Check Me Out

by Becca Wilhite

  I wanted to contribute something useful, so I said I liked the tiny belt.

  Marigold held the dress up to me, pulling the shoulder seams against my shoulders and tucking the waist part around my waist part. She nodded. “I think this is perfect. You’re lucky you’re not too tall.”

  I’d never thought of that as lucky, but I could imagine that with Marigold’s long legs, dresses that fit might be hard to find.

  I held the dress up against me. “Okay. Great. Where do I try it on?”

  “Oh, no. There’s not a fitting room here. You buy it if you like it and plan for the best.”

  Weird. “So, if I don’t like it, or if it doesn’t fit, I bring it back?”

  “I guess,” she said. “I’ve never brought anything back, though. I’ve loved everything I’ve ever bought here.” She became distracted by a fringed leather vest that looked like someone had dropped a cup of coffee on it. “Do you think I could get this clean?”

  “Sure?” I was not in any position to know, but I liked her “plan for the best” mind-set and thought I’d try it out.

  She clutched the vest in both hands. “Let’s do it.”

  “I can’t buy this. I don’t even know how much it costs.”

  Marigold reached down into the neck part of the dress and pulled up a colored tag. Nothing was written on it. She pointed to a poster at the tiny table holding a cash register. Yellow tags, $10. Purple tags, $14. I peeked at the tag in the black dress—green. Green tags, $7. Seven. Dollars. I snatched the dress from her and ran to the register. At the table, an antique-looking frame held a handwritten notice: Cash Only. I loved this crazy place.

  The lady behind the counter smiled at my choice. “This is a lovely piece,” she said, pushing some buttons on the register, which was old-fashioned, non-electronic, and cute-looking with all kinds of metal scrollwork and round keys.

  “Where do these clothes come from?” I asked her, making small talk while Marigold sifted through the sixties rack. I peeled off seven one-dollar bills from the little stack of cash in my wallet.

  She smiled at me like we were old buddies. “All over. Estate sales, donations, other secondhand stores. We have a beautiful selection of wedding dresses on the other side of that screen. As well as menswear.” She pointed behind her where there were racks and racks of suits. I wondered if they had a suit like Dr. Silver’s three-piece number from the picture with Dr. King at the library.

  As she wrapped my old-new dress in tissue paper and placed it in a brown paper sack, she said, “I hope you’ll come see us again.”

  I smiled and nodded and managed not to say anything about waiting to make that call until I knew if this dress was going to give me any weird skin conditions. “It’s a great shop,” I said.

  I turned to find Marigold, arms deep in the late-sixties section of the rack. “I’m done.”

  “I’m never done,” she said, grinning at me.

  “Got it. Okay. But I need to get back to my job now. Bye, Marigold. Thanks for your help,” I said as I headed for the door. She waved without turning around, her attention focused on a shirt that had fluttery, bell-bottom kinds of sleeves. I realized I was clutching the bag in a hug.

  I slipped into the library and behind the counter. Placing my new purchase with my purse under the desk, I picked up the pile of Cards. Kevin had added another yesterday afternoon that I hadn’t seen yet. “Do whales feel emotions? (across the desk).” I picked up a pink sticky note and wrote a response. “Some species can be sad. That’s why they’re called Blue Whales.” I stuck the note to the Card and hoped I’d be there when Kevin read it, to hear him groan and see him shake his head.

  Chapter 22

  The next few days rushed by in a blur of last-minute event organization. All my extra time was filled with Mac or Will (but not very much Will, because it was debate season, and he was really good at his job) or, when I had time, sleep. Before I knew it, it was Eleanor Richtenberg day.

  I stared into the mirror at me in my new dress. I was hoping for one of those startling mirror events. You know, when you’re sure you know what you looked like and then somehow—surprise!—you’re 75% more attractive than you’d planned on being. This was not the kind of startle I was hoping for. I needed help. Instantly. Mom had a work meeting, so she was out of the picture. She told me she’d see me at the event, but I hoped she wouldn’t see me this way exactly.

  I could get Will. He could theoretically help me. But I’d have to go outside to get there, and given the current state of my dress—or rather, undress—that might get me in trouble. Or arrested.

  For this, I realized, it was time to take the Marigold friendship to the next level.

  I pulled out my cell and called her. When I realized I was holding my breath, I forced a few in-and-outs.

  “Hi, Greta. Today is your big party, right?”

  “Can you come over to my place for a couple of minutes? I kind of have a tiny disaster.”

  She hummed a tuneless string of almost-notes into the phone, then said, “Sure. Now?”

  “Yes, now. Thanks.” I told her my address and sat down to stare into the mirror. And to wait. And hope she didn’t get distracted on the way over here.

  The dress picked up the light and threw it back into the mirror, causing the black fabric to shine and deepen in the creases and folds. Creases and folds it shouldn’t have. So much for “buying the dress and hoping for the best.”

  I decided to stare at my hair instead.

  Not the worst. Not the best, but definitely not the worst.

  Maybe it’d turned out too curly, but chances were good that by the end of the evening it would sag. Plenty. I hosed it down with a few more shots of hairspray. Makeup? Fine. Nails? Clean. Earrings? Sparkly.

  For sure, not the worst.

  Except for the small issue with my dress.

  Hurry up, Marigold. Please.

  I pulled up Mac’s latest text just to have something really, really awesome to look at.

  Swoon.

  Knocking. I slid out of my chair and ran to the door.

  “Wow, look at you. Nice . . . everything. The dress looks good. Maybe a little loose.” Marigold flicked a piece of lint off my shoulder. She nodded in general approval, and I let her inside. She glanced around and said, “What’s the disaster?”

  I turned around and showed her my back.

  “You called me over here to zip your dress?” She didn’t sound annoyed, exactly, and not quite amused. Maybe she was pleased, but who could tell?

  “Not exactly. I broke the zip. The zip is definitely broken.”

  She tugged on the little metal piece and nodded. “You’re right. So? Plan?”

  “Sew me in.”

  She didn’t say anything. She didn’t do anything. We shared a quiet thirty seconds.

  “Are you sure?”

  I continued to look at her without saying anything. If I hadn’t been sure, would I have suggested it?

  Nodding, she said, “All right. Do you have sewing stuff?”

  I pointed to the line of threads and a little box of needles on the coffee table. “Do you know how to use those?”

  “Please. I’m an adult. I go to college. Of course I can use sewing . . . things.”

  Confidence restored. Or not.

  “Thanks. Really, thanks. If you have to choose between sewing a straight line and not poking me with the needle, sew straight. I can take it.”

  “Relax.”

  I waited for the first prick.

  “I mean it. Relax. I can’t do this if you’re tense. You’re throwing off my chakras.” She rubbed my shoulders, which only increased my tension.

  She made a sound like a reprimand. “Greta.”

  My exaggerated exhale must have convinced her that I was relaxing. She picked up the box of needles and opene
d it. Staring in there, she might have been communing with the Perfect Instrument or something. She licked her finger and pressed it against the flat sides of the needles. One stuck to her finger, and she lifted it out. Then she stared at the spools of thread.

  “Black,” I suggested. “There are three black ones you can choose from.” I even pointed them out, that’s how helpful I was feeling.

  When she started stroking the spools, I felt myself losing it. “Please? I’m scheduled to walk out this door in”—I glanced at my phone—“twenty-seven minutes. This is a long zipper. That gives you, like, a couple minutes an inch or something.”

  She patted me on the head with the hand not holding the needle. “Good math. Keep it up. I’ll get it. No worries.”

  No worries? More like Plentiful Worries. The zipper. Deodorant malfunction. Dragon breath. Zit outbreak. Conversation drought.

  At least I didn’t have to worry about The Event. Everything related to the event was perfectly in place.

  Marigold stuck the needle into the spool of chosen thread. Then she pinned the dress up my back with the enormous safety pins I’d found in the junk drawer.

  “These are diaper pins,” she said. “I haven’t seen one of these in years.”

  “I stole them from my mom’s house. I don’t plan to wear them. Just until I’m sewn up.”

  “Right. But it’s a statement. You might want to consider it.”

  “Or not.”

  “Okay, your call.”

  I told myself to breathe in and out, lightly, so I didn’t pull any pins. I felt her hands pinching the zipper together, sliding the needle back and forth. I hoped the dress wouldn’t look all Frankenstein’s Monster, but was glad I wasn’t planning to stand with my back to the crowd much, anyway.

  The screen door banged open at the same time as I heard the knock on the frame. “Greta? Are you here?”

  “Hi, Will. In the living room.”

  Marigold snipped a few dangling threads.

  Will walked in and saw me. He sort of staggered against the wall. “Wow,” he half-whispered. “Just totally wow.” He blinked hard and rubbed his eyes. “That’s an amazing dress. You look perfect.” He coughed.

  I laughed. “Did I take your breath away?”

  “Something like that. Or I have the flu. Definitely one or the other.”

  I faced him. “Oh, no. You’re sick?”

  He shrugged. “A bit. But I’m still coming. Don’t worry. I’ve been waiting my whole life to meet Eleanor Richtenberg. I wouldn’t miss it. And you look remarkable.”

  That was a rather lovely thing to say. “Remarkable?” I hadn’t seen him for days, and I’d really missed him.

  “Gorgeous. Stunning. You’re going to steal the show. Nobody will even look at Eleanor Richtenberg.” He walked toward me and reached out to touch my sleeve. He held the fabric between his fingers. Then he looked into my face and moved his hand to my shoulder, right below the hem. The heat from his hand nearly burned my arm. I looked into his eyes and saw some new and different depth there. He looked like he’d been searching for something, and then he’d found it. And that was weird.

  But more weird was that I felt it, too. The searching. The finding. The depth. I reached over and clutched the hem of his shirt. I don’t know how long I stood there holding on to his shirttail, how long we looked at each other’s faces. Somehow I managed to recognize that this was strange, but I didn’t care. I felt his hand on me, his eyes on me, and I had never been so safe. I didn’t let go. I didn’t want him to let go.

  “Will.”

  He pressed his hand into my shoulder. “Greta.”

  I stared. He stared back. I looked at his mouth and remembered the way he’d kissed me when we were sixteen. I craved his arms around me and his lips on mine. I almost staggered under the weight of my own understanding. I wanted Will Marshall to kiss me. Now. Right now.

  Then I heard, “And I’m Marigold.”

  Spell broken. I laughed. Will coughed.

  “Nobody’s even going to see Eleanor Richtenberg,” Will repeated.

  Arms shaking, I stepped away from him. “I am completely sure you’re wrong, but that’s nice of you to say. Go home and sleep for a couple of hours. I’ll see you at the party.”

  “I’m coming to help set up.” He coughed again.

  I talked as I pushed him out the door. “Bad idea. You’re sick. Sleep it off. Get over it. Feel better.”

  He waved from the doorway, and I went back to Marigold. “Thank you for saving me.”

  “Yeah. That was weird.” She had her eyebrows scrunched, looking at the door Will had walked through like she was searching for an explanation.

  “I meant for saving my dress.”

  She nodded, looking through the window. “That too. But seriously? Something very strange,” she started.

  I cut her off. “I know. Strange.”

  She shook her head, but whatever she had been about to say remained unsaid. And all the things I was thinking also remained unsaid.

  “Okay. Thanks again. I’ve got to go make a party,” I said as I waved her out the front door. Then I sank onto the couch and breathed until I regained control of my heart rate.

  Chapter 23

  I was nervous to even go over to the lot. Partly because I feared that all the garbage and mess had reappeared overnight, but mostly because the thought of the event made me crazy with feeling things. Excited and scared and eager and worried and anxious. What if Eleanor Richtenberg wanted to be my friend? I’d loved this woman since I was able to grasp the idea that books were written by people.

  Walking past the Greenwood house, I held my breath. Well, I tried. I had to gasp in some air just past the mailbox, and then again at the giant tree. But when I came around to the lot, I let the air slide out in relief. The big white tents provided perfect shade and drew attention far away from the piles of things stacked against Mr. Greenwood’s house. A pretty little wooden podium stood beyond the shade, warming in the sun but ready to be shaded in two hours, as instructed by Ms. Richtenberg.

  Before I stashed my purse under the podium, I checked my phone. Just in case.

  He said love.

  Well, he texted love anyway. I gulped in more air and decided not to freak out about texted love. Especially if it was just texted freckle love.

  The phone went back into the bag, and I moved toward the truck parked across two spaces in the parking lot. Julie stood pointing to a spot of lawn not already holding something. A guy came down the truck’s back ramp and set the speaker equipment on the ground.

  “You ladies got a perfect day for your party,” he said, checking the truck one more time and finding it empty. “What great weather.”

  “Thanks for delivering everything. You’re sending the truck back in the morning?” Julie asked.

  “Right.” He checked a list on a clipboard. “Have chairs, tables, tents, sound equipment, and plant stands ready for loading. Good luck,” he said. He got in the truck and drove away.

  Julie took a visible breath and surveyed the area. “Greta, I’m glad you’re here. Ready to unfold?”

  “So ready.”

  She looked me over. “That’s quite a dress. Are you sure you don’t want to change into something more work-friendly for the next couple of hours?”

  “Changing out of this dress and back into it again is not actually an option,” I said, choosing not to explain any further. I picked up a white folding chair and carried it to the lot. Then I did that again several hundred more times.

  I heard a familiar coughing sound after the first hundred chairs or so. I turned around.

  “Will, what are you doing?”

  He looked from one side of the row of chairs to the other. He didn’t answer, but he smiled that smile that meant he was pleased with himself.

  “You’r
e sick. Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”

  He shook his head and then coughed into his elbow. “Powering through it.”

  Two hours later, Julie pushed her arms out in front of her, rounding her shoulders and stretching. “If I never open another folding chair again, I will be the happiest fifty-something divorced librarian in the history of the universe.”

  We checked our work. Rows of chairs under the huge maple tree canopies, and rows of chairs under the white tents. It looked like a wedding, but without flowers and that netted fabric stuff lining the aisle. The podium, bordered by two ferns, as directed, stood twenty feet from the nearest row of chairs. That way, even if someone stretched out long legs, there would still be a fifteen-foot buffer of airspace.

  A glass bowl (no etching) holding only green jelly beans and a separate glass bowl (also no etching) holding only green M&M’s candies flanked the microphone. The water bottles from Switzerland sat in the break room’s freezer, accumulating a perfect layer of ice. I checked the position of the sun against the chart on my phone. Perfect. When Ms. Richtenberg stood at the podium, the sun would be at an acceptable angle—no chance of blinding her or of any embarrassing backlight.

  Will rolled the last of the folding-chair carts behind the library and out of sight.

  “Want to go over the intro again?” I asked.

  Julie shook her head, patting her pocket. “I’ve got it right here. I don’t want it to sound too rehearsed.”

  “You have it completely memorized, don’t you?”

  She grinned. “Thirty-three years ago next month, the world met Grimsby for the first time, and the nights have never been quite as dark as they used to be. We are thrilled to welcome the esteemed Eleanor Richtenberg to our community this evening, since she’s lived so long in our hearts. Want to hear the rest?”

  “That’s not what her publicist sent.” I pulled out my copy of the official biography. “This is all about her education and awards.”