Chasing Wishes (14 page)

"No thanks—we’re good," she calls back, and then like the unstoppable force of fashion that she is, she takes me by the arm and drags me straight to the dressing rooms.

"Okay, so you need something elegant with a little bit of sass for your gentleman friend, right?" she asks with a wink.

"No sass! He’s just my boss."

"Your gorgeous green-eyed boss who, last time I checked, you couldn’t stop thinking about," she says. "Come on—you know you want to show off a little."

"Cassie, it’s not worth it. Besides, showing off wouldn’t work with him. Seriously."

"Give yourself some credit, Irene," she says, sizing me up s sing of in front of the mirror. "Teeny Reenie or not, you still have kickass legs. A little leg slit in the skirt is never wasted on a guy. Trust me."

I hate that nickname. I don’t need to be reminded that I’m short—I deal with that every day, thank you very much.

"Twenty bucks says it won’t work on him," I challenge her.

"Deal. If he doesn’t do a double-take the moment he sees you—"

"Pay up, Cassie," I interrupt with a smug grin. "He’s blind."

She stares at me as if I have noses where my ears belong before pulling out her wallet.

"Well shit... I completely forgot about that. Leave it to you to bag the one sexy blind guy in all of Connecticut," she says with a sigh. "Okay, simple and elegant it is, then. When I’m done with you, you’re going to look awesome whether he knows it or not."

****

T
he mountain of clothes grows taller and taller with each passing minute as Cassie brings me outfit after outfit to try on. I feel as if I’ve been in the dressing room all afternoon, but it’s only been thirty minutes. Glimmering ruby dresses with diagonal hems, one-shouldered, emerald chiffon cover-ups accompanied by lace-trimmed blouses in a variety of sleeve lengths, flowing dresses made from materials that I don’t even know how to describe... I’ve changed more times than a runway model by now and still haven’t found the right thing.

At least, that’s what Cassie says. I’ve liked almost everything I’ve tried on, but every time I come out and pose for her, she grimaces and scurries off to find her next experiment. I halfway suspect that she’s just using me as a dress form now, and I wonder if the shopkeeper wants to kill us yet.

"Okay Irene," she calls in as I drop her most recent attempt—a plain, gray dress with exquisite, fiery orange trim—on top of the pile. "I just
know
this one’s the winner. Eighteenth time’s the charm!"

I groan, reach over the top of the door to receive the latest delivery, and get to dressing.

...wow. I think she’s right.

Suddenly, everything she’s been saying about finding the right style for me all makes sense, and I can’t help but crack a smile at the woman smiling back at me in the mirror.

Cassie picked out a gorgeous, fitted copper blouse with cap sleeves and a plaid pencil skirt in dark earth tones with a high waist. The skirt ruffles out beautifully just above my knees and the high waist somehow makes me feel like I’m all leg. I feel taller too. Weird.

"Well, Irene? How is it?" asks Cassie from outside.

"Amazing. Oh my God—it’s
perfect
, Cassie!"

"Great, now get out here so I can give it my stamp of approval," she says, and I can actually hear her hopping up and down in excitement.

She squeals in delight as I come out and show off my autumn-colored splendor, and even Marcus, frozen yogurt in hand, smiles approvingly.

"It’s an absolute winner. You look fucking awesome, Irene," she whispers, and I beam from ear to ear.

"I’m glad you like it. Let me just change and then we—"

"Oh, we’re not done with you yet," she interrupts, crossing her arms and giving me a look. "Not unless you’re planning on going barefoot."

I groan in despair. If there’s one thing I hate above all else, it’s shoe shopping. I don’t care what the stereotype is about women and our shoes; just give me something comfortable that I can wear until it falls apart and I’m happy.

I stand in place and shake my head over and over as Cassie shows me every pair of heels under the sun. Not a single pair looks comfortable to me or even healthy. She holds up a pair of glittery, black stilettos and I can almost hear the anguished screams of my future podiatrist at the mere sight of them.

"Oh come, Irene!" she whines. "You have to like one of them, right?"

"Can’t you just pick out some sensible flats for me? I’m Terrence’s personal assistant—how am I supposed to guide a blind man when I can barely keep my balance?"

"You’re such a spoil-sport," she pouts.

Five minutes later, we’ve picked out a pair of simple, comfortable brown flats and an idiotic black clutch. I need to accessorize as if I’m a doll or something, apparently. It takes me all of two minutes to change back into my normal clothes, and we’re off to the register. Thank God.

...and then it hits me. I still have to pay for this stuff.

Jesus, I didn’t even look at prices! I got so caught up in the mirror that I just picked what looked best. What’s Cassie turned me into? I flip the clothes around and around as we wait at the register, searching for price tags. It can't be a good sign that the store didn't label a single thing.

"Um... Marcus?" I ask, looking back over my shoulder at him. "Terrence didn’t tell you what the budget is, did he?"

Marcus shrugs and shakes his head.

I brace myself for sticker shock as I hand the pile of clothes to the cashier. She scans the tag on the shoes, the register beeps, and my brain breaks in half.

Three hundred dollars.

Beep. The skirt is almost a thousand. Is it made out of solid gold or something?

Item after item adds into the price, and I can’t help but gasp at the final total—twenty-six hundred dollars for an outfit. I barely make that much in an entire month!

"Okay, first thing’s first... let’s take those stockings off," I tell the cashier. "I’ll just grab a pair of hose from the thrift store."

Beep. Thirty-five dollars cheaper. Shit—it barely made a dent. Now what do I do?

"Sorry to waste your time, Cassie," I whisper to her, but as I turn away to put the clothes back, Marcus clears his throat and shakes his head at me.

"If you don’t mind me butting in," he tells me, "Terrence didn’t give you a budget."

"I can’t spend this much! It’s just clothing," I protest, but he only shrugs and smiles.

"Just between you and me, he can afford it with no problem at all. Your friend still got you a cheaper outfit than Charlotte would have."

It’s hard to imagine the outfit could’ve been any more expensive than it is, but somehow I believe him.

"Terrence can s"Teine afford it," he tells me again, pointing to the register. "Trust me."

"Are you kidding me?" I fire back. "You saw the total there—how on earth can he..."

"Irene," interrupts Marcus, "do you have any idea who you work for now?"

I shake my head. Given the way Marcus is looking at me, I’m getting the impression that I don’t. How much money does Terrence have that Marcus can so casually suggest I spend thousands of dollars on an outfit?

"Are you going to back me up here, Cassie?" I beg her. "Or do I stand alone in the name of rational purchases?"

"You looked really good in that skirt, Irene," she answers, and I instantly catch her pleading tone. She totally wants me to buy it.

"I do this under protest," I tell the two of them, and with a sigh, I step aside as Marcus hands his company credit card to the cashier.

No—I can’t let him do this. It’s so wasteful!

Swipe. Beep. Receipt. Now I feel
awful
...

...but only for a few minutes.

The entire ride back to Terrence’s estate, I can’t help but get excited as I run my fingers over the beautiful, soft fabric. This is the nicest outfit I’ve ever owned, and it looked so fantastic on me. I could hardly believe it was my reflection when I looked in the mirror.

I can’t wait to wear it tonight, and for one brief moment, I wish that Terrence could see me in it.

"A
bout ten steps to the elevator, Terrence," says Irene, guiding me through the darkness. It’s almost eight at night, long after all the Verta employees have gone home, and my footsteps echo loudly in the empty hallways.

Six... seven... eight...

"We’re here," she says, cutting me off two steps early. She’s still getting used to my stride, I think. In fairness though, I’m still getting used to her as well. I’m still getting used to feeling the warmth of her arm hooked around my elbow, the occasional touch of her hip as she walks beside me.

Having her guide me is somehow very different from Marcus. Her touch is soft, almost delicate, and feeling her arm entwined with mine somehow makes me feel self-conscious in a way I haven’t felt in years.

The elevator beeps with each floor as it takes its sweet time coming down to pick us up.

"Irene? Is that you?" a man calls out from somewhere behind me. "Jesus, you clean up real nice when you ain’t covered in mustard, girl!"

"Hi Carlos! How’s the kitchen getting on without me?" she calls back to him, letting go of my arm. I reach out for her in a panic, but she’s already moved away and left me stranded.

Maybe it’s because I’ve only been blind a few years, but the second she lets go of my arm, I feel as if I’ve been cut off from the world. I’m trapped in the darkness with no idea where I am or what direction I’m facing. I can feel the familiar fear welling up inside me, and I flail clumsily as I try to find the wall to brace myself before I lose my balance.

Suddenly, Irene grabs me by the arm and steadies me. I take a deep breath a v"Teinefore I lond try to calm myself down as she hooks her arm around mine once more.

"Sorry," she whispers. "I didn’t think. I just—"

"It’s alright," I interrupt, my heart still pounding in my chest. "Just... don’t leave me alone like that again, okay? At least let me sit down or something."

The fear doesn’t come if I’m sitting in a chair, laying in bed, or really if I’m anywhere other than standing out in the open. Without anything to anchor myself to the world, I feel as if I’m floating away into the void. It sounds stupid when I try to tell anyone about it, but it’s one of the scariest feelings I’ve ever felt.

"Sorry, Carlos," Irene apologizes to her friend as the elevator door slides open. "I’m working for Mr. Radcliffe now and we have to hurry upstairs to a meeting. We’ll catch up soon, okay?"

"You take care of yourself, Reenie," he tells her, and then Irene gives me a gentle tug and guides me forward into the elevator.

"Three steps and you’re inside," she whispers.

Reenie... God, why does everything have to remind me of Nina? I used to call her something just like that. I called her Neenie all the time. I tried ‘Teeny Neenie’ one time and she kicked me in the shin. Never again.

I'm almost tempted, for a moment, to ask Irene if she's Nina in disguise, but I slam the door on the creepy idea just as quickly as it arrives. Want to know how to freak out your new assistant? Ask her if she's secretly your long-lost girlfriend when you've barely known her for a week.

The elevator beeps after what feels like an eternity, but Irene holds me back as I step toward the door.

"Second floor," she says. "Two more to go."

"My god... is this thing even moving? You used to work here—is it always this slow?" I ask incredulously. Her arm brushes softly against me as she shrugs in reply, and the feeling slowly trails up my spine and then lingers in my brain. Jesus, so much as touching her excites me.

"No idea," she answers. "I wasn’t allowed in the main elevators. Cafeteria staff had to use either the service elevator or the stairs in the back. We weren’t allowed to be seen in the hallways."

"You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. What are you, second-class citizens or something?"

"Something like that," she answers, her tone taking on a razor-sharp edge, and I realize I've hit a nerve and quickly abandon the subject. It’s a nerve that never should’ve been exposed in the first place, but if she’s had to deal with that horrible, classist bullshit from Verta, it’s going to stay exposed forever. Verta's developed the same horrible mentality toward their cafeteria staff that led my parents to treat their domestic servants like subhuman chattel, and I hope I never, ever sink to their level.

Beep. Third floor. We must be in the world’s first hamster-powered elevator.

"So... um, can I ask you a strange question?" I ask, clearing my throat nervously.

"Depends on how strange a question it is."