Authors: Leah Marie Brown
I grab my cosmetics bag, pull out a tube of Dior Rouge lipstick, wipe the mirror with a dry washcloth, and begin drafting the rules for my fashion fast.
1.
Delete all fashion apps from iPhone & unsubscribe from all newsletters, alerts, & fashion blogs.
2.
Throw out copies of
Vogue
.
3.
Drastically reduce time spent on morning toilette. 30 minutes for showering, whitening teeth, waxing brows, exfoliating skin, shaving legs, applying anti-aging products, styling hair, and applying cosmetics.
4.
When in Sitka, do as the Sitkians. Pack away designer clothes and wear only chain store garments.
5.
Refrain from referring to items by brand.
I slide the bathroom door open and hurry to Vivian’s pink Louis Vuitton Astralis 50 leather weekend satchel—the one I gave her for her birthday last year—and grab…
Merde!
I am only sixty seconds into my fast and I have already violated one of the rules: refrain from referring to items by brand name. Vivian’s bag is not a Louis Vuitton Astralis 50, it is merely a weekend satchel.
I grab the first shirt I can get my fingers on and pull it out of the satchel.
Putain!
Obviously, I am being tested.
Of all of the garments I could have pulled out of my best friend’s bag, I have managed to seize the most offensive, most ridiculous garment. Vivian’s tattered “I Like It Raw” tee from her days of working at Raw, a sushi place in the Marina district. It is faded, a bit tattered, and features a screen print of a grinning cartoon sushi roll. I have begged, pleaded, and bribed Vivian to purge her wardrobe of the tee, but she refuses. It is her comfort piece. Some of us have cashmere Burberry cardigans…
Merde
! I did it again. My name brand dropping appears to be a bigger problem than I realized…some of us have soft sweaters or robes, Vivian has a juvenile tee. She even wore it on our cycling tour of Provence and Tuscany.
Well, Paul the Apostle slept in a lion’s den to test his faith. Maybe this is my test. Or was it Daniel who slept in the lion’s den? The extent of my religious schooling includes running the stairs of Sacré Cœur, listening to summer classical concerts in Sainte-Chapelle, and attending one Christmas mass with Vivian and her parents.
I grab a bra out of my dresser, slip it on, and pull the Raw tee over my head. Next, I pull a pair of black leggings out of Vivian’s bag and put them on. Vivian towers over me. Her leggings are too long by several inches, so I scrunch them around my ankles like leg warmers.
I walk through the bathroom and knock on Laney’s door. When she doesn’t answer, I knock again.
“You cannot not pass!”
“Um, Laney? I am sorry to bother you, but may I come in for a minute?”
The door slides open and Laney is standing there in fuzzy, footed pajamas, a paint brush in her hand, a smudge of radiant orchid paint on her cheek.
“Of course you can come into my room.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I am sure.” She pivots on her heel and goes back to an easel she has set up in front of her window. “Why?”
“Why?”
“Why would you think I wouldn’t let you into my room?”
“Oh.” I walk over to the easel and stare at the beginnings of a spectacular landscape of purple-gray mountains and a lavender streaked sky. “Because you said I couldn’t pass.”
“Oh, that!” Laney laughs. “I was quoting Gandalf in the book
Fellowship of the Ring
. In the movie, he says, ‘You shall not pass.’ I think cannot sounds more badass, though.”
I compliment Laney’s painting to keep from making a sarcastic comment about her fangirling over mythical characters again.
“This is fantastic, Laney.”
“Thanks.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Painting landscapes relaxes me. I get jazzed looking at Renoir’s paintings, especially
Auvers sur Oise
, and Paul Huet’s
Chateau des Pierrefonds
, with its shadowy, slightly ominous foreground. Oo! And Jules Breton’s golden, gauzy light.” She turns to look at me. “Speaking of golden light, your aura is really strong this morning. Were you visited by a spiritual being last night?”
“What?”
“Maybe the ghost of an ancestor?”
“No.”
“Did you dream about a spiritual leader? Maybe the Dalai Lama or the Pope?”
“Nope.” I chuckle. “Although I did have an epiphany about some of my life choices this morning.”
“Ha!” Laney’s declaration echoes in the room. “I knew it. We like to believe we are the author of our epiphanies, but really, our spirit guardians whisper the words to us. You must have been visited by one of your spirit guardians this morning.”
“While I was in the shower?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Sounds a little pervy if you ask me.”
Laney laughs. “What was your epiphany?”
“Oh, just a connection between my mother and my obsession with fashion. It’s too complicated to explain right now, but I promise to tell you about it later.”
“Cool.” She dabs her brush into a glob of paint and dots it on the canvas. “So why are you here?”
“I was hoping you might lend me some of your clothes.”
“Sure”—she waves the brush at her closet—“take whatever you need.”
“
Merci
.”
I grab a plaid flannel shirt and green field jacket. They’re Urban Outfitters meets Patagonia. Utilitarian chic.
“Vivia said Calder is taking you fishing. Was she serious?”
“
Oui
.”
Laney peeks around the canvas, crinkling her nose and clucking her tongue. “You might want to consider wearing your thermal leggings and a warm hat that covers your ears.”
“Will my slouch beanie be warm enough?”
“I don’t think so.”
“But I don’t have any other hats.”
“Take mine.”
“You don’t mean your panda hat?”
“Why not?”
I look around the room as if I will find a plausible explanation as to why I couldn’t possibly wear her panda hat, like ever, when I catch my reflection in the mirror hanging over her dresser.
Why not? Because I would look stupid. Because the black-and-white fur will clash with my plaid. Because I don’t even like pandas. They destroy beautiful bamboo forests, and their hairless babies make creepy screaming noises when they are first born.
On the other hand, wearing Laney’s panda hat would be the ultimate test of my commitment to the fashion fast.
I snatch the panda hat off the top of Laney’s dresser, thank her for the use of her clothes, and go back to my bedroom before my resolve weakens.
I grab another pair of wool socks from my dresser, put them over my first pair, and stick my feet into my Uggs. I slip my arms into Laney’s flannel shirt and pull the Panda hat low over my ears.
Vivian is tapping away on her MacBook when I walk into the kitchen.
“Good Morning. Good Morning,” she sings, her gaze focused on her screen, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “It’s great to stay up late. Good Morning. Good Morning…”
“…to you,” I say automatically.
I finished the song because if I hadn’t, she would have sung it over and over again, like an iPod set on repeat. Vivian is an irrepressibly, nauseatingly cheerful morning person. She wakes up smiling, with tiny cartoon birds and woodland creatures fluttering around her and a rainbow arching over her bed.
I pour myself a cup of coffee and grab a protein bar.
Vivian stops typing and fixes her gaze on me. Her eyes widen, and she lets out a whistle.
“Wow…okay,” she says, her lips pressing together as if she is trying to contain her laughter. “That’s an interesting choice in attire for your second date with Scotland’s hottest heli-hunk.”
She waits a beat.
“See what I did there?” She asks. “Instead of hella I said heli, as in helicopter.”
“You’re a wit, Vivia Perpetua Grant.”
She punches the air over her head. “Yes, I am!”
She’s wearing a pair of joggers and a tee with cartoon trolls and the slogan, “Chillin’ with my Nomies.”
“New shirt?”
She glances down at her shirt and her lips curl up in a big grin. “Pretty cool, huh? Nomies, as in Nome, Alaska.”
“Yeah, I got it.” I pull the chair across from her out and take a seat. “But you are in Sitka, not Nome.”
“The Sitka T- shirts weren’t as cool.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“What are you drinking? Coffee or Haterade?”
“Ha-ha.” I tear the protein bar package and break a piece off. “Just promise me you won’t wear that T- shirt in France.”
“This coming from the girl wearing a dead animal on her head.” She peers over the top of her MacBook. “Wait a minute! Is that my Raw tee?”
“
Oui
.”
“You’re wearing my Raw tee?”
“
Oui
!”
“Jesus, Mary and Juicy Couture! What is happening here?” She presses two fingers together to make the sign of the cross. “Be gone, evil spirit. Leave Fanny’s body in peace and return from whence you came!”
I stick my tongue out at her, and she holds her crossed fingers higher.
“Don’t be so dramatic.” I swat her fingers away. “It’s no big deal. I started a fashion fast this morning. That’s all.”
“By the power of Jesus and the holy spirit of Christian Dior, I command you to be silent.” She holds her crossed fingers up again. “Be silent, demon!”
She drops her hands into her lap and shifts her gaze from me to a glass of water beside her laptop.
“Don’t even think about it, Vivian!”
She looks at me with wide eyes. “What?”
“Don’t even think about sticking your fingers in that glass and flicking water in my face. You aren’t John, and I don’t need to be baptized.”
She leans back in her chair, closes her eyes, and laughs like a little girl, feet flailing wildly under the table, arms wrapped around her waist. I should be annoyed, but I have missed her unfiltered off-beat sense of humor and rampant
joie de vivre
. Vivian is the only person capable of teasing me without pissing me off, because she is almost completely without guile. There’s never a passive aggressive barb concealed within her jokes.
I suddenly see myself through her eyes—the elephant ankle leggings, lumberjack shirt, and juvenile panda hat—and a bubble of laughter bursts from my lips. Soon, I am doing one of those psychotic laugh-cry things I have seen Vivian do in the past.
“I’ve m-m-missed you so m-m-much, Vivian!”
She wipes her eyes with the backs of her hands and then fixes me with a gentle smile. “I’ve missed you, too, Fanny.”
I break off a piece of my protein bar and offer it to her. She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head.
“So what’s this about a fashion fast?”
I tell her about Papa Allight and Laney’s aura readings and my middle of the night epiphany. She listens carefully, nodding.
“Tell me the truth, Vivian. Do you think this is the most ridiculous thing you have ever heard?”
“Hello, Fanny,” she says, holding out her hand. “My name is Vivia Grant. I wore a Wonder Woman bathing suit to my Nativity Play, told three different men they were my first lover, let an action star talk me into getting a tattoo of a cartoon sushi roll on my ass, and got arrested by Buckingham Palace Guards for stalking Prince Harry. Do ya really think I am the best judge of the ridiculous?”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Maybe.”
She laughs. I laugh too, but prickly tears gather at the corners of my eyes.
“Seriously, Fanny?”
I sniffle and nod.
“I am proud of you.”
“You are?”
“Crazy proud.” She reaches around, grabs a napkin off the counter, and hands it to me. “It takes a lot of courage to question your path and seek a new one.”
“
Merci
,” I say, taking the napkin and dabbing around my eyes.
“
Je t’aime de
Givenchy
ou de
Goodwill.”
Her accent is surprisingly impressive. Last year, Vivian’s command of my native tongue was limited to a single key phrase, “
Je voudrais commander un café au lait, s’il vous plait
.” She would order a coffee with milk in a flawless accent—even though she detests coffee—and then just nod her head as the waiter responded in rapid French.
“I said I was on a fashion fast, but that doesn’t mean I am ready for Goodwill.”
“Come on, homegirl,” she says, grinning. “Let’s pop some tags.”
“What?”
“Yo, they had a broken keyboard,” she says, making devil horns with her fingers. “I bought a broken keyboard.”
“Is this a reference I should get?”
“Poppin’ tags.” She tucks her hands in her armpits and makes a ridiculous duck face. “Twenty dollahs and we could get a velour jumpsuit and some house slippers.”
“I think I’ll pass.”
“Come on, Fanny, Ima gonna take you grandpa-syle. It’ll be hella-tight.”
I frown.
“Thrift Shop?”
I shrug.
“It’s a Macklemore song, muthafucka.”
“Yeah, don’t call me that.”
“Don’t harsh my mellow, yo?” She grins. “I’m inviting you to go on a thrift store spree with me.”
The doorbell rings. I push my chair back and jump up.
“
Merde!
Calder’s here!”
“Chill, girl.”
“I can’t chill, Vivian. A gorgeous Scot is waiting on my doorstep and I look like a mentally disturbed drifter!”
“No you don’t!” She stands and pulls me into her arms. “You look hella dough.”
“
En anglais, s’il vous plait
!”
She pulls away. “Calder just wants to be with you. He doesn’t care what you are wearing. You could stomp out there in combat boots and your birthday suit, and he wouldn’t care.”
“I didn’t ken about that, Vivian.”
I spin around and find Calder standing in the doorway, his blue eyes twinkling, and his lips curved in a suggestive smile.
“But maybe we can test that theory? What do ye say,
banfhlath
? I’ll supply the combat boots.”
He winks.
Putain!
Oh, I am gonna pop some tags all right—and shove them in my best friend’s hella big mouth.