Vintage Veronica (6 page)

“Second grade,” she says meaningfully to me, before announcing loudly, “for your information, I am NOT a bitch. What I am is refreshingly honest. Most people just can’t handle that.”

Ginger gives a rueful snort.

I look at what I’m holding. It is a small laminated school portrait, maybe two inches by three inches, of a little girl. She’s wearing a light blue shirt with the top button unbuttoned. She has very short bangs, tight pigtails, and several chins. She’s smiling so hard that her eyes are almost closed, like she’s Chinese or something.

“You were fat?” I say, trying to comprehend that Zoe ever wore light blue, much less that she was ever a fat little kid. She seems like she was born in black vinyl boots and fishnets.

“Hello?! Not was. IS, baby. It’s just that now I’m, like, six feet tall, a’ight? Trust me, it’s
aaaall
still there. It just has more places to go.” She shakes her shoulders and kind of bobbles her head for emphasis.

“Oh,” I say, handing back the picture. Zoe looks at it herself for a moment.

“I always hated it when people offered me food, too,” she tells me. “Acting all nicey-nice but totally moving in for the kill.”

For a moment, Zoe seems lost in the memory. Then she sort of waves it off and tucks the photo back in her purse. She flashes her signature toothy grin.

“So relax,” she says. “One fat bitch to another.”

She takes a donut from the bag and hands it to me.

“Seriously,” she says.

I hesitate for a moment, but it is no use. With Zoe, you don’t get a lot of choices. Besides, it is strawberry-frosted, with rainbow sprinkles. The pink glaze blinks sleepily in the bright sunlight. What can I say: I’m a sucker for sprinkles.

“Attagirl,” says Zoe. “So, what do they call you?”

I have no idea what she means, so like an idiot I say, “Who?”

“Your friends. Do they call you Vee or something?”

I don’t have any friends. I mean, I had one for a little while, but she cleared out pretty quick. And there’s Bill, I guess, but he doesn’t really count
. Somehow, I don’t think the truth is the way to go here.

“Uh, actually, everyone just calls me Veronica.”
Except my dad
, I think. He calls me Ronnie. Only he hasn’t called me anything in about six months.

“I like Vee,” says Zoe. “I’m going to call you Vee.”

“O-kay,” I say, trying to act nonchalant. I’ve never been called anything that wasn’t basically a slam on my size before. I feel myself slipping it on and liking it.
Vee. My friends call me Vee
.

“Donut, Zo?” asks Ginger.

Zoe makes a face and pushes the bag away.

“Please, I’ve had like twenty. I’m good.”

I take a bite of my donut. The glaze is warm and melts on my tongue. The sprinkles are stale in a good way, crunchy and sweet.

“Soooo, how’s life upstairs?” Ginger asks me.

“Um … okay.” I chew, stalling. I’m not quite sure how much to tell them.

“Oh my God, it must be so much fun,” gushes Ginger. “I had to go up there a few times last year, and every time I did I just couldn’t believe some of the clothes you get in
cun
… I mean,
con
signment.”

“Oh, yeah?” asks Zoe, who seems bored by any conversation that does not revolve around her.

“Totally. One time there was this dress that was made entirely out of beads and it was in the pattern of a flag …”

“It’s still up there,” I tell her.

“No way,” says Ginger. “Shit, I was sure Claire snagged it.”

“Ha-ha. Pay up!” says Zoe.

“Fuck,” says Ginger. She digs a wadded-up bill out of her pocket and hands it to Zoe. “It’s this dumb bet,” she explains. “I STILL say Claire’s a klepto.”

“It would seem that Claire is a total
cun
-undrum,” says Zoe. “Ha-ha-ha.” She wiggles the bill, making the president do a little dance.

“This doesn’t prove shit,” insists Ginger. “I had my aunt drop off a ton of good stuff with her, really valuable shit, just to see if she’d take the bait, and none of it ever made it downstairs.”

“So you think she stole it?” I ask.

“Totally.” Ginger gives me an impatient look, like I’m the densest person she’s ever met. “I mean, think about it. Upstairs, there’s nobody watching. A blouse here, a pair of
shoes … some of that stuff can fetch a pretty penny online, if you know what you’ve got.”

“I guess,” I say.

“Totally,” repeats Ginger. “Some of that merchandise has huge resale value, if you know where to take it. I’d be tempted to get in on that action myself, but on the floor there’s no way.”

Zoe nods. “There’s cameras all over the store. If anyone on the floor swipes stuff, the management cans them so fast, they skin their asses on the staircase.”

“Well, okay, so today Claire hasn’t showed up or called or anything. Do you think she got fired?” I ask.

Ginger shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Okay, okay,” says Zoe, clapping her hands. “New topic. Vee, are you banging Barnacle Bill?”

“What?”

“From Dollar-a-Pound, you know,” says Zoe, leaning in excitedly. “Well, are you?”

“No! Oh my God, did he say something?”

Zoe and Ginger laugh.

“Nah,” promises Ginger. “He’s just, well, sort of …” Ginger’s voice trails off.

“Hard up?” I ask, my hackles rising.

“Not
that
hard up,” snorts Zoe.

“Shut up!” yells Ginger. “That was, like, once and it was a million fucking years ago.”

“On the gooooood ship Loll-i-pop …,”
trills Zoe.

Ginger smacks her with her purse, a gigantic hobo bag. “Shut UP!” she hisses again.

“Ow!” complains Zoe, pouting.

“Why do you call him Barnacle Bill?” I ask, both out of curiosity and to end their squabble. Zoe grins. “Because Sailor Boy gave Ginge here a bad case of the crabs.”

“Jesus, will you shut up? It was just a fricking yeast infection. I am so never telling you anything ever again, I swear.” She crosses her arms.

“Yuck,” says Zoe, making a face. “Nasty.”

Just then I notice someone leaving the store and starting to walk in the opposite direction. I can tell immediately that it is The Nail because of that odd walking-on-eggshells way he moves.

“Man, what is with that guy?” I gripe.

“Who?” asks Ginger. Then she looks and elbows Zoe. “Hey, Zo, look. D.B.W….”

“D.B.W.?”

“Dead Boy Walking,” explains Zoe. “He calls in sick all the fricking time. One of these days he’s going to call in dead.”

“Oooh, who would you rather do it with, Vee?” squeals Ginger. “D.B.W. or Bill? Death is not an option!”

“Except for D.B.W.,” I say, which cracks them up.

I get a little thrill when I make them laugh, and I’m tempted to tell them about my own nickname for Lenny, even though that would mean telling them the whole story about Kay and Kurt. And on top of that, I get an even bigger thrill realizing that it is not obvious to them that I have never done “it”—even in the loosest sense of that word—
with anyone yet. Unless you count letting my cousin stick his hand up my shirt at a Fourth of July picnic last summer.

Which I don’t.

But before I can say anything, I suddenly notice a familiar pink sleeve hanging out of The Nail’s backpack.

H. MY. GOD. He stole them!” I say, pointing at The Nail walking with his pack on one shoulder, a pink flannel sleeve dangling out of the top flap. “That asshole stole my pajamas!”

“Why do you keep your pajamas at work?” asks Ginger.

“I don’t. I mean … they’re not mine exactly, they just … arrghh …” I flap my hands like I’m trying to dry them, not sure how to explain. “They came in as consignment and they’re really good. I told him not to take them, but look!”

“Ohhhhhh!” says Zoe, drawing in her breath sharply. She elbows Ginger. “Oh my God, he’s totally working for Claire!”

“No WAY!” says Ginger.

“Of course, he’s like her slave! It’s perfect.”

“Totally!” Ginger’s black-rimmed eyes are huge.

“You’ve got to follow him!” says Zoe.

“Follow him?”

“Of course!” she says. “See where he goes, if he meets up with her or if they have some secret warehouse or whatever. Come on, don’t you totally want to know?”

“I guess,” I admit.

“So go after him! We’ll cover for you.”

“Yeah, I dunno.” I think about the great job Zoe did covering Dollar-a-Pound for Bill.

“Seriously, we’ll take care of it. I promise.” Zoe gives me this intense look, like she’s reading my mind. “Go on, follow him. Investigate. Find out what he’s up to. And then, when you’ve cracked the case, come back and find us. Okay, Vee?”

“Yeah, yeah, totally. We want to hear
everything
!” Ginger is practically jumping up and down.

Since they clearly aren’t going to take no for an answer, I get to my feet.

There’s really not a lot of choice with Zoe.

So I start down the street after The Nail.

Given the fact that Lenny moves like a snail, I quickly realize that I will catch up with him in no time. At which point it dawns on me that I don’t want to do that. I’m not sure why. As terrifying as it sounds, I sort of like the idea of me running after him in this crazy layer cake of a skirt, yanking
the incriminating evidence from his bag, yelling accusations, and then stalking off triumphant.

And yet I can’t bring myself to actually do it. I start walking slower and slower until it’s like I’m doing an impersonation of him. I don’t exactly think that Zoe and Ginger are right about Len and Claire. But it suddenly occurs to me:
What if they are?
What if Claire does have Len doing her dirty work? I mean, why else would he take a pair of old flannel pajamas … girls’ pajamas, no less? Unless he’s a total perv and he needs them for some sort of weird pervy stuff that he does that has nothing to do with Claire.

Or everything to do with Claire.

I suppose this means Zoe and Ginger are right. It definitely seems worthy of an investigation.

But why me?
This is so not me, this girl detective thing. I never got into reading that Nancy Drew stuff, or signed up for the Puzzlebusters Club, or whatever überdork activities you do if you give a shit about getting into college. Sure, I can tell Bakelite from plastic from across the room. I can tell you whether a beaded cardigan is authentic or reproduction, and I know all the original colors of Fiestaware by heart. But that kind of knowledge was not really obtained out of a desire to go on some sort of bizarre stakeout of the weirdest boy on the planet.

Besides, let’s say Ginger and Zoe are right and The Nail and Claire turn out to be partners in crime, running a big vintage clothing resale business off stolen merchandise and pocketing all the money they pull in. Why exactly am I supposed to care? I mean, yeah, okay, it’s wrong. And it’s pretty insulting to think that they thought they could get away with
it right under my nose. A thought comes to me suddenly—maybe Claire hired me because she thought I’d be too dumb to suspect anything? I imagine her sitting at the desk that is now mine and laughing to herself.
Perfect, I’ll hire this one. She’ll never catch on
.

A wave of anger takes me out of my dream, and my mind is immediately filled with another thought. What if Ginger and Zoe are the ones who are playing me? What if they think this whole thing is hysterical, filling my head with imaginary crime rings and devious collaborations between unlikely partners? What if sending me out here was simply an elaborate scheme to have a good laugh at my expense?

As The Nail carefully turns a corner and I hang back to avoid overtaking him, this strikes me as the most likely scenario. I picture them back by the dressing rooms, Zoe bending over the counter with her butt in the air, pretending to be me snooping around—The Incredibly Gullible Fat Girl Detective—while Ginger hums the
Mission Impossible
theme song:
“Doodley-doo, doodley-doo, doodley-doo, DA-da.”

Yet for some reason I continue to follow him. I put on my cat’s-eye sunglasses, well aware that they conceal nothing. That dumb refrain loops through my head:
I am the nail, I am the nail, I am the nail …
It makes me think about Kay again. Me and my big dumb mouth. If only I had just shut up about her asshole of a boyfriend, we’d probably still be friends now. We’d be hanging out and having fun, working some lame-ass summer job together. Instead of me wandering around, acting out some dumb Nancy Drew story:
The Case of the Purloined PJ’s
.