A Little Friendly Advice (7 page)

Beth takes a deep breath and wriggles out of her striped sweater. “I know things have been crazy the last forty-eight hours, and it’s brought up a lot of old crap from the past that we’d both like to forget, but you have to trust me, Ruby. Your dad’s gone now, and things are going to go back to normal. You’ve just got to push all this out of your head.”

“Do you really think?”

She nods. “It’s like people who have had family members die … they always get sad around the holidays. It doesn’t mean they haven’t come to terms with them being gone. This is just a hiccup, like that. Nothing more.” Her eyes jump all over my face. “Promise that you believe me.”

“Okay,” I say. I want to believe her.

She shakes her head. “No. You need to promise.”

I pull away from her and place my hand over my heart, like I’m saying the Pledge of Allegiance. “I promise.” Maybe it isn’t quite true, but it certainly feels good to hear someone tell you that you’re not a mess. At least with Beth on my side, I know I can get through this. After all, I did it once before.

Maria’s horn beeps from outside. I clear the table, put our juice glasses into the sink, and grab my old ski vest, while Beth dries her face on her sleeve. On our way to the front door, she sinks me to the carpet with a huge hug.

Somehow I feel lighter.

You’d never mistake Goodwill for a department store, because of the smell. It’s like opening a trunk of sweaters during August. Or taking a walk though the historic home of Rutherford B. Hayes, where the windows never open and old reading glasses are fastened permanently to a nightstand. It’s the scent of quiet. Everything’s stale and muted. I think it’s the best smell in the world.

Beth spends the entire drive over prepping us on our mission, which she’s broken down into bullet points in her party-planning notebook. Since we’re her closest friends, she wants to make sure we have cool costumes, and if we need her help or advice, we should feel free to ask. We are also informed that anyone not wearing a costume will be forbidden entry. Unlike years past, cheap plastic masks from the drugstore will not be acceptable, nor will the old “I’m dressing up as myself” excuse. There has to be some level of
trying
involved, the discretion of which is up to her. Beth reasons that if people don’t take their costumes seriously, then they won’t be taking her birthday seriously either and don’t deserve to be there. After all, turning sixteen is a pretty big deal and she isn’t going to let anything or anyone ruin it for her. Which makes sense, I guess.

Once we get to Goodwill, an overstuffed rack of T-shirts spreads out before me like a horizontal rainbow. I thrust my hip inside the tightly packed orange area to create a little shuffle room and flip through the wares, looking for nothing in particular but hoping the official color of Halloween will inspire my hunt for a costume. I pass by a couple of so-sos and some no-nos before I double-take at a retro Cleveland Browns shirt the color of Sunkist mixed with melted ice cubes. The insignia flakes off around the upper-left corner, there’s a grass stain across the back, and the armpits are nearly see-through. It’s impossibly soft. I check the collar —
Youth Large
. $2.99 on a blue paper tag means it’s half-off on Saturday. All these reasons lumped together deem it total thrift-store gold.

I rise on my toes and watch the top of Beth’s head drift down a fluorescent-lit aisle. I follow the runner of brown industrial carpet into the skirt section, waving my find over my head in victory.

“Umm, I think I’ve found the best shirt ever!”

A few heads turn toward me, annoyed. The novelty of retro is lost on people who ignore the smell and make this place a department store out of necessity. I permanently lower my voice.

Beth inspects the shirt with a raised eyebrow while I get lost in the multitude of fabrics thrown over her shoulder. There’s a polyester skirt, a corduroy jacket, an old satiny slip, some wool leggings, and a shimmery scarf. I wish I felt safe in fabrics other than cotton.

“Hmm … okay. Yeah. This can work,” she says, nodding with approval. “We can get you some white sweatpants and paint black stripes under your eyes. I have no idea where you’ll find a football helmet. Or shoulder pads. We could use some rolled-up towels for that, I guess. But you definitely need a helmet if you want to have the whole look. Without the helmet, it isn’t going to work. So maybe you should think about a backup, just in case.”

“Not for a costume,” I say, holding the shirt up against my chest. “For the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year.”

Beth groans and walks toward the ladies’ dressing room we’ve commandeered. “Ruby, I really need you to focus, all right?” she whines. “My party is exactly one week away!”

“Okay. Sorry,” I say. “I’ll focus.” If only I had some ideas to focus on. But coming to Goodwill makes me feel like I’ve got attention deficit disorder. Colors grab and lose my attention; quirky fonts on the tags, missing buttons, strange sizes. I get lost in the idea of who wore these clothes in a former life. Like the Cleveland Browns shirt. This boy loved football and wrestled out on the lawn with his dad as he fought for the last few yards of a driveway touchdown. I can seriously see them in my mind, like a picture.

Maria’s squeal drifts from an aisle near the plate-glass windows. As I take off in her direction, an arm reaches out and grabs my elbow, pulling me to a stop.

“Slow down there!” a crackly old voice whines.

“Oh, excuse me,” I say, and whirl around to find Katherine swathed in a tent-sized Hawaiian-print muumuu, arched over like the letter n. Her spine straightens out and she takes off past me, cackling like a wicked witch and calling me a word that no proper old lady would ever use.

Maria’s posing in front of a mirrored column. She’s got a terry-cloth band around her head and a white pleated skirt on a hanger threaded in her belt loop, so it drapes against her frame like a paper doll’s clothes. It is exactly the same length as the pleated skirt she already has on. She swings a vintage wooden tennis racket over her shoulder. “All this, plus my favorite pink polo. Ta-da!”

“I don’t get it,” Katherine says sarcastically, falling against the mirror and blocking Maria’s view of herself. “If you want to dress up like something different for Halloween, you should be a nun. A nun with a chastity belt.”

“I’d still get more attention than you in your old-lady costume,” Maria sasses.

Katherine pulls the muumuu over her head and hurls it at a nearby rack. “This isn’t my costume.”

“Well, Beth’s not going to let you in without one. Remember?”

Katherine rolls her eyes. “Isn’t dressing up for Halloween a little junior high? I mean, the whole cold-spaghetti-in-a-bowl thing loses its fear factor when you stop being afraid of the dark.”

I hang the muumuu back up with a spare hanger. I should tell Katherine that Beth doesn’t take many things more seriously than she does her Halloween/birthday party. She transforms her basement into a highly stylized haunted house, not some hokey G-rated playhouse with goody bags and homemade chocolate lollipops. She knows a butcher who sells her actual cow tongues that she uses for a centerpiece. The guest list is limited to the cool kids in Beth’s art electives and the cutest guys in Maria’s phonebook. (I could invite whomever, but everyone’s usually been accounted for.) And this year, after the success of Katherine’s stolen champagne at my party, Beth has convinced her sister Suzy to buy us some raspberry vodka and hide it in the bottom of her dirty-laundry bag, which Beth and her oblivious mom will pick up tonight from Suzy’s Cleveland State dorm. But I don’t say anything. Let Katherine think we’re junior high. She can go ahead and not come. We’d all have a better time without her.

Beth emerges from the dressing room and flags us over. She’s wearing a plain black slip.

“Naughty housewife?” Maria asks. “I love it!”

Beth studies herself in the mirror with a big smile, seeing something different than we do in her reflection. “I’ve got big plans for this little black slip.” Beth’s costumes are always over-the-top, with weeks of effort and custom-made touches behind each one. She’s a little behind this year, but I have no doubt she’ll turn it into something amazing. Her attention shifts to the rest of us. “Maria, I absolutely love it! The vintage racket is an awesome touch. Great job.” She gives Maria a big hug and they both bounce up and down. “Now, how about you two?”

“I’ve got my costume all planned at home,” Katherine says. “Trust me, you’ll love it!” She pretends to be really interested in a men’s bathing suit so she doesn’t have to make eye contact.

“Ruby, you better pick your costume quick, because I’ve gotta be home soon. Davey’s picking me up at six to go to see his brother’s band play. He’s got us on the list, so we don’t need ID.” Maria checks her phone and pounds out an urgent-looking text message.

Beth rolls her eyes. She obviously thinks Maria’s wasting her time.

I stammer and look around at the big store. It’s more like a warehouse, really. A warehouse of possibilities. It’s daunting.

“All right, Miss Indecisive.” Beth laughs and playfully bumps my hip. “I’ve got a plan. Everyone pick out a costume for Ruby. There’ll be a two-minute time limit. Then bring your choice back into the dressing room and she’ll have to pick one of them as the winner.” She turns to me. “Okay?”

“But what if I don’t like any of them?” I ask.

Beth smiles. “Shut up! You totally will.” She cocks her hand into the shape of a gun. “On your mark. Get set.”

“Wait!” My eyes travel from her bare feet up skinny legs to the hem of the slip. “Aren’t you going to change first?”

Beth fires into the air. “Go!”

Everyone takes off in a fever, including Katherine. I doubt she cares what costume I wear; she’s just competitive. I stand at the open door of our dressing room and check my wristwatch. I spin a rack of silk scarves like a pinwheel.

“Ninety seconds left!” I call out.

“What size pants are you?” Katherine shouts.

“I don’t know. Medium? Or a six?”

“Are you opposed to trying something a little sexier than you’re used to?” Maria calls out.

“No participant feedback allowed!” Beth shouts.

One by one, the girls dash past me and hang up their selections inside the dressing room. I cover my face with my hands so I can’t see who’s bringing what, though I’m sure I’ll be able to figure it out anyway. When the time is up, I am pushed inside and the white slatted door bangs closed behind me.

“Now strip!” Maria shouts.

Beth’s clothes are already in a heap on the floor, so I push them into the corner. I peel off my ski vest, thermal T-shirt, and jeans and place them on top of her pile.

They all titter outside — I peer down and see Katherine’s Pumas, Maria’s checkerboard Vans, and Beth’s bare feet, all in a row, waiting for my decision.

Hanging on a hook to my right is a pair of light blue terry-cloth shorts with a rainbow-colored heart on each butt cheek. Wait, no. It’s one of those one-piece jumpsuits from the seventies. I try it on for fun because it would be cool to dress like Maria for a night, and have the confidence to work the room. But I don’t look sexy and curvy like her. I am thin and pointy and don’t have nearly enough boobs to keep the top afloat.

“I couldn’t find roller skates to go with my selection, but it’s supposed to have roller skates!” Maria calls out.

“Okay!” I quickly peel it off and hang it back on the hook. Now I’m worried.

Then I spot a little short-sleeve button-up shirt hanging on the back of the door. It’s white, with a tiny green pattern made by the repeating face of the Girl Scout logo. The one on that yummy shortbread cookie.

I button up the shirt okay, but it buckles when I stand up straight, leaving three little gaps where my bra is visible. I could wear a shirt underneath, I guess. The cap sleeves cut into my arm meat like rubber bands, but I figure a few snips along the inside seams will loosen them up. A stiff green skirt accompanies the look, and although I pretty much only wear jeans, I’d consider going the extra mile for this costume. It’s a little short, grazing the middle of my thigh, but the waistband fits comfortably. I slip the blank green sash over my head and realize I’ll have to make my own badges and I’m nowhere near as artistic or craft-savvy as Beth is, but maybe that could be fun. Or something we could do together.

Overall, the costume needs some work. I’ll need to get knee socks and maybe a beret. And I sort of look like I suffer from a hormone growth disorder. Still, I’ve always wanted to be a Girl Scout. There’s something so wholesome, so honest about them. It could be a statement, the reclamation of my lost youth. Whatever. It’s a hands-down winner.

I step out of the dressing room beaming.

Katherine steps forward and pushes me hard on the shoulder. “Looks like I know you best!” She beams a shit-eating grin.

“What?” I say.

Beth’s face puckers. “How could you not like my punk rock getup? I even made sure there was a T-shirt, so you’d feel comfortable!”

I look back into the dressing room. Beth’s selection— a pair of ripped-up acid-washed jeans and an old Misfits shirt — hangs untouched on a hook near the mirror.

“I played up the sentimental angle. You know, her whole shattered childhood mentality,” Katherine brags to the group, like I’m not even there. “Worked like a charm.”

I duck back into the dressing room and slam the door behind me.

“Oh, Ruby, relax,” Katherine says. “It’s just a costume.”

“A really cute costume,” Maria offers.

I’m on fire with anger, manipulated and tricked by my own stupid past. I kick the pile of clothes on the floor and it flies apart. My jeans land with Beth’s and I kick them again, for good measure. That’s when I see it. Half of an envelope sliding out of Beth’s back pocket.

I pinch the corner between two fingers and slide it out the rest of the way, careful, like it’s hot or something. The blue ink vibrates blurry letters until I lean against the wall to settle my trembling arms.

Although the envelope is addressed to
Rubes
, it’s already been opened by someone else. By her.