The Vinyl Princess (4 page)

“Do you own a thong?”

“Nope. Kit has one in every color, though.” Kit’s lingerie collection mystifies me. My collection is not a collection and it could easily belong to an eleven-year-old boy.

My mom spins around and adjusts her breasts in the mirror, fussing with her bra straps. I watch her, thinking,
Shouldn’t that be me? Shouldn’t I be the one fussing over what to wear on a date while my mom looks on and gives sage advice?

“Tell me I’ve at least got this part right. I just spent fifty dollars on a new bra.”

“You look great. Almost hot.”

“What are you going to do tonight?” she asks me, still working with the bra.

“Nothing much. I’m kind of tired.”

“Do you feel okay? You want me to cancel?”

“You wish. No, Mom, you have to go. What if he’s great?” I try to look hopeful for her.

“What if he’s not?”

“Only one way to find out.”

My mom sighs and starts to walk out of my room, her shoulders sagging. Her high heels clack against the hardwood as she walks, leaving divots. At my door she stops and turns. “If this one is horrible, that’s it. I’m done.”

“Good attitude.”

She grimaces and clacks down the hallway like Dead Man Walking.

I watch out my bedroom window as my mom takes the porch stairs gingerly in her heels and heads up the street toward the wine bar where her alleged prince awaits. The irony of this role reversal isn’t lost on me: me watching from the window like a worried mother as my mother heads out on a date.

I take off David Bowie and replace him with the Sex Pistols—
Never Mind the Bollocks
. I crank the volume and take the stairs two at a time, arriving in the kitchen in time to see a spider scuttling across the countertop. He’s one of the black ones. We have three kinds in the house: the black ones, which are the scariest, the translucent white ones, which can easily be mistaken for small dust bunnies, and then the dangly-legged ones that do push-ups when you try to touch them. I wonder what the different colors do when they run into one another; do spiders have turf wars? Or do they all live a harmonious existence in our house, respectful of one another’s space? God knows we’ve got enough bugs for everyone in this place.

“I’ll let you live if you promise not to get any bigger,” I tell him. He disappears between the stove and the fridge.

I pull a frozen mushroom pizza out of the freezer, a small ice cave, badly in need of defrosting. I kick the refrigerator door shut with my foot, balancing on the other one to lean over and turn the oven on. I execute a series of complicated pseudo-ballet moves that I made up, over to the cupboard for a glass, keeping perfect time to Johnny Rotten’s ragged vocals as he belts out “Holidays in the Sun.” My plan is simple: pizza, a little light dinner music while writing a blog update including my plan to take over the world, and a movie—I have my choice of several that I borrowed from Bob & Bob’s but I’m leaning toward
On the Waterfront
, an enduring classic, and then, if my mom’s not back, a little pacing of the floors, but somehow I get the feeling she’ll be home in time for the end of the movie. She loves Marlon Brando like I do.

A
t five a.m. on Saturday morning, my eyes fly open and I’m wide-awake. Ideas are rushing into my brain at a very high rate of speed. I slide out of bed and walk barefoot across the creaking floor and into the hallway. My mom’s bedroom door is shut. She’d better be alone in there. I didn’t even hear her come in last night. I go back into my room and turn my computer on. Here’s the plan: Not only will my blog contain a powerful mission statement and a daily LP blog, but every week I’ll post my top five vinyl picks. Readers will be encouraged to participate in that. Plus I’ll publish a Vinyl Princess fanzine anonymously and distribute it to the world through Bob & Bob’s and a mailing list that I’ll compile through the blog. It’s brilliant. I start in on the mission statement:

I put the Elvis Costello quote below that and then I work on the fanzine till I can’t see straight. It’s only a few pages long but I figure I’ll try to put a new issue out each month and, naturally, it will get longer each time. I’ll finish it when I get home from work and then take it over to Krishna Copy and print it out. I grab my still-dirty jeans off the floor and pull them on. I search for my bra in all the likely places (under the bed, on the bathroom floor, in with my extension cords) and finally give up and yank a black Stray Cats T-shirt over my head (I am able to go braless, part gift, part curse). While I brush my teeth I wet my free hand and try to arrange my hair into something besides a woodland creature perched on my head. I pull on my sneakers, dash downstairs, pour myself a bowl of cereal and pound it. I’m late.

The weekend scene on the avenue features a whole different kind of shopper. At Bob & Bob’s we call them “B and Ts,” which stands for “bridge and tunnelers”: suburbanites who venture in from the far-flung suburbs over bridges, through tunnels, along endless freeways to participate in the urban experience, get a tattoo, score some drugs and look at the freaks, who purposely act extra-freaky, hoping for handouts.

Some Saturdays, there’s a preacher on the corner across the street from the store quoting scripture into a microphone, trying to save some souls. He’s got the haunted look of an ex–drug addict or a Vietnam vet. As his voice escalates, his face turns red and the veins in his neck pop out as he waves his thin white arms and works himself into a frenzy. Dark circles of perspiration form in the armpits of his short-sleeved shirt as he alerts all sinners who pass by that the time has come to take Jesus Christ into their hearts. He can’t seem to stress enough that we’re running out of time before we’re all doomed to eternal damnation, but he’s been standing on the corner for years and nothing much has changed. No one around here pays too much attention to the Jesus guy. Sometimes I wonder what he does on the Saturdays he’s not on the corner. Maybe he mows his lawn or goes to the movies or maybe he has an alternative spot for saving souls.

My only job on weekends at Bob & Bob’s is as cashier and phone answerer. There’s not much time for anything else; the B and Ts are a needy bunch. There is hand-holding involved. The hours fly by and I answer the same basic questions all day long. “Where’s the new Pink, Beyoncé, Avril Lavigne, Gwen Stefani, Nickelback, Lil Wayne?” The answer to that question is, “Right behind you.” We keep a rack of CDs right at the front of the store filled with everything that the B and Ts could possibly want or were brainwashed to want by MTV and VH1 or Clear Channel. They have no business in the bowels of the store.

When a fourteen-year-old girl who’s trying way too hard to look eighteen leans over the counter snapping her gum and says, “Hey,” I ask her how I can help. I can’t take my eyes off the raw pink of her freshly pierced nostril. My own personal piercing experience followed by the cardigan fiasco is still pretty fresh in my mind.

“I’m looking for a CD?” She states it in the form of a question.

“Can you be more specific?” I ask, also in the form of a question.

“Yeah. It’s by this girl. I heard it on the radio, like, a thousand times. I can sing it. Should I sing it?” She snaps her gum. Her breath smells like fake watermelon.

“No.” We discourage
American Idol
auditions. “Did you happen to see the music video?”

“Um, yeah, sure.”

“Okay, turn around and look at that rack behind you. Does anyone pop out at you?”

“
Omigod!
There she is!” She grabs a Lily Allen CD and clutches it to her heart: another satisfied customer.

The phone rings and I grab it. “Bob and Bob’s.” I cradle it under my chin as I ring up the girl’s CD; she vibrates like Paris Hilton’s Chihuahua in anticipation.

“Allie, it’s me,” says my mom. She sounds groggy.

“Did you just get up?” I ask, sounding like her parole officer. I take the girl’s crumpled bills and hand her the change. I slip the CD into a psychedelic Bob & Bob’s bag and hand it to her.

“Sort of. Sorry I was so late getting in. I hope you didn’t worry.”

“No,” I lie. “I went through all your jewelry and decided what to sell if you were dead.”

“Yeah? What did you come up with?”

“Nothing. You have crap jewelry. So, how did it go?”

“He’s nice. His name’s Jack.”

I don’t acknowledge the name. “Nice?”

“Well, he’s nice and smart and interesting, and kind of funny.”

“Funny?” I wasn’t prepared for funny. I wasn’t even prepared for nice.

“Yes. Funny, like he made me laugh.”

“Like out loud or just a chuckle here and there?”

“Out loud.”

Bob walks by me and mimes going for coffee or beer; it’s the same gesture. I wave at him.

“So, he makes you laugh out loud?” I ask again, doubtfully.

“Yes. Out loud.” She starts to lose patience. “Would you prefer he were a serial killer? Could you at least try to be a little more positive?”

I would point out that, this early in the game, it would be foolish to assume he’s not a serial killer, but I feel she might not appreciate that. “Sorry. Are you going to see him again?”

“Yes. Thursday. He’s coming over for dinner.”

“You mean to our house?”

“Yes.”

A line is forming at my cash register.

“But we don’t do dinner.”

“We’ll think of something. Let’s talk when you get home, okay?”

“Okay.” I click the phone off. I start ringing people up, avoiding eye contact so I can analyze my shocking behavior regarding “Jack.” Do I not want my mother to be happy? Is that it? What’s this nagging discomfort I’m feeling? Am I afraid she’ll fall in love and get married and move to the Midwest and have children with “Jack,” leaving me alone in that rambling old house with only Suki the ghost and an insolent cat for company? It seems rather unlikely. My mom doesn’t even acknowledge the Midwest as a real place and she had her tubes tied ages ago, after I was born. Maybe they’ll adopt chubby, happy little Chinese babies, hundreds of them. Love does strange things to people. Look at my dad; he’s overlooking an IQ in the negatives to be with a woman he says he loves. I try to put the whole “Jack” thing out of my mind but it hovers in the back of it like a needy first grader with his hand up in the air, trying to get my attention.

To make matters worse, as my “up before dawn” fatigue starts catching up with me, Joey Spinelli, hands-down the coolest guy at my high school, gets in line. He possesses a certain swagger specific to Italians and an old-fashioned brand of handsome that I adore in spite of myself. My only interaction with him was that our lockers were next to each other for a whole school year in tenth grade so I was privy to the comings and goings of his various girlfriends, many of whom were in eleventh grade, all of whom looked like beauty pageant contestants (not only was I not a contestant, I was not even qualified to spray glue on their butts for the swimsuit competition). As Joey moves closer to the front of the line I pretend not to notice him even though he’s blinking like neon. Then he’s standing right in front of me, Springsteen CD in hand. He looks at me the way he looks at all members of the opposite sex, starting with my slept-on attempt at a retro Joan Jett hairstyle; my unwashed face with traces of yesterday’s eyeliner and mascara, the only makeup I ever wear, still lingering somewhere near my eyes, I hope; and down to the Stray Cats, stopping for as long as it takes to appraise my breasts (God, why didn’t I keep looking for that bra?); and then down to the counter I’m standing behind, where he’s forced to use his imagination regarding my butt. I see a light of recognition go on. Not a bright light, more of a flashlight.

“Heyyyyyyy. . .” He struggles for my name, comes up empty.

“Allie,” I offer.

“Right. Allie.” He points at me. He looks around. “You work here?”

“Sure hope so, I’ve been coming here for two years.”

He chuckles and leans in a bit. “You look good,” he says, giving me the once-over again. He has a way of saying it that makes you understand that he knows his approval means a lot to people.

You
look good
, I think to myself and, in spite of my inner feminist, I’m thrilled to hear that Joey Spinelli thinks I look good. For an entire school year, I stood six inches away from him several times a day, waiting for him to even notice that I existed, let alone comment on how I looked. “Thanks,” I say. I busy myself with ringing up his CD. My cheeks feel hot.

“So, whaddya doing for the summer?”

“You’re lookin’ at it.”

“Yeah, me too. I’m making pizza at my dad’s place in Piedmont. You should stop by sometime: Rusty’s Pizza on Piedmont Avenue.” He digs around in his wallet and comes up with a business card with frayed edges. “Here.” He slides it over to me. I pick it up. It’s an illustration of a fat little man in a chef’s hat tossing a pizza in the air. It says, RUSTY’S’BEST PIZZA THIS SIDE OF ITALY. I flip the card over. It says,
Pamela
, with a phone number.

“You need this?” I show him the back of the card. He thinks for a few seconds.

“Nah, ancient history.”

Suddenly, he seems more human to me. Like me, he’s working for the summer. He’s not at some resort for the insanely handsome. “Okay, maybe I’ll see you there.” I slide the bag with his CD across the counter.

“Hope so.” He takes his bag and saunters out like James Dean. Then he executes the classic film-star turn back. “I mean it,” he says over his shoulder. Did he wink at me? I thought I saw him wink.

Well, it took two years and change, but Joey Spinelli finally noticed me. I can’t wait to tell Kit.

And while I’m still reeling from my Joey moment, about fifteen minutes before we close the store,
he
walks in the front door. He’s wearing dark glasses, though, and he’s skulking like he doesn’t want to be noticed, but I notice him, all right; I notice the way he walks, the way he holds his mouth, the line of his jaw, the shape of his face. I’m intimate with it all. He walks over to the blues LPs and starts flipping through them, looking at the back of one by Elmore James and then another by Howlin’ Wolf. I start my closing duties, keeping one eye on him at all times. I’m disappointed in the sunglasses. I like the idea of our eyes meeting. I like to pretend that we share a secret. Bob is up at the front, running the day’s totals, something he likes to do on Saturdays, the only day the store makes any money. I can tell by the look on his face that it wasn’t the day he was hoping for.

“I should sell the damn place and move to Florida,” he grumbles under his breath like we haven’t heard it a thousand times.

I watch my friend in blues meander over to jazz for a while. Then he heads over to world and stops short right in front of Africa. He quickly flips through country after country in a very distracted fashion, sort of the same way I flip through
Sports Illustrated
at the dentist’s office because it’s all Dr. Gould has in his waiting room. Maybe he’s looking for something new to listen to tonight. That happens to me all the time. I get the urge to listen to something that I’ve never heard before, something that will surprise me, something out of my comfort zone.

Abruptly, he turns on his heel and makes his way to the front door, glancing at me quickly as he passes the counter. He seems to suddenly recognize me and he slides his sunglasses onto the top of his head, exposing his amazing eyes, which look a bit faraway at the moment. He gives me that same half smile again; then he looks as though he’s remembered that he left something on the stove at home and stalks out.

I shrug and empty the register of money and Visa slips and trade vouchers to bring to the back for the closeout.

Later, I tell Kit about Joey. She also has a massive crush on him that started in seventh grade, and she can’t believe he invited us to his pizza place. Yes, it’s “us” now.

Kit pretends to clean her aunt’s house while we talk, something she does to earn extra cash for her road trip.

“Well, first of all, it wasn’t a formal invitation; it was like a ‘maybe I’ll see you there’ type of thing, and it’s not his pizza place; it’s his dad’s.”

“Still. We’re going, right?”

“Yuh-huh.” I definitely want to see the animal that is Joey Spinelli in his natural environment.

Watching Kit allegedly clean, I can’t imagine that Kit’s aunt has ever seen Kit’s room, because if she had there’d be no way she’d believe that Kit could clean anything, let alone an entire house. I sit in an overstuffed chair with my feet on the coffee table and flip through a
National Geographic
magazine I found next to a stack of coasters with different wine labels on them. A PBS program on gray whales is on TV. I tell Kit about the mystery guy. It’s been a big day, boy-wise.

“Do you think he might just be shy?” asks Kit, as she feather-dusts the coffee table around my bare feet and then sits in a chair across from me and kicks off her sandals. She rests her feet on the coffee table sole-to-sole with mine. She feather-dusts her feet.