Vintage Veronica (19 page)

By the time Len leaves, he seems satisfied with Violet’s temporary setup.

“Thanks,” he says, all business.

“Len …,” I start to say.

Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me
, I plead silently.
Or maybe just touch me on the arm. Just a little tap to tell me everything’s going to be all right. I know I don’t deserve one more chance, but please give me one anyway, okay?

“What?” His tone is guarded, accusing.

“Nothing.”

ou know when something bad happens and you think things couldn’t get any worse? For me, that’s always a sign that things are about to get even worse.

It’s like when I went to the dentist and found out I had four—four!—cavities. And then the hygienist, who was kind of hefty herself, did this whole “tsk, tsk” number and gave me this big speech like it was my fault. And THEN, when my dad took me out for ice cream after (I guess he figured, what the hell, the damage was already done), he dropped the bomb that he and Mom were splitting up and he was moving out.

My downward spiral of bad luck starts, of course, with Len witnessing the unpleasantness by the dressing rooms
and deciding to hate me forever. But the next day, things take a turn for the even worse. I leave for work in a decent enough mood, all things considered, because it has occurred to me that by keeping Violet I have ensured that I will have at least one opportunity to see Len again. I dress nice just in case today’s the day: an old baby-blue prom dress with an elasticized sequined tube top and a full tulle skirt (plus an extra crinoline to get that giant layer-cake skirt look I love so much), with a V-neck men’s undershirt, boxers, and my two-toned creepers on underneath. I pick up two cans of Mighty Dog and an iced mocha smoothie on my way in, expecting to spend the morning pouring out my troubles to Violet and strategizing how to get Len to give me a chance to explain.

But when I get to Employees Only!, I find that I have company. Zoe and Ginger are sitting there, waiting for me, in the Consignment Corner.

I have the uneasy feeling that this isn’t their first trip upstairs. Maybe because they seem too comfortable up here. Maybe because I found one of Ginger’s Hello Kitty baby barrettes next to my chair when I came in one day the week before. My nervousness ramps up when I realize that Zoe is sitting at my desk, less than two feet from where the spotlights are shining on Violet’s boot box. It appears to be untouched and the lid is on, as I left it. But still, too close for my comfort.

Zoe is staring at the computer monitor, pecking at my keyboard and trying unsuccessfully to log on to the store’s
consignment inventory database. Meanwhile, Ginger is trying on the flag dress over her clothes. She cringes guiltily when she sees me, but doesn’t take the dress off.

“Hey, Vee,” she says loudly, glancing at Zoe.

“Vee, do you have access to this?” asks Zoe without looking up.

“To what?”

“The store inventory database.”

“Oh, yeah, no. No one ever gave me the access code. Claire had it, but since she’s been gone I haven’t been able to use it. I log stuff in by hand.” I babble nervously, my mind racing.
Why are they here? How can I get them to leave?

“Mmm … I see,” says Zoe, narrowing her eyes.

“Nice dress,” I say to Ginger pointedly. Her hair, which now has a couple of blue tendrils mixed in with the pink, looks like an ironic patriotic statement.

“Right?” she says, pleased. “Sorry, I’ve just been dying to try it on.”

“Sure,” I say.

Neither of them says anything, which is unusual, so I say, “What’s up?”

“Oh, we just thought we’d come up here to chat with you,” purrs Zoe innocently. “Why? Is anything ‘up’ with
you
?”

“Uh, no?” I look to Ginger, but her back is to me.

Zoe stretches in my chair, sticking out her chest and raising her hands to the sky. She’s holding a closed ballpoint pen in one hand, and when her arms come down she begins to
move it in circles around the cover of my sketchbook, which I suddenly realize is sitting right there in front of her on the desk.

Did I leave it closed?

Or open?

“Reeeeally?” says Zoe. “Because Ginger and I were wondering about something, but we didn’t want to
draw
any conclusions …” She pats my sketchbook for emphasis.

Open.

“Zoe, I don’t know what you …”

“Ah, but I DO know what YOU,” says Zoe, wagging the pen at me. “And let me be the first to say, Mazel tov!”

“But I …”

“Vee and Dead Boy, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G,”
sings Ginger. She grins and elbows me. “Sooo, how is he?”

“Yeah, Vee. Tell us,” says Zoe. “Is the Dead One a live one?”

“It’s not like that,” I say cautiously.

“Oh, you’re no fun!” says Zoe. “C’mon, you can tell us. That’s what being a Secret Spy Girl is all about. Sharing!”

“I thought it was about snooping.”

“Yeah, okay, snooping and sharing.” Zoe is all smiles. “Seriously, Vee, are you and D.B.W….”

“We’re not, uh … I mean, it’s not …,” I say, unsure of what to tell them.
We weren’t, and then we were, but now I’m pretty sure we’re not, but I wish we still were …

“She’s being coy,” says Zoe to Ginger.

“Don’t be coy!” says Ginger.

“It’s sweet,” says Zoe. “But so unnecessary. Plus, it’s great for us! We’ll get in on the action and have some fun, clearly.”

“What action?”

Zoe stands up and sighs dramatically. “Vee, darling. Please. We both know you’re smarter than that.”

“Look, Zoe …”

“There’s nothing to worry about, Vee,” coaxes Zoe. “Nobody has to find out! You said it yourself—the password left with Claire. You’re the gatekeeper now: all the consignment clothes have to come through you. So you’re the key to making it all look legit. You send stuff out with your lover boy, Claire sells it, we all split the money. Everybody’s happy.”

What can I say to convince them they’ve got it all wrong? As if they’d listen to me.

I glance at the shoebox sitting innocently on my desk. Maybe they’d believe me if I showed them Violet? Poor, sick Violet, wrapped up in the torn-off piece of pajama sleeve. I try to imagine Zoe melting at the sight of Violet. I picture Ginger tenderly stroking Violet’s head while Zoe coos words of regret and apology to me.

Yeah, right.

More likely, they
still
wouldn’t believe me.

Plus, what if they took it out on Violet? To them, Violet’s probably no different from Dep.

“Besides,” adds Zoe, “I don’t know if your boyfriend clued you in on this, but there’s some serious money to be made.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say.
Anymore
, I think to
myself. “Really,” I add, sounding particularly pathetic. I wish there was some way I could explain or get them to help me.
Let’s say he was my boyfriend, but then he changed his mind about me. And let’s just say, I dunno, I wanted to figure out a way to get him to maybe start liking me again
. I look from Zoe to Ginger helplessly, searching their faces for some tiny little glimmer of compassion.

Nothing. They both look determined to break me and get me to confess to my crimes. I’m surprised they don’t pick up the desk lamp and shine it right in my eyes.

Desk lamp. Violet.
Oh God. Please don’t let them find out about her
.

Just then, the phone rings. I hesitate.

“Go on,” dares Zoe. “Take it.”

“Hello?” I say.

“Hey … Veronica, man, it’s Bill? Listen, do you think you could come downstairs for a minute?”

“Now?” I ask.

“Uh, yeah, I guess. Unless you’re, like,
in the middle of something
?”

He leans really hard on that last part, and it suddenly hits me that he knows Zoe and Ginger are up here and are up to no good. But how? And why is he doing something about it?

“Um, okay, if it’s, like,
urgent
,” I say, echoing his tone.

“Yeah, urgent, that’s right.” He seems pleased to have communicated so effectively. “So you’ll be right down?”

“I’ll be right down.” I hang up and turn to Zoe and Ginger.

“Shit,” I say, trying to look despondent.

“Nutbuster?” asks Ginger. I nod.

“That old dyke doesn’t know shit,” scoffs Zoe. “Play dumb with her and you’ll be in the clear.”

I nod some more. Zoe seems satisfied.

“Go on,” she commands, grabbing me in a kind of big impromptu bear hug, then kind of shoving me toward the stairwell.

“But,” I say, realizing that as much as I don’t want to stay, if I go and they snoop around more, sooner or later they’re going to lift the boot box lid and discover Violet. Probably sooner.

My mind races to find a way out of this mess. But Zoe clearly isn’t going anywhere. And if I try to nonchalantly pick up the boot box, they will sense that its contents are worth investigating. I weigh my options, all of which seem useless. Maybe I should just …

“Can’t keep The Nutbuster waiting,” Zoe says briskly. “Don’t worry. We’ll continue this conversation”—she pauses and raises her artfully painted eyebrows twice for emphasis—“later.”

Why should I be surprised? There’s never a lot of choice with Zoe. Slowly, I clomp down the stairs, praying they will not discover Violet while I’m gone.

I find Bill sitting on his stool behind the register next to the big scale, clutching a seltzer bottle. For once, he is not wearing a T-shirt. Instead, he has on a button-down shirt, a skinny tie, and suspenders. Same holey jeans, as usual, but from the waist up he looks like an algebra teacher or something.

He hops to his feet when he sees me.

“Veronica!” he says. “Hey, what’s shaking?”

“Not a lot,” I say.

“Yeah?” he says. “Oh … okay. Listen, there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”

“Yeah, listen, thanks,” I tell him. “You really kind of rescued me.”

“Oh, yeah?” he says.

“Yeah, I mean, I don’t know what they think is going on, but they’re really getting kind of psycho about it.”

“They?” he says.

“Zoe and Ginger,” I say. “That’s what this is about, right?”

“Um, well, uh, not exactly,” he stammers, setting the bottle down on the counter and fiddling with his tie. I think it might have come from The Pile. Up close, I can see that although it looks like a solid color, it is actually a black-on-black print of piano keys.

“Then …”

“It’s just that I’ve been talking a lot with Earl? You know, because he’s in the program?”

“The program?”

“Twelve steps? You know, like AA?”

“Oh … sure.”

“Anyways, he’s been telling me how one of the steps has to do with making peace, speaking the truth, and some other kind of shit. And I was in the bathroom the other day …”

“Okay, too much information,” I say. Lord only knows what Bill does when he hides out in the bathroom at work.

“No, not like that. I was at home taking a shower, and it just, like, hit me, man. I realized that I’ve never really told you how sorry I am about the way I used to act with you.”

“Bill? Um, I think you have.”

“No, not really. I know that when you came over to my place to watch movies, well, I wasn’t always such a gentleman. You know?”

Unfortunately, I do. The truth is, Bill did a lot of less-than-“gentlemanly” things during our movie-watching days. Basically, after a few bong hits, he pretty much forgot I was there and did what I can only imagine he did when nobody
was
there. Farting, burping, picking his teeth, rolling empty seltzer bottles under the couch, and—my personal favorite—popping open his top jeans button and falling asleep with both hands tucked snugly in the waistband of his briefs. I often finished the nachos myself, then left mid-movie while he dozed.

Meanwhile, I so totally cannot deal with this right now. I actually thought that having Zoe and Ginger ambush me with my sketchbook was the “things get worse” part of today, but clearly that was just the appetizer course.

“Bill, look? That’s, um, sweet, but I gotta go.”

“Oh. Uh, okay. Maybe we can talk later or something?”

“Yeah, later,” I say.
Much later
.