She gave him a withering look. Wayne just smirked back, proud of himself. This was not an unusual occurrence.
“Lisa,” he said suddenly. Frowning, he leaned forward and asked, “Are you wearing makeup?”
Lisa’s face flushed. Irrational anger flashed through her. She managed to hide it behind a puckered forehead rather than the rant that came to her tongue. With her best acting skills, she remained casual and said, “Yes.”
“Why? You look good without it.”
“I thought I would try something new,” she replied carefully. “You don’t like it?”
He cocked his head to the side, studying, looking like a confused dog. Finally he admitted, “Not really. What’s with the black lipstick?”
Her inner frown hardened. He was right, of course. It wasn’t her style at all. She hated makeup and hated lipstick most of all. It made her lips feel greasy, like she’d just eaten fried chicken. She’d never before worn makeup because she never had to. If she had, no doubt she would have chosen bright pink lipstick. All Catherine had was somber tones.
Lisa shrugged and said, “We’re not allowed to wear red. They say it makes us look trashy.”
“Well, black makes you look dead!” Wayne retorted.
“Dead isn’t against the rules,” Lisa observed. “Trashy is.”
“Huh,” Wayne said. “Well, you look tired, too. You got some nasty purple under your eyes.”
“Thanks,” she accepted dryly. She didn’t know whether Wayne was being sarcastic or if he didn’t actually realize she was wearing smoky eye mascara. Either way, she felt like dirt. Her hair was frizzy and unkempt. Her hairdryer was still broken and she’d had no chance to get a new one. Thanks to Mr. Arno, she had to rush straight from work to class. By the time she got out, the stores were closed. She didn’t have the money for a new hairdryer, anyway.
“What’s with this guy?” Lisa blurted. “He’s up to twenty plates today. Twenty! How can he eat so much?”
And still be thin? It was on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back.
Somehow Mr. Arno had lost half the weight he’d gained—in just a few days, too. For two weeks he’d just gotten bigger and bigger, eaten more and more. Then it just stopped. Not the eating, of course—he still ate an additional plate every day—but the weight gain just ceased. Worse, it receded. There he was, eating fifteen plates of shrimp, sixteen, seventeen… and losing weight! Yet she ate less and less, and was bigger than ever. It wasn’t her period, that much was obvious. She’d gained several sizes and ate practically nothing. So that left stress. But how much stress could it possibly be? Opening night was less than two weeks away.
“Yeah, he’s really screwed up,” Wayne agreed.
“He’s a nice enough guy,” Lisa defended, though she didn’t know why. She hated the guy, but not really. Mostly she just wanted to be contrary to Wayne. “And he tips well, so don’t make fun of him.”
“Hey,” Wayne called, “I won’t.”
Wayne pulled from his pocket a plastic jar. It was labeled with jagged lightning bolts and screamed energy propaganda. He opened the jar and tossed back the entire contents. Lisa’s puffy eyes widened as she heard the clicking of a dozen pills striking his teeth before being swallowed.
“Jesus, Wayne!” she cried. “What are you doing? You trying to overdose right in front of me?”
“These?” he said, holding up the bottle. “Protein Bombs, baby. Protein and carb pills. My training partner Thad gave ‘em to me. They’re designed to maximize your body for weightlifting. You can eat as many as you want, ‘cause you just piss out the rest of the nutrients your body can’t absorb. It gives you energy, too. Tons of B vitamins and branched-chain amino acids. Want one?”
“No,” she protested in disgust.
“Really,” he pressed. “They’re great. Protein Bombs Xtra Cherry. You just piss it out. If you want you can have one, ‘cause you just piss it out.”
“Wayne, why are you here in your undershirt?” Lisa asked, changing subjects. How many times did he have to say ‘piss it out’? It was vulgar. Wayne never realized that he was repeating himself, so it was up to others to change the topic.
“You mean my tank top?”
“That isn’t a tank top, Wayne. It’s an undershirt. You know, like underwear?”
“This? Naw. Thad wears these all the time. They make him look huge—and I’m right behind him.” He flexed for Lisa, for himself, for Thad, or pretty much anyone and everyone. Though trying to hide it, Wayne viewed his reflection in the vending machine glass with great satisfaction.
“Wayne, please.”
“I can’t wait till I gain another ten pounds. Then I’ll be as big as Thad. I’ll be really huge.”
“Wayne,” Lisa chided, “It’s all going to your butt.”
“No, it’s not. It’s all going here.” He flexed again, running a hand over his rounded biceps. He winced, then rubbed a muscle under his arm. Still in full-on bragging mode, he admitted, “I gotta take a day of rest. Sleep is where your muscle actually builds, you know. I was isolating my biceps this morning. I strained my coracobrachialis.”
“Sounds like something from Jurassic Park,” Lisa muttered. “And it is all going to your butt. You should quit steroids. That Thad guy isn’t doing you any favors.”
Maybe that’s why her butt was getting so big, she mused sourly: proximity to all of Wayne’s nasty steroids.
“What’s this...?” He pulled on a flyer folded beside her script.
“Wayne, no...!” Lisa cursed and reached for it, but it fell to the floor. Wayne had already retrieved the item by the time she scrambled from her chair.
“29.5 pounds, 29.5 days, 29.5 dollars. It’s magic,” he read aloud.
“Wayne,” she said scathingly, “Put that down. It was my bookmark.”
“My ass!” he retorted.
“Your big ass!” she snapped back.
“Look who’s talking,” he shot right back. “How much have you put on in the last week or two?”
“That’s none of your damn business,” Lisa snarled. Real anger kept tears at bay—for the moment. She couldn’t hide her obvious changes, but it hurt to have them noticed, nonetheless.
“Well, I’m trying to gain weight,” he defended in his usual droning manner. “I’m huge. I’m getting bigger. Maybe if you hit the gym, some of that fat would turn to muscle.”
“Shut up, Wayne. Just shut up!”
Wayne’s mouth opened as if to retort, but then closed. Glancing at her thick body with an unusual look, he slunk off.
Bastard, Lisa thought. Typical male: obsessed with appearance. Perception is everything, ha! Lisa always knew that Wayne wasn’t really interested in her because of her personality, but he’d been after her for years. Since before high school, in fact. In all that time, he’d never given her a look like he had just shot. Disgust. That was it: he was disgusted with her body. How could someone so smart be so shallow?
Truth be told, Lisa was disgusted, too. She was terrified to think about her weight gain. She tried to pass it off as stress, but wasn’t that stupid. There was no way stress would pile on over fifteen pounds in two weeks. Less than two weeks, in fact. There was really only one explanation: she had that bloating thing the other waitress had—the waitress who died. KBS. But she didn’t have the money to see a doctor.
The sting told her tears were coming. She fought hard to keep them at bay. What kind of a loser was she, crying in the break room at work? Try as she might, though, she couldn’t hold back her sorrow. Sobs overwhelmed her. Wayne wasn’t the only one to comment on her weight gain—merely the latest. Last night the director of Cyrano had not been kind, not at all. “Two weeks before opening night is the wrong time to suddenly decide to get fat,” he’d said angrily. “You forget there’s an understudy?” Jerk.
All her plans were falling apart. If she didn’t get the part—even after earning it in tryouts, earning it in rehearsals—she wouldn’t get the grade. That meant she
wouldn’t get into the Emoting Society. That meant she would be a waitress forever—a stupid, loser waitress. She was scared. For the first time in her life, she was scared. Was she going to die? Maybe Mom and Dad could help her see a doctor. But they’d told her that acting was a waste of time and that she’d be on her own if she went down that path. She gripped her script tightly and tried desperately to distract her mind. But she couldn’t.
People looked in, but nobody else ventured into the break room. They didn’t know what to say. How could they?
4
The front door thrust open, blasted by leather boots and falsetto. Catherine spun in, the cord of her headphones arcing wide, skirts flaring wider. Her eyes clamped shut as she struggled to reach a high note that was utterly beyond her. She may have looked like an opera diva, but certainly didn’t sound like one.
Though cousins—both sharing Tony as an uncle—there was little enough resemblance between Lisa and Cat. While Lisa was attractive without being pretty, Cat was definitely both. Her features were exquisite, with high, noble cheekbones and bold, curvaceous lips. Her figure, too, was bold and curvaceous, not to mention extremely tall—over six feet, in fact. And her breasts were magnificent. Indeed, it was not a “she” who dominated a room so much as a “they.”
And Cat was Goth. She wore a flowing skirt of vertically striped black silk and burgundy crepe, and above that, a matching jacket of Victorian cut, silk on crepe, all the way up to her expansive cleavage. From the ends of her long sleeves dripped hands neatly enfolded in sheer lace gloves. Deep ebony hair was tied up to reveal a milk-white neck. She was the very model of Victorian elegance, albeit with cleavage to stun even modern sensibilities. Only her purse was solidly of the modern era—black and graced with cute spiderwebs.
When Cat finally opened her eyes, they lit upon a shopping bag rumpled atop the counter. She stopped up short with all the theatricality of Romeo declaring, “But soft!” Yet her words were anything but those the Bard had plied upon the boards. “What the fuck? Lisa!”
“I’m right here,” Lisa called from the mirror. She had been busy putting the finishing touches on her eyeliner. Smokey eyes were her last defense in hiding extreme puffiness. Noting Cat did not hear her above her music, Lisa shouted, “I’m right here! Turn off your tunes!”
Cat yanked the earbuds free, letting them sweep down. Her eyes, elegant with black eyeliner and burgundy mascara, narrowed in disdain. She pointed a laced finger at the offending bag, then pointed it accusingly at Lisa. Yet upon seeing her roommate wearing her black leather skirt, Cat’s frown softened.
“Oh,” she said. “You coming to the dark side? Squee!”
Squealing in delight, she swept across the apartment to embrace Lisa. Cat’s greater height, amplified by high-heeled boots, brought Lisa’s face flush with her ample bosom. The poor girl nearly suffocated in Cat’s enthusiasm. After a long, rocking embrace, Cat pulled back. Still holding Lisa by the shoulders, Cat leveled her gaze authoritatively and said, “Oh, you know I love you, my little Baby Bat, but I will not allow any Goth-in-a-Box in my house.”
“Goth in a…,” Lisa stammered. “Baby what?”
“No commercial Goth kits on my watch,” Cat continued with a flourish. “If you’re going Goth, you’re doing it right.”
“What are you talking about?” Lisa finally demanded.
“You’re wearing my black skirt,” Cat answered, tone indicating the obvious. “You’re wearing makeup for the first time in your life—and wearing it heavy. I assume you’re trying to go Goth. And thank God. Life’s too short for boring clothes.”
Crossing one arm beneath her breasts, Cat stroked her chin musingly and added, “And you need help, my dear. That much is obvious.”
Seeing Lisa’s dumbfounded look, Cat explained with great patience. “Black and bats do not a Goth make. Now don’t look all embarrassed. How would you know? You’ve never asked about my world. Like everybody else, you just assume whiny teens and brooding vampires make Goth. Fuckin’ spare me.”
Cat put an arm around her student and led her to the couch. Physically, Cat towered over Lisa even more than the broad Wayne. She was buxom to the extreme. “Sit, and learn.”
Lisa obeyed.
“Lesson number one: just because it’s black, doesn’t mean it’s Goth. A nice perk, of course, is that black’s a slimming color. I like who I am, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t look better minus five pounds! Anyway, black and stenciled spider webs are all you’re going to get at Hot Topic.”
“Then where—”
“Shh!” Cat interrupted, holding up a finger to command silence. Once achieved, she slapped Lisa on the knee. “Hush, Baby Bat. Don’t make me go all dominatrix on your ass.”
“As I was saying,” Cat continued with an extra flutter of purple eyelids. “I get my velvet, lace, and satin from secondhand stores. Now you’ve never been a feminine dresser, so you should stay away from lace and stiletto heels. You don’t have the shape for corsets. And ruffles? Hell no. You’d rock a top hat over that pixie cut, though. And ribbons. Yes, you need ribbons. Or at least some boots with laces up to the knee.”
“Ribbons?” Lisa repeated, surprised. “Ribbons aren’t very depressing.”
For one tremulous moment hope blossomed in Lisa. Could she use this setback as a springboard for something new, something fun? Alas, dark thoughts came rushing back in. “Oh, this isn’t going to work! The only Gothic thing I know is the Count from Sesame Street. One! One flying bat. Two! Two flying bats!”
Cat nodded, impressed. But Lisa continued in earnest, lamenting, “I look like a poser. I don’t even have my ears pierced!”
“Calm down,” Cat scoffed, “There isn’t any secret initiation ritual involving a needle through the septum or anything. I don’t even have a tattoo—though I’m thinking about getting a spiderweb on my... well, this is about you. Being Goth is about attitude.”
“So I have to be all gloomy and sad?”
“I’m all gloomy and sad?” Cat asked with mock distress. “I think not! Real Goths don’t spend all their time moping on street corners smoking clove cigarettes. We go to drama clubs. We debate. Contrary to stereotypes, we’re very social. Though we do get Goth points for doing something solitary if it’s extra spookalicious, like reclining on a velvet chaise lounge reading Baudelaire by candlelight.”
“Goth… points?”
“I was just kidding about that,” Cat admitted. “But come now! Haven’t you seen Morticia from The Addams Family? She wears black but is full of good humor and hot passion. She’s total Goth because she’s an individual, a nonconformist. There are happy breeds of us, too, you know: Perkygoths, if you will. Yay glitter and starlight!”
Lisa’s pout remained firmly fixed. Cat bent over to cup Lisa’s face with two lace-gloved hands.
“Stick with me, my dear Baby Bat. We’ll get you cheered up in no time. Going Goth is all about embracing your individuality. Only you can truly celebrate who you are, because only you can truly know who you are. Society only sees what it wants to see. Perception is nothing.”
5
“Mr. Arno, you look positively radiant.”
His white mustache quivered with excitement. “Oh indeed, I am, Lisa. Indeed, I am!”
“Well?” Lisa prompted. Exhausted of being angry with his presence, she’d learned to just go with it. They were the only ones left in the restaurant, of course. All the other guests had left hours ago. It takes a long time to eat twenty-six plates of shrimp. That put him up at two thousand, seven hundred shrimp today. Lisa had long since gotten over the nausea over such numbers.
“Today,” Mr. Arno said, beaming, “I saw one of the heroes of our age.”
She waited for him to continue, but he didn’t offer anything more. Who could he be referring to? A movie star? A musician?
“Well?” Lisa prompted again. Suddenly she feared he may have been referring to a politician. How boring would that be?
“I saw Eugene Cernan!�
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Lisa looked at him blankly. “Who?”
His brows shot up in surprise, and he asked, “You don’t know who Eugene Cernan is?”
Lisa shrugged and said, “Should I?”
“Of course!”
“Okay, okay. Who is he, then?” she asked, exasperated.
“Why, he is only the last man to set foot on the moon!”
“That wasn’t Neil Armstrong?”
“No, no,” Mr. Arno corrected impatiently. “Neil Armstrong was the first! You know, Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, then Pete Conrad and Al Bean with Apollo 12…?”
“Uh huh,” Lisa said with an obvious lack of enthusiasm.
“There were twelve brave souls altogether,” Mr. Arno continued, still enrapt with the thought of it all.
“Uh huh.”
“I saw Eugene Cernan deliver an address at the Museum of Science and Industry. Magnificent speaker, and much more than merely the commander of the final Apollo mission.”
“You really are nuts about the moon, aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” he answered severely. “She is fascinating. She holds more secrets than you can possibly know. Oh, how jealous I am of those who have stepped upon her… stepped, but not touched. No, the moon is not for touching.”
“What’s so cool about that?” Lisa challenged. She was sick of his weird behavior, sick of her weird body, just sick. It made her feel like arguing. “There’s just rocks up there, right? Nothing interesting.”
“Why, everything! Is it not fascinating how much of life revolves around her? Why, one-third of the entire world depends upon her daily.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Islamic calendar, of course.” His eyes glazed as he recited, “At the first notice of the waxing crescent, after a new moon, Muslims start their month. But it’s her secrets that call to me. Think about her appearance. You can usually only see crescents and slivers.”
“So?”
“But she is whole! Always there, always whole. So much mass there, yet most people only see a small portion of her. Human perception is so easily manipulated.”
Unsinkable Mister Brown (Cruise Confidential 3) Page 39