by Kai Strand
“Lola, for god’s sake, change already.”
“Mom, I don’t want to wear that dress. I’ll feel like a hooker.”
“Nonsense. It’s what all the youth are wearing in the clubs these days.” She takes the stack of dresses off of my arm and steers me toward the dressing room. Of course, she’s wearing an elegant navy gown. Draped neckline, three quarter sleeves, cinched waist. She looks amazing with her ever-present facelift bun and perfect makeup. “The designer brought it specifically for you to wear.”
“You know Mom, maybe I’d be more into this whole thing if the clothes you picked for the show did more than raised tuition money.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Even with anger coloring her cheeks, Mom looks elegant.
“Like if the designer only used clothing factories that empowered women instead of sweatshops that enslaved them. If they used sustainable materials. If they demonstrated that they cared about more than their own pocketbooks.”
Mom does the neck stretching move and I know I’m giving her a headache. “Lola, this is not the time. The designer brought that dress for you. Isn’t that special enough?”
“I’m sure he was ecstatic to be able to clothe someone under the age of forty,” I mumble, as I stalk into the changing room.
The place is chaos. Clothes strewn everywhere, perfume and hairspray choking the oxygen out of the air, women in various stages of dress. Lots of nude colored spandex controlling curves. And the noise level is ludicrous. Even though we spent all this week performing clothes fittings, practicing hair, makeup, and walking with all the models, they’re still in a panic. Yelling for strapless bras or tiaras or complaining their shoes are suddenly too tight. Fashion show day is always like this.
I miss the sound of hammers, or the smell of spaghetti, or the warbling singing voices of the residents at the assisted living home. I miss Hank, Mr. Whitman, Talia, Victor. I never look forward to fashion week, but this year it seems especially torturous. I want more than anything to rewind my life and go back a few weeks to when everything was normal.
I pull the dress over my head and look in the mirror. I shake my head at the ridiculousness staring back at me. The hem is just below my underwear line and the v-neckline dips almost as low as my belly button. How am I supposed to help these women pin and tuck and slip and shove in this get up? All so that when we take our bow at the end of the show I’m showing off another design.
“Ooo la la!” one of the models says as she passes behind me. “You look ready to party.”
“More like ready to take some cash,” I mumble. I would never, ever wear this dress. Not even Cyn could convince me to wear this dress out.
“Lola! Oh, thank goodness.” A lady calls from across the room. “I just singed off some of my hair! I need a pair of scissors, stat!”
I stifle my snort and spring into action. It’s only one night, and after this I can get back to my normal life. Well, what’s left of it. Is there anything left of it? At least I’ll have my afternoons, evenings, and Saturday’s free to volunteer wherever I want.
I find scissors, then wade through racks of clothes and step over purses and discarded clothing until I locate a weeping lady being consoled by another model.
“Don’t cry dear, you’ll ruin your makeup. There, there. Lola’s here now. She’ll make it all better.”
I’m sure the panic shows in my eyes. “I will?”
“Yes, just trim her up to look all even again,” the other model says. She pats the singed lady on the shoulder and leaves. Probably to put her top on.
“Can you fix it?” the lady asks.
I finally look at her hair and my automatic, “Sure,” dies on my tongue. One side of her hair is significantly shorter than the other. And the short side ends in singed kinky little curls that will need to be trimmed off. I’m going to have to take about two inches of hair off to even everything up. How did she even do this?
People are calling out for things all around us. Ladies are jostling each other and us as they make their way through the crowded room. The show is about to start. Oh hell. “Yep, I can fix this.”
Without thinking too hard about what I’m doing, I trim the singed ends and then snip her hair the same length all the way across. I watch her hair fall to the floor. “There you go.”
“Thanks, Lola.”
I bolt to the far end of the room before she sees how much of her hair is gone.
“Lola, can you help me with this zipper?”
I stop to pull the zipper up on a lady who has modeled every year I’ve been helping. I’m surprised when the zipper stops at the halfway point. I get a better hold and yank, but it doesn’t budge. “Didn’t we just size this on Thursday, Mrs. Carroll?”
“Oh, Trina and I decided to switch outfits. I can pull off the orange so much better than she can.”
Trina is about two sizes smaller than Mrs. Carroll. “I’m not going to be able to close this zipper, ma’am. It was sized for Mrs. Hunnel.”
“We’re basically the same size.”
“There’s no switching. Designer rules. You have to find her and switch back again.” I unzip the zipper and walk off. This day cannot end soon enough.
“Can you help with my necklace, please dear?”
I stop and smile the first genuine smile of the day. “Absolutely, Mrs. Gungen.”
I take the necklace from her shaky, gnarled hands and drop it around the front of her. I look at her reflection in the mirror. “You look lovely, ma’am. Lavender is a good color for you.”
“Now that I’m so old my skin is transparent,” she says. Her eyes sparkle with mirth. “Your mother says you’ll be attending an Ivy League school next year.”
I snort. “No, ma’am. That isn’t likely. My mom just wishes it were true. I don’t have the grades for it.”
“You’ll be studying law?”
I snort again. “No, ma’am. I’d actually like to get my master’s in social work. Non-profit management to be specific.”
Mrs. Gungen chuckles. “Sounds like the two of you need to talk more.”
I meet her gaze in the mirror and say. “Actually, Mom needs to listen more.”
Mrs. Gungen winks. “Good luck, dear. Thanks for your help.”
“Break a leg.” I squeeze her shoulder.
“Oh lord. At 92 years old? I hope not.”
“Lola, you look lovely.” Mom breezes up to me and adjusts the right shoulder of my dress. Her gaze scans my attire and then darts around the room, but never makes contact with mine. “We need more water at the exit point of the catwalk. I specifically said five cases and I only saw four. Can you get Javier to add another case?”
I look around wondering why she can’t find Javier herself, but then realize finding Javier means leaving the dressing room. “No problem.”
“The show starts in four minutes. I want you at the entrance of the catwalk to perform the last sweep. You know the drill. Be sure to have safety pins, scissors, bobby pins, tape for those last minute fixes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am.” She sweeps away. Her gown fluttering beautifully behind her.
“Yes, ma’am,” I mumble.
After the show, I change back into my own clothes before going out to help put chairs away.
Most of the models have left, but some stay to help clean up. Everybody is in a celebratory mood. The show went well, raised a lot of money, and best of all it’s over for another year. For me, probably forever, though Mom doesn’t need to know that. I’m feeling especially chipper. Four months and twenty-one days until I have to grow up. After working alongside Mom all week, that time can’t pass quickly enough.
Alongside. That’s a joke. More like working under Mom’s thumb all week. I never pinned hems correctly. My tapelines weren’t straight. And I never, ever looked right. Either my jeans were too worn, or my hair was too messy, or my shoes were completely inappropriate. I wanted to raid her closet and pull my
hair into a facelift bun and see if becoming her would finally appease her.
“Lola, I’m going to miss this time together in the coming years.” Mom rubs my shoulder in what I’m sure is supposed to be an affectionate gesture, but just basically rubs me the wrong way.
I smile, but don’t comment as I fold another chair and stack it on the storage rack.
“Tomorrow we’ll sit down and fill out applications for Brown, Yale and Wellesley.”
I stop folding chairs and sigh in frustration. “Mom, I’m not going to get accepted by any of those.”
“If you don’t apply you most certainly won’t be accepted.”
I shake my head.
“Don’t give me that attitude. You’ll appreciate my persistence when you have a prestigious diploma to flaunt on your job hunt.”
I start folding chairs again, so I don’t have to see her reaction. “I’ve already sent my application to my top three universities.”
“Excuse me?”
I hang a chair on the rack and force myself to face her. “When I didn’t place in that speech competition, I realized there would be no other accolades for me to add to my packet, so I sent them off. I think my chances of getting into my top pick are pretty good.”
“But an Ivy League…”
I cut her off. “I’m not studying Law, Mom.”
“Oh, I see. You’re going to feed the hungry for the rest of your life.”
I open my mouth to defend myself, but then close it and smile. I draw a calming breath and say in an even voice. “Yeah, I am. Feed the hungry, clothe the underprivileged, house the poor. I want to empower people, Mom. I want to show people where their opportunities are. I want to help them succeed.”
Her mouth is pinched into a pucker and I can see her chest rising and falling. She stares at me for so long I have to struggle not to squirm under her glare. Finally, she nods.
“So be it. At least you’re consistent.”
She strides away, points to the catwalk, and calls instructions to the disassembly team.
My heart beats in my throat and tears threaten to spill down my cheeks.
I won.
I won.
Chapter 24
“I’m going to be thrown off for the next two weeks,” Victor says, as he upends a bag of chopped lettuce into the big bowl.
I’m uncovering bins of breadsticks. My mouth waters as the scent of garlic hits my nose. I stack three bins in preparation for service, which starts minutes from now. “If it’s any consolation, I will too.”
Victor volunteers every Wednesday night. He says because it’s the last week of the month and single digit temps, we should expect a large crowd, so I add a fourth bin to the stack.
“What does it being the last week of the month have to do with attendance?” I ask. The doors are being unlocked and I’m surprised to see a thick line has formed.
“This side of a payday, people are low on funds.”
A wave of sadness washes through me as I see desperation, gratitude, embarrassment, or indifference on the faces of the people pushing through the doors. I want to know every story from every person here. I want all their stories at once. I miss Mr. Whitman more than ever. But I shove the sadness down and concentrate on pulling my attention back to the room. As the line reaches me, I smile and make eye contact and try to offer a positive greeting as I place one fat breadstick onto each plate.
Victor is right. The line is ceaseless. I’ve emptied all four bins plus three more and still the line snakes into the hallway. A crying girl steels my scattered attention and I see her plate is upside down on the floor in front of her. Spaghetti sauce splattered like blood on her shoes and pant legs.
“I’m gonna go help her,” I say to Victor, as I scurry around the end of the table and rush over to the girl and her father. He looks rather peeved about the spilled food. Bill, another volunteer who changes out the trash and wipes down tables, rushes over to clean up the spill.
I put my arm around the girl’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you another plate, okay?”
Her dad sighs heavily, and she sniffles.
“Why don’t you find a place to sit while I help your daughter get some new food?” The relief and gratitude that fills his eyes confuses me at first, but as I steer the girl back toward the buffet, I realize he might be starving. I open my mouth to speak to the girl, but my breath hitches over the flood of emotion welling up within me. I swallow and try again. “What’s your name?”
“June,” she whispers.
“Were you born in June?” I hope my smile looks genuine, because it feels sort of manic. She nods. I place my finger to my lips and make a shushing sound. Her eyes light with curiosity. I bend toward her and whisper, “Let’s sneak behind the table.”
June hunches forward into classic sneak stance and grins. I make a big deal of tiptoeing behind the servers and June follows my lead. At the beginning of the food table and I pretend to stealthily reach across the table for a plate, as if Andy, the volunteer serving spaghetti, won’t notice me. I hold the plate beside Andy and make a funny face at June, rolling my eyes toward the sky and puckering my lips into a mock whistle, as if I’m completely innocent and not skipping the line at all. Andy must see the tears drying on June’s face, because he casually drops a generous helping of spaghetti on her plate without even acknowledging we’re standing there.
I let my mouth drop open and then mouth, Yes!
June giggles and we sneak down the table to stand behind Victor. I carefully angle the plate so that I hold it in front of Victor. I put my finger to my lips to remind June not to give us away. She giggles again, and I have to look away because her simple joy makes fresh tears spring up in my eyes. I’m an emotional wreck.
Victor drops a fistful of lettuce onto the plate and I pull it back, switch hands and then sneak it forward onto his other side.
He’s about to drop a breadstick onto it but then hesitates. “Wait. What?” He makes a big production of looking at where the plate was and where it is. Back and forth. Then shrugs and puts the bread on the plate.
I pull the plate back and again mouth, Yes!
We stop at the condiment bar to get margarine and dressing. June spots her father first, whose plate is almost empty already, and I ruffle her hair before leaving them to enjoy the rest of their dinner.
I change into fresh gloves before taking my station back from Victor. I stare at June and her father as they talk. When he smiles at something she says, his demeanor relaxed and completely opposite from before, I feel my heart clutch. Is this his only meal today? Was he so hungry that the thought of having to stand in line again before getting to eat was more than he could deal with?
“Thanks for playing along with that,” I say to Victor. “Her giggles might be the most beautiful thing I’ve heard today.”
Victor smiles at me. The pained look that flashes across his face lets me know he understands. Is that why we’re here? For these small moments? The giggles. Mr. Whitman’s stories. The relief on the father’s face when he didn’t have to delay his meal. I grab a soft breadstick and lean forward to place it on the plate of the boy who just slid into place in front of me. He’s adorable. Big golden brown eyes. Floppy dark hair. A hint of gangly-ness to his frame as he teeters on the peak between little boy and teenage boy.
My eyes pop wide when I say to him, “Why, Your Majesty, we didn’t know you were coming tonight. Forgive us for not rolling out your red carpet.” I wink as I set bread on his plate with a dramatic flourish.
He laughs awkwardly and glances over his shoulder as if to ask his brother if I’m for real. I turn my attention to the brother, so I can assure him I’m not a creepy stalker, but my smile fades.
“I wondered why I’d never seen you here,” Rod says. His tone is as emotionless as his expression.
Even though I know I’m an emotional wreck, I’m still surprised by the myriad of feelings that flood me when I see him. I want to throw my arms around him. Dro
wn in his caramel gaze. Blurt everything that has happened to me since our argument. Resurrect the argument. But there’s a big huge wall around him that I can’t even begin to understand, so I turn back toward his brother. “You must be D.”
D’s eyes widen in surprise.
“Rod brags about you.”
His eyes grow wider.
“Yep, all the time. About how proud he is to be your brother.”
He blinks.
“It would be annoying if it wasn’t so endearing.”
D’s brow furrows.
Rod sighs dramatically. “Cute. She means it’s cute how I brag about being your brother.”
“Do you?” The look of wonder on D’s face as he gawks up at Rod is worth the white lie.
“He does,” I say, drawing his awed expression. “About how easy it is to be your brother because you’re fun to hang out with, and tell such funny jokes, and laugh at all of his.”
Surprise colors D’s face and I know I got one thing right at least, so I nod and place bread on Rod’s plate. I meet his gaze and ask timidly, “Can I visit with you guys when this line goes away?”
Rod studies me for so long, he steps out of the way, so I can continue to hand out garlic bread to those behind him. Finally, he nods. “Sure.”
I watch as he and D stop at the condiment bar and then find a place to sit one table over from June and her father.
“Old boyfriend?” Victor asks.
“What? No. Nothing like that.” I smile and purposefully make eye contact with each person I hand bread to, but no matter how hard I try to prevent it, my eyes dart to Rod and D in between each one.
“Strange vibe coming off the two of you.” Victor raises an eyebrow. “Maybe you’re future boyfriend then?”
I laugh at Victor’s conspiratorial tone. “Doubt it. He thinks I’m a pretentious, spoiled, rich girl. Not his type, apparently. That’s probably the vibe you were picking up on. We fought about it last time we saw each other.”
Victor frowns as he studies Rod across the room, plopping a fistful of lettuce onto each plate that passes by. “I guess I can see his point.”