Just Another Girl (9 page)

Anyway, it should be interesting to see how the story develops. I will state, however, that Owen is nothing like that snooty Mr. Darcy, who goes around snubbing everyone, even Elizabeth. But knowing Jane Austen from her previous books, I suspect she will redeem the snob in the end. Although I doubt that she will make me like him.

Suddenly I'm interrupted by the ringing of my phone. I'm hoping it's not Lily with another disaster. I packed several sanitary pads and even a couple of Advil in her backpack in case she gets cramps, although she rarely does. To my relief, it's Crystal.

“Hey, Crystal,” I say in a cheerful voice.

“Hey, Aster.” Her voice is flat-sounding, and I suspect the worst.

“What's up?”

“Okay,” she says, “I'll do it.”

“You will?”

“Yes. But if Lily pulls a stunt, I swear I will never do it again.”

“She won't,” I promise. “I'll do everything I can to have her ready for this. In fact, it might help if you came over early, and we can all just hang out like friends. I'll have Lily's favorite foods here. I'll even rent the latest
Shrek
movie. She adores Shrek. And I'll have everything all ready for her bedtime. We can pretend it's a slumber party.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Your enthusiasm is underwhelming.”

“Sorry. But this is a sacrifice, Aster. I hope you appreciate it.”

“I totally do!”

So we arrange for Crystal to come over after four. And suddenly I'm feeling freaked over this whole thing. I mean, I'm
really
going out with Owen now. It's no longer just a daydream fantasy where I control the outcome. This is for real.

I go back and stand in front of the closet again. I'm so desperate I even look at Rose's clothes—and she would kill me if I touched a single thing of hers. Then I tell myself I'm being shallow. But it's not working for me this time. Maybe I
want
to be shallow. Good grief, I'm nearly seventeen. If I can't be shallow now, when can I?

Once again, I consider going to Rose for help. But then I know Rose. If she thinks that she's helping, she'll want to take over. She'll want to pick out what I'll wear on my Big Date, and she'll probably want to give me a whole makeover. No way am I going there.

Then I realize that it's almost the weekend, and Mom always gives me my allowance on Saturday. I know she hates it when I ask for an advance, and I rarely do. But maybe it's worth it to ask. After all, she is my mom. Why shouldn't she want to help me have a life? Seriously!

But instead of calling her, which she hates, I ride my bike downtown and wait until it's three minutes past noon. Then I go in and find her in her office, getting ready to go have lunch.

“What are you doing here?” she asks with worried eyes.

“Just stopping in to say hi.”

Now she looks suspicious. “Hello.”

I know it's time to humble myself and make my request, but part of me wants to turn and just leave. Forget that “she's my mother” nonsense. Maybe it doesn't matter.

“Well, what is it, Aster?” she persists. “I'm supposed to meet the girls at the café. Marie is ordering for me.”

So I quickly spill my story about how I rode bikes with Owen, how he asked me to a movie, and how I've even got Crystal coming to stay with Lily.

“Crystal?” Mom looks wary. She probably remembers the last fiasco.

“I'll make sure that everything is cool,” I assure her. “Lily knows Crystal now. And she likes her. Crystal will come early, and I'll have Lily's favorite foods and movie. It'll be like a slumber party.”

Mom seems to consider this and finally nods. “Seems you've got everything covered, Aster.”

“Except that I'm kind of broke, and I wondered if I could get my allowance a day early. I mean, I need to rent Lily a movie and get some—”

“Well, why didn't you just say you came for money in the first place?”

“I, uh, I . . .”

She opens her purse, pulls out two twenties, and hands them to me. “Here you go.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I smile at her. This was easier than I expected.

Now she actually smiles. “Thank you, Aster. You do a wonderful job taking care of Lily. I really do appreciate it.”

I blink in surprise. “Well . . . thanks.” I'm not used to this kind of praise.

“Now, if you don't mind, I better run.”

“Not at all.” I stay in her office, watching as she heads out. As usual, she's well dressed in a neat, cream-colored pantsuit. Not that she wears designer or expensive clothes. But respectably nice, like a store manager.

I remember once when Rose questioned why Mom always got to have new clothes, and Mom explained that it was a working expense and that the store gave her a discount. I thought it made sense, but Rose wasn't buying. She was just plain jealous. Not long after that, Rose got a job and started buying her own clothes and things. For a while Lily and I got her hand-me-downs, but then I got taller and Lily got fatter, and Rose started holding on to everything tighter.

Less than fifty bucks to buy some “date” clothes, rent a movie, get Lily some junk food, and have enough money left for the next week might seem a challenge to some people, but I've learned over time how to shop smart. So I give myself a budget and head over to Retro Reruns, a thrift store where I sometimes get lucky. Although I learned in middle school never to buy anything that's too unusual, particularly something that's handmade.

There's a saying that “familiarity breeds contempt,” and I discovered that for myself when I purchased a pale blue dress at St. Vincent's and wore it to eighth grade graduation. It turned out to have been owned previously by Amanda Kerr, and she was furious when she saw me in it. It seemed her grandmother had sewn it for her, and she didn't even know her mother had given it away. At one point I almost thought Amanda was going to tear that pretty dress right off me. Naturally, I never wore it again. And I never made that mistake again either. Now I buy only used clothes that I know I might've gotten new. I prefer ones with labels from Gap
and Banana Republic, and one time I got lucky and found a pair of Lucky jeans. But I avoid anything unusual or distinct, including big designer names that are still fairly expensive, even for a thrift store.

“Hey, Aster,” says Beth, a salesclerk who's befriended me this past year. She attends a community college but wants to go to design school someday. “Long time no see.”

“How's it going?”

“Kinda slow. What are you looking for?”

I casually explain that I'm going out and wanted something new, trying to act like it was no big deal.

“So . . . you have a boyfriend now?”

“Not exactly. I mean, it's our first date.”

“But you really like him?”

“I guess.” What an understatement, but I suppose I'm trying to protect my pride—in case it all goes sideways again.

“Well, I have just the thing, and it'll look awesome on you.” I follow her to a rack where she digs around until she pulls out this very cool, totally retro, and, unfortunately, too-unique top. She holds it up and smiles. “What do you think?”

I sort of frown. “It's fantastic, Beth. But it's too, well, you know, too one of a kind.”

She laughs. “You're afraid you'll wear it and the original owner will walk up and make a scene?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, you're looking at the original owner.”

“This was yours?”

“Actually, it was my mom's back in the seventies. She saved it, and I did some more work on it, but it's a little too small for me.” She points to her well-endowed chest and shrugs. “So I decided to sell it.”

Now I look at the tag to see she's marked it at $25, which is a little more than I planned to spend. And yet this top is so cool. “It was really yours?”

“Would I lie to you?”

I can tell by her face that she wouldn't. Still, I'm a little uneasy about the price.

“Go try it on, Aster. See if it's not perfect.”

So I go back to the funky, cool dressing room that's made from a bunch of Indian saris hung around some kind of hula hoop ring. The shirt's fabric is an assortment of gauzy patches and lots of embroidery and beads and things. And when I have it on, I come out to look in the big mirror and am amazed. “Wow.”

“It's magical, isn't it?”

“Very cool.”

“And since it's you, Aster, I'm reducing the price to $20. But this is a onetime-only offer.”

“Sold.”

“And if you can spare that extra five bucks, we've got some very cool espadrilles that I'm thinking are your size. Aren't you about a nine?”

“Yeah. But what are espadrilles?” It sounds like some kind of Mexican food, which reminds me that I'm hungry.

Beth produces an amazing pair of lacy canvas wedges with strings that tie around your ankle. I try them on and walk around a bit, and Beth whistles. “You look fabulous, dahling.”

“Really, you think the shirt and shoes go with my shorts?” I have on my khaki shorts.

“I think a little denim skirt would be nicer.”

“You sound just like a salesman.”

“Aster, this is your
lucky
day.” She grins.

“Lucky as in Lucky?”

“Yep. An adorable skirt came in last week, probably your size too.”

Lucky jeans are fairly common, but a skirt might be recognizable. I'm feeling a little wary. “Did you see who consigned it?”

“Yeah, it was a gal in her twenties. She's moving to the East Coast and needed some cash.”

By the time I leave Retro Reruns, I've gone over my budget. I still have enough money left for Lily's DVD and junk food, but next week is going to be tight. Plus, I didn't ask Crystal if she expects me to pay her for babysitting or if it's a favor for a friend. Maybe I can write her an IOU. But I'm thinking that if I really want to have a life and start dating and wearing cool threads, well, I might need to come up with a way to make more money.

I park my bike in the garage, which still needs cleaning, then carry my precious bag of “new” clothes into the house.
Suddenly I feel mad. Or maybe I feel torn. I mean, on one hand, I'm jazzed that I was able to get such a cool outfit, but I'm thinking about money—rather my lack of it—and I wonder if Rose might be right. Maybe Mom is taking advantage of me. Seriously, who else could Mom get to do all that I do for Lily for forty bucks a week? I doubt that anyone would even do it for forty bucks a day. Maybe it really is time to ask for a raise.

9

“Well, don't you look . . . uh,
interesting
.” Rose says this with one brow lifted awkwardly. This is her attempt to mimic Vivien Leigh playing Scarlett O'Hara in
Gone with the Wind
. Rose relates well to Scarlett, but I think Scarlett was extremely selfish and self-centered—guess that works for Rose too.

“If that's supposed to be a compliment, you might want to work on your delivery.”

“Ooh, aren't we clever with our fancy words.” Rose makes her hoity-toity face now. This is her usual reaction to any of my attempts to be witty. “But seriously, Aster, where did you get that weird shirt? Is it
used?
”

She says the word “used” as if she's saying “soiled” or “grotesque” or “nasty.” But I try not to take offense. What would be the point?

“It's
retro
, Rose.”

She snorts a laugh. “Yeah, right. Retro's just another word for Goodwill and Salvation Army stores.”

“Whatever.” I so don't want to get into a fight with her. Not just because I'm trying to get ready for my Big Date, but
because a fight with Rose could be the undoing of Lily. And, at the moment, Lily is doing so well.

It's a little past six o'clock, and Rose popped home for just enough time to change her outfit for her date with Jared. Hopefully, she'll leave as quickly as she came. Right now Crystal and Lily are in the family room playing Candyland. And I must hand it to Crystal, she's being a good sport and really trying. They were getting along so well that I thought this might be my best chance to get ready for my Big Date. Then Rose showed up.

I lace up one of my espadrilles and tie the strings in back just how Beth showed me. I even shaved my legs and put lotion on after my shopping expedition. No, not for the skanky reason that movies and TV toss about. I shaved my legs for these shoes, which I must admit really are spectacular. I've never had a pair of wedge heels before, and I've been practicing walking in them since I got home.

Before I can put on the other shoe, Rose has picked it up and seems to be examining it. I brace myself for her next scathing “used” comment.

“Where did you get these?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Why?” Suddenly I'm worried that they might've been hers and she's going to flip out on me, but then I remember she's still a size eight.

“Because these are Stuart Weitzman.”

“Who's he? And why would he wear girl shoes?”

She laughs, then frowns. “You don't know what I'm talking about, do you? Stuart Weitzman is a shoe designer.”

Suddenly I do remember a weird name on the label, but then I never pay attention to labels. Why should I? “So?”

“These are Stuart Weitzman shoes, Aster. They must've cost a fortune.
Where
did you get them?” Now she's looking at me like she thinks I walked in with a shotgun and robbed some fancy designer shoe store, not that I even know where one is located.

“I already told you,” I say coolly. “Retro Reruns. They carry all sorts of designer stuff. I just got them because they were cute.”

She tosses me my shoe now. “Well, I'll be . . . my fashion-challenged little sister is developing designer taste.” She laughs. “In that case you better get yourself a real job or a sugar daddy.”