Unmistakable

by Lauren Abrams

  “Clearly former. Look at your wardrobe. Black. Combat. Boots. I think that’s all I need to say. You claim that you used to be fashionable, but the only evidence of that I see is these two, absolutely opulent creations.”

  She holds the ivory dress against her soft caramel-colored skin. “I think this one is mine, don’t you think?”

  I take it from her hands and run my fingers over the smooth silk and beaded fringe.

  “It’s beautiful, Stella,” she adds. “It deserves to be worn. By me, I think. Because the other one is your piéce de résistance.”

  She hands over the other garment bag, and I touch the dress with the kind of reverence customarily reserved for cathedrals and palaces. For two months, I spent every waking second (when I wasn’t thinking about Luke Dixon) agonizing over every detail. It’s definitely the most beautiful thing I ever created—my own little Mona Lisa. The dark green silk is cut low in the front, and the overlaid gold and silver beading radiates out from the core, forming a corset-like bodice that ultimately tapers out into a flouncy skirt. It’s a bit more risqué than most of the pieces from the period, but that’s due to its intended function—it’s a dress meant for dancing, for drinking, for merriment.

  Izzy touches the rows of beads with deft fingers. “You’re really talented, Stella.”

  I don’t dispute it. I’ve always been hopelessly vain about my dresses. I can’t sing, I can’t play the piano, I can’t dunk a basketball, and I certainly won’t ever be an Olympic sprinter. But once upon a time, I could make dresses. And I was good at it.

  The green and gold one had been meant the last charity ball of the summer before I left for my freshman year of college—a ball that I never attended.

  “They’re begging us,” Izzy says. “Wear me, Stella, it says. Wear me.”

  “You’re right,” I admit. “They do deserve to be worn.”

  She claps her hands and squeals. “When you add my makeover skills to the mix, we’re golden. We are so going to a Phillips party. Danny and all of his little friends can eat their own shit.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Oh, you know what I mean. They are going to open their pocketbooks and pay us each a thousand bucks. We’ll live off the stories from this one for the entire year.”

  “You said makeover skills?”

  “Yes, my dear, darling, favorite roommate ever…”

  “Only roommate ever,” I correct.

  “Makeover time. You made the dresses, and now it’s my turn. Your dress was meant for blond hair, and you don’t have blond hair anymore, so we need to create an illusion.”

  She studies me with her artist’s eye. I would normally put up of more of a protest, but I know that under Izzy’s effervescent exterior, there’s a steel core. When she makes her mind up about something, it’s a done deal. Plus, there is a truly dizzying array of brushes and powders and pots in her hands. I’m starting to feel nauseated.

  “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” she says gleefully.

  “Oh, I have some idea. You only tell me about a million times a day. I want our own apartment, you want a makeover day. It’s an old, sad refrain. I was never going to get my dream of an apartment, and you…”

  “Finally get to fulfill my lifelong dream of making you look like a human being. Hush. The artisté is at work.”

  I sulk. She plucks and prods and tweaks and brushes me into another new version of myself. After what feels like hours in her chair, she sighs dramatically and spins my chair around.

  “You’re a goddess. There’s nothing I can do. I’m going to be frumpy next to you.”

  I don’t dignify that with a response, even if it does go against best friend code. Iz is gorgeous—caramel skin, enormous brown eyes, and deeply tanned, flawless skin. The skin and curves come from her mother, who held the title of Miss Puerto Rico back in the eighties, and her perfect bone structure and full lips come from her father, who is old-school handsome, like Cary Grant or Clark Gable. On my best day as a blond, I wouldn’t hold a candle to her.

  “Just wait until you see yourself,” she says, pushing me into my room. “Get your dress on. I’m going to get my face ready, but be warned—you peek in the mirror, and there’s a seriously awful death waiting for you. You can’t take the big reveal away from me.”

  “You don’t need to worry about that.”

  It’s true—I’ve already looked in the mirror once today. I’d rather not do it again.

  Once the dress is arranged to my satisfaction, I flip through my iPod, since Iz is certainly going to be awhile. My eye catches on Nina Simone Sings the Blues. Click. Her dusky voice, filled with power and pain and hurt and vengeance, fills my head until there’s no room for anything else, not even a glimmer of totally clueless, and endlessly beautiful, blue eyes.

  Nina helps. Bob Marley helps. It all helps. I’ve listened to half of my playlists before Izzy’s yelling forces me to remove the earbuds.

  “Get your ass out here!”

  “Took you long enough,” I grumble, smoothing my dress down.

  I intend to give her more grief, but I can’t help but smile when I see her. The ivory dress was intended to fit loosely, but instead, it hugs each and every one of Izzy’s curves. It’s perfect.

  Iz claps in delight, hands me a mask, and says, in her best fairy godmother voice, “Close your eyes, Cinderella.”

  I slide the mask over my face as Izzy angles my body before a mirror.

  “Okay. Open.”

  I’m curious. It’s only natural.

  I blink three times. If I click my heels together, I have no doubt that I will be transported into a magical land complete with singing munchkins.

  Izzy is a miracle worker—there’s no trace of the punk rock Elvira hideousness that the mirror showed me earlier. She’s managed to coax my fake inky waves into a mass of curls, adding just enough makeup so that my too-pale skin looks luminous rather than sickly. Best of all, there’s no trace of black goopy mascara from beneath the mask, just the shock of green eyes that I’ve hidden behind my glasses for more than three years now.

  “Iz…”

  “You look stunning, darling. Like a flapper-era Scarlett O’Hara.”

  I throw my arms around her before glancing back at the girl in the mirror, this third version of myself. She’s still a stranger—fierce, elegant, and infinitely more composed than I feel. A stranger that I just might be able to live with.

  “Thanks, Iz.”

  “Thanks for letting me. It’s been a long time coming.”

  “You’re right. It has.” I straighten my shoulders and give her a mischievous look. “Let’s do this thing.”

  She slings her arm through mine and grabs her purse from the table. “What happens at Phillips…”

  “Stays at Phillips.”

  Chapter 7

  When we get to the club, there’s already a line of impeccably dressed hopefuls wrapped around the block. My confidence level falls below zero. Izzy gives the queue a quick once-over, shakes her head in disdain, and pulls me behind her to the main door, where three burly men stand guard.

  “You have to get to the back of the line,” a girl calls out.

  “Come on, Iz,” I say, tugging on her hand. “We’re going to make all of these people angry.”

  She matches the girl’s sneer with one of her own. “Screw them. We’re getting into this party if it kills me. And I don’t do lines.”

  While she sweet-talks one of the bouncers, I choose to hang on the fringes of the crowd, feeling hopelessly awkward and even a little bit underdressed. We’ll never make it in.

  And…I never should have doubted Iz. A minute after she cozies up to the front of the line, she crooks a finger at me, the bouncer raises his eyebrows, and, as if by magic, the velvet rope falls open. Iz beams and throws her arms around the burly man.

  “Get your ass over here, Stella!” she yells.

  “Great costume,” the bouncer says, eyeing me appreciativ
ely. “You girls have fun now.”

  “See,” Izzy says triumphantly. “That was easy, wasn’t it?”

  I look back at the disgruntled crowd. “I don’t think we managed to win many admirers.”

  “Just the one admirer who matters.” She winks at the bouncer, whose nametag reads Jerome. “Screw them. We just made a thousand bucks. Each.”

  “That’s all well and fine, but I’m using you as a human shield when we get jumped trying to get ourselves out of here. Also, I really do not want to know what you promised Jerome.”

  Her smirk is joyous. “I might have said that you would go on a date with him.”

  “Iz, that’s it. I am going to…”

  The threat dies in my throat as a man in a tuxedo hands us each a glass of champagne. The entrance into the club is a narrow pathway, and light emanates from dozens and maybe hundreds of candles, which are haphazardly placed in tiny nooks in the wall. It’s a seemingly endless walk before we reach the cavernous interior and Izzy chatters away about our victory, but I’m too transfixed by the beauty of the space to do anything but stare.

  An enormous crystal chandelier dangles in the center of the dance floor, which is surrounded by cozy-looking booths filled with beautiful people. I recognize one of the Housewives, a well-known rapper whose only hit consisted of exactly three lines—“Get down. Uh. Get down and let me see you move your ass,” and a couple of insanely handsome black men in crisp white suits, who I think are models. Or moguls. Or something.

  Even the dancers grinding to the steady pulse of a hip-hop beat look like professionals. I would normally take a few minutes to gawk some more, but the gleam in Iz’s eye informs me that she has a different plan.

  “Let’s dance!” She drops her empty champagne glass unceremoniously on one of the nearby tables. This is going to require a lot of liquid courage. I lift my still-full glass, tilt my head back, and let the bubbles coat my throat before following suit.

  “I need another drink if you’re going to get me out on that dance floor,” I yell, my voice barely audible over the music.

  “You’re speaking my language now, mi querida amiga,” she says, already making a beeline for the bar.

  As she drapes herself over the mahogany ledge, a very pretty boy, also dressed in a tuxedo, rushes over.

  “Pick your poison, ladies,” he drawls, giving Iz a languorous look before leaning in to shout-whisper into her ear, “May I suggest tequila?”

  Izzy is mock-outraged and loving every bit of him. “Tequila is for novices. Or people who have a death wish. We need vodka. Lots of vodka.”

  “Whiskey for me,” I correct.

  “Your wishes are my command. One vodka and one whiskey,” he says, whipping the cocktail shaker above his head with a magnificent, but unnecessary, flourish. In a matter of seconds, he produces a faintly pink-colored concoction and my whiskey.

  I start to hand over some cash, but he pushes my hand away.

  “These two are compliments of that gentleman standing right over there.”

  I ask him to thank our benefactor, but Izzy, nonplussed, cuts me off.

  “Thank you,” Iz says, clinking her shot glass against mine. “And thank you,” she mouths, in the direction of a stunningly handsome man with gleaming ebony skin.

  “Cheers, Stella dear. To your dresses and my imagination.”

  “To the boys of Sigma Alpha eating our shit,” I add. We down the shots and slam them back onto the bar.

  My stomach is warm and my head is starting to fuzz over. It’s almost enough to make me forget about my day. About Luke. Almost.

  “All right. Dancing,” Izzy announces, grabbing my arm.

  I groan, but I don’t put up much of a fight. As we make our way to the gleaming wooden floor, the purchaser of our shots intercepts us with an easy smile.

  “Hello, ladies. Having a nice time?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Izzy touches his arm flirtatiously and swivels to give me an appraising look. “Are we having a good time, Stella?”

  There’s no use in contradicting her. Her glee is infectious, and besides that, there will be no bikini car washes in my future, a fact for which I am profoundly grateful. “I think we just might be having a good time. Thank you for the drinks.”

  He brushes off my gratitude with a casual sweep of his arm. “First time here?” he asks in a low, intimate tone.

  “It is. But I don’t think it will be the last,” Izzy replies, lowering her eyelashes.

  “I certainly hope not.” He chuckles. “Would either of you care to dance?”

  “I think we might be able to arrange something. If the circumstances are right,” she says.

  “Then we dance,” he says, offering one arm to Izzy and the other to me. “I’m Darius.”

  “Izzy. And this is Stella.”

  I take his proffered arm, albeit reluctantly. It usually takes about three drinks before I decide to humiliate myself on the dance floor, but a half-glass of champagne and a shot of whiskey will just have to do this time.

  The beat is thumping, loud, and decidedly not in line with the Bootlegger theme. I use a couple of my patented moves—mostly swaying and occasionally dipping my body to the ground. I’m not exactly Paula Abdul (in her pre-Idol, dance queen phase), but no one seems to notice—the drinks are flowing too freely and the music is too loud, and Izzy and her phenomenal dancing skills more than make up for my deficiencies. Darius’s eyeballs threaten to pop right out of his head.

  By the third song, my earlier words are no longer a lie—I think I just might be having a good time.

  “All right, y’all! Ready for a change of pace?” the DJ howls. He samples a few tracks, mostly jazz and swing, which are promptly met by a chorus of boos. He’s undeterred. “Y’all are just gonna make do with the greatest artist of all time.”

  I’m expecting Biggie or 2Pac, but instead, the faint strums of Billie Holiday begin to stream from the speakers. I have to stifle a smile—if we’re really going for a 20s theme here, it’s about thirty years too soon. However, “You Go to My Head” has always been my favorite Billie song, and my toes are already starting to tap out a slow, devastating rhythm. Evidently, I do want to dance.

  “Stella, I’m going to drop my purse off and grab a drink. Darius, dance with her,” Izzy says, with an impish glance in my direction.

  Darius extends a hand and whispers, “No naughty tricks. Just dancing. I promise.”

  Oh, what the hell. My tentative smile is all the agreement he needs. He pulls my body close to his, and as we begin to sway back and forth, I’m hit with my most powerful memory, number one on the top ten list. It’s the breathless kind of recollection, the perfect kind, the one that exists not in the past and not in the present but somewhere in between.

  Luke and I are swaying under the flowers as the light of the day begins to fade beneath the horizon. The summer heat begins to dissipate with that light, and the earth is soft and wet beneath our feet. He twirls me unexpectedly, my stomach drops, and I am utterly, hopelessly, lost.

  It sounds romantic, but isn’t really: Jack is barking out commands from the treehouse in his best imitation of my mother’s voice. My toes are black and blue. Luke’s developing a serious bruise on his arm from all the times I’ve squeezed it too tightly. I’m at least a head and a half shorter than him, which causes major problems when we get to the dips.

  I’m seven. He’s ten. Romantic or not, it’s the greatest moment of my life.

  It was the summer that Luke’s mother decided to get remarried (again), and Luke was collateral damage. Amelia had visions of a big band wedding, and she bribed her only son into performing for the hordes of F-list celebrities by promising him a PlayStation. After a long series of negotiations, Luke agreed to learn how to dance. With a partner. As Jack’s little sister and the only girl that they knew who didn’t have cooties, I hit the jackpot by default.

  The chance to be indispensable to a much-beloved older brother and to crack the brotherhood tha
t he and Luke had created, was only a part of it. Naturally, both of them still saw me as a total nuisance, but for the first time ever, I was necessary. In the most glorious three weeks of my short life, dancing with Luke made up the bulk of my days. For however long Luke could stand it, Jack would scream and holler and we would dance and dance and dance until we had gotten all of the steps exactly right.

  His mother called off the wedding at the last minute when she learned that the groom-to-be had recently lost a good portion of his stock holdings in a bad investment deal. No one was surprised, but Luke still got his video games and I got the kind of everlasting memories that all preteen girls dream about.

  I clung to those memories through the awkward middle school and early high school years, all the way until I got some fairly spectacular breasts (if I do say so myself) and became the mean girl queen of Amity High.

  I must still remember some of the basic steps, because Darius gives me an appreciative glance as he places his hand on the small of my back.

  “Ready?” he asks.

  “For what?”

  I let out a little whoop of joy as he bends me so far backwards that my hair grazes the ground.

  “That,” Darius says gallantly.

  “That’s right, Stella!” Izzy calls out, obviously delighted.

  Enchanted by the music and the memory, I forget that sarcasm is my main mode of human communication and that I have deliberately cultivated a reputation as a bone-crushing femme bot who doubles as an Elvira look-alike. I feel silly and pretty and completely frivolous. As I give Izzy a little bow, I can almost pretend that today never happened and that the past three years were nothing more than a nightmarish interlude.

  “Wake up, sleeping beauty.”

  Almost, but not quite. I take five seconds to put the universe back into place, and when I do, I find Darius smiling down at me, completely oblivious to my struggle for control. I force a plastic smile onto my face.

  “Another?” he asks. A new track, another jazz number owning a familiar beat, makes my feet itch for more. I’m about to say yes when I notice that his eyes are lingering on a beautiful blond next to us.