The Time-Traveling Fashionista (5 page)

When she was younger, she’d ride her bike through the streets trying to get lost, looking for an adventure. But she
could never get lost. The town was too small. No matter how hard Louise tried, or how many hours she rode around, she always
ended up at home.

The sign for Chapel Street beckoned and she leaned her bike up against an old oak tree, double-checking the address on the
invitation. Number 220 Chapel Street was a nondescript brick building. Louise must have walked by it a thousand times without
ever noticing it. Brooke was nowhere in sight. Maybe she had reconsidered her offer now that she wasn’t defending her best
friend from Billy.

There was nothing but dust and cobwebs in the showcase window, and Louise wondered if she’d fallen for some kind of hoax.
From the street, the store looked closed and deserted. Perhaps the Traveling Fashionista Vintage Sale had already packed up
and left town?

She decided to try the door anyway. To her amazement, it swung open with only the slightest touch, and Louise stepped hesitantly
into the darkness.

“Welcome! Welcome! Marla, we have a customer, what fun!” A crimson-haired woman with bright poppy-colored lipstick and a wide
nose popped up from behind a rack of clothes and led Louise by the arm into the dark, stuffy room.

“Do you have your invitation, dear?” an unidentified female voice called from the depths of the shop. “Glenda, do check that
she has an invitation.”

Louise extracted the embossed, lilac-colored invitation from the front pocket of her backpack and presented it to Glenda.

The shop was dusty and bursting with armoires, racks of old clothes, and tall columns of hatboxes precariously piled to an
alarming height. The woman named Marla was partially hidden behind a mahogany rolltop desk in the back corner. The desk was
a disorganized mess, covered in papers and fabric and leather-bound books.

“Oh, wonderful,” Glenda chirped as she plucked the card
from Louise’s hand and, without bothering to look at it, nonchalantly tossed it over her shoulder onto the floor.

Glenda had red frizzy hair fastened in a messy chignon with black enamel chopsticks. Her dress was simple black wool, shapeless,
almost monastic. She was exceptionally tall, an intimidating feature accentuated by her black Victorian lace-up boots with
three-inch stacked heels.

“Please have a look around. Sorry for the clutter, but this space is temporary. We’ll be moving soon,” the woman named Marla
announced.

She had emerged from behind the desk, small and mousy. Her stringy chestnut-colored hair fell limply to her shoulders. The
one distinguishing feature adorning her unremarkable face was a wart the size of a peanut that had planted itself on the tip
of her nose. Louise noticed that the two women were both wearing matching oval-framed pictures of a black poodle that hung
around their necks by heavy gold chains.

Louise hated being the only customer in a store. The attention made her self-conscious as she began looking through the tightly
packed racks of clothes. The two overbearing women didn’t make it any more comfortable as they followed a few paces behind
her, pausing when she stopped to examine a swishy powder blue dress more carefully.

Luckily, Brooke burst into the store before things got too uncomfortable.

“Sorry I’m late,” she panted, looking around the room in awe or horror, Louise wasn’t sure which. “Where are we?” she asked.
Her eyebrows furrowed. “I never knew this existed.”

“I know. It’s cool, right?” Louise gushed, trying to sound enthusiastic, but already pretty sure that she would not hear the
end of this.

“Dahling, do you have an invitation?” Glenda asked, giving Brooke a thorough once-over. She was wearing her weekend uniform,
a blueberry-colored Juicy Couture terry tracksuit.

“She’s with me,” Louise said protectively.

“Well, I suppose that’s fine,” Marla replied, circling Brooke suspiciously.

“You suppose?” Brooke raised an eyebrow, and started looking through the clothing racks. “You owe me one,” she said under
her breath.

There were no prices listed on anything, and when Brooke asked about the cost of a black cocktail dress, Glenda and Marla
glanced at each other with a look of surprise, as though the question of pricing had never crossed their minds.

“Well, oh dear, I don’t know. One dollar. Is that reasonable?” Glenda asked, rummaging through a stack of papers on the desk.

“No, no, no. Things have changed, Glenda. Inflation, deflation, extortion. One million dollars? Is that fair?”

Louise and Brooke laughed. The black satin dress was in
the style of the 1960s. It was classic yet flirty and looked like something the famous American designer Halston would have
made for Jackie O to wear at a White House dinner party. But for one million dollars, they would have to pass.

“Oops. Too much?” Marla blushed.

“Let’s forget about money for now,” Glenda decided. “So corrupting, so unnecessary among friends. We’ll figure it out at a
later date. Let’s just worry about finding something pretty for your friend.”

“But what about me?” Brooke asked, not used to being overlooked.

“I’m sure you’ll find a nicely overpriced Marc Jacobs number at the mall later today,” Glenda said and winked, much to their
surprise. Wow, these ladies were good.

Glenda and Marla began rummaging through the store, unzipping garment bags, throwing unwanted items like mink stoles, wrap
jersey dresses, and brightly colored silk scarves into piles on the floor. They created a cloud of dust with their excited
motions. Completely caught up in their own chaos, they gave Louise and Brooke a moment of privacy to look for themselves.
Louise quickly combed through the garment racks.

“Hors d’oeuvres?” Glenda asked, pronouncing the word like oars-duh-voors.

She had reappeared carrying a silver platter with a mound
of lumpy, bright orange dip. Saltine crackers were scattered around the tray. Louise looked at the food with trepidation.

“Crab dip!” Glenda announced. “Marla is absolutely famous for it.”

“I’m allergic to shellfish,” Brooke exclaimed, lying through her teeth. “It could, like, kill me.”

Glenda pushed the platter toward Louise.

“No, thank you,” Louise said politely. “I’m not really hungry. I just ate lunch.”

“Oh, have a taste, dear,” Marla urged. “We have very little patience for young ladies who are afraid to try new things.”

Glenda gave Louise a hard, disapproving look.

“But why is it that color?” Louise asked nervously, taking a cracker and dipping it tentatively into the foreign substance.
The dip had a crusty outer shell that almost broke the cracker in two, as if it had been baking all day in the sun, developing
an armor to protect itself from probing crackers and girls with adventurous palettes. She didn’t want to seem rude. She would
just have a little.

“A generous sprinkling of sweet paprika,” Marla said with a wink. “That’s the secret ingredient. Don’t tell.”

“I won’t,” Louise promised. This was one secret she would be able to keep.

She popped the cracker into her mouth and chewed quickly, without breathing through her nose, and swallowed. She still
tasted the creamy and fishy mush, and although she didn’t like it one bit, she thanked Marla and told her that she could see
why everyone loved it so much. This appeared to be one of those instances where lying was the appropriate response.

“Thank you, sweetie,” Marla replied, beaming.

Marla picked a cracker from the tray and scooped out a generous amount of dip and ate it in one large bite. “Mmmm. That is
truly scrumptious.” She wiped the salty crumbs from her noticeable chin hairs.

“Now, please, back to shopping.”

Louise carefully opened the door of an ivory-colored wardrobe that was slightly ajar. The armoire was filled with leopard
print coats, high-heeled shoes, and fabulous gold-and-silver sequined gowns. A slight glimpse of iridescent pink caught her
eye from the depths of the closet, and Louise pushed aside the fur coats and sparkles to get a better look.

The dress made her gasp. It was the perfect powdery pink gown, a long, draped skirt that flowed out from an empire waist,
intricately detailed with shimmery gold thread and tiny silver beads. It was delicate and feminine, and Louise knew that no
one at Fairview Junior High would have anything like it. She quickly plucked it out of the closet and announced that she had
found
The One.

Glenda and Marla rushed over to her, eyes gleaming, excited to see what she had picked out.

“Are you sure you want to try that one on, dear?” Marla asked Louise hesitantly.

“Of course she is,” Brooke said with a nod. “Lou, that is fabulous. I mean, for vintage.”

“Oh yes, I love this one,” Louise cooed, pressing the cool, silky fabric to her cheek. “Please, can I try this one on?”

“What do you think, Glenda? Oh, I don’t know, I just don’t know….” Marla stammered, nervously playing with the poodle necklace
around her neck.

“Please, I’ve never seen a gown like this before. It’s so special.”

“You have no idea, sweet pea,” Glenda muttered. Her voice was husky and low—what Louise imagined was the raspy result of a
lifetime of unfiltered cigarettes and too much champagne.

“Isn’t this the Traveling Fashionista Vintage
Sale
?” Brooke asked. “How are you supposed to sell anything? As far as I can see, we’re your only customers!”

Louise clutched the gown protectively to her chest. She wanted this dress.

“Touché. No need to be rude, princess.”

Louise examined the tag in the dress to try and deduce what designer made it. The label itself was ripped out, or probably
had just fallen off after decades of handling. However,
the very edge of the tag was still sewn in. She could still make out the faint traces of a cursive embroidered
L
.

“It even has my initial in it,” she protested. “This was obviously meant for me.”

The two women exchanged amused looks at Louise’s persistence.

“You know, Marla, I think it would fit her marvelously. It seems like she and Miss Baxter were exactly the same size.”

“Miss Baxter?” Louise questioned distractedly, her eyes drifting back to Marla’s nose and that goober of a wart balancing
on the tippy-tip. She wondered why Marla never had it removed. Weren’t there dermatologists for that sort of thing?

“Why, that’s Miss Baxter’s dress, sweetie. Didn’t we mention that?” Marla asked, breaking Louise’s wart-induced reverie. She
took the dress from the girl’s arms to examine, holding it up for size.

“No, I don’t believe so. Who is Miss Baxter?” Louise asked.

“Yes, yes, yes. This is just perfect. You and Miss Baxter could have been sisters. Your proportions are similar. I think she
should try it on, Glenda. What do you think?”

“Oh, wait, look, it’s damaged,” Brooke remarked, running her thumb and forefinger along the hem. “It looks like it was torn.”

“That can be fixed! A little stitch here, a stitch there. It will be as good as new. Well, not new—but it
is
vintage, you know! Yes, you must try this on.” Glenda clapped her hands.

Louise held the fabric up to her nose. She cringed, looking perplexed. “It smells fishy.”

“Well, nothing a little Febreze can’t freshen up. Glenda, where is the Febreze?”

“It smells salty and damp, like the ocean.”

“Dear, why would it smell like the ocean? You’re being silly. Try it on! The color is simply divine.” Marla handed Louise
a flute of sparkling liquid and pushed her toward the toile-patterned changing partition.

“Loosen up! Have a cocktail—don’t worry, sweetie, it’s only cider. I think you’re the only other person who is destined to
have this dress,” Glenda encouraged.

“And don’t you have a dance next week?” Marla piped in.

“Umm, yes. But how did you know that?”

Louise let herself be pushed by Marla behind the partition. Her excitement at finding the perfect seventh-grade-dance dress
had turned into something a bit more nerve-racking. She slowly began unlacing her dirty Converse sneakers, the nervous feeling
in the pit of her stomach making an audible rumble.