Dictatorship of the Dress (9780698168305)

by Topper, Jessica

“KISS minigolf!” Nate roared, throwing up the devil horns. “Are we there, or what?”

  “Please,” Mike scoffed. “I’m working on getting us some real tee time. Shadow Creek, homey.”

  He slung an arm over my shoulder, and one over Jules’s. We started to walk and shoot the shit, with Nate bouncing to our left and our right like an excited puppy. It was as if we had never left the quad in the dorm, freshman year. All we needed was—

  “Um, guys?” Jules pointed toward the indoor waterway winding through the “streets” of Venice.

  Tim was floating by in a gondola, singing Styx’s “Come Sail Away” in falsetto as the bored-looking gondolier steered the craft.

  “Dude, what the hell is a pomander ball?” my best friend hollered, his voice carrying through the fake canal tunnel as he glided under the bridge.

  I laughed, not wanting to get into the specifics of the sphere-shaped flower bouquets that Sloane insisted her bridesmaids needed to carry by loops of silk rope (probably spun by imported silkworms at nine dollars an inch).

  “When she gets really excited, she calls them ‘kissing balls,’” I informed him, following the boat from above, to where it eventually docked with little fanfare.

  “Ha, you should be so lucky.” Tim hopped out, and I swear there was a twinkle in his eye. “Come with me, lads. We’re hitting old Vegas tonight,” he said conspiratorially.

  “Cheap tables and loose women?” Jules asked.

  “Or loose tables and cheap women?” Mike countered.

  “Affirmative.” Tim clapped twice. “So let’s get the lead out. Noah and I’ve got a mission to plan.”

  • • •

  I had my credit card linked to my e-mail account, so anytime I made a purchase I would receive an electronic receipt. Charges started rolling in the next morning, and I just had to trust that Tim knew what he was doing: Cine-Prop Picture Cars, Inc.; Viva Vegas Theatrical Rental; Look-Alikes Party Starters, LLC; Samson’s Surgical Supply. But when he called to casually inquire about my credit limit, I knew he was going for broke. Literally. “My pilot buddy’s friend has a Hawker 800 on an empty leg to pick up some high-stakes gambler on the Big Island and bring him back here for the weekend. It’s a one-way private charter at a third of the cost.”

  Slightly more expensive than lily of the valley imported from Holland off-season.

  “Go for it,” I commanded.

  “Yes!” he hissed in victory. “Now this is the ultimate bachelor party! What’s going to happen in Vegas later today . . . ain’t going to stay in Vegas after all.”

  Warren was clicking in. “Hey, I have to take this call. Just don’t get yourself court-martialed, okay?”

  • • •

  “You’ve been staring at those bananas all morning. I don’t think they are going to ripen any faster on your watch,” Sloane said.

  I dragged my eyes away from the complimentary fruit basket that sat on the dining table of our sumptuous suite. Of course there was free fruit; there was complimentary everything when you shelled out the per-night charge on a suite of rooms like this. And it would sit untouched, because Sloane was a picky fruitophobe. And I would be gone.

  “You should finish getting ready. We’ll be late for brunch and the Jubilee tour.”

  Sloane was lounging on all the pillows of the bed, flipping through a trashy women’s magazine.

  “You should read this.” She licked her finger and turned the page. “It’ll teach you how to treat me better.” She held it up so I could read the headline: Understanding the Italian Man.

  “You’re half an Italian man,” she snorted, “so at least some of it should apply.”

  I thought back to Laney’s question about the mysterious middle initial of my monogram. The name she had called melodic was one the Bidwell family would rather hide away as a dirty little secret. Luciano was just a little too ethnic for them even to list on the wedding invitation betrothing their WASPy daughter to me.

  “Like?” I asked drily.

  “It says that Italian men are very romantic and they should make their women feel really special when they are around them. Women are very important in Italian culture. That’s why men always give them whatever they need and desire.”

  I stood up and wordlessly made my way into the bathroom. Everything was exactly where it had been the night before: my toothbrush, my toothpaste, my hairbrush. But none of it looked familiar.

  “Oh, and that you are protective and possessive of who and what you love,” she called after me.

  I splashed water on my face, then slowly wiped it dry, watching my movements, dreamlike, in the mirror. Behind me, a new pair of pajamas, courtesy of Sloane, hung from the hook.

  “Ha! Listen to this: ‘Italian men can often be stubborn and unbending so make sure that you are ready to accept his decision or opinion. The only time they may change their minds is when their mother tells them to.’ Maybe I should take your mother’s calls more often.”

  I buttoned my shirt, fresh from the laundry service. I had taken Bidwell’s advice and had had my suit pressed as well.

  “I swear, you’re worse than a girl! Hurry up in there.”

  My red Converse sneakers were waiting for me by the door. My computer was already over in Tim’s room.

  I was taking nothing else.

  “Let’s get out of this place,” I said to my reflection.

  • • •

  The Wicked Spoon brunch put Laney’s Eighteen-Wheeler breakfast to shame. Like most of Vegas, it was supersized, decadent, and completely over the top. Many items were miniature replicas of larger entrees, tempting you. Try me! I’m so small. Just a bite. You can leave me behind if you want. It’s all-you-can-eat buffet!

  Guests ladled plate after plate of the food, pacing themselves, strategizing, and wasting much too much. The servers were there to quickly whisk away any evidence of leftovers, your plated sins flying back to the kitchen to be scraped in the trash, sanitized back to white and sparkling clean, and stacked back on the buffet for you to start all over again.

  I sipped my coffee and watched my soon-to-be-ex-future in-laws under the spell of the Wicked Spoon. Bidwell treated the place like he treated his business, acquiring load after heavy load. He’d pick and choose back at the table, give his approval of some items and utter dismissal of others. He pink-slipped the mashed potatoes but promoted the meat loaf to the center of his meal.

  Anne brought everything back to the table sneakily, guiltily. Probably obsessed with body image and weight her whole life, Sloane’s mother ate with no enjoyment. She tiptoed around the fatty skin of the fried chicken and made excuses for the five different desserts she sampled.

  Sloane had begun with gusto, but quickly grew tired of it all. She had nibbled her way through every food group and meal—breakfast, brunch, lunch, dinner, and dessert—and seemed depressed she had no food prospects on the horizon to look forward to for a few hours. She moaned about fitting into her dress, rubbing her personally trained flat abs.

  I had chosen wisely and partaken in moderation enough food to keep me moving through the day. I had tossed my white cloth napkin on the table a while back, indicating surrender. But my mind was already on freedom.

  A tiny dollop of spun sugar from the dessert counter sat untouched on Sloane’s plate as she chattered with her mother about the Jubilee backstage tour and the outfits we were about to see, and which of her bridesmaids had the body type to make her wedding wardrobe choice—Vera Wang silhouettes in the color “blush”—look as stunning as a showgirl. All talk always revolved around her and came back to: what else? The Wedding. It was loaded with all the anticipation that the ultimate reservation at a hot new restaurant held: coveted and bragged about, reserved months in advance, menu thoroughly researched. Yet Sloane was likely to be let down with the actual experience after all the hype leading up to it. Bored by the
time the check came. And if I went through with it, I’d be left holding the bill for the rest of my miserable married life with her.

  The spun sugar sat, pristine, in front of her. It was the perfect size for its pure sweetness, perched on a tiny silver paper cone. Unlike the bright pink candy floss of my memories from the fair, this was a pastel rainbow cloud, studded with small silver dragées.

  I tasted Laney on my lips. I smelled her on my clothes. Her warm sugar scent hit my memory triggers.

  If Laney was like the cotton candy at the fair, light and fun, Sloane was like the ridiculously huge stuffed prize that you wanted so, so bad the minute you laid eyes on it. The one you just had to win. So you played the game. All the other kids looked on, envious, as you lugged it around the fairgrounds with you all day. But soon you realized your folly; it slowed you down, and you were stuck with it.

  “Noah!” Sloane had barely glanced at me through our entire meal, but now she was staring, wide-eyed. “I was going to eat that!”

  Not today, I thought, as the last bit of cotton candy dissolved on my tongue. I felt lighter, less burdened, as we left our table, than I had when we arrived.

  • • •

  Our Jubilee tour guide was a fresh-faced girl from North Carolina named Mandy. She was still just “a bluebell,” she confided, and hadn’t been promoted to dancing topless just yet.

  “I’ve been here five years, so here’s to hoping!”

  “Five years!” Sloane exclaimed. “I’d be lucky if I lasted a week!”

  I was banking on lasting twenty minutes, tops. I had entered the VIN and license plate number of Tim’s rental vehicle into GoToHail so I could track it, and it was about ten minutes out.

  Mandy gave us a quick walk-through of the stage before we headed into the inner sanctum. The costume room was an explosion of colors. Shimmering outfits, sequined and encrusted with Swarovski crystals, abounded. “Feel this Bob Mackie,” Mandy insisted, dropping a sparkling sapphire gown into my arms. And I had ribbed on Laney for having to carry her mother’s heavy dress load.

  “That baby weighs thirty pounds,” she informed me. “Can you imagine carrying yourself up and down five hundred stairs on four-inch heels wearing that every night?”

  “Nope.”

  Laney had told me I’d make a horrible drag queen. And she was right.

  “Here’s my very favorite costume—the bride,” Mandy said.

  Everyone oohed and aahed at the showstopping ensemble, which included rhinestones, white feathery wings, and a halo. “I think I need a halo, too,” Sloane sighed.

  I sneezed, and she shot me a wary look. “You’re not getting sick, are you? It’s probably the germs from all those planes you sat on. Disgusting.”

  “Now remember,” Mandy tooted, “pictures are encouraged. The headdress room is next, and not to be believed!”

  She led us into a small room that was like a Crayola box, stacked with feathers of every size and color imaginable.

  “They use feathers from ostriches and vultures,” she was saying, “dyed to order. Each headdress can take up to four weeks to assemble, as they wire each feather individually.”

  I had stopped listening. Taking a huge breath, I stepped up and willingly stuck my face into twenty pounds of bright yellow, dusty feathers.

  • • •

  “Oh, my God. Should I call security?” Mandy’s voice wavered, betraying a little of that Carolina accent.

  “Maybe 911 would be better, don’t you think, dear?” Sloane’s mom suggested, forever looking for approval from her husband. My eyes were quickly swelling, but I could feel Bidwell hovering, inspecting my transformation. I could smell the two screwdrivers he had had at brunch as he breathed over me.

  “What is wrong with him?” Sloane wanted to know.

  “Feathers,” I croaked. “Allergic.”

  “Since when?” she demanded. “I never knew this.”

  “Since always. But you never bothered to listen, because everything has always been about you.”

  My ears felt host to a thousand angry bees, buzzing and stinging. I knew the feeling would move down my throat soon.

  “But . . . but that’s impossible,” she sputtered. “The entire bottom of my gown is tulle and feathers. It’s a chapel train!”

  Talk about a straw breaking the camel’s back. For me, it was a lone feather, slowly rocking back and forth in the air as it descended. It took its own sweet time to finally land, and it snapped me right in half.

  “Sloane, I’ve been an afterthought in this entire relationship. Why should that change now?” I bellowed. Even Bidwell looked taken aback.

  The itching had reached insane levels. I wanted to scratch my face off, tear my shirt off, and stick my head in a vat of ice water. Where was the Chicago snow when I needed it?

  “I’m calling security.” Mandy sounded more authoritative now.

  “Air,” I managed. “I just need. Room to breathe.”

  I felt my phone buzz in my pocket, indicating my GoToHail page was fulfilled and waiting at street level.

  “Here, take the emergency exit.”

  I felt hands—Sloane’s cool ones and Anne’s bony ones—on my arms, leading me. I could hear the flat slap of Bidwell’s soles leading the way.

  “There’s an ambulance now.” My boss sounded eager to hand me off. “Not surprised; these casinos all must have in-house paramedics at the ready.”

  I heard the clanking of metal stretcher legs and someone say, “Whoa, lemme guess. All-you-can-eat crab leg buffet?” My eyes were swollen to slits, but I could make out the hazy forms of Jules and Mike standing beside a boxy white ambulance, dressed as paramedic and ride-along doctor, respectively. The ambulance had some red striping and a generic blue emergency medical care symbol on the side, the one that always reminded me of an asterisk with snakes on it. It even had its flashing lights going on top.

  “He had this . . . this gross reaction to feathers. Will that scar?” Sloane wanted to know.

  Mike was all business, snapping the gloves on, checking my pulse and blood pressure, while Jules rolled up my shirtsleeves and made sure the gurney straps were as tight as a straitjacket’s.

  “How long ago was the exposure?”

  “It was, like, just now. We had barely even started the tour,” Sloane complained. “Will it still be there by the weekend?”

  “Sir,” he said, addressing me, “have you had a history of similar reactions? And have you taken any new medications recently?”

  “No medications at all, new or otherwise. And I haven’t had a reaction like this since I was a little kid. I just try to avoid dusty, feather-filled rooms.”

  Sloane shrugged her shoulders defensively and made a clicking sound with her tongue as if to say, So sue me.

  “Nausea?” he asked. I shook my head.

  “How about cramping or diarrhea?” Jules chimed in. Oh, he was in his element.

  “None of that,” I said pointedly.

  “Mild angioedema,” Mike murmured, more to himself than to his supposed helper.

  I felt the cool press of a stethoscope to my chest. “Deep breath, please.”

  I followed the good doctor’s orders.

  “Any tightness in your chest or shortness of breath?”

  “Yeah, my chest feels . . . a little heavy.” I tried to keep my breathing even as he did another go-round with the stethoscope. Sloane’s parents gave each other a look. I wished Mike would pick up his pace. It had been a while since he had done an ER rotation as a resident, so he was probably a little rusty.

  “He has a slight bronchoconstriction”—boy, he’s pulling out the old medical dictionary today—“but vital signs are normal. Do you normally carry an EpiPen, sir?”

  “No, never.”

  “Twenty-five milligrams of diphenhydramine,” Mike said to Jules
, who nodded and pulled a syringe from the medical kit in the back.

  I hoped Mike wasn’t going to let Jules play doctor with any needles.

  “Grab the albuterol on the left.” He turned to Sloane. “Miss, we need to start transport. If you’d like to accompany him to the hospital, you are welcome to ride in the back.”

  “Noah,” she whined. “You know I get queasy if I’m not in a window seat.”

  I know it, all right. I huffed on the asthma inhaler and said nothing.

  “We’ll take a cab,” her father announced. “After the tour. Assuming this isn’t life or death?”

  “No, sir, he’ll be fine. I suspect he’ll be released after a full workup. Just a precaution.” Mike grinned his perfectly enhanced smile, and I saw Sloane’s eyebrow go rogue, in that flirty way she had that had sucked me in at the Standard Club.

  Gee, maybe I could’ve just introduced her to Doctor Love in the first place and avoided self-induced anaphylaxis, I thought wryly. Mike plunged the needle into my biceps.

  “Sore spot?” Jules asked perversely as I winced. They lifted on Mike’s count, and up I went into the back of the vehicle.

  “Feel better, Ridgewood.” It sounded more like a warning command than a well wish, coming from my boss.

  “Honey,” I heard Sloane’s mother exclaim, just as the doors were closing, “is that an African American Elvis in the front seat?”

  “Economy’s tough, dear. Some of them have to moonlight.”

  Tim hooted a laugh as we careened down Las Vegas Boulevard. “Did you see the look on Sloane’s face? She couldn’t get rid of you fast enough!”

  He had been hunched in the back of the ambulance the whole time, out of sight to avoid being recognized. Nate was behind the wheel, and, indeed, Black Elvis was riding shotgun. Minuscule Elvis, also known as Tommy, was perched in the middle, giving directions to McCarran Airport. “I don’t blame her. You look like the Elephant Man.”

  “Shut it.”

  “Let’s keep the patient calm, shall we?” Mike said, still insisting on checking my vitals every five minutes.

  “You can quit playing doctor now,” I told him.