Will Work for Prom Dress

by Aimee Ferris

  The unseasonably warm Saturday morning had brought tourists into the old-town section of Providence. The parade route would pass along the cobblestone streets, ending at the river. The Earth Day Parade King would kick off the summer-season art installation by lighting seventeen bonfires that would reflect off the river’s shimmering waters.

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” I said for the fourteenth time since we’d hopped off the city bus.

  “It’s fine. Just be glad we found someone who would let you borrow their instrument. ‘Woodwind rental’ isn’t exactly in the budget.”

  “What if they ask me to play something?”

  “I told you, it’s not like that. There’s no audition. They would have sent music for you to learn, wouldn’t they? I think it just goes with the wood sprite, fairy, elfin vibe. Kind of like those panpipes you always see in the picture of the half-goat/half-man creature—but who would have panpipes?—so they asked for a piccolo.”

  We shuffled through the already-crowded blocks. People had placed blankets and lawn chairs along the sidewalks at daybreak to ensure a good viewing spot. The parade wouldn’t even start for another thirty minutes, and people were giving us nasty looks for cutting through their staked-out territory. A live band started a rousing mash-up of “Wonderful World” and “It’s Not Easy Being Green.”

  “What’s the address, again?” I yelled over a team of bagpipers tuning up.

  “We’re looking for forty-two!”

  “Isn’t that forty-two on the corner?”

  “Yep!” Anne grabbed my hand and pulled me toward a massive glass window filled with giant foam creatures of every shape and color, all covered in glossy swirls of paint.

  “Wow—these are incredible!”

  “This must be the guy’s studio. They said to come and suit up here first. We’ll meet the float on the next block!”

  We stopped for a minute at the window to admire the gorgeous blue-and-purple two-headed octopus-lizard inside. Behind it was an eight-foot-tall ear of corn with green leafy arms, a snaggletooth smirk, and eyebrows made of jet-black foam crows. A large burgundy eggplant with fangs grinned at passersby. Along the ground lay an assortment of giant ruby-red lobster claws and green foam talons with purple faux nails extending out a good eighteen inches. Two giant bare feet looked like they came off a dismembered troll in desperate need of a pedicure, complete with orange hair sprouting from the ankles.

  “What is this place?” I asked.

  A large teal sluglike creature waddled out the door toward us. It stood a head taller than me, had a fat tail that slithered behind it by eight feet, and fifteen to twenty large cat-shaped eyes springing from the top of its head. I jumped as one popped up to reveal a smiling face below.

  “Hi, are you Anne and Quigley?” it asked.

  Anne and I froze and looked at each other.

  “Okay, the silent types. Well, I’m hoping you are my missing crew since everyone else is here and we’re almost ready to begin.”

  “Hi, I’m Anne; this is Quigley.”

  I tried not to stare at what appeared to be a swimmer’s cap on the guy’s head, painted to precisely match the other foam eyeballs. I jumped as a series of long, pointy hackles sprang up from the creature’s back.

  “Great. Anne, you can head right inside since you’ll need the bathroom to change. Quigley, you come with me.”

  Anne had scooted in without a word, as unnerved as I was by standing on the corner chatting with a large slug. I followed the blob of a guy, grateful the realistically shaped, though wildly painted, costume didn’t include a corresponding slime trail.

  “Oh, wait. Is there somewhere I should leave my piccolo case?”

  The slug turned around and looked me up and down like I was the unhinged one. “Come again?”

  “My piccolo case. I j-just need my piccolo, not the case,” I stammered.

  “You need your piccolo?”

  “Don’t I?”

  “My God, where are they getting the extras these days,” he whispered under his breath before turning with a big fake smile and speaking slowly, “Yes, dear. I suppose if you need your piccolo, you need your piccolo. Just come along.” His hackles quivered back and forth in annoyance.

  I jogged to keep up as the crowd made a wide berth for the slug before immediately crushing back closed, forcing me to step up and over while trying to keep the many swirling eyes on stalks in sight through the balloons and raised cones of cotton candy and cinnamon almonds. Suddenly, the masses parted as we passed the official starting line of the parade.

  “Here, we are,” the slug swept his tail around, nearly taking out several small children sitting on the curb, and motioned to a massive fairy tree house float.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I said.

  “Not completely certifiable then,” he said. “Good.”

  Two small mushrooms suddenly popped up from the floor of the float and scurried over.

  “She’s here! You’re walking with us!”

  “Ah yes, meet the Fungus Among-us,” said the slug, by way of introduction.

  “Hi,” I said, wondering if they were children inside the foam creations, and hoping they weren’t expecting me to play them a tune to dance to during the parade.

  “You need to step right into the trunk, no time to dillydally,” said the slug.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why—did you do something rude?” He shrugged at my blank look. “Sorry, old joke.”

  “This float is amazing. But am I supposed to spend the whole parade sitting inside the tree?” The little mushrooms twirled around me.

  “Quigley, check it out!” Anne practically spun on air down the street, parting the crowd easily, and no wonder. Her clear, sequined bodysuit sparkled in an extremely flattering not-there way, and fit like a glove, despite the bulky middle bracket for a flight harness. The Vegas-esque getup featured The Spikester’s unmistakable perfectly fitted touch.

  “Wow, am I wearing that, too?” I asked with an equal measure of longing and fear. We watched as an intense griffin creature, previously hidden behind the trunk of the float’s tree, reached down and easily lifted Anne to her perch in one of the fairy tree limbs. His talons peeled back as he clipped a thick metal guideline to her costume.

  “Of course not, you’re a puppeteer,” said the slug.

  “I am?”

  “Don’t worry, the costume doesn’t have any of the fun, though challenging additions the rest of us have.” His hackles sprang back up on command, as he revealed a string lever attached to his index finger. “But it was the artist’s first creation, and we never have a showing without it. Didn’t they tell you anything? We never allow ‘the Scooby-Doo reveal’ in this company. Our little theatrical surprises are the artist’s statement that one should leave behind expectations of what should be and open oneself up to appreciate all the surprising and wonderful layers life offers.”

  The eggplant who’d just arrived stepped forward and reached across and gripped the corner of his fang-filled mouth to demonstrate. Instead of the grinning puppeteer I’d expected, three spring-filled snakes jumped out at me, leaving behind what appeared to be a weathered foam egg. Crack lines appeared before the top of the shell popped up to reveal a baby triceratops head with very humanlike eyes, one of which winked at me. “Most people wear more than one mask,” the triceratops commented.

  “Okay, somebody help Lenny get his snakes back in his mouth!” The slug turned back to me. “So anywho, you must change within the trunk. The boss traveled to the Bowl parade in California with half the cast, but we need to maintain his professional and artistic standards, especially on our home turf.”

  I looked up at Anne’s tinkling laugh of delight as she delicately spun around a thick, ropy, foam-flower-covered vine, reveling in her own beauty. As usual, she floated above the insanity she’d pulled us both into.

  “So wait. What do I have to do?” I asked. “I thought I was coming to play the piccolo.”


  “No.” The slug’s googly eyestalks shook back and forth impatiently. “You were coming to play the pic—” He broke out in laughter abruptly midsentence.

  As the mushrooms, griffin, eggplant, and various other woodland and agriculture-based creatures joined in, I suddenly could relate to Alice, post–rabbit hole.

  “Oh, my.” The slug’s jiggly eyes finally stilled as he gained control of himself. “I’m afraid you are in a pickle.”

  Which set them all off again.

  Anne spent the parade alternating between twirling and flipping her fabulous self around the greenery of her elfin home, and mournfully mouthing, “I’m sooooo, sooooo sorry,” down to me, in my giant seven-foot-high green-foam-pickle prison.

  The first block, I concentrated on counting all the ways Anne owed me, while blinking the sweat out of my eyes, breathing by sipping air from the vent below and shuffling my giant troll feet, complete with purple hairy toes—in a way that didn’t result in falling flat on my Vlassic.

  The second block, I got my dill on and shook it a bit to the pounding bass of the band we followed, and stayed upright. Rather than feeling tempted to kick the little mushrooms playing ring-around-the-rosy around my bumpy green body, I spun inside their circle the opposite direction until they peeled off, dizzy at the contrast.

  By the third block, the eight-foot-tall corn, slug, griffin, eggplant, and I were stealing the show from the beauteous acrobatic elves and earning loud cheers from the onlookers as we attempted a grotesque plant-animal-mineral version of the Rockettes’ moves as the band began Sinatra’s “New York, New York.”

  It was right about then that I saw T-Shirt on the sidelines. I glanced up, but Anne was otherwise engaged, posing for a group of culinary students from Johnson and Wales still wearing their white jackets and houndstooth-checked pants. He yelled to get Anne’s attention, having worn a HOBBITS ARE TOLKIEN MINORITIES cotton tribute to her appearance. She spun around at his voice and stared down at him for a long minute, before deliberately turning her back to him.

  Her chilly body language would have been enough to relieve me of the hundred-plus-degree pressure cooker my costume had become, but T-Shirt looked like he’d been punched in the gut. As he turned away, I caught sight of David behind him, locked lip to lip with Maria. David’s lips might have been firmly attached, but his attention was on the float, clearly trying to ensure that I got my intended punishment for daring to cross him. Loser.

  I thanked the gods of all things pickled for the cover my costume provided, and strode forward to do a little do-si-do with the slug, cool as a cucumber with well-preserved pride.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Anne and Ms. Parisi did an admirable job ignoring the stares and whispers of the other passengers boarding the plane. After the past few days, they were probably so thrilled to be getting out of town they didn’t even mind.

  Although the police didn’t have any more evidence to continue their investigation, the paparazzi had sunk their teeth in after the viral video tsunami spread across the country. Even late-night TV show hosts were making cracks about what they termed a Simpsonian “D’oh” moment. The last time Anne and I looked it up, the cell phone–captured clip of the cop leaving the entrance to the donut shop, and stopping slack jawed as the guys snuck unseen around the side toting his light bar, had been viewed over twelve million times.

  After their police station clickfest, one of the reporters had used his slimy ways to get ahold of an illegally obtained police report and verified Anne’s connection as a suspect. Thankfully, my face was in shadows, but a clear shot of the two beautiful faces of the Parisis—Anne, defiant, and Ms. Parisi, distraught—made for ideal tabloid fodder.

  There had been no formal charges tying Anne to the crime, but, despite her being underage, unscrupulous Hollywood talk shows spent long hours gossiping about what a shame it was for the formerly perfect Victoria Parisi to be so humiliated by her daughter. The vultures even speculated on what sort of mother she must be.

  I sunk into the soft leather of my cushy window seat and tried to put it out of my head, like Anne and her mom seemed to be doing. Ms. Parisi might be used to getting bumped up on flights, but I had never ridden in first class before. I checked to see if anyone was looking and tucked the complimentary amenities bag full of tiny toiletries, socks, and a lavender-scented eye mask into my backpack for back at home, when I could savor it.

  Finally, the line of boarding passengers slowed to a trickle. A flight attendant followed them, stopping at our aisle holding a tray of champagne glasses.

  “Refreshment?”

  “Oh please, yes,” Ms. Parisi said, showing the first crack in her poise as she gratefully accepted the glass and took a long deep drink.

  “Thank you. Yes, me, too,” Anne said with a smirk, but flashed an apologetic smile at her mom before correcting, “I’ll have a Diet Coke, though.”

  “Me, too,” I said, and flipped on the seat’s lumbar massage feature. “Ahhh, this is what I needed last weekend after that parade.”

  “Awww, you were cuke,” Anne said. “Seriously, you were a hit. I heard the slug asking if you’d be up for another show in the future. And I got to blow off T-Shirt and you got to blow off Zander. Perfect day!”

  “What? Where was Zander?”

  “You didn’t—Sorry, I thought you saw him and iced him because of what he said.”

  “I didn’t even see him. Who was he there with?”

  “A few little kids in wheelchairs—they were in the handicapped section up front. He was with some redhead chick, but don’t worry, they weren’t acting like anything special. Does he have a sister?”

  “I guess. I don’t really know that much about his family. He never talks about them. Great, he probably thinks I blew him off. And while he was doing charity work of all things.”

  It didn’t surprise me in the slightest that Zander would volunteer to take sick kids to a parade.

  “You were more than a little incognito. And so what if he did. What he said was awful.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “All set, Ms. Parisi?” asked the flight attendant, accepting her empty glass and offering a downy blanket.

  “Thank you.”

  The attendant nodded and then placed a hand on Ms. Parisi’s shoulder with a sympathetic smile. “How about I close this curtain.”

  We all glanced back at the dozen or so eyes gawking up at the Parisis.

  “That would be lovely,” said Ms. Parisi, and reached across the aisle to give Anne’s hand a squeeze of support.

  Anne and I settled into our front-row seats. The giant tent buzzed with chatter and excitement, and the white runway gleamed like a mirror. A heavy, rhythmic thumping of nondescript music with an overtone of seductive jazz sax filled the venue as the lights dimmed.

  “That’s weird,” Anne whispered. “She’s usually more of a light, melodic type. Wonder if somebody on the soundboard screwed up.”

  I glanced over as a critic sitting next to me scribbled “bold departure” on his pad. Anne pointed out the recognizable fashion writers, and I spotted a sprinkling of celebrities in the masses.

  Ms. Parisi strode out as a hush fell over the crowd.

  “Thank you all for being here for a toast to Chicago’s fashion history. As a designer, you never know when inspiration might hit and where it might come from. I think you’ll notice a flash of spark and drive in this line not fully expressed in my usual designs. I hope you see this emergence of passion as the natural progression burgeoning from the classic roots and stately stalks of past collections—a vision inspired by someone I greatly admire—my daughter.”

  Ms. Parisi turned and strode back up the runway, throwing a kiss and wink at Anne as she passed.

  The sax swelled as model after model, poured into slinky flapper-inspired gowns, kept in check by Ms. Parisi’s signature highly constructed style clicked past us. Heads held high, exuding everything from coy flirtation to smoldering sensuality, they pranced p
ast, drawing spontaneous bursts of applause and exclamations from the enchanted crowd.

  “It’s so you, Anne,” I said.

  Anne beamed and jumped up with the rest of the crowd for a thundering finale as the entire line of models entered the runway for a final pose. Ms. Parisi followed them, graciously accepting the renewed cheers. She paused alongside us and reached one hand down for Anne. Anne tucked one heel onto her seat and stepped gracefully onto the runway—a move that would have induced blooper-style footage had I tried it—and walked arm in arm with her mom, laughing and waving. They stopped and stood, proud and brave at the end of the runway under a sea of flashes that were likely to be less about the fashions than the designer. They followed the line of models back through the curtains as the lights came up.

  The audience pounced on their cell phones, abuzz with talk of the designs and the moment Ms. Parisi flaunted her support of her daughter. Anne’s cheeks flamed as she happily weaved her way through the crowd to our seats, accepting compliments and good wishes from everyone she passed.

  I hugged her tight.

  “I can’t even imagine what you’re feeling right now.”

  “It just can’t get any better than this, can it!”

  I laughed. “Should we head back to the hotel now?”

  “I kind of want to go find Mom. She got whisked off the second we passed the curtains. It’s total chaos back there.”

  “Isn’t that why she wanted us to just meet her back at The Talbott?”

  Anne started shifting back through the seats toward the stage.

  “Yeah, but who knew she was going to pull this! I just want to thank her. Come on, bring your camera. Shoot some of the flowers and champagne and half-naked model mania of a post–fashion runway show. Maybe you’ll get your winning citywide contest shot!”

  She had a point. I’d been carrying the school’s loaner camera around my neck like an albatross, reminding me of the David mess and the fact that I hadn’t replaced my own entry for the contest yet.

  I followed her, snapping away as dresses whipped past me and shoes were flung across the lens to waiting assistants positioned next to tissue-paper-filled boxes. I got a nice photo of a model swiping one side of her dramatic makeup off through a magnifying mirror. I click-clicked until we reached her mom’s dressing room and it hit me.