The Princess of Las Pulgas (21 page)

“Almost ready?” Mr. Smith
asks, then sits in his chair down stage.

“Here,” K.T. tosses a roll
of furry material to Jamal. “This goes on the bed, loose and sexy,
okay?”

Jamal smoothes the material
over the mattress.

K.T. puts her hands on her
hips. “Hey! This is no army bed! I said ‘loose and
sexy.’”

“Then
you
do it. I got no idea what you
mean by ‘loose and sexy.’” Jamal jumps off the mattresses as K.T.
hobbles over.

She huffs and shakes her
head, then climbs onto the bed and musses the material.

Jamal throw up his hands
and goes to sulk in the wings.

“There. Now we got us a
good place for a romantic murder.” K.T. slides down and examines
her handiwork. Over her shoulder, she yells at Jamal. “So what
about hanging that corduroy stuff on those flats you built? I’m not
the only one on set crew, you know.”

“Who made you the boss,
K.T.?”

“Jamal, you sound just like
you did in fifth grade. Get your sorry self over here and do your
job.”

I laugh, but behind my
hand. I don’t need K.T. coming down on me today. Besides, I’m
impressed by the way she pictures the bedchamber—another
interesting surprise from old K.T. I’d like to see inside that head
of hers. I’m beginning to think it’s more complicated than I
expected. I just wish she didn’t have my English paper. I just wish
she’d lose it before she has a chance to read it.

Jamal picks up a roll of
corduroy and a staple gun. He climbs a stepladder and staples one
end of the fabric to the top of a flat, then he looks at K.T.
“Suppose you want this ‘loose and sexy’ too?”

“You got it.”

When Jamal folds the
footstool and takes it off stage, Mr. Smith tells him, “Bring up
the lights, Jamal.” A white circle of light shines on the fake fur.
“Now take them down a touch. A bit more. There. That is perfect.”
He clasps his hand to his chest. “We have ourselves a Rococo bed
chamber.”

At center stage, the mounds
and the creases of K.T.’s fake fur catch the light, disguising the
stacked mattresses. The flats that form the corduroy create a dark
crimson chamber, intimate and somehow ominous now that it’s the
color of blood. Her room is exactly as it should if Desdemona slept
there and Othello came to her, jealous and ready to take her
life.

“Wow!” I’m not the only one
who reacts to K.T.’s set, but I’m the loudest.

K.T. stands next to Jamal
at the control panel, shifting her head in time to that mystery
tune. “All it takes is talent,” she says and bows to everyone on
stage, her magenta-tipped hair catching the lights.

“Places,” Mr. Smith
calls.

With the long skirt, I’m
clumsy climbing onto the fake fur. Once on the bed I lie down and
close my eyes. I know all the lines, my cues and how to look
afraid. I’ve practiced in front of the mirror until I’ve convinced
myself I’m about to be killed. To get that look exactly right, I’ve
thought first about K.T. and then Chico or Anthony. Over these
weeks, I’ve become very convincing—more so every day that I hae to
deal with that bunch.

“‘
Yet I’ll not shed her
blood,’” Juan’s voice becomes deeper when he gets into his part. As
he approaches, I listen to the way he forms words like “monumental”
and “alabaster,” words that enter the room like broad-shouldered
men. Shakespeare wrote them, but Juan Pacheco gives them
life.

I feel his lips brush
mine.

“‘
She wakes.’”

That’s my cue. What am I
supposed say? I knew when I climbed onto the mattresses, but I
don’t now. Opening my eyes, I stare into Juan’s face, and the only
part of me that I feel are my lips.

“‘
Who’s there?’” He feeds
me the line. “You know, kind of like the second part of a
knock-knock joke.”

I’d like to strangle him,
but I can’t. Instead he does me in and the big scene ends as it
always does, with poor Desdemona begging for her life. One day I’m
going to rewrite that scene. It’s time to turn tables on this big
jealous bully.

Chapter 35

As I ring the Franklins’
doorbell, my stomach ripples like it does when I drive too fast
over highway dips. Sean’s at the door before the chime
fades.

“Yahoo!” He shouts and
scoops me into the air and twirls me around. “You’re just the girl
I want to see.” He presses his cheek against mine and leads me into
the kitchen, his arm around my waist.

Feeling him close, my
stomach settles and I’m delighted to be here.

“Aunt Corky left us some of
her healthy snacks, but I wrangled a couple of cheeseburgers from
Sam’s Shack just in case yogurt and carrot sticks aren’t
enough.”

“She’s not
here?”

“No, but you have a job all
Sunday afternoon. Here’s her note.”

“Carlie, Please be here by
2. We’ll be out until at least 8.” At the bottom she’d written: “No
more of those candy sprinkles for the children. I have my
rules.”

Mrs. Franklin is all about
rules. No snacks at bedtime for the kids; only free-range chicken.
Nothing except organic, triple-washed, quadruple-checked anything
in her fridge. How did anyone think to name her
Corky?
That name has such sparkle
and fizz.

Sean takes the wrappers off
the cheeseburgers and puts each one on a plate. I’ll have to do
without food all day tomorrow if I eat this, but he’s set the
kitchen table with place mats, flatware, and water with lemon
slices. I can’t exactly say, “No thanks.”

“Milady.” He pulls out my
chair and snaps my napkin across my lap.

I can never quite figure
this guy out. It’s like he majored in nineteenth-century
etiquette.

“So why the great need for
cash?” he asks, sitting across from me.

“College.
Mostly.”

“Okaaaay. Now tell me what
you're
really
saving for.” He bites into the cheeseburger.

I’m such a bad liar. As I
look across at Sean, I remember Dad—how he held my face between his
hands and said,
“Carlie love, you are the
worst liar in the world. Your face is a map to your heart, so give
it up sweetheart and tell me the truth.”
So I did and he forgave me, and now I can’t remember what it
was about; only the lesson stayed with me.

“Okay, I lied, a little. I
am saving for college, but right now I need a new
dress.”

“A-ha! The Spring
Fling.”

“How do you
know?”

“Sam’s Shack. Lots of
gossip flying around that place—like, you’re double dating with
Lena and Eric Peterson.”

I peel off the top of the
bun and bite into the open-faced cheeseburger. I want my mouth full
because I’m close to saying,
Why didn’t
you ask me first?

“Let’s go shopping. The
stores are open until ten.”

“You are the most confusing
boy I’ve ever met.” Being with Sean is kind of like being with
Lena, but without everything centered on him, and without moody
seismic tremors that cut trenches between us. With Sean, everything
is about having fun together. Still I wish he’d be a tiny bit
jealous about my date with Nicolas. “I’d love to go shopping with
you.” I stack my plate in the dishwasher—a old habit from so many
babysitting stints here.

I put my arms around his
neck. “You are my favorite burglar, Sean.”

“And you are my favorite
girl.” He kisses my forehead and briefly presses his cheek to mine.
I close my eyes and lift my face, my mouth waiting for his lips,
but he steps away. “We’d better go,” he says.

I try to cover my hurt and
embarrassment by grabbing my glass and chugging water while Sean
clears the rest of the table.

Once we’re at the mall, he
takes my arm as if I’m his steady girlfriend, and I let him because
it’s nice to pretend that I am.

“Where to shop for the
perfect dress is the question.” He stops in front of the store
guide display and runs his finger down the list of Women’s
Apparel.

“There’s a Dress Mart at
the end of the mall, but I don’t think they do formals,” I
say.

Sean wrinkles his nose, as
if the words Dress Mart, smell bad. “This is the Spring Fling,
Carlie, not Sadie Hawkins. Come on. I have a friend whose mother
who just happens to work in the best couturier department in
Channing.”

“Think budget,” I say, but
Sean’s already spearing his way down the center of the mall,
dodging oncoming pedestrians. I run to catch him, saying,
“Seriously, Sean. I’m broke. Really.”

“Budgets are out the window
when it’s a special occasion like this one.” Sean turns sharply and
strides through elegant entrance of Très Elégant, the most
exclusive shop in town.

The jazzy mall music fades
inside the store, where a live piano concerto floats across the
displays. I grab his arm. “I cannot afford this store. I can’t even
afford to breathe the air in here.” I’m tugging on him now because
something has to make an impression. My words sure aren’t. “Let’s
go,” I beg.

“Not to worry,” Sean says
as he steps onto the escalator. “Come along. We’re going to the
second floor— Designer Evening Wear.”

“Oh man,” I say, watching
him ascend. He might as well be heading to the moon for all the
good going up there will do him. I so can’t afford this
place!

“Well?” he says, looking
down at me from the escalator, then disappears.

This is nuts. I can’t
afford something from the recycling bin outside and he’s talking
about designer formals. My favorite French swear word is on my
lips, but I keep quiet. I hop on the escalator and I’m on my way to
the moon.

When I catch up to Sean,
he’s already talking to a woman seated behind a desk.

“This is she?” The woman
speaks as if she towers over both of us.

Sean nods. “Carlie, meet
Miss Lily.”

I attempt a pale smile.
It’s the best I can do to look happy about what Sean is up
to.

“Enchanté.”
Miss Lily says as she extends her
hand.

What am I doing here? How much is this going
to cost? Well, it doesn’t matter because if it costs more than
fifty-five dollars I can’t buy it. The sample spray at the cosmetic
counter costs more than that in this store. What part of broke
doesn’t Sean understand?

“So we are looking for
something sleek and elegant, but youthful.” Miss Lily looks up from
under dark eyelashes. “Turn,
s’il vous
plaît.
” She twirls her hand at
me.

I do a slow
one-eighty.

“Huit.”

The way Miss Lily says the
size, it’s engraved on a stone tablet. Miss Lily has declared me a
size
huit
, so
eight it is. No diet is ever getting me into a six before the
dance.

“Come.” Miss Lily says,
then parts the dressing room double doors and ushers us
in.

I’ve never seen a dressing
room like this one. It’s bigger than my Channing bedroom. The
floors are dark polished wood. A rich ivory-colored leather couch
is against one wall. A tall palm nods over the seat at one end, and
an oval coffee table holds a single orchid— white with a tiny
crimson center. The walls are glass panels, and, at the back, hangs
a thick leopard-patterned curtain.

“What did you have in
mind?” Miss Lily asks.

“Red.
Strapless?”

She frowns.

“Red?”

Again she
frowns.

“Strapless?”

“No. But slender straps, of
course.”

“Of course.” I shoot a look
at Sean, but he’s got his nose in the orchid blossom.

“And because this is a
spring event, a pink. Not pale, but hot with pizazz,” she
says.

“Pizazz,” I
repeat.

Miss Lily separates the
leopard curtain and leaves us seated on the couch.

“What are you thinking?” I
hiss.

Sean pats my hand like I’m
a pet poodle. “Trust me.”

When the curtain parts
again, a girl only a few years older than I am, glides into the
room. She wears a deep pink dress that shimmers under the lights.
It curves around her breasts, nips in at the waist and slides
deliciously over her hips. It’s gorgeous and I can’t
breathe.

Sean tilts his head from
side to side, considering.

As the first model struts
back through the curtain, a second enters. This time the hot pink
dress flows against the model’s thighs like water washing against
her skin. Small rosettes form narrow straps and each rose glitters
with a tiny crystal at its center.

“Now that’s
pizazz
,” Sean says.
“What do you think?”

“I can’t.”

“Good.”

Miss Lily
returns.

“We’ll take that one.” Sean
says.

I collapse against the back
of the couch.