Secret Shopper (8 page)

Pass The Mic was a trendy karaoke lounge. There were more women than men in the joint. It was a good mix of ethnicities, which is why I love San Diego. There was a comfort here. A Shania Twain song was being belted out by a woman who looked like a younger Betty White. She had some pretty good pipes and a sweet twang in her voice. Rachel honed in on a booth in the corner. She let me lead. I kept my purse up again like a shield and pushed through like a linebacker.

I finally exhaled when we made it through the curious crowd and plopped into the booth. Within seconds, a
waiter magically appeared at our table. He handed us a song binder and went into a very animated speech about how the process of selecting a song went. He pointed to the cup of pens, each tipped with colorful origami birds and photocopied song request chits. He kept his eye contact between my face and my boobs as he spoke, stuttering on occasion. Rachel nodded her head in an exaggerated manner and pretended to be following along. She was really testing to see if he would even glance at her. “That guy was all about you!” She declared after ordering drinks and choosing her song.

“Whatever.” I smiled, but draped my hair over my chest.

Rachel was due to sing in three songs according to the flashing marquee over the stage. If I did actually get buzzed enough to sing out loud, I wondered if management would allow me to do it from the booth. Wireless mics, I spied. Good.

I perused t
he binder and was impressed by the list of contemporary songs. As much as I loved oldies, which was commonplace in karaoke lounges on Guam, I wanted to also sing what was on the radio today. My karaoke experience was limited to our home entertainment center and my family as an audience.

My dad had purchase
d a karaoke system for me one Christmas. It was nice to hear my mom sing in Korean and my dad with his vintage croons. He loved himself some Everly Brothers. Maybe I would choose one of their songs, since I knew them by heart and I missed my parents.

I
mpatient Rachel wanted our drinks yesterday, so she went to the bar and was gone for too long. Knowing her, she was chatting up some handsome fellow, but I was happy to be sitting in the corner. It was my thing.

Rachel maneuvered gracefully through the crowd with
two martini glasses. Her smile was mischievous. Talking over a Bon Jovi song, Rachel told me she met some guy at the bar who lived in Guam for a month. That seemed more like an extended vacation to me. She said they didn’t speak for too long because he was about to go on stage with his sister. He told Rachel that he and his co-workers had their company meetings here once a week.

“What’s his name?” I asked excitedly, happy to meet anyone who had visited
Guam.

“I don’t know
. I didn’t get that far. He was just so damned cute I started chatting with him. He is a dead ringer for Edward!” That got me excited, and I’m sure Rachel meant
Robert Pattinson
. I don’t think any man in his right mind would be glittered up in a pea coat at this bar. It was Rachel who sent me the Twilight series many Christmases ago. I plowed through the books in a week and Rachel and I chatted, texted and debated about the stories for about a month. Once the movie hit the stores, Rachel sent me the five-disc set. She really was my fairy godmother for sure. We debated the movie and the books as well, often to the dismay of her sales staff. Rachel was more a Team Jacob girl, so I was curious to see this guy since I was more attracted to Robert.

I
craned my neck to see the commotion on stage and my question was answered. First, I saw a tall beautiful woman step onto the stage. She wore a pink t-shirt. Two little words popped out at me. Bag It! I looked closer and lost my breath for a moment. It was Tamara, owner of the sandwich shop, minus the glasses. Her long flowing amber hair was undone. I shook my head and thought,
sister, brother.
Crap! It was Thomas whom Rachel spoke to. The connection was clear. Nice way to advertise the shop I thought. Sure enough, Alma and three other people in Bag It shirts were seated at a table by the stage.

Thomas still wore
his gray t-shirt. He did not have the baseball cap and I could see that he did look like a Cullen, except not as pale. His light brown hair was neater than the actor, but still reminiscent of the original. I fervently told Rachel about the precarious position I was in and who the Bag It crowd was to me. Her wide eyes told me she finally connected the dots too, “That’s the rock lobster guy?”

The gorgeous siblings sat together on a couple of barstools
. The crowd became electric when they saw the pair on stage. Their own fan club? Tamara thanked everyone and stated that this was their last song for the evening.

“We’ve got a kid to g
et home to! I do, my kid brother is single though, ladies. Slinging tasty sandwiches at our shop. We’ll be back next week.” Tamara calmed the crowd of about fifty people.

A familiar tune started
. It was Smokey Robinson’s
Cruisin
, the movie, Duets’ version with Huey Lewis and Gwyneth Paltrow. Thomas sounded so much better, so much smoother than Huey, but Tamara was just as beautiful and melodic as Gwyneth,
wait
, she was better too.

As much as I wanted to stay for the whole song, I didn’t want Thomas
making me. I told Rachel that I was going to hide in the restroom until the Bag It group got in their Partridge Family van and left. She thought I was ridiculous, but indulged me.

“Hey, Nix, if this dude was flirting with you, maybe you could date after the evaluation
. He won’t know it’s you right?”

“I’ll be sure to pencil him in after my date with Chazzer
.” I responded sarcastically. “And, what happened to no rebounds?” Rachel was so impulsive. I hustled to the restroom at the tail end of the duet.

When
I walked into the ladies restroom, I scared myself, not recognizing my image in the gold framed mirror. I sat on a red velvet stool. Rachel had specific instructions to call me after Thomas left. I read Bradley’s new texts.

Where r u? U ok? About Sunday, get back to me, kinda worried. Brad

Kind of worried about not hearing from his wife,
soon-to-be ex-wife? I fumed but my rage was short-lived. A gang of Bag It girls invaded the restroom. They were making their final pit stop before heading home. I heard Tamara’s voice in the doorway, and I pretended to be on the phone. I averted my eyes and was happy that my new blond hair shielded my face.

“Tom-Tom!
Tell James we’ll meet at the car.”

Tamara bounded into the restroom and as a cacophony of pissing sounds erupted in the three stalls behind me, she stood uncomfortably close to me
. I glanced at her jeans and shoes. She too was wearing a pair of Chuck Taylors in red. I wondered if that was part of their uniform. I found out moments later as Alma and another Bag It girl made their way to the sinks. They wore Nikes, so maybe it was just a sibling thing.

“Awesome dress!”
Alma said as she walked by me. I gave her a thumbs up and kept my face hidden.
Crap! Get out already!

When all was quiet, I dialed Rachel’s cell number
. As a Kiss song blared in the background, Rachel got on the phone.

“Hey, mom!
Yeah, I’ll call you later! Love you!” She hung up.

She must be talking to Edward, I mean, Robert, I mean Thomas.

I decided to text Bradley.

I’m fine. Will pick you up Sunday, text me your flight details. Phoenix

I hit send for the short and simple, non-emotional text. It would be my first since our break-up. Was this progress? Was this me moving on?

I
jumped when my Blackberry vibrated in my hand. It was Rachel, the mug of her licking an orange popsicle suggestively appeared on my screen, her caller ID.

“Mom here
.” I answered.

“Hey, Thomas just left
. He sat at our booth for a few minutes while the harem of coworkers was in there with you. It’s safe to come out. I’ll tell you more then.”

I checked my reflection in the mirror and heard the start of Rachel’s song
. That meant mine was next. I decided on
When Will I Be Loved
by the Everly Brothers. A little bit dramatic, but I was feeling a bit sorry for myself today despite my new exterior.

I headed for the bar and
bought a shot to calm my nerves. I would ask Rachel to drive us back to the condo since I had more to drink than usual, aside from loyal, I’m responsible. I’d only seen this done on T.V., so I licked my salty hand and downed the shot. The hot liquid coated my throat and I felt it descend to my belly. Repulsed, I sucked on the lime wedge. When I looked up, my face contorted from the taste of sour, three college boys watched me. I smiled meekly and licked the side of my lips of the dripping lime juice. That must have sent the wrong signal and their matching sneers proved it, so I pirouetted and bolted back to my booth. I felt their eyes on my back and quivered from disgust.

Rachel
did her best job at
Don’t Cha
by the Pussycat Dolls. She beckoned me to the stage, but I refused and shook my head like a petulant baby. Rachel had a line of men in front of her waving their beer bottles and a group of college girls smirked, threatened by her confidence and beauty. This was the scene I was used to, Rachel breaking hearts and pissing off girlfriends. The pixie look was doing her well. Her lean body was well earned by all the hours at the gym and this audience appreciated it. She was definitely unique from the batch of pale women here. Her chocolate brown skin was inviting.

Someone yelled a marriage proposal, which Rachel took in stride
.

“Sorry boys, I’m with her!”
And she pointed to our booth. Rachel brought the cordless mic to me. I was definitely not drunk enough for this. She sat down and sipped her drink. She pushed me towards the stage, but I knew the song by heart and I didn’t need to see the lyrics. I held my position at the comfy seat of our booth. This was short and sweet, like all oldies. Taking direction from Betty White’s
doppelganger, I sang with feeling and twang.

By the end of the song, the entire bar was singing along
. Then I saw Thomas. He stood by the jukebox, far enough away, but too close for comfort. He stared in my direction with a sexy half smile on his face. His eyes did that thing to me again and I panicked. How long had he been standing there? I sank deep into my seat. I slunk to the floor and landed with a thud. Rachel shook her head at me. As the audience’s cheering died down, I began my G.I. Jane crawl to the restroom. When I was safely shielded in the hallway, I stood and made my escape to the ladies restroom for the second time in fifteen minutes. Rachel laughed so hard, I heard her snort. She called out to me. “Don’t ruin that dress!”

Miraculously, Rach
el concocted a story of me being sick from major stage fright. Thomas said he was
compelled
to return to the bar when he heard the first few notes of one of his favorite songs. Rachel entertained him for a few minutes even telling Thomas how reminiscent he was of the beloved Twilight character. Rachel explained this as she drove us back to the condo. He had asked for my name and Rachel told him “Monica”. Hopefully, Thomas was not into
Friends
. He had to leave because the Bag It gang called him. Rachel told Thomas that I left in a taxi to our hotel room because she had more partying to do and he bought it.

“He said you sounded like Lisa Ronstadt
.” Rachel said excitedly.

“You mean, Linda?”
Linda Ronstadt was an awesome singer from my dad’s era. I appreciated her, but I didn’t know if she sang a version of that song. Rachel didn’t really care about oldies, her earliest music history being New Kids on the Block and, well The Doors, since she thought Jim Morrison was hot because Val Kilmer played him in an old biopic.

“Linda, Lisa, whatever, Thomas thought you sounded hot
. He apparently has an appreciation for the dinosaur music like you.” Rachel took direction well as she safely got us home.

“Sounded hot doesn’t really mean I’m hot. Did he say anything else?”
I was curious.

“He had a lot of questions about
Guam, since I told him you and I were vacationing from there.” There was no way Thomas would connect the brunette me from almost twelve hours ago to the blonde me of now, so I wasn’t too worried. “He spent a month there in the summer, loving the culture, he said.”

“Really?
Wow, I wonder what brought him there.”

“He’s definitely hot and intriguing
. I see you two making beautiful half-vampire babies.” Rachel joked.

Chapter 5

Becoming a Golden Girl

Walking into the condo with Rachel, I imagined for a moment that I owned it, all alone. I was just a single working girl having her best friend over for a slumber party. I suggested a classic movie and a
fter some cold showers, separate--not together, despite the fantasies many of the men from the karaoke bar might be having, Rachel grabbed one of my oversized Bruce Lee t-shirts, comfortable in her nakedness.

“You still have this! May I?” S
he pulled the enormous black t-shirt over her damp hair before I could answer. I wrapped my new caramel hair in a wet knot and pulled on my white Bruce Lee one-inch punch t-shirt, then removed my towel. We raced downstairs and popped in a movie. It was like old times, but back then we rented VHS movies from the local mom and pop store, sat with a tub of cool whip and Oreos and a liter of pop and burned the rest of our afternoon in sugary giddiness. Oh, how I wish my metabolism now was that of my fourteen year old self. Now, we sated ourselves with stale ranch rice cakes and diet pop.

Ten minutes into
Bridget Jones’s Diary
, Rachel snored. I gently removed her head from my shoulder and lay her flat on the sofa. I had her company for four more days and I was grateful. Rachel was definitely in dreamland, mouth gaping open, legs sprawled over the back of the couch-very ladylike. She looked like she was in a pixie death match with Tinkerbell and lost. I wrapped her tight in my Hello Kitty blanket and kissed her forehead. Leaving the movie on in the background, I headed to my room.

I walked past the office, my laptop actually beckoned me.
Psst. Get your butt in here and tap this
, it said. I headed in and started it up promising myself that I would only be on for fifteen minutes. I unwound my damp hair. My finger hesitated on the Facebook button. It had been two weeks. I hit my e-mail button instead. I saw numerous messages from Rachel, a few from Pharaoh and three from Bradley.
Hmm
. Rachel was here already, so I skipped those. I didn’t want to be cursed out via her e-mails. I clicked on Pharaoh’s latest e-mail. He wasn’t a man of many words and his correspondence wasn’t any different.

Hey sis, training again, dumped Caroline, parentals are cool, but call. Funeral was typical, can’t believe Uncle J is gone. Roar!

I wanted to give mom and dad space during this time. Didn’t want to call them frequently, reminding them that I wasn’t coming home. It was almost three in the morning, which meant it was about eight at night on Guam. They may still be at Uncle’s post-funeral rosary, but I took a chance and called the house. They picked up.

I finally dragged myself to bed after an hour of tiptoeing around the topic of Bradley. I thought about my parents. Dad was so proud of this new direction Bradley took by joining the Army, being an Army retiree himself. I wondered what dad would think about the new direction of my marriage. When they asked about Bradley it took all my strength not to yell out,
He’s screwing Barbie now and they’re looking into adopting a bunch of kids from Korea and whatever third world country was in vogue at the moment!

I looked at Bradley’s cold side of the bed, the place I slept when I missed him. I went to my spot instead and stared out into the starless sky, wondering for the first time not about Bradley, but about Thomas.

After losing half of Monday to sleep, Rachel and I spent the second half of the day sightseeing. I was glad she didn’t care to go to the zoo or Seaworld or any other touristy spot. We dined in the city and strolled around. Monday night was filled with Chinese delivery and just more great conversation and wine.

With Tuesday’s evaluation looming, I spent the evening in my office preparing and reviewing my paperwork for Thomas. Rachel slept again, not completely recovered from her jet lag. I felt bad when I thought about her adjusting to our time zone, only to leave back to Guam to be a zombie again for a few days. She was the sister I never had and I hated for her to suffer because of me.

Rachel negotiated her way into going to Bag It with me. She even helped herself to a long raven wig in my closet, something I bought to spice
up the bedroom which never came out of its original packaging. She wore some of my old clothes, which were baggy on her. Her mocha brown skin and the black hair made her look like her old island girl self from high school. Long hair and hot weather wasn’t a good mix, and I wondered why more Guam girls didn’t have pixie haircuts.

I indulged Rachel’s dress up session because she enjoyed the whole secret agent element. I wore my faded jeans with a fitted black t-shirt. I slipped into my pink Converse All Stars with Hello Kitty laces, maybe because part of me wanted to connect with Thomas. I needed to get through this evaluation without being made, but I was making it hard for myself. Thomas was an oddity to me because he actually liked
Guam. My experience thus far was of statesiders having something stupid to say about my home.
Is it true there are brown tree snakes everywhere? Isn’t Guam just a military base? Don’t teenagers have to lose their virginity at fourteen. Wow, you don’t have an accent and you speak English good.
Speak
English well, ignoramus
,
I thought. But, maybe the tides could change with a man like Thomas.

I wore my hair straight. Really didn’t have a choice since Rachel ordered the stylist to straighten it. I grew fond of the lighter hue. I never thought I could ever embrace my mixed heritage. Growing up on
Guam I wanted not so much to fit in, but not stick out in a crowd. I coveted the beautiful copper skin, dark eyes and ebony hair of my cousins. I was the direct opposite—fair skin, confused wavy brown hair, almond shaped hazel eyes. People didn’t look at me and say,
hey, that’s a Chamorrita
.

Rachel was exotic, her beautiful brown eyes were wide and eager to soak up life. Her eyelashes for miles were unworldly. Her physique was goddess-like and she didn’t possess freakish height like me, but she walked tall and proud as a Chamorro woman. Now, yes, there was no such thing as a full-blooded Chamorro anymore, with war ravaging through the island after the first descendants discovered Guam in something B.C., every Chamorro was mingled with either Spanish or Japanese or
Haole—inclusive of all Caucasian
blood, amongst others. Some with all of that and then some.

Bradley and I joined the local Guam Club when we first got to
San Diego in an effort to enjoy island life away from home. The food was a big draw, but the looks I received from Chamorros who either left the island decades ago or never set foot there were disheartening. One man who had been in the states for over twenty years eyed me curiously as I stood in the buffet line. I was already an emotional wreck having miscarried a few weeks earlier.

Fiestas were supposed to be a celebration of a village saint, open to everyone. After several more stare downs, he finally asked if I was from
Guam. The interrogation began with him wanting to know my family name and village. Did I have to prove my connection to the Chamorros to eat? Bradley had a thicker skin about those matters, but then again, his bravado and physical traits marked him as a Chamorro.

I checked my attire in the mirror. A size 6 looked good on me admittedly. Rachel volunteered to do my make up and I begged her to keep it subtle. Three layers of mascara and a swipe of blood red lipstick later, I shook my head in defeat and we were set to go. Rachel did a Charlie’s Angel pose at my car.

“Hey, miss! I told you not to come here again!” It was
Frances, our condo’s maintenance phenom. I turned around half-expecting her to be aiming her hammer at me.

“What?
Frances, it’s me, Nix.” I said surprised, hands in the air. Frances was stunned and nearly dropped her rake. I realized that she must have not recognized me. I last saw her when I was fifteen pounds heavier and I was now a fair haired svelte rock star,
Rachel’s words
, not mine.