by Yee, Lisa
“I’m so excited about today,” Emily gushes. “Marley, are you excited? Today Mrs. Wilder gives us our Project Fashion Designer assignments!”
“Affirmative,” I answer. It’s wonderful and awful to talk to Emily. I can’t even look at her without feeling queasy, like my guts are going to pop out. I’ve been trying to figure out what color her eyes are. I think they’re brown with some green, like that necklace she always wears. But whenever Emily looks directly at me, I turn away for fear that I’ll say something stupid, or fall down, or drool.
“Class, your attention!” Mrs. Wilder toots her horn. Emily whips around to face the teacher. “Each of you is teamed up with one other student. Your assignment is to make an outfit that looks like couture. That is, a custom-made design.” Emily lets out a little squeak. “And here’s what you will be using for your creations.”
Everyone breaks out laughing when Mrs. Wilder holds up black plastic trash bags. Emily leans in toward me and whispers, “This is going to be so fun!” Her arm touches mine and now it’s my turn to squeak.
Mrs. Wilder continues, “Together you will design and create your outfits. One person from each team will tell the judges about the creation, while the other models it.”
We collect our garbage bags and get to work. Emily is sketching what looks like a dress. I just sit and watch. She seems to know what she’s doing, but even if she didn’t, I’d still stare at her. She bites her lower lip when she’s concentrating. When she looks up at me, I quickly turn away and pretend to be interested in a scab on my arm.
“I love clothes,” Emily explains. “I get a lot of fashion magazines like Gamma Girl, so I kinda know what’s in and what’s out.”
“Buy’ ngop … er, that’s great!”
I’m wearing my good Spock shirt today, the one without the spaghetti stain. Only now I notice it’s slightly pink because Mom doesn’t separate the laundry by color, for obvious reasons. I’m also wearing my only pair of jeans that aren’t too short. I get most of my clothes at Out of the Closet, a secondhand shop on Fair Oaks. For the first time, I wish I had enough money to shop at the Paradise Mall in Pasadena where all the rich kids go.
“Uh, what are we going to make?” I ask. When the sentence comes out in English and not Klingon, I am relieved.
“A gown,” Emily says brightly as she stares off in the distance. She has long eyelashes. “A beautiful flowing gown.” I follow her gaze, but all I see is a poster of a sewing machine with the headline SEW RIGHT. WATCH YOUR FINGERS. Emily continues, “It’s going to be amazing, with an empire waist and a long train.”
“You’d look good in that,” I say, even though I have no idea what she’s talking about.
Suddenly, Emily snaps out of her daydream and turns serious. Instantly, my heart stops. What? What have I said?
“Well, the thing is,” she says slowly, “that the dress should be draped on a model, like on that show Hot Couture Creations. You have seen Hot Couture Creations, haven’t you?” I start to shake my head no, then nod, making it look like I’m drawing a circle with my head. “I can’t very well create it on myself. You wouldn’t mind, would you?”
“Mind what?” I ask.
“Being the model,” she says. “I can create the dress on you!”
My body seizes up. “No, no, no,” I quickly correct her. “You be the model. It’s a dress. You’re a girl.”
“Oh, please, Marley, please,” she begs. Emily’s eyes grow big. “I’ve always wanted to create a custom gown on a real live model, like the professionals. And since I know how it should look, I have to be the one to design it and then drape it on you. Also, that way I can be the person to talk about the creation of the gown while you model.” She pauses. “Unless you have experience with making clothes?”
“I can fix a projector and can program the cafeteria LED board,” I begin to babble. “I know how to run the PA system and can get any DVD player to work. Did you know that the original name for the USS Enterprise was Yorktown —”
“Marley, please stand up,” Emily says as she reaches for the tape measure.
I do as I’m told.
In a normal universe, Emily Ebers putting her arms around me to take my measurements would be the highlight of my life. Only, I don’t think I’m in a normal universe anymore.
“You don’t mind, do you?” she asks. Her eyes are sparkling and drawing me in. I try to activate my force field, but it’s disabled.
“I don’t mind,” I hear myself saying.
The bell rings all too soon, and everyone heads out. That’s when I notice Emily has left something behind. Gamma Girl magazine. I pick it up and run out to give it to her, but she’s already disappeared into the crowd.
I got a B-plus on my family essay. My English teacher, Ms. Klein, is telling me, “Marley, you would have gotten a higher grade had you written three pages, as you were assigned.”
“But there aren’t three pages worth of stuff to say about my family,” I try to explain. “We’re pretty boring.”
“You could have talked more about the Rialto,” Ms. Klein says. She’s wearing a headband over her blondish hair and looks like she’s in high school. “I love the Rialto! Everyone does.”
Yeah, right. If everyone who says they love the Rialto showed up, then maybe Mom and Dad wouldn’t be so worried about going out of business.
“Marley, to live in a historic landmark is amazing.” Ms. Klein tucks a pencil behind her ear. She doesn’t notice that she already has one there. “I really wish you had written more about it.”
“Could I … could I still write about it?” I ask. “For extra credit maybe?”
It’s worth asking. I’m not a straight-A student, but I’m close. I don’t think that they should count your P.E. grade as part of your GPA.
Ms. Klein shakes her head, and I think she’s going to say no until I hear, “Give me more than one page, and make it good, Marley. I want more than just words, I want insight. Then, after I read your paper, I’ll consider giving you extra credit.”
Even though the Transporter Room is cavernous, it’s cozy. My Star Trek action figures are mingling with the warm fuzzies that I’ve rescued from the trash can outside Ms. McKenna’s classroom. They seem to be getting along.
I can hear one of Mom’s students assaulting the piano. Most of her students are little kids, although her newest student is an adult — Mr. Alan from the post office. When he finally stops, the silence is bliss. I open my Captain Kirk notebook and begin my rough draft. Later, I’ll use Mom’s computer and type it up.
MY FAMILY
by Marley Sandelski
Is it weird to live in a theater? A place where for almost 100 years shows and movies have been held? Not for me, Marley Sandelski. The Rialto Theater is my home. I’ve lived here all my life. My family owns the theater. My father runs the -theater, and my mother plays the organ.
There are others who live here too. But they live on the silver screen. Great actors and actresses from classic movies. They visit us all the time. Some stay longer than others. Some make return visits. Some people say there’s a ghost who lives here, but I’ve never seen or heard him. Even if there was a ghost, I wouldn’t be afraid. Ghosts are just people who are having trouble transitioning from one life to another, as if their transporter malfunctioned.
My family clips coupons, buys used clothes, and rarely goes out to nice dinners. Never once have we been on a vacation, unless you count the time when I was nine and we went to the Wilmer Eye Clinic in Baltimore. We stayed in a hotel and even ate at Red Lobster. My parents were happy and hopeful. Later, the mood changed. I’m not sure what the doctors told my mother, but it was the only time I’ve seen her cry. Dad cried too. So did I, but only because I was scared to see my parents so upset.
Every night after the Rialto is closed, my father plays a film just for my mother. The two of them sit in the front row of the empty theater and snuggle as he narrates the scenes. If she’s close enough to the screen, Mom can see bits of light and
fuzzy images.
Tonight, Dad’s screening Casablanca again. He can see a film a hundred times and never get tired of it. Mom’s seen the movie before too, but I don’t think that matters to them. It’s like they’ve created their own little nest here.
Sometimes I join my parents and listen to my father. I close my eyes and try to imagine what my mother sees. When my dad’s narrating, it’s almost better than the movie itself. If only our lives were half as good as what plays at the Rialto.
The Gorn wait for me every day at 3 P.M., although I get the weekends off. Apparently, it’s no longer enough that their punches land on me during school, or that they’ve shoved me into my locker so many times you can see a dent in the shape of my body. Now chasing me around town has become their extracurricular activity. I don’t mind, though. In a weird way, I sort of like it. Not the chasing part, but the running part. When I run my mind clears and my body feels light, like I’m flying. It’s the best feeling ever, as if I’ve gone into warp drive and the laws of physics don’t apply to me.
“See you tomorrow, Marley,” Emily is saying as she puts her things into her purple backpack. I’ve noticed that she changes backpacks to match her clothes. “We’ll start draping the dress on you tomorrow.”
“Maj!” I tell her. “I mean, good! Maj is Klingon, and you’re not an intergalactic alien and —” Rats. She’s gone. I could kick myself. I sound so stupid. In all the old movies, the guys are always so smooth and witty.
I look over at Ramen, who is batting his eyelashes and kissing the back of his hand. When I try to wave him off, Max laughs even harder. I join the two of them and we head out. As I pass Emily at her locker I make a mental note of the number. Hey! She has an orange locker and so do I. That must mean something, right?
We keep walking until Max stops and says, “Uh-oh.”
Ramen bumps into her, then echoes, “Uh-oh.”
I don’t have to look to know what they are uh-oh-ing about. Instead, I hoist my backpack over my shoulder and say, “Adios, amigos.”
“Get him,” the Gorn leader yells.
And so begins my afternoon run. As always, I ditch my backpack behind the air-conditioning unit. I’ll get it later. It’s sort of liberating, racing around town. If my tormentors had half a brain between them, they’d know that I run the same way every day — even on the days no one is chasing me. No matter how I bad I feel, I feel better after a run. I need to run the way Captain Kirk needs the Enterprise. It’s just part of who I am.
As I cover my route, I wave to Mimi at the hair place. I wave to Mr. Min at RadioShack, and to Officer Ramsey at Stout’s Coffee Shop, and Dave at the Dinosaur Farm. On occasion I’ll see Stanford or someone else from school — on those days I change course to avoid them. I usually elude the Gorn at the park where they’re easily distracted by the swing set, an errant tennis ball, or a squirrel. Then, even though no one is chasing me, I keep on running just for the fun of it.
I swing back around to school to get my backpack, then slow when I near the Rialto. Dad is putting up a Mary Poppins poster in the glass case. “I’m going to try a Family Matinee on Saturdays,” he says as he closes the case and locks it. “Think that’ll bring people in?”
“It’s worth a try,” I tell him. My father is always coming up with new ideas to increase business.
I grab an apple and head downstairs. Mom’s telling a student, “Penny, there’s no need to attack the piano keys. You’ll just wear out your fingers if you keep doing that. Try a lighter touch.”
When I get to the end of the hallway I push the door open and step into the Transporter Room. Someday I’ll rig the door so that when it opens, the theme from Star Trek plays. I settle into my captain’s chair, munching on my apple and studying Emily’s Gamma Girl. There’s an article about “The Perfect Boyfriend.” A photo takes up one whole page. The caption reads, “Seth is wearing distressed jeans and a rust-colored polo shirt, topped off with a B-Man jacket from RX59 — where all the cool kids shop.”
I set the magazine aside and I put on my Benjamin Franklin jacket and glasses. Oh wait, can’t forget the Spock ears. Math is up first, then science homework. English is just a review of vocabulary words. I always do well on those. Now history. I save history for last since it’s my favorite subject.
I turn to page 124. After I write the answers to the questions, I make a second copy for Digger, making sure to change my handwriting. I toy with the idea of writing down the wrong answers. The very thought of it warms me until I head back to reality. To do something like that would be worse than death. Whereas the rotten Gorn are likely to beat me into a pulp, Digger is far more dangerous. Once I saw a boy get so flustered when Digger looked at him that he bowed. Principal Haycorn practically does that too. Digger’s family gives a lot of money to the school and even sponsors the Tiggy Tiger Turkey Trot. The new basketball hoops in the gym are courtesy of the Ronster family, and so is the fountain in the school courtyard and about half of the buildings.
“You live in the Rialto?” Digger said as I handed him the homework the other day. “It’s fading fast and my father says it’s an eyesore. He says that he may buy it out and put up a huge multiplex. That’s where the money is. After all, who wants a crumbling theater no one goes to …”
For the first time I noticed that on the outside, the Rialto does look like it’s crumbling. The paint is peeling, there’s a wooden board over one of the upstairs windows, plus there are chips in the plaster like the place has leprosy. Is this how the rest of the world sees the Rialto? If only they would take the time to really look at it. I think they’d be surprised at how beautiful it is inside.
I remember what Digger said last: “… of course, my father always listens to me — we’re really close. So I’ve told him to let the Rialto stand. For now.”
I copy the last answer on my history homework onto Digger’s paper. Then I turn off the light and head upstairs.
A dress. Who would have ever thought that I’d be standing in the middle of a classroom wearing a dress?
“Stop fidgeting,” Emily says. Even when she frowns, she’s pretty. “Marley, if you don’t stand still, I won’t be able to do this.”
I glance around the room. Max and Ramen are arguing in the corner. Ramen is looking as uncomfortable as me as Max winds miles of black electrical tape around him. On the other side of the room, Troy and Patrick are both wearing garbage bags. Only their heads stick out and they’re trying to knock each other down.
Emily comes close and cuts two holes in a bag. Today, her hair smells like coconut. I wonder what my hair smells like. I hope it doesn’t stink. Sometimes I forget to use shampoo. I make a mental note to wash my hair twice tonight.
“Okay, Marley, put your arms through the holes, but be careful, so you don’t tear the plastic. Oh, and would you mind standing up straight?”
She steps back and looks me over. I try not to squirm as she circles around me. “I think a cinched waist would be best, don’t you?”
I give her a halfhearted smile to indicate that perhaps we ought to give up, or at least maybe make a nice suit or something else. Or maybe we should switch and I should be the main designer and she should be the model. She could just tell me what to do.
Emily is not picking up on my signal. Instead, she continues circling. “Yes, a cinched waist and maybe a bow or a flower?”
I surrender and nod. I wouldn’t do this for anyone but her. She is so nice. I know she would never write mean things on my locker or try to trip me. Emily actually says hi to me when she sees me around school. The first time she said, “Hi, Marley!” I was so stunned I shut my locker on my hand.
“Designers!” Mrs. Wilder toots her bicycle horn. I’ll bet she’s the sort of driver who honks all the time, even when no one else is around.
Patrick turns to Troy and says, “Did you fart? ’Cause if you farted inside that bag, it would be suicide.”
Mrs. Wilder ignores him. It’s weird. When someone makes a really loud obno
xious joke, teachers pretend not to hear them. But when someone whispers something, they make sure you know they heard.
“You have four days left before the fashion show,” Mrs. Wilder is saying. “I hope you are making the best use of your time, boys and girls.”
Boys and girls? What grade does she think we are in?
Emily raises her hand. “Mrs. Wilder, what about accessories? Can we bring some from home?”
“Just the bags and tape,” she answers.
“That’s too bad,” Emily tells me. “This gown would look good with a strand of pearls or a small hat with a feather.”
“I have a feather hat,” I blurt out. “I mean, I have a bunch of gowns and things, and there are even some hats with feathers.” Emily gives me a quizzical look. “Well, they’re not really mine,” I struggle to explain. “They’re old costumes from vaudeville shows and stuff. They’re antiques.”
Emily’s eyes light up. “Oh! I’d love to see them sometime.”
“You would?”
“Sure! I love vintage.”
I feel light-headed and start to sit down, but Emily grabs my arm. “Don’t sit, Marley. You might tear the gown.”
She’s staring at me and smiling. She has nice teeth. One’s a little crooked, but it looks good. Everyone should have a crooked tooth like Emily’s. I should floss more. “Maj! I mean, um, well, okay, I guess,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t crack. “How about tomorrow after school? I live in the Rialto Theater.”
“You live in the Rialto? Ohmygosh, Marley, you are so cool!”
Emily Ebers thinks I’m cool and wants to come over?
I must be dreaming.
I’ve never noticed how dusty the Transporter Room is. Everywhere I look is dirt and dust. Dust and dirt. It will take me forever to clean it, but it has to look good for Emily. It has to.
I pull out the hatboxes that were piled in the corner, then open the old steamer trunks and air out some of the gowns. One has sparkly beads all over it. It reminds me of Emily. All I have to do is think about her, and it feels like electricity is shooting through me, like the first time I saw Ricardo Montalban in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. Only, Emily is way prettier and nicer than Khan, plus I doubt she’s ever placed mind-controlling eels in anyone’s ears.