appear to have been fired after all. He is standing behind a Z-rack that he has been slowly, quietly pushing in the direction of the dressing rooms. When he turns abruptly and lurches off in the opposite direction, he moves faster than I ever knew he could.

Len, wait!
I think.

“Fucking freak,” says Zoe, picking at a hole in her fishnets.

“Totally,” says Ginger.

When I get back upstairs to the Consignment Corner, I press the buzzer and, for the first time ever, I hope Len will come. All those times I rang and rang, dreading the sight of his woebegone self, and now here I am, wishing I could snap my fingers and make him magically appear.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzt. Bzzzzzzzzzzt
.

Nothing.

Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzztttt
.

Still nothing.

Reluctantly, I call down to Dollar-a-Pound.

“Y-ello?” says Bill.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Veronica! What’s new, pussycat?”

“Uh, not a lot. Listen, I’ve got a lot of stock for pickup. Have you seen Len?”

“Lenny? Ooh, you know what? You just missed him. He punched out maybe—oh, I dunno, five, ten minutes ago?”

“Oh … okay, thanks,” I say.

“You know, it’s pretty dead down here. If you want, I could come up and get the racks?” There’s a hopeful note in his voice.

“No, that’s okay.” It’s just about the last thing I need. “Thanks anyway.”

“Hey, that’s cool,” fronts Bill. “Later, baby.”

“Later,” I say.

I consider my options. Len’s probably left the store, and I’m sure I could find him if I ran out after him, seeing as he probably hasn’t gotten far at his usual pace.

But what would I say?

That it was all a big misunderstanding?

That, despite how it looked, I don’t go along with Zoe and Ginger … anymore?

That one of these days I’m actually going to work up the nerve to tell them about us, I swear. Really!

Yeah, that ought to go over great.

Finally I arrive at a plan that I like: I will leave early and go to Len’s, but I’ll just leave him a note or something and give him time to cool off. I convince myself that this is for the best.

So I open up my sketchbook to a blank page.

No.

No.

Goddammit! No!

I rip out the page and toss it at the trash can, missing by
a mile. It is hideously hot in Employees Only! today, which makes everything that much more awful. I am sweating so bad that I actually consider taking off the dress I’m wearing. It’s just me and the Lunch Ladies up here, after all, and the Ladies won’t care if they see my stack of fat rolls upholstered by the tight cotton of the T-shirt I’m wearing underneath. Several of them appear to have tucked their own blouses into their bras and shoved wadded-up handkerchiefs between their boobs to keep themselves marginally cooler.

The current heat wave has taken its toll on Employees Only! One of the Lunch Ladies actually passed out from the heat earlier this week, causing the ever-frugal Shirley to grudgingly address the situation by providing the Ladies with a case of tiny battery-equipped plastic fans. Each Lady now has one at her station and periodically raises it and waves it around her head. When they do this, it looks like they are crossing themselves, which is quite possible since some of them do that a lot, too.

“Hot enough for ya?” my dad always used to say to the vendors at the outdoor fleas. I’d watch them guffaw appreciatively at his lame joke. Even then, I could sense their naked desire to trade their attention and flattery for his money. The thought of my dad makes me wonder how hot it is in New York right now. If my dad’s going to the fleas there. If he’s happy.

I kick my shoes under my desk, adding them to a pile I keep down there. I hitch my dress higher and reposition the fan under my desk so it blows air up my skirt like Marilyn
Monroe’s in that old movie. I’m not going to last much longer in this heat without a smoothie, that’s for sure. But the rush of cool air on my thighs gives me the strength to flip through my sketchbook in search of more blank pages. Without really meaning to, I stop on a page of sketches I made of Violet.

She really is a beautiful creature. I’ve almost forgotten. Her skin is so smooth and silky, and the markings on her back are as intricate as a tapestry if you look close enough. Her eyes meet your gaze with the keen flicker of intelligence, something I keep thinking I’m imagining and then I look into them again and see it anew.

In some of the drawings, she’s alone, in her sleeping bag or sunning herself on Len’s windowsill. She looks up at me with those smart, knowing eyes of hers and it feels almost like she’s looking right through me.

Hmmph
, she says,
I thought I knew you. Guess I was wrong
.

It’s not like that
, I protest, but I can tell she’s not buying it. I flip the page to avoid her disappointed stare.

In a couple of sketches, I drew Violet framed in the fabric of Len’s hoodie pocket. Len’s hand was captured in these drawings as well, his soft, long fingers extending like a shelf for Violet to rest on, his fingertips curving slightly upward to cradle her. I’m surprised to see that one of the drawings of his hands doesn’t entirely suck. It actually looks like Len’s hands.

Len’s hands.

I almost feel sick, is how it feels. What is my problem? How come for once in my life, something good happens and then I have to go ahead and fuck it up?

I start to cry, but I wipe my eyes violently to keep the tears
from dripping on the page. With a sharp, decisive tug, I rip this sketch from the book. Then I take my pen and carefully print the simplest of messages at the bottom of the page:

I study my note, then crumple it up and toss it at the trash can. Another miss.

“Fuck!!!” I scream in frustration.

I steal a guilty look at the Lunch Ladies. Some of them have turned and are looking my way. I wouldn’t have thought they could hear me over the noise of the pressing machines.

“Sorry,” I say, though none of them reply. I turn back to flipping through my sketchbook.

“Hey.”

I jump at the sound of the voice and slam my sketchbook shut. I turn and see that Len is standing behind me, his backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Oh my God, you scared me,” I say back, feeling nervous, yet relieved. We’re clearly off to a good start—he’s speaking to me.

“Sorry,” Len says lightly. “I just wanted to say goodbye.”

“Oh my God, seriously? You’re fired?”

“Yeah, uh … it’s actually a long story. Bottom line is, I’m not going to be working here anymore. At least not for a while.”

“But why?! Not because of us, right?”

“No.”
Whew
.

“Is it because of Violet?”

Len’s mouth contorts into a reluctant, bitter grimace like he wants to tell me, but instead he just says, “Not exactly. It’s kind of complicated.”

“Well, that totally sucks! What are you going to do?”

“I dunno. It’s just … I mean, the thing is, I’m okay with this.”

“Yeah? Well … okay.” I’m not convinced, but what am I supposed to say? Oh, yeah. I suppose I should say what I was going to say in my note.

“Len? Listen, um, about what happened downstairs?” I can’t bring myself to actually say it:
About when Zoe and Ginger were laughing their asses off at you and I just kind of stood there?

“I don’t want to talk about that right now,” he says curtly. “I need to ask you a favor.”

“Um … okay.”

“My grandma’s coming back next week and I kind of need to have Violet stay someplace else. Is there any chance you could take care of Violet while I’m … I mean, while she’s here?”

“For how long?”

“Well, a month … maybe two.”

“A month? Wow, I don’t know,” I stammer, caught off guard by his request. “I mean, there’s no way I could take her home. And if I kept her here … Well, it didn’t work out so well last time.” Understatement of the year. “If Shirley found out, I’d probably get fired, too.”

Len waves his hand at me. “Yeah, bad idea. That’s okay. Forget it.”

“I thought your grandma was okay with your pets.”

“Yeah, well. It’s just … it’s complicated.”

“Plus, aren’t you, like, mad at me?” I ask.

“Yes, I am,” he says quietly. “But this isn’t about you, okay? It’s about Violet.”

“Oh.”

“I guess I feel like even though you act like you don’t give a shit about anyone, maybe, deep down, you might actually care about Violet.”

“I do,” I tell him, finding one of his eyes through his bangs to make sure he knows I’m serious.
Say the rest
, I tell myself.

“Also, I don’t have any other options.”

Say it!
I scream at myself.
“I care about you, too.” Say it!

But I can’t, because I can’t bear to hear him say what I know he’ll say.

That he doesn’t care about me and he never will again.

So instead of saying anything, I hold out my hands and I carefully accept the flannel-wrapped bundle from him. It is surprisingly compact. And warm, from his pocket. I find a large boot-sized shoebox under my desk—which reminds me uncomfortably of Dep—and gently place the swaddled Violet on some folded newspapers inside it. I combine several piles of paperwork to make room on top of my desk for Violet’s makeshift habitat.

I bend and focus my desk lamp to shine on her, and I bring Elvis over, too, since Len says she needs a strong external heat source. I cut down three extra-large smoothie cups to make
water dishes for her (skinks need a lot of water, apparently) and poke some airholes in the box lid. I promise to feed her dog food morsels with a pair of chopsticks, and I make a mental note to buy some cans on my way in the next day.

“She might move around in there a bit,” he tells me. “If you hear her crash into the side of the box, don’t freak out. She’s just used to having more space.”

As if to emphasize his point, the boot box kind of jumps. Len lifts the lid and gives Violet a gentle stroke with one finger, not unlike the way he caressed the edge of my bra. The memory makes my throat feel raw. I turn away and perform unnecessary adjustments to the desk lamp.