“I could have used this group two years ago,” Gisela muttered.
“Gisela has a past,” Sandra explained to everyone, then turned to me. “Kind of like your friend Alex, Natalie. Only Gisela found her way to our church and Alex is—”
“Getting better after her accident,” I retorted a bit hotly, all the while knowing that Gisela wasn’t the only girl in the room with a past. “I think we should leave Alex Samuels out of this.”
“Sensitive, much?” Sandra fired back.
I stood up for myself. “Hey. I don’t judge your friends. Don’t judge mine.”
“I’m a new kid on the block here, but I want to point out we’re not doing much planning,” Mia observed, taking in the tension between Sandra and me.
Kiley spoke up. “I agree with Mia. What I’m wondering is what we can do to get some guys here. We’re all girls!”
“That’s because guys are pigs,” Charma joked.
“Only some guys,” Mia responded.
“Yeah. The ones with penises,” Charma shot back.
We laughed but knew Kiley was making a good point. We quickly passed a resolution to have at least three guys at our next discussion.
We kept at it. Sandra dominated the meeting, Gisela and Courtney had a couple of suggestions, and the rest of us mostly were quiet. We decided that our first public gathering would take place a week from that Saturday night at the church. We’d try to have at least twenty kids on hand, and that would be our official kickoff.
“Let’s try to pull kids from other churches,” Sandra told us. “The sooner we go wide, the sooner we can grow.”
Mia spoke up. “Should we have a keynote speaker?”
“Definitely,” Sandra confirmed. “If there’s no objection, I’m happy to do it.”
Objection? Are you kidding? I was glad that no one asked me. All I wanted to do was put out chairs, pour lemonade, and hand out programs.
We decided to meet again in a few days. Then Sandra asked us to join hands for a closing prayer, and our get-together was over.
Thank God. It hadn’t turned into a confessional. So far, my secret was safe.
Mia and Alex were getting along like they’d known each other forever. In fact, I was two steps behind them on West Third Street while they jabbered away about bands, restaurants, and celebrity gossip. Alex knew everything there was to know about movies, TV, and the music business. Mia had pithy commentary about the personalities involved, since many of them had visited Big Jam’s estate. Me, I just listened and learned.
It was a half hour after the end of the Wait/Great meeting and the three of us were on our way to a boutique called Threads. Threads was owned by the ex-wife of one of Shep’s former bandmates, and shopping there was invitation-only. When Mia heard that this was our destination, she was pumped. She’d always wanted to see Threads but had no idea how to wangle an invitation, other than by asking Big Jam. That, she’d never do.
“I don’t get this invitation thing,” I’d told Alex skeptically after we’d rendezvoused at the corner of Melrose and North Crescent. “How can a business make money by turning away customers?”
Mia grinned. “Easy. Charge absurd prices.”
“Here we are,” Alex announced as we halted before an all-black storefront. Seriously. There were no windows, no mannequins, and no display items. There wasn’t even a sign that indicated this was a boutique.
“This is it?” I took in the exterior. For all the world, it looked like a seedy massage parlor in a scuzzy section of Minneapolis.
I started toward the door, but Alex stopped me. “Don’t bother with the door. It’s always locked.”
She took out her iPhone and sent a quick text. Moments later, the front door swung open automatically. We entered, only to find ourselves momentarily trapped. The front door locked behind us; a black security door was six feet ahead of us. Meanwhile, we were bathed in harsh white light and scrutinized by a video camera.
“Hey! What’s going on?” I exclaimed.
“Identity check,” Alex said calmly.
Then the interior black door opened and we could move forward. Three seconds later, the three of us were in another world, of beauty, peace, and serenity.
Also, the only clothing shop I’d ever entered where there were no clothes on display.
Let me explain.
Threads was just two rooms. A front room and a hidden back room. The front room had a small seating area to one side; four chairs were arranged around a large blue vase containing four fresh sunflowers. The walls were light brown, with hand-carved crown moldings. The up-lighting was incandescent, and a hidden sound system played relaxing flute music. At the far end was a black-and-white Chinese screen; presumably, one changed clothes behind it. Next to the screen was a three-paneled mirror. A few feet away was an indoor fountain.
No clothing racks. No cash register. The room seemed more like a meditation chamber than a place for commerce.
There was, however, a proprietor. She was in her late twenties, with silver hair, small features, and a spectacular figure under a black tank top and gray Capri pants. She stood barefoot in the center of the floor and greeted us.
“Welcome to Threads. I’m Magenta. Call me Maggie if you must, but Magenta works better. Alex I know. I’m guessing the white girl is Natalie and the black girl is Mia. Correct?” Magenta’s voice was gravelly, like she’d smoked too many cigarettes.
“Unless I changed my name in the last ten minutes, I’m Mia, that’s right,” Mia answered with her customary good humor and quickness. “Nice body art, by the way.”
“Thank you.” Magenta beamed.
I’m not sure I would have used the word “nice” to describe Magenta’s tattoos. I would have suggested “copious.” Or “rife.” Or “self-mutilating.” Take your pick. Even here in the land of the multiple-tattooed, Magenta was an outlier. Both arms done in flower patterns, right down to the fingertips. Neck, throat, and chest in stellar constellations. Both calves and feet with matching zebra stripes. I was looking at hundreds of painful hours in a chair. Or maybe Magenta had opted for general anesthesia and a platoon of body artists working at the same time.
Magenta pointed to the sitting area. “Sit. Everyone but Natalie. Natalie, come to the mirror so we can get you outfitted and on your way. Alex already called in your sizes. Alex and Mia, take a chill pill.”
“But … but …” This wasn’t shopping as I knew it.
“But nothing. You want new threads, or you want to repeat the name of the part of your anatomy that’s going to look ten times better ten minutes from now? Excuse me.”
Magenta headed into the back area. I turned to my friends, who were now drinking bottles of Fiji water in the sitting area. “This is weird,” I told them.
“Go with it,” Alex advised.
I heard the sound of something rolling behind me. Magenta was returning, pushing a metal clothes rack on wheels. On the rack, hanging on velvet-covered hangers, were twenty or thirty items of clothing. Jeans and blouses in several colors, a babydoll dress in a metallic fabric, skirts that ranged from short to dangerously short, and more. There was a lot of stuff in white. In addition to the clothes, I saw several pairs of shoes on the base of the rack.
“Here are your clothes,” Magenta announced. “You’re good to go. I’ll send the bill to Shep. Thanks for coming in.”
What?
“I haven’t even tried them on,” I protested.
Magenta edged toward impatience. “Babycakes, I hear you picked what you wore to your job interview and that didn’t work out too well. You picked that shorts/top thing you’re wearing now, right?”
I nodded.
“Thought so. If I were you?” Magenta raised her eyebrows. “I wouldn’t be trusting my judgment, because your judgment in clothes sucks ass, though your own ass is pretty decent. If you insist on trying this stuff on, be my guest. But it’s a waste of time because it’s all perfect. Where do you want it sent?”
Once
again, I found myself questioning my own ears. Where do I want it sent? I was tempted to say, “To Lady Gaga’s mother,” just to see what happened.
“I just texted you her address, Magenta,” Alex called.
Magenta’s unseen cell chimed as the text came in. “Got it. You trying on, or not?”
Mia came over to me and spoke softly. “Magenta’s the most famous personal shopper in the country. But try one outfit if you want to satisfy yourself.”
“Can you believe this place?” I stage-whispered back.
“Frankly, yes.”
“Okay. I’m running late here.” Magenta strode to the clothes, handed me a pair of Imitation of Christ dark jeans, a white silk shirt with pleated sleeves and a high collar, and a soft leather belt. “Put these on and then wear them to your next job interview. Sexy without being sexy, hip without trying too hard, and still you.”
I shrugged. “Okay.”
When I went behind the screen to change, I heard the hum of conversation. Alex was probably explaining to Magenta why I was such a hick. Fine. Let her explain. Because three to one these clothes wouldn’t fit, and …
Mirrors don’t lie.
When I finally stepped into the three-quarters-around mirror, I looked amazing. My tush had never looked so good, and the shirt looked custom-designed.
Magenta appraised me. “Happy?”
“Thrilled.”
“Good,” she told me. “Don’t doubt me again. I’ll send some bras and panties, too. No more department store dreck. Are you done? I’ve got another customer coming.”
I nodded meekly.
“Then get changed and get going. Katie hates to be kept waiting.”
“Katie Holmes?” I blurted out, glancing around the room. “Or … Katy Perry?” Possibilities swirled crazily through my mind. In L.A., anything seemed possible.
For the first time that afternoon, Magenta smiled. “Tell you what, Natalie. I won’t tell her if you’re my customer, and I won’t tell you if she’s one. Deal?”
I took another look at the full rack of amazing clothes that were now mine. Wow.
“Deal.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Natalie, could you say grace?”
My dad looked at me expectantly. There were seven of us around the old-fashioned redwood picnic table my dad had bought at Home Depot; it had been delivered to Ricardo’s mansion while I was at Threads. This table was my parents’ first material acquisition for our new home. While it looked a bit out of place amid the designer furnishings of the back deck, we’d had the same picnic table in our Mankato backyard. I choked up a little when I saw this one.
“Come on, Natalie.” Alex prodded gently. “Do it for me. I’ve never heard anyone say grace before dinner before.”
Shep shook his head. “Actually, Mom used to say it sometimes, Alex. When you were really little.”
“I don’t remember that,” Alex responded.
“It kind of stopped when you were four or five. I don’t know why.” Shep’s voice was faraway.
It was almost seven-thirty. After I’d left Threads with my friends, we had decided to split up and collect applications at some of the restaurants on Melrose and West Third. We were just finishing up when my dad texted me, asking whether Alex and Mia might want to come to dinner to celebrate Alex’s return to good health. Mia had a routine vet appointment with her dogs, but Alex was up for it.
When I called back, my father asked whether Shep might want to join us. I was pleasantly surprised when Shep said he’d be happy to come.
“I’d like them to see me with my own clothes on,” he declared.
So there were six others at the table, and all of them looked at me expectantly. Fine. I knew what to do. Alex was to my left, Shep to my right. I took their hands; they joined hands with my family. I kept it simple.
“Dear God,” I said. “Thank you for the lives we live, the food on our table, and for allowing us to come together like this as friends on this beautiful evening. We’re especially thankful that Alex is well and with us. Amen.”
There was a chorus of “Amen.” I can’t say I heard Alex’s voice in there.
Dinner was a Minnesota-style cookout of burgers and brats, with homemade warm German potato salad and fresh coleslaw. As my dad went to the grill, Shep turned to my mom. “I really want to thank you for inviting me. The last time I was here, I kind of embarrassed myself.”
My mom smiled. “We’ve all done embarrassing things, Shep. The important thing is to admit them, learn from them, and move on.”
Yeah, right. I thought of Sean and me. I got the “learn and move on” part pretty well. But the “admit them” part? I hadn’t done that. Not with my family, not even with Alex or Mia, both of whom would certainly understand. What was holding me back? I didn’t know. Was my mom saying you couldn’t actually learn and move on without admitting your mistakes?
“I like his wardrobe a whole lot better now,” my dad joked as he slid the brats around the grill.
“Me too,” Shep agreed. He looked positively preppy in clean jeans, tennis shoes, and a red golf shirt.
“Excuse me,” Chad said, pushing back from the table. “I’ve got to use the bathroom.”
“We’re about to eat, Chad.” My dad reprimanded him lightly.
“I’ll be right back,” Chad promised.
My dad waited for him to return before he brought the brats and burgers to the table and served everyone. I was happy to see Alex eat heartily. Angelenos were so concerned with their waistlines. I thought—maybe it was foolish, but I still thought it—that if Alex didn’t obsess about her weight, she’d have one less reason to turn to drugs and alcohol. A stretch, I know.
To my chagrin, my mother brought up Wait/Great right away.
“Alex? Did Nat tell you about the group she’s helping to start at the church?”
Alex nodded. “A little bit, yeah.”
“What do you think?”
Alex stayed gracious. “Good for her, and good for you, but it’s not really my thing.”
“It’s not mine, either,” Gemma quipped. She was doing more poking than eating. “But I’m going to have to go anyway. That’s what happens when your mother is the minister.”
“Explain, please.” Shep was lost.
I gave Shep a quick rundown of Wait/Great. In the middle of it, my dad slipped away to take a cell phone call.
When I was done, Shep nodded thoughtfully. “What you’re talking about is positive peer pressure. I could have used some of that when I was Alex’s age.”
“Not just peer pressure,” my mom said, correcting him. “Peer support. With a little heavenly influence.” She focused again on Alex. “I respect what you’re saying, Alex. You say that Wait/Great isn’t for you. My point is, there are a lot of churches telling kids never to have sex until they’re married, never to drink, never to do any drugs—never to do a whole bunch of things. That’s not what Wait/Great is about.” Her eyes swept over us kids. “Not that a mother can’t hope. But my point is, don’t do those things until you’re an adult.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Chad commented.
“Right.” Gemma scoffed. “It didn’t sound so good when you were with Lisa.”
Chad blushed. “I’m not talking to Lisa these days. Like Mom said, I admitted it, I learned from it, and I’m doing my best to move on.”
“Right-o.” My sister’s face displayed her disbelief.
“Think what you want,” Chad said coldly.
I had made myself a burger laden with cheese, lettuce, and tomato. As I bit into it, I wondered suddenly whether Brett would eat a burger like that. Wasn’t there a Jewish rule about not mixing milk and meat? I remembered that from someplace. I tried to remember if I’d ever seen Brett have a pepperoni pizza. I couldn’t recall.
“I wonder who Dad is talking to.” Gemma motioned with her chin toward the closed glass doors. My father was on the other side, deep in conversation. He saw me looking at him and flashed a bi
g thumbs-up at me. What could that possibly be for?
When I turned back around, Shep was talking to my mother. “Marsha, you said something before about heavenly influence. Can you talk more about that?”
Gemma rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Shep, never ask my mom to talk about God. Once she starts with a captive audience? She never stops.”
Shep laughed. “Maybe if you guys listened a little better, she wouldn’t talk about it so much.”
Gemma faked cleaning out her ears. It was a funny gesture. I wondered if she’d honed it at improv class that day. Then I mentally kicked myself. Gemma had started improv that day, and I hadn’t even asked her about it yet. What was wrong with me?
“Fifteen years of God talk stacked up in there,” she said. “It’s a wonder we don’t worship the devil.”
“Speak for yourself,” Chad joked. Then he winced. “Sorry. My stomach’s a little upset. I’ll be right back.”
“TMI!” Gemma sang out.
“Pepto’s in the upstairs bathroom, top right drawer,” I added helpfully.
After Chad was gone, my mother smiled at Shep and pointed to the chairs at the far end of the deck. “Gemma’s right. If you want to hear some God talk, how about we sit over there during dessert, instead of my inflicting myself on my children once again?”
“I’d like that,” Shep agreed. “I’d like that a lot. Alex, you want to join us?”
My friend made a big face. “No.”
My mom was about to say something when my father emerged from his long conversation. He did something very uncharacteristic of him. He whooped. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!”
The shouts carried across the arroyo and echoed back at us. “Yes, yes, yes!” The five of us still at the table stared at him, gaping.
As usual, my mother was the first to respond. “The wart on your left calf fell off, dear?”
My dad laughed. “Not hardly. Sorry for the exuberance. I just got some great news. God bless Juliet Levenson.”
Alex and I shared a look. Who was Juliet Levenson?
“Who’s Juliet Levenson?” Gemma demanded. “And why should God bless her?”
Little Lies Page 6