She opened a pair of louvered doors, giving me my first glimpse of a closet so large, so organized, and so full of amazing clothes and accessories that Carrie Bradshaw would be envious. I couldn’t help gasping. “Oh my God.”
“It’s okay,” said Whitney as she walked into the room. “I’m sure I said the same thing the first time I saw it.”
“Whatever.” Mary Jane waved her right hand in the air dismissively. “It’s nothing special.”
I dropped the magazine and helped myself to a closet tour, Mollie at my heels. It had to be the size of my entire bedroom, with a little sitting area and a lighted full-length mirror. I saw cute organizer boxes that coordinated with her bedspread, shelves for sweaters and jeans, and rails with skirts and pants on one side and dresses and tops on the other—all on matching hangers. Then, the shoes: Her custom shelves showcased every color and style imaginable, from Skechers slip-ons to Manolo Blahnik wedges.
Damn. How much money did the Portmans have, anyway?
After Mary Jane slipped into her shopping outfit, I gave Mollie a good-bye pat and the three of us headed out. When I passed the Halloween photo in the hallway, I stopped and asked, “Is that Bridgette Josephs?” I knew it was; I just wanted to hear what Mary Jane had to say about it.
Mary Jane sighed. “I’ve told my mother to take that picture down, but she just adores those silly fairy costumes. Our cleaning lady made them from scratch.”
“They are cool costumes . . . ,” I said.
“And yes, that’s Bridgette. It was a long time ago, but we used to hang out.”
“Y’all were inseparable,” Whitney said in a tone that bordered on teasing.
“So what happened? I’m sure she’s jealous of you guys, like you said. But was there something . . . I don’t know, something someone said or did? I mean, it’s pretty obvious you guys aren’t friends anymore.”
Mary Jane hesitated. “The thing about Bridgette is, she’s very protective of Andrew,” she said, starting down the stairs.
“What, does she have a crush on him or something?” I asked.
“Bridgette and Andrew have known each other since their diaper days,” Mary Jane explained. “Their families are always getting together for boating trips or vacations to Six Flags or whatever, and Andrew’s mom makes him invite her to our parties. But anyway, to make a long story short, Bridgette doesn’t think I’m good enough to be dating him.” She frowned and opened the door for us.
“How could she think that?” I asked. “You two are so perfect together.”
“I know, right?” agreed Whitney. “But there was this one incident . . .”
Mary Jane gasped. “You are not going to tell her about that.”
“Okay, okay.” Whitney waved her palms in the air. “All I know is, Aunt Flow came for a visit this morning and I’d better get some chocolate in me or I’m gonna go psycho-crazy.”
I donned my sunglasses and took my spot in the back of Mary Jane’s convertible. We all sat there in the garage for a few beats before Mary Jane said, “That’s weird. I could’ve sworn I left my keys in the car.”
Leaning forward, I dangled the sparkly pink star keychain in front of Mary Jane’s eyes. She reached for them, but I held them just out of her reach. “Tell me about ‘The Incident.’”
Whitney laughed. “Oh, she’s good.”
“Okay, okay,” said Mary Jane. “I’ll tell you while we drive. You do not want to see a Whitney psycho-crazy episode.” She feigned a shiver.
I dropped the keys into Mary Jane’s hands and she reversed down the driveway. Then I leaned back, making myself comfortable for story time.
CHAPTER NINE
“Last year, Bridgette Josephs’ family hosted the youth group’s New Year’s Eve party. It was a total yawn, but that’s beside the point. Anyhow, Jo Anna got some champagne for me, and Andrew and I snuck off into their garage and drank some. Right out of the bottle. Which isn’t easy ’cause of the bubbles.” She giggled and shook her head like she couldn’t believe she had the gall to drink champagne without flutes. “I’m not sure how much we drank, but I remember feeling tingly and thinking everything was hysterical. And then Bridgette happened to come into the garage—”
“She was totally spying on you,” Whitney said, a disgusted look on her face.
“Well, we can’t be sure about that. But she did see us, and before we left that night, everyone at the party knew about it.” Her blue eyes glazed over and she frowned.
“Is that why Bridgette doesn’t approve of you?” I asked. “Being with Andrew, I mean.”
Mary Jane tucked her blond hair behind her ear. “I think so.”
“That’s so lame,” I said, my insides boiling. “It’s not like sipping a little bubbly on New Year’s is a one-way ticket to Hell.” I bit my lip, wishing that had come out a little differently. The last thing I wanted to do was offend her. To Mary Jane, this was a big deal.
“Just when I think it’s ancient history, someone brings it up again,” said Mary Jane. “It’s like no one in Pleasant Acres has ever screwed up. We’re all supposed to be these perfectly behaved . . . I don’t know, robots or something. Like that old movie—what’s it called? Oh yeah, The Stepford Wives.” She pulled across two parking spots and put her VW into Park.
“So now you know about ‘The Incident,’ and now we can get some chocolate,” Whitney said, already halfway to the mall’s entrance. I followed the two girls inside.
“You don’t want anything, Poppy?” Mary Jane asked after she’d placed a box of chocolates on the counter at the candy shop. The white-haired, white-pinafored lady froze, her hands hovering tentatively over the cash register. I wanted to see how long she could stay like that, but I figured torturing little old ladies wasn’t very cool.
“Nope, that’s okay,” I said.
“You’re not on a diet, are you?” Whitney asked as the lady rang her up. “Man, I couldn’t take it if you turned into another Ellen. I feel like such a heifer next to her.”
The thought of me being on a diet was utterly ridiculous. And me, a walking Pixy Stix like Ellen? No freakin’ way. But it was simpler than all that. I wanted every bit of my money to go to the jeans. If I could keep up my winning streak with Mom and maybe get a babysitting job or two, I figured in about a month, the jeans would be all mine. “Nope, I’m just not hungry.”
“I’ve never in my life passed up chocolate. Well, I guess I’ll have to eat Poppy’s share, right?” Whitney whipped a ten out of her wallet. “It’s on me this time,” she told Mary Jane, and then proceeded to stuff her pretty face.
“I’m so glad you’re fixin’ to get those jeans, Poppy,” Whitney said between chomps.
“Actually, I’ve only got fifty bucks, so I was just going to put them on layaway. You know, so they’ll still be here when I have enough money.”
“Well, will you at least try them on again and show us this time?” Mary Jane asked, fingering the diamond cross on her necklace.
“Sure, if you really want me to.”
As we entered Hamilton’s, a man’s voice boomed over the PA system: “We have a special gift with purchase available at the Lancôme makeup counter,” and Whitney’s eyes lit up.
“I have a great idea,” she said. “Let’s get Poppy a makeover.”
Mary Jane did a little hop thing and clapped her hands together. “That is a great idea.”
“What?” I said, totally caught off guard. “Thanks, but I’m just fine.”
Mary Jane took my hand and led me to the makeup counter. “You have the prettiest face, Poppy. But under all that harsh makeup you’re always wearing—bless your heart—it’s just sometimes hard to tell. The ladies at the Lancôme counter know how to bring out your best features. It’s their God-given talent.”
Whitney, who’d hurried ahead, waved us over to a tall, emaciated lady with platinum blond hair smoothed back into a low ponytail. She wore what looked like a white doctor’s jacket, with black hose and stilettos the exact sa
me shade of pink as her lips. The lady put her hands on my shoulders. Looking at me like I was a stray puppy stuck in a Dumpster, she said, “Oh, dear.” Then she lifted her chin resolutely and announced to my friends, “It will be my pleasure.”
Mary Jane and Whitney seemed satisfied and excused themselves to peruse the store’s makeup and perfume offerings while the lady invited me to sit on a cushioned barstool.
“I’m really okay,” I said, once my friends were out of earshot. “I mean, I know my makeup is of the drugstore variety, but really, it suits me just fine.” I didn’t like people poking and prodding at me, especially people with unnaturally long, bright pink fingernails. What had I gotten myself into? Or, more accurately, what had Whitney gotten me into?
“Does it hurt?” the lady asked, pointing to the stud in my nose.
I watched my friends applying lipstick with Q-tips at the MAC counter, wishing I was over there with them. “Not anymore.”
“Hmm. All right, then. Sit back and get ready to be transformed from the outside in.”
The lady got a crazy gleam in her eyes, looking more like a mad scientist than a makeup artist. She swiped a cleansing pad over my entire face, creating an empty beaker for her experiment. In a frenzy of foundation, eyeliner, mascara, bronzing powder, lip liner, and lipstick, she dotted, sponged, smeared, swished, brushed, and blended until I wondered if I had any skin left on my face.
“There, that’s how it’s done.” The lady admired her work and then held up a mirror. I gawked at my reflection. With shiny greenish eye shadow, dark brown mascara, rosy cheeks and lips, I looked wide-awake and . . . sparkly.
I’d always assumed, through the process of elimination, that I resembled my father. But now, as I studied my face in the mirror, I couldn’t help noticing that I was a younger version of my mom. It was a bizarre sensation—like I was seeing myself for the first time.
Mary Jane and Whitney came running and fussed over me like I was a bride or something. “See?” Mary Jane said. “You don’t need all that black stuff smeared around your eyes. You are gorgeous.”
I had to admit I looked pretty decent, but it was hard to believe it took so much stuff and ten whole minutes to make me look so, well, natural. It was like the more gunk the crazy lab-coat lady heaped onto my face, the less it looked like I had on any makeup at all.
“Thanks. It looks good. Much better,” I said as I took the custom product list, application instructions, and makeup samples she handed me. However, I knew that as soon as I’d used up all the samples, I wouldn’t come running back for more—not at those prices.
Mary Jane, Whitney, and I boarded the escalator and ascended to the designer jeans department. Luckily, the exact pair I’d tried on was on the rack. I made a beeline for the dressing room. Mary Jane and Whitney chatted away while I put them on. Will I still love them? I wondered. Even before I checked myself out in the mirror, I knew it was a lost cause. I was about to part with an insane amount of money for the perfect pair of jeans.
But they were more than just jeans, I noted. They symbolized the new Poppy. The Poppy who hung out with girls her mom approved of, who made straight A’s, who attended a religious private school, who didn’t wear black eyeliner, and who knew how to have fun.
“You’re right, Poppy. Those jeans are amazing,” said Whitney when I came out, wiggling my hips to the upbeat Carrie Underwood song raining through the overhead speakers.
“Yeah. I definitely think I’ll put them on layaway,” I said. “Have you seen the saleswoman?”
Though I’d been hanging out with them a lot lately, I wasn’t able to decipher the look my friends exchanged. “What?” I asked.
“Can I come in the dressing room?” Mary Jane asked.
Before now, I never really had a reason to be modest; it was usually just Mom and me. But still, I found her request a little strange. The dressing room was likely the nicest I’d ever used, but it wasn’t much larger than a phone booth. “Um, I guess so.”
“I’m going to go look at that cute cropped jacket. I just love that ice-blue color,” Whitney said, then promptly split.
“Do you trust me?” Mary Jane asked softly as she closed the door.
“Of course. What’s up?”
She handed me my cargos. “Put these on.”
I unbuttoned the jeans.
“No. Over those.”
“What are you . . . ?”
She put her finger over my lips. It smelled like chocolate. She gave me one of her most gorgeous smiles. “Trust me.”
I stared at her, speechless.
“You want the jeans, right? They look great on you. Everybody’s going to think so. Especially Gabe.”
“You really think so?”
“I know so.”
“But—”
“They’re really expensive, right? You said yourself that—” She yanked the price tag. “—a hundred ninety-six dollars is too much to spend on a pair of jeans.” Her blue eyes widened. “So don’t. Whitney’s fixin’ to run interference with the saleswoman. She’s phenomenal at it; you don’t have to worry one bit. And we’ve got your back when you go back into the mall and the alarm goes off.” She clicked her nails on the white security tag on the back pocket of the jeans. “Poppy, we’re your friends, and we’d never let you down. Have faith in us.”
I sat on the little bench, unsure how much longer my knees would hold out. “You’ve done this before?” I asked, my voice all croaky.
She grinned. “All the time. Last Thursday, as a matter of fact. That polka-dotted nightgown and robe set? I stuffed it in my purse. It was a snap.” She snapped her manicured fingers. “As you’ve probably already noticed, there isn’t much to do around here to keep from being bored to tears. This kind of livens things up, you know?”
I concentrated on keeping my features even and unreadable. Mary Jane and Whitney went to church every Sunday. Their parents were deacons and country clubbers who gave their daughters impressive pedigrees and Hollywood looks, as well as endless allowances and support. They were the elite of Calvary High School, maybe even of the whole town. Even Mom liked these girls, and she loved that I was one of them.
How could such girls be involved in something so scandalous? So illegal? So wrong?
“Won’t they show?” I asked, taking the pants.
“I’ll help you,” said Mary Jane.
I slipped the cargos over the jeans, and while I zipped them up, Mary Jane dropped to her knees and rolled up the denim. “There.” She stood and gave me a nod. Her eyes sparkled above her dazzling smile.
I glanced at myself in the mirror and remembered winter mornings in Colorado, when I layered long underwear under my pants so I wouldn’t freeze my ass off while running my Rocky Mountain News paper route.
As if reading my mind, Mary Jane said, “No one will suspect a thing.”
My hands shook . . . my whole body trembled.
Fear?
Excitement?
Maybe a little of both?
CHAPTER TEN
“Ready, Poppy?” She held out her hand.
When Mary Jane released my hand, I wondered if she noticed how sweaty it was. Not that it was the least bit hot in Hamilton’s. These Texans loved their AC.
In one smooth motion, she swooped up a pair of jeans that had magically appeared between my dressing room and the one next door. “Hand me that hanger and I’ll hang ’em up,” she said in her Southern drawl. In contrast to the whispered tones she’d been using, it seemed as if she spoke into a megaphone. “Too bad they made your fanny look like a pancake.” My mind struggled to keep up with this whirlwind of events. She winked to let me know this was all part of the plan.
I grabbed the silver hanger off the bench and passed it to her with unsteady hands. “It’s okay, Poppy. You’ll see,” she said, reverting back to the quiet, tranquil voice.
With one last check in the mirror to make sure the jeans were fully hidden under my cargos, I took a deep, ragged breath, attempting t
o regulate my heartbeat. I swallowed, but it was no use. My mouth was parched, but I knew that when—if—I got away with this, I sure as hell wasn’t stopping at the food court for a lemonade. I could only pray that I wouldn’t have to speak until it was all over and I was safe in my house.
Which was a lovely thought, really. A thought I played over and over again in my mind as I followed Mary Jane out of the dressing room.
The saleswoman excused herself from the couple of college-age girls she was hovering behind, then walked toward us. Mary Jane handed her the jeans and they exchanged a few words, though I couldn’t really concentrate on what they said. The noise of my cargos rubbing against the denim underneath was deafening.
The mannequins seemed to watch me knowingly, sticking up their pointy snow-white noses in disdain. Then a sharp briiiiiing filled the air. I froze midstep, my breath stuck in my throat. It’s just a phone, I told myself, silencing my inner scaredy-cat. Keep walking.
The saleswoman floated demurely over to the cash register to answer the phone. “Oh. Hi, Harold. Yes, we do have that jacket in ice blue. Let me check the sizes. I’ll be but a moment.” She lowered the receiver and flashed us a rueful grin before vanishing around the corner.
When Mary Jane and I boarded the Hamilton’s escalator, I felt like I’d jumped into a lake fully dressed, my waterlogged clothing so heavy I could barely keep from drowning. Mary Jane stretched out her long, thin arms and yawned. Then she whispered in a hypnotist’s voice, “You do not know Whitney. Understand?” I nodded. “The alarm will go off when you leave the store. Just act like you’re confused and wait for the problem to resolve itself.”
I bit my lower lip, wishing I could stop the madness—wishing I could run back to the dressing room, shed the jeans, and go home. But where was Whitney, and how exactly was she involved? Would my putting the kibosh on this insane scheme put her in any danger?
“Have faith,” Mary Jane said in a feather-soft voice meant for my ears alone.
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