Vintage Veronica (27 page)

I flip through my final rack: a Greatest Hits of my consignment days. All the stuff I could not bring myself to send downstairs. Many of the items I have sketched are there: the blue sailor dress, a pale yellow silk dressing gown with a scalloped lace hem, a dogs-playing-poker Western shirt, Ginger’s favorite—the beaded flag dress—and the burgundy smoking jacket I wore that night with Len.

As I’m perusing the rack, saying goodbye to my favorite garments, I hear a quiet voice say “Veronica?”

I turn, and there’s Len.

“Hey …” I drop the sleeve of the smoking jacket, feeling self-conscious. “I was just—hi.”

“Hi.” His voice is flat. “I came by to see Violet. I’m thinking I should take her back, probably.”

“Listen, Len, I can watch her.”

“That’s okay.”

“Yeah, but what are you going to do?”

“I’ll manage.” His face is grim.

“Look, Len? Bill told me.”

“Bill told you what?”

“About your cancer, you know, coming back. Don’t be mad at him, okay? He thought I knew.”

“Oh.”

“I guess he’s worried about you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I am, too,” I admit.

“I’m going to be fine.”

“Okay.”

“They need to run a bunch of tests, that’s all.”

“Sure, okay.”

“Don’t get all weird. See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you about this in the first place. You were the first person who ever just treated me regular.”

“I won’t get all weird,” I say.

“Look, I haven’t had a very normal life so far, okay?”

“Yeah, well, me …,” I start to say.

Quickly, he puts his hand up. “Just let me say this,” says Len. “The way I walk, that’s from the cancer and all the operations I had to have. It’s not from being in a car accident.”

I nod.

“But there was a car accident. It happened when I was five, but I wasn’t in the car. My mom was in the car. She had been drinking. A lot. She didn’t die, but she crashed into another car and two people in that car did.”

“Whoa.”

“Yeah. Plus, she was completely trashed, and it was, like, her tenth deewee, so they locked her up for a really long time. And she got out after I was diagnosed, but she started drinking again and using drugs and stuff, so I just kept living with my grandmother.”

“And your dad?”

“No idea. Never met him.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. So my mom’s been pretty much dead to me ever since then. But at the beginning of this summer, she got into a program and my grandmother went to stay with her and make sure she stayed straight. Which she did—barely. So now she’s making all kinds of promises that if my grandma lets her come live with us, it will be okay.”

“Oh.”

“Which it probably won’t, but I kind of need to give it the best shot possible. My mom and … everything. You know?”

“Sure,” I say, nodding like
I’ve been there
but still reeling from these developments.
Cancer. Drunk driving. Car accident
.
Dead people. Jail. Drug treatment. More cancer
. My problems suddenly seem extremely small and pathetic.

“I just want you to know I wasn’t using you.”

“I know,” I tell him.

“I never wanted to lie to you. But then, after everything that happened with Dep, I wasn’t sure I could trust you with all this. It just seemed, I dunno, easier this way. I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” I say quickly. “I mean, I’m sorry, too. For …” My voice trails off as I think about the many ways in which I’ve mistreated Len.

“For everything,” I finally say.

“It’s okay,” he says.

And it feels so good to hear him say it that I lean in and, for the first time ever,
I
kiss
him
.

His mouth stays firm.

“Veronica,” he says, and—
oh God
—“I’m sorry.”

“Oh. I …”
I’m such an idiot
.

“I just can’t … do this.”

“Okay, sure.”
I can’t breathe
. I feel a wave of tears rising up.

“I should probably take Violet back.”

“No,” I say, clinging to words to keep from bawling. “That’s okay. I can watch her.” Where, I don’t know, since I’m taking my stuff home today. But I’m not exactly thinking clearly right now.

Len looks hugely relieved. “Can I see her?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say. I remove the boot box lid. Len frowns.

“That’s not really going to work as a long-term habitat.”

“You think?”

Len gently removes Violet and holds her to his chest, stroking her head and whispering to her. I feel a pang of longing, watching his tenderness with her.
Okay, this is ridiculous
, I tell myself.
I can’t be jealous of a lizard
.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says when he finally puts her back.

“No problem,” I say, as casually as I can muster.

Len goes to put the box lid back on and accidentally bumps into me. And then he hesitates for a second and he looks like he’s going to say something. And I get this fluttery feeling like I did in the split second just before he kissed me that first time.
Maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe it’s all going to be okay
.

But just then, the door to Employees Only! slams open, making me jump.

“Jesus,” I say.

“Noooo … guess again,” murmurs Zoe, grinning like a maniac.

Ginger, at her side, giggles nervously.

h my God. Zoe, you scared me,” I say.

Len steps away from me, looking uncomfortable.

Ginger is carrying a cardboard drink tray with three large coffee cups, and Zoe has a huge Mookie’s bag. Zoe looks at me, then at Len, then at me again.

“I’m sorry, did we interrupt something?” asks Zoe, batting her eyes, all innocence.

“No,” I say quickly.

“We just thought you might appreciate a little pick-me-up! And since the new assistant manager at the Mooks was
giving
things away, we figured, why not get enough to share with our good friend Vee?”

While she talks, Zoe walks over to the couch and deposits
herself onto it. Ginger goes over to my desk and sets the drinks down on it, then sits on my desk chair. I stand there uneasily.

“What’s that smell?” asks Zoe.

“What smell?” says Ginger.

Zoe sniffs the air, then makes a face. “It smells like something died up here.” She looks right at Len.

Ginger stifles a laugh.

Len’s eyes narrow. Without a word, he turns and lurches off toward the freight elevator.

“Ta-ta!” yells Zoe, waving. “Bu-bye, Dead Boy.”

“Hey, what’s this?” asks Ginger, sliding the coffee can over and holding up the envelope marked
Claire
.

“It’s nothing,” I say.

Zoe raises an eyebrow, then jumps up and snatches it from Ginger. Without hesitating, she plucks a pair of scissors from the coffee can and snips off one end of the envelope.
Don’t
, I plead silently.

“Hmmm … it looks like our dear friend Vee is quitting.”

“What? Lemme see,” demands Ginger, reaching for it.

Zoe holds the note out of Ginger’s reach, her lips moving as she finishes reading it.

“Apparently, Vee here is leaving. Why is that, Vee, exactly?”

“Well, for one thing, I have school.”

“Reeeeally?”

“Yeah. It, uh, starts in two weeks.”

“Interesting,”
says Zoe, doing her Shirley imitation. “Is that really why, Vee?” Her face contorts into an exaggerated
pout. “Or is it that you don’t want to hang out with us anymore?”

“That’s not it,” I say.

“Or maybe you’d rather run off with your new
amour
? Muss-yer Dead Boy?”

“Don’t call him that.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! Do you call him something else? Isn’t that sweet. Let’s see. Maybe … ‘King Cobra’? That’s romantic. Or how about ‘Komodo Dragon’—is that it? Or maybe …”

“Shut up,” I say, my heart pounding.

“You know what I think, Ginger?” asks Zoe, her eyes beginning to flicker dangerously. “I think we’ve been had by Little Miss Two-Faced here.”

“Zo,” says Ginger in a warning tone.

“What? Come on, you know it’s true. We were like fricking hostesses to her. We took her in, showed her the ropes, let her join our exclusive club. But meanwhile, she was always holding out on us.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, looking hard at Ginger.

“What am I talking about? Let’s see. You’re all,
‘Oh, he’s such a loser. Oh, he’s so weird,’
when you’re totally fucking banging the freak! You tell us,
‘Gee, he’s taking stuff! I wonder what he’s up to?’
when you know exactly what he’s up to, because you’re his bitch! I mean, just look at this rack! You’ve been snagging all the best shit and hoarding it up here to send out with him.”

“That’s crap,” I say.

“Hey, cut the shit,” snaps Zoe.

“Look, Zoe,” I try, taking a deep breath. “I know you don’t believe me, but it’s really, really not like you think it is. I’m not swiping clothing to resell it. Len’s not swiping clothing and selling it. There’s no big crime ring. No money. Nothing.”

“Uh-huh,” says Zoe, shooting a look at Ginger. “Sure. I suppose he’s just taking things to start his own clothing line.
For lizards
.” She snorts with laughter.

I look at Ginger.
I fucking trusted you
.

Ginger looks away.

Zoe stalks over to the rack of all my favorites and grabs a handful of hangers. “Hmm, nice,” she says, admiring the silk bed jacket. She turns to me. “Well, gee, if these clothes really aren’t worth anything to you, I guess you won’t mind if I get rid of them?”

She plucks two hangers, the dresses pirouetting from their wire gallows, and strides over to the chute. Before I can say a word, they’re gone. Zoe tosses the hangers down, too, and goes back for more.

Back and forth she troops with my favorites, every one. I can tell she’s waiting for a reaction, hoping each new twist of the knife will generate a cry for mercy. I keep silent, watching her with pure hatred, refusing to let her think she’s won.
It’s only clothes
, I tell myself.
Like Bill’s Rule Number Four: There’s always more hats
.

Zoe keeps on depping my treasures until only one item remains: the beaded flag dress.

“Not the flag dress!” says Ginger, making pleading puppy dog eyes at Zoe.

But Zoe’s on fire and she can’t stop. She’s like this Greek
god in a cartoon they showed us at school once, Zeus standing at the top of the world emptying a big sack of lightning bolts one by one, then groping around the empty bag for more. She looks around eagerly.

“Where is it?” she asks.

I follow her gaze …

To the boot box on my desk.

“That’s nothing,” I say. “It’s just an old box. There’s no boots in it or anything.” My words are reasonable, but they come out much too fast. I stand there, watching as Zoe studies me, then gets a whiff of my fear. And smiles.

“Oh, okay,” she says.

Then she extends her long black pointer fingernail and slllloooowwwly lifts one corner of the box.

“Well, what have we here?” she says.

“Look, please,” I say. “Just leave her alone, okay? She’s my pet and she’s sick, so I need to …”

“Who keeps a fricking alligator as a pet??!! Jesus!!” Zoe looks at me like I’ve sprouted an extra head or something.

“She’s not an alligator,” I say. “She’s a blue-tongued skink. And she’s got a rare bone condition.” Suddenly, I sound a lot like Len.

“You,” says Zoe accusingly, “are a freak. So’s your boyfriend. And your fricking freak of a pet.”

“Zoe, please. Don’t hurt her,” I beg.

Zoe laughs, long and loud.

“Don’t hurt her,”
she says mockingly. “Or what?”

“Zoe, look, I was going to tell you …”

“Shut up!” she yells. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. It’s
fricking insulting. You weren’t going to do shit if it meant crossing me. Dumb-ass.”

She cocks her head, as if she’s considering what she should do to me.

“I had you convinced I used to be a pathetic little fat girl like you. As fucking if.” She shoots me a look like,
How dumb could you possibly be to believe that shit?
“The worst part is, I actually felt sorry for you and I went out of my way to help you. I can’t fricking believe this is the thanks I get for all I’ve done for you.”