Gloss

by Marilyn Kaye

  Billy was in the little swinging contraption that Donna had found in a second-hand store a year earlier. At almost two years old, he was too big for the swing, but he could still be squeezed in and it made him sleep. Shirley Peake lay on the sofa, snoring softly. So at least she was alive.

  Donna moved into the kitchenette area, opened the refrigerator and checked the contents. There were still a couple of jars of baby food. Billy was really too old for baby food, but he liked it and it was cheap. There were some eggs she could scramble for the rest of them. Her mother never ate much when she woke up after one of her binges.

  Back in the bedroom, Kathy was still mesmerized by Mighty Mouse. Donna settled down on the bed with her precious copy of Gloss. First off, she examined the girl on the cover. The shiny-haired model with the wide rosy-red smile wore a soft yellow scoop-neck dress with a gathered skirt and a coral-coloured belt. A matching coral band was in her hair. Nice colour combination, Donna thought. But the white pumps were all wrong — too white, they distracted from the delicate shade of the dress. Beige shoes would have been better.

  Leafing through the magazine, she continued her critique of the fashions. There was a gorgeous pink gown with an overlay of lace, perfect for a senior prom, though a squared neckline would be more becoming than the V. A simple pale blue sheath was nice, but too plain. Donna would have added a little something — maybe a scarf at the neck, to give it more punch.

  There was a full-page ad for a deodorant that caught her attention.

  The effectiveness of the deodorant was demonstrated by a photograph of two pretty girls and two handsome boys, all in swimwear, playing volleyball on the beach.

  She knew it was posed, that this wasn’t some kind of real-life snapshot, but even so, it made her feel something. The people all looked so happy, so carefree. Were there real teenagers out there who could relate to this, who could look at this picture and see their own lives? In the table of contents she saw the name of an article that looked interesting: ‘Is There a Place for You in the Peace Corps?’ Maybe later, if she wasn’t too tired, she’d try to read it.

  A teacher the year before had practically accused her of being illiterate. That wasn’t true. She could read, and write too — just not very well. It had been a problem for as long as she could remember. She would look at a word, but the letters seemed mixed up — sometimes she’d have to spell it out in her head before she could recognize it. And writing — she’d know the word she wanted to write, she even knew how to spell it, but somehow it always came out wrong. Way back when she was in elementary school, a teacher had told her mother to take Donna to some specialist for testing. Shirley Peake never got around to it.

  ‘Donna, look!’ Kathy cried out.

  She raised her eyes from the magazine. The TV was showing a commercial for some sort of toy, a battery-powered robotic creature that moved on its own. A chorus of voices sang the jingle.

  ‘Here he comes, here he comes, greatest toy you’ve ever seen, and his name is — Mister Machine!’

  ‘I want a Mister Machine!’ Kathy declared.

  In your dreams, kid, Donna thought sadly. ‘Maybe for Christmas,’ she said out loud. That was more than half a year away, and hopefully Kathy would have forgotten all about Mister Machine by then.

  But she remembered her earlier promise, and leaned over to open a drawer in the rickety nightstand. She took out a scissors, some glue, and her special stash of cardboard scraps. She found an ad for lingerie, and very carefully, she began cutting out some of the models who wore nothing but underclothes. These would then be glued to pieces of cardboard. Later she’d cut out clothes, adding tabs so the clothes could be attached to the models. And presto — brand-new paper dolls for her little sister.

  It was fun for her too. She could adjust the outfits to suit her own ideas of what would look nice. Add a belt, a scarf, a necklace …

  There was a rapping sound. She leaped off the bed, in a rush to get to the door before the noise woke Billy. Through the small glass window on the door she saw a young man, holding a toolbox and wearing a jacket with the emblem Ransome’s Repair over a pocket.

  She opened the door a crack. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m here to fix the toilet,’ he said.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with our toilet.’

  He pulled a pad from his pocket and looked at it. ‘Henderson?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Isn’t this number 71?’

  She pointed to the markers painted on the pavement in front of the mobile home. ‘No, it’s 17.’

  A flush came over his face.

  He’s embarrassed, she thought. ‘I do that too, sometimes,’ she said quickly. ‘See things in reverse.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  She nodded. ‘Only for me it happens more with letters than numbers.’

  His lips twitched into something that faintly resembled a smile, and his eyes swept over her. ‘What’s your name?’

  She noted his strong jaw and his hooded eyes. ‘Donna. Donna Peake. What’s yours?’

  He pointed to the label above the pocket on his jacket.

  ‘Ron Feerman,’ she read.

  He corrected her. ‘Freeman.’

  She smiled. ‘See? It’s like I told you. Letters get switched around in my head.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He gave her an appraising look. ‘You live here?’

  ‘With my mother,’ she said. ‘And my brother and sister. Are you living here in the park?’

  He shook his head. ‘Riviera Apartments, on the highway.’

  She was impressed. The apartment complex wasn’t luxurious, but it wasn’t a slum either.

  He glanced at his notepad again. ‘Look, I gotta get to this job.’ But he didn’t dash off. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, looked up at the sky, and finally back at her. ‘Maybe, I don’t know … you want to hang out?’

  ‘Hang out?’ she repeated.

  ‘Grab a burger or something.’

  She shrugged. ‘I guess …’

  ‘What about tonight?’

  ‘Tonight?’ She wanted to kick herself for repeating everything he said.

  ‘Yeah. Around seven?’

  She wouldn’t be able to get Kathy down by then. ‘How about eight?’

  ‘Eight’s OK. I’ll come by here and pick you up.’

  ‘No, not here.’ Her mother would be up by then, and heaven knew what kind of condition she’d be in. It was highly unlikely that she’d make a good impression. ‘Meet me at the entrance to the park, OK?’

  He nodded. ‘Right. See ya.’

  ‘See ya,’ she echoed, and watched as he ambled down the road, checking the pavement numbers as he walked.

  She went back inside and shut the door. This was the noise that woke Billy.

  As he whimpered, she lifted him up and carried him into the kitchen area and put him in his high chair. It was just as well that he was awake now, she thought as she poked around in the refrigerator for baby food. Otherwise he’d never be asleep again by eight.

  She hummed under her breath as she struggled to get the lid off the jar. Ron Freeman. He seemed nice. And he was taking her out for a burger.

  There wouldn’t be any sand or volleyball. But maybe, just maybe, she could be happy for a couple of hours.

  There had been times in her life when Sherry had experienced an exhilaration so strong she’d floated on air, like when she was seven years old and discovered she could ride her bike without training wheels. And there was the moment at the Miss Teen Georgia pageant, when her name had been called as one of the ten finalists. And of course, when Johnny had slipped his senior-class ring off his finger and handed it to her — that was special.

  This was different. Not necessarily better, but different. Maybe because it wasn’t something she’d even fantasized about, or maybe because it wasn’t anything she’d ever thought she’d want. She was going to be published. Millions of girls were going to read her words, see her name, in a famous magazine
.

  But she came back down to earth with a thud when Mr Simpson spoke.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he demanded to know.

  ‘Miss Davison wanted to see all the apprentices.’ Maybe this was an opportunity to get a little approval from him. ‘My review was chosen to be published.’

  It was as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘This has to go to the mailroom immediately,’ he said, indicating the manila envelope in his hand. ‘I can’t wait for the boy to pick it up this afternoon.’

  ‘You want me to take it?’

  ‘No, I want you to stand on your head and whistle “Dixie”. Yes, I want you to take it to the mailroom.’ He practically shoved the envelope into her hand.

  Pamela and Allison were nearby, and they must have overheard. As soon as the man took off they gathered around her.

  ‘What a jerk,’ Pamela murmured. ‘You know what he had me doing this morning? Straightening up his desk. And then he criticized me for putting his red pencils in the regular pencil holder.’

  ‘This isn’t what we’re supposed to be doing,’ Allison declared. ‘We’re apprentices, not slave labour. We’re supposed to be learning — we’re supposed to get experience working on a magazine.’

  ‘It’s just Mr Simpson, I think,’ Sherry said. ‘No one else is acting like that.’

  ‘You haven’t met Lydia,’ Allison said.

  While Sherry was waiting for the elevator, Donna came out of the office. She looked even paler than usual, her eyes were red and she went directly into the ladies room. Sherry remembered that Caroline had asked to see her alone, and she wondered what had happened. She was half tempted to go after her, but then the elevator doors finally opened. And she had her orders.

  The mailroom was in the basement of the building. She got off the elevator, went through the swing doors and found herself in a huge space where boxes were stacked on the floor and men in grey jackets pushed carts packed with envelopes and packages. She had no idea where to go, and nobody asked her if she needed any help.

  Then she spotted a familiar face — the boy who’d delivered the mail to her floor yesterday. Michael. He was standing behind a table, taking envelopes out of a sack, giving each one a quick look and then putting them into various cubbyholes on the wall. It was always interesting to watch other people working alone when they didn’t know they were being observed, she thought

  He didn’t have the athletic, clean-cut looks of the kind of guys she went out with, like Johnny and the ones she’d dated before him. Yet there was something about him that was oddly attractive. His hair was a little too long, covering his ears, and his thin body was swallowed by the jacket that was way too big for him. He was clearly no athlete.

  But his eyes … they were so deep and dark, almost mysterious. And he had pouty lips. Mentally she replaced the Hartnell jacket with a leather motorcycle one, and an image of Elvis Presley crossed her mind.

  Oh, if her friends back home could read her mind right now! They were so hooked on those squeaky-clean TV heroes. None of them knew that she’d always felt a little something for the bad-boy types, that watching Elvis in a movie always gave her a funny, secret shiver.

  She tried to block the Elvis image and focused on the real person, Michael. Whatever he was doing, it had to be boring, but his face was serious, intense even. Was it taking him that much effort to read addresses?

  He looked up and caught her eye. He didn’t smile exactly, but she thought she saw a flash of recognition in his expression, and she approached.

  ‘Hi, I’m Sherry. From Gloss.’

  He put a hand to an ear and took out an earphone that had been hidden under his hair. ‘Sorry.’

  She saw that the cord from the earphone went into a pocket. ‘Transistor radio?’

  He nodded. ‘I couldn’t do this all day without something to distract me.’

  Automatically she recalled rule number one for talking to boys — show an interest in what he’s doing. ‘What are you listening to?’

  He handed the earphone to her and she put it close to her ear.

  ‘Classical music!’

  ‘You don’t like classical music?’

  ‘Oh, I do! I was just surprised—’

  ‘That a mailroom boy listens to it?’

  She wasn’t used to boys interrupting like that.

  ‘No! It’s just that, well, people our age—’

  Again he tried to finish the sentence for her. ‘Are only listening to crap.’

  She wasn’t used to that kind of language either. Was he trying to shock her?

  ‘I remember seeing you yesterday,’ he said. ‘You’re one of those apprentices.’

  ‘Yes, they call us interns.’ Standing closer now, she was struck by his eyes. They were more like black than brown. And that Elvis image returned in full force.

  She was in no rush to get back upstairs, so she looked around and tried to look interested in the activity around her. ‘Do you like working in the mailroom?’

  He raised his eyebrows, and this time her face got so warm she knew she was going red. What a stupid question.

  A smile came and went so quickly she might have imagined it. ‘It’s just a summer job. I’m saving money for university in the fall.’

  ‘Where are you planning to go?’

  ‘NYU.’

  ‘Are you a native New Yorker?’

  ‘Born and bred. I was raised in Brooklyn.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said politely.

  ‘You’ve been there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how do you know it’s nice?’

  ‘It’s not nice?’ she countered, feeling flustered.

  Now she actually got something she could call a real smile. ‘It’s OK. Where are you from?’

  ‘Georgia. A small city, north of Atlanta.’ She steeled herself for the Scarlett O’Hara joke. To her surprise, it didn’t come.

  ‘So you want to go into the magazine business?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really,’ she said.

  ‘Then what are you doing here?’

  ‘I just thought it would be interesting.’

  ‘Is it?’

  The questions were coming so fast. She felt like she was being interrogated, and she had a sudden desire to impress him. ‘Sometimes. I wrote a review of a film, and it’s going to be published in the magazine.’

  ‘You’re a writer?’

  ‘Well …’ She was about to say, ‘not really,’ but he kept talking.

  ‘I’m a writer too,’ he said. ‘That’s why I took this job. I thought working at Hartnell would mean I’d be around literary types.’ He looked around and uttered a short laugh. ‘But they don’t come down to the mailroom.’

  ‘What do you write?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m kind of working on a novel right now.’

  She grasped at the chance to turn the tables and become the interrogator. ‘What do you mean, “kind of”? Either you’re writing a novel or you’re not.’

  He actually laughed. ‘I was afraid I’d sound pretentious if I said that without the “kind of”.’

  So the dark, brooding, intense guy had a sense of humour. She smiled.

  ‘Um, do you need something?’ he asked.

  She realized she was staring, and she felt her face go warm again. ‘Oh, right. Yes. One of the editors asked me to drop this off.’

  He took the envelope from her, glanced at the address and then put it in a box. ‘Mission accomplished,’ he said.

  ‘Hey, Dillon,’ an older man yelled. ‘Give me a hand with these sacks.’

  ‘Coming,’ Michael called back.

  ‘Nice talking to you,’ Sherry said.

  ‘Same here,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘Four thirty. That’s when I drop the afternoon mail off at Gloss.’

  ‘Right, of course,’ she said, turning away before the flush could creep up her face again. ‘Bye.’

  What an unusual boy, she
thought. He was so … so direct. The way he’d stared at her … She wasn’t used to boys making that kind of eye contact.

  When she returned to the Gloss offices she learned that Mr Simpson was off at a meeting. He’d left a stack of letters for her to type, but at least he wouldn’t be looking over her shoulder.

  Caroline came out of her office. ‘Sherry, I was just looking for you. I meant to tell you earlier, there’s a little perk that comes along with your review.’

  ‘A perk?’

  ‘A perquisite. A fringe benefit.’ She handed Sherry an envelope. ‘Tickets to the premiere Friday night at Radio City Music Hall.’ From her office, the phone began to ring and she disappeared back inside.

  Sherry had to tell someone. She spotted Diane coming out of an office, and they exchanged little finger-wiggling waves. She was just about ready to head over to her, when she saw Pamela cross the room. She hurried towards her, and told her the news.

  ‘Oh, Sherry, you are so lucky!’

  Sherry stared at the envelope in her hand. ‘I know, I can’t believe it.’

  ‘What are you going to wear?’

  Sherry’s head was spinning. ‘I don’t know! What do people wear to a movie premiere?’

  Pamela rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t you ever read movie magazines? They wear gowns!’

  ‘But I don’t have any gowns here,’ Sherry wailed. She could have kicked herself. Back home, in her closet, there were two gowns — the one she’d worn to her senior prom and a bridesmaid gown from a cousin’s wedding, two dresses she thought she’d never wear again. It hadn’t even occurred to her that she would need a gown in New York. And there wouldn’t be enough time for her mother to ship one of them here.

  ‘Then you’ll have to buy one,’ Pamela declared.

  ‘Buy … a gown?’ She considered the sum of money her parents had given her for the summer. A gown would make a big dent in it.

  Allison joined them. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m going to the premiere of Beach Blanket Kisses,’ Sherry told her.

  Allison made a face. ‘You mean, you have to watch it again?’

  Pamela glared at her. ‘Allison, this is a big deal! And she doesn’t have anything to wear!’