Revenge of a Not-So-Pretty Girl (22 page)

“I think I’ll leave that up to Evelyn to tell you.”

“But she won’t. And what does it matter if you tell me now, if you’re gonna have it in your book anyway?”

“As long as she’s still here, it’s not within my right to make public what she’s confided in me.”

The bathroom door creaks open, and he lowers his voice.

“I do think the world needs to know who she is. They need to know she didn’t just disappear and turn to dust, and that her life was filled with as much complexity and sorrow as it was with talent and richness. But it all has to be done according to her time line.”

As the old lady walks back into the room, I nod at the archivist. I wonder whether one of the stories she’ll tell him will involve three girls who forced their way into her apartment to steal 280 bucks out of her
Joy of Cooking
book. And I wonder whether she’ll tell him about that one particular girl who almost killed her … accidentally.

As the archivist and Ms. Downer resume their conversation, I start thinking about this Delaine Lawson person and wishing there was something I could do to get her and the old lady back together again.

Since Macy’s is
not really in my price range, I decide to go do a little window-shopping on Flatbush Avenue a few days after my hat-modeling afternoon with Ms. Downer. Maybe Keisha’s right about starting early. And I figure the way my hair is, it might take extra time to come up with an outfit that can detract from it. And just in case I come across something, I’ve decided to bring along thirty of the seventy dollars I keep tucked away in the giant unabridged Merriam-Webster’s dictionary in my room, which is one of the few places Mama would never think of snooping around in. The other forty dollars I kind of feel weird spending. It’s my share of the money we took from the old lady.

Now that it’s finally gotten a little warm, Flatbush Avenue is more alive than ever. It’s as if all the people who stayed hidden away in their apartments, huddled around their radiators trying to avoid the cold, have decided to come out and exhale away the winter. And there’s a slightly slower pace to everyone. There are even a few smiles on
faces, unlike in midwinter, when chins are buried in jacket collars, hands are stuffed in pockets, and eyes are focused front and center. Street vendors are out in full force, with knockoff Chanel purses and Gucci scarves laid out on the sidewalk.

The sound of Grandmaster Flash blaring from a radio captures my attention, and I stop for a second to watch these three boys break-dancing for spare change. Two of them are pretty good, but one is a bit more on the epileptic seizure side than the coordinated side. When he tries to do a handstand and spin on his head, he just sorta tips over. Maybe he’s the comic relief.

I finally walk on, avoiding the onslaught of people pouring into the street before turning onto Albemarle Road, where the Dressy Dress Mart is located. But just as I’m about to push open the door to the store, I hear this all-too-familiar voice.

“Well, look who it is,” Caroline says as she heads right for me, with Gillian at her usual place by her side.

“I guess we should consider it a privilege to have you grace our presence, O Holy One. Even if it is by accident.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“Last time we saw you, you said you’d be hanging out with us more, but we haven’t seen you since. You’re not on the streets. You’re not answering your bell. It’s like you disappeared off the face of the earth.”

“I have a math thing after school now, and it keeps me pretty busy.”

“Caroline’s been pretty busy too,” Gillian admits. And
suddenly, there’s this “You give us twenty-two minutes, we’ll give you the world,” 1010 WINS–style breaking-news moment. And I have to wonder if my ears are tuned correctly this particular afternoon, ’cause Caroline actually says:

“I need to get one of those miniskirts so I can look sexy for my guy. His birthday’s coming up and he keeps asking me to give him a treat.” And she rocks her hips back and forth. She really could have spared me the image. But what’s probably even more shocking, disturbing, and nauseating than her giving some boy a “treat” is her actually having a boy who’s interested in her.

“You. Have. A. Boyfriend?”

“Yeah, I got a guy,” Caroline snaps defensively. “What of it?”

“Nothing,” I say as she reaches across me to push the door open. I walk ahead of her into the store and look back at Gillian, who seems just as much in disbelief as I am. Gillian shakes her head and shrugs, as if to say that she’s been dealing with this shock for a while now. I just can’t figure out what’s in the air. First Mama and now Caroline. I mean, Caroline Johns having a boyfriend is like Jabba the Hutt winning a beauty contest—it doesn’t make any sense. I’ve seen some pretty unattractive people who’ve had boyfriends, but I just assumed they had nice personalities. I mean, there must have been something to attract another person to them. But Caroline has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Okay, she has massive boobs, but the way I see it, that’s like a pig having a potbelly. She’s overweight, so it
just comes with the territory. It doesn’t make her any more attractive. Anyway, I’m pretty sure this guy doesn’t stay of his own free will.

“You want to leave me, I’ll bust you in the lip,” she probably says. “You looking at another girl when you have me, I’ll poke your good eye out.” “You better say I’m pretty. Say it or I’ll strangle you.” And that keeps him there. That, or he’s severely brain-damaged and doesn’t know any better.

The Dressy Dress Mart is a medium-sized store that only carries clothes for women. The minute we walk in, Caroline starts breezing down the aisles.

“The miniskirts are over there,” I say. But she just waves me off and starts taking these little glimpses at the cashier, who’s ringing a couple of people up and not paying any attention to us. Then she starts glancing over at the uninterested salesgirl, who’s standing near the front door looking pretty bored. She looks like she belongs in the
Flashdance
movie, with her fluorescent-green off-the-shoulder T-shirt and black leggings and ankle boots. She has her left hand up in front of her face and she’s staring at her too-long, too-pink Lee-Press-On-looking nails. I’ve been in the Dressy Dress Mart before and that salesgirl always looks as if she’s more concerned with what’s going on under her fingernails than with her customers. And she’s always chewing the biggest wad of gum. She never asks if you need help. You have to call out to her if you need anything. And when she finally acknowledges you, she’s usually sighing deeply and rolling
her eyes like you’re disturbing her from something really important.

There’s also a security guard there, this old Haitian man. He talks with the thickest accent I’ve ever heard. No one ever knows what he’s saying. Pretty much if he says something, you just nod and move on. One of his legs is shorter than the other, so he kind of walks with a limp. Kind of like a peg-legged pirate. And he doesn’t even carry a gun. I don’t understand how he got his job. I mean, if somebody was to steal something, all he can do is hop after them and throw his billy club. But who knows. Maybe he has really good aim.

So the salesgirl is at the door, and the guard is standing near the back of the store joking with the cashier, who’s ringing up a customer. Suddenly, Caroline swings around to where the miniskirts are. With her left hand, she holds one up and studies it. With her right hand, she’s stuffing another into the front of her pants. She does this in about five seconds. She does the same with a matching top, then turns to stare at Gillian, who just starts giggling. Caroline’s mouthing, “Grab something,” but Gillian’s mouthing back, “I don’t know what I want,” as she runs her hands across every item on the rack.

“Whatchu doing?” Caroline growls. “We’re surrounded by cool stuff. Just take something. And Faye, what are you waiting for?”

“I didn’t say I wanted anything.”

“What the hell’s wrong with you these days? We’re in this store with all this cool stuff. Bored salesgirl over
there isn’t paying us any attention, and you mean to tell me there’s not one thing you wouldn’t mind getting your hands on?”

I quickly study the clothes near me. There are the usual leggings and T-shirts and pants and a rack filled with Gloria Vanderbilt jeans. A little farther off, I notice a couple of nice dresses. And then I spot a stylish white blouse and poufy black skirt that would not only work for our year-end ceremony, it would probably also give me the illusion of a shape.

I have to admit, it’s pretty tempting. But here’s the thing. I haven’t done anything like this since our episode with the old lady, and I’m feeling a little hesitant. Maybe I’m actually still traumatized by what happened. Then again, maybe thieving is like riding a horse—once you fall off, you gotta get right back on. I know I made all those promises after everything went down with the old lady, but now that this opportunity has presented itself, I’m kind of curious to see whether I still have it in me. I feel my heart beating a little, but I don’t know if that’s from excitement or apprehension. I guess there’s only one way to find out.

I swipe the blouse first, then look over at Caroline, who seems to be salivating. She gives me a big grin and loud whispers, “I knew you could do it. You’re still one of us.”

I move over to the skirts next and find a size small, which I begin stuffing into my bag as well. But then I kind of freeze, midstuff. Something just doesn’t feel right. Even though I’m going to be the one wearing the outfit, I’m not
salivating the way Caroline is. I just don’t feel the same level of excitement I used to when I knew I was getting one over on someone. It’s like the whole activity has completely lost its appeal. And then something starts creeping into my stomach. There’s this stabbing pain that might possibly be … guilt. And I suddenly start pulling the clothes back out of my bag.

I turn to look behind me, surprised that Caroline isn’t acting the fool and carrying on. But there’s no sign of her, or of Gillian. I look toward the door. No salesgirl. But I catch sight of Caroline bolting through it with Gillian on her heels. I’m trying to figure out what’s gotten into them, when I sense someone behind me. And I turn to find the security guard looking straight into my eyes.

For someone with only one good leg, he sure is nimble … and stealthy. I don’t know, maybe the good leg is like a rocket-powered pogo stick he uses to launch himself into the air. Maybe one of his leaps is like ten of a normal man’s steps.

“W-wait, this isn’t what it looks like,” I stammer out. But I can sense that he is not about to believe anything that comes out of my mouth, so I decide to make a run for it. But the guard latches on to my wrist. Let me tell you, this old man might have a bad leg, but there’s nothing wrong with his hands. And I start thinking of something I heard before. When one of the senses isn’t so good, like eyesight or hearing, the other senses become sharper to make up for it. So maybe it’s the same with bad legs. They make your hands stronger. The man has a vise grip on my arm and the
salesgirl is walking over to us, sucking her teeth and rolling her neck.

“What she do, Reggie? What she do?” she yells with the thickest Brooklyn accent ever.

“Sim clothes. Dey in her bag. She a t’ief.”

The cashier stops ringing up merchandise and starts craning her neck to see what’s going on. Caroline and Gillian are probably halfway to Clarkson Avenue by now. And I’m wondering how my luck can be so bad. But I figure old Reggie the security guard can’t hold on to me forever, and if I can get a running start, I can get away. The salesgirl wouldn’t dare risk losing one of her press-on nails by trying to grab at me, so I have a chance.

The guard nudges me along while trying to pull my bag off my shoulder. Only, I’m trying to hold on to it. Then I figure if I let go, maybe he’ll let go of my arm and I can make a run for it.… Though he’ll have my school ID, so he’ll know who I am. But I’ll worry about that later.

The salesgirl has returned to studying her nails, so I let go of the bag. And I just start running. But the guard starts pogoing after me.
Boing, boing, boing
. He can really move with that one jet-propelled leg of his. And the salesgirl is no longer focusing on her nails. She’s now yelling, “Reggie, don’t you let her get away!”

Oh, but I see the door. And it’s getting closer and closer. As I reach for it, I can taste freedom. But then, just like those stupid teenagers in those scary movies when the axe murderer is chasing them through the woods, I slip and go down three feet short of the finish line. And that
gimpy guard goes down right on top of me. I try to wriggle free, but I can’t seem to budge him an inch. I’m yelling and screaming and cussing and struggling. But there’s not a peep coming out of him, no movement at all … just dead, gimpy weight.