Revenge of a Not-So-Pretty Girl

I’ve gotta admit
, I’m not all that enthusiastic when my turn on lookout duty comes around again. It’s making me start to rethink just how badly I really want to come across this supposed movie actress. The stairwell Caroline and I have been tucked away in is one long hallway and a massive lobby from the front of the building, but I can clearly hear the bitterness in the wind. That thing is howling and hissing and undoubtedly trying to warn me against going outside. Even though spring started three weeks ago, it still feels like we’re in the middle of winter. But Caroline’s shooting me this “What the hell are you waiting for?” look, so I slowly remove myself from the warmth of our little hiding place and start down the hall. I’m making it a point to take my time, dragging my feet along the shiny marble floor with its pretty diamond design, looking around at all the fancy light fixtures on the walls and the tiny chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, taking in how large all the doors to the apartments are and how solid and real the wood appears to be.

It’s funny to think that my building is only about seven blocks away. It might as well be in another galaxy. I think we have fluorescent lights in our hallways, and half the time they’re either flickering or completely out. And if I had to take a stab at what our lobby floor was made of, I’d say painted-over cement. But I guess that’s how it goes in Brooklyn. You get off at the Parkside Avenue subway stop and turn left, you end up landing on pretty average. That’s the direction the people who look most like me head in—the people with brown skin and the people wearing workers’ uniforms. The white people who come out of that station always seem to turn right and head in this direction, where there are all these fancy buildings overlooking Prospect Park.

I’m at the edge of the lobby when Gillian suddenly comes flying into view, her eyes wide, her long, bony face smashed up against the glass of the outer lobby doors. I can’t tell whether she’s mistakenly pushing at the handles, which she should be pulling if she’s trying to open the doors, or whether she’s being pinned there against her will by the sudden hurricane-force April winds. Based on her look of torture, I’m thinking that, more than likely, she’s being wind-pummeled. It’s not like she’s able to put up much resistance against the elements, considering how skinny she is. I mean, she actually makes me feel like a normal-sized human being. And I’ve seen the most up-to-date height and weight charts for 1984. I’m nowhere near the average for a fourteen-year-old city-dwelling female.

“Faye, she’s coming!” Gillian yells as I rush through the inner set of doors, which immediately close behind me, and into the vestibule to try and help her. But even though Gillian has hardly any meat on her bones, I don’t have enough strength to combat both the wind and her motionless body, and I can only get the door open about eight inches. Still, Gillian manages to squeeze a scrawny arm and leg through before getting stuck.

I turn back and glance over at Caroline, who’s probably the same weight as me and Gillian combined. It’s pretty funny that Caroline and Gillian are cousins, considering that one of them is so round and the other so straight. They kind of resemble the number 10 when they stand side by side. Caroline’s still comfortably situated in the stairwell, pulling some of the jawbreakers she told me she’d run out of from her pocket and dropping them into her mouth. I start waving furiously at her and finally get her to notice me.

“The lady’s coming,” I mouth a few times instead of yelling, since I don’t want to risk attracting the neighbors’ attention. “And we need help.”

Caroline finally heaves herself off the steps.

“What the hell are you two doing?” she grumbles once she reaches us. Only, her mouth is kind of full, so it doesn’t come out very clearly. But I guess I would have asked the same thing, with Gillian being all contorted and me trying to yank her inside with one hand and keep the door open with the other.

Some stuck-up girl wearing a fresh-looking sheepskin
jacket passes by, glances our way, and whispers something to her friend and giggles.

“You better mind your own business!” Caroline yells after them as she pulls the door open wide enough for Gillian to slip through. Then she looks at me. “So, where’s the movie star?” Caroline gets out before a fit of coughing overtakes her. Her already hyperthyroid eyes bulge out a little more, and she starts pointing to her throat and wheezing, so I ball my hand into a fist and punch her in the back, square between the shoulder blades.

“You shouldn’t put so much candy in your mouth at one time,” Gillian says.

“Yeah, especially candy you claimed you ran out of,” I add.

“Both of you, shut up,” Caroline responds. “And why’d you have to punch so hard, Faye? Next time you do that, I’m punching you back.”

Great, I think. Next time I save you from choking to death on the fistful of sweets you shoved down your throat, don’t thank me, assault me.

“As I was saying, where is she?” Caroline asks with some attitude.

“Just down at the corner,” Gillian answers. “Only, the wind got hold of her little ‘Ho ho ho, Green Giant’ hat, and this man had to run it down for her. I gotta tell you, though, she doesn’t look like a movie star to me.”

“And how many movie stars have you seen in your life?” Caroline asks.

“Plenty. Diana Ross, Marilyn Monroe—”

“I’m not talking about on TV or at the movies, retarded human being,” Caroline snaps. “I’m talking about in real life.”

Gillian opens her mouth to answer, but Caroline puts her palm to Gillian’s face and Gillian’s lips snap shut.

“Look,” Caroline continues, “she hasn’t been a movie star for a thousand years now, so don’t go expecting some glamour-puss. Anyway, remember the plan. Just act like you’re looking for an apartment number. She’ll probably try to help us out. Then just follow my lead.”

I turn to face the intercom, where apartment numbers are typed out next to the last names and first initials of the tenants, but I’m not so focused on that. I’m peeping out the corner of my eye, waiting for a glimpse of the movie star. It’ll be my first sighting ever, which is pretty exciting. She might not be famous anymore, but it’s not every day you come across a Hollywood actress in Brooklyn.

In my peripheral vision, I catch a blur of green whizzing on by, but I can’t tell whether it’s human, plant, or animal. A few seconds later, I see that green blur return. With great effort, it attempts to climb the stairs leading to the vestibule where we stand. I notice Caroline and Gillian peeking too, but no one does anything. Finally, I move toward the front door.

“Faye, what are you doing?” Caroline screeches.

“Look at it outside. If we don’t help her, she just might not make it in here.”

This seems to register with Caroline, and she rushes over to me. Actually, let me qualify that. For most normal
people, her movement would be considered a lazy stroll, but for Caroline, it’s actually a bit of a jog. Anyway, she gets to the door and pushes it open. Gillian and I go out and flank the lady and help her in.

“Oh, thank you,” she says, sounding as if she has just crossed the finish line at the New York City Marathon.

All I can think is, Damn, this woman is old. We’re talking Roman Colosseum,
The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman
old. Like, when did she make movies, in ancient Egyptian times? And she’s so tiny. Then I detect a slight hump on her back, which makes it seem like she has a candy cane for a spine. And her hair’s all wispy and white and blown about, like a big ball of cotton candy someone forgot to add the pink coloring to. Her powder-white skin is wrinkly and spotted—kind of reptilian. And her green wool coat looks about four sizes too big.

I move so that I’m standing behind her, and I find myself looking down at her feet—at these little ankle boots she has her gray pants tucked into. And I’m thinking, Not only does this woman look like she was never in a film, she doesn’t even look like she could afford to live in this hoity-toity building. In fact, she looks as if she might be homeless.