Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen - Dyan Sheldon [45]
Mrs Magnolia started shaking her head again. “Oh, yes, yes … but it hasn’t been sorted and tagged, it’s not ready for sale.”
“Well couldn’t I just kind of look through it?”
I was beginning to wonder if Mrs Magnolia was ever going to stop shaking her head.
“Oh, no, no, dear, I’m afraid that’s out of the question.” She pointed to the door at the back of the room. On it was a hand-written Employees Only sign. “It’s against our rules.”
“But Mrs Magnolia,” I pleaded, my voice hoarse with despair. “Mrs Magnolia, I’m desperate. I’ve been to every second-hand clothes store between here and Dellwood.” The concert was only a week away. I threw myself across the counter. “I have got to have that dress! It’s a matter of life and death!”
“I’m sure there’s nothing like you’re describing,” said Mrs Magnolia. “This isn’t really a Scarlett O’Hara kind of town.” But she’d stopped shaking her head: she was weakening.
I straightened up, my face radiant. “What if I do the sorting, Mrs Magnolia? For nothing.”
“Nothing” did the trick.
“Follow me,” said Mrs Magnolia. “I’ll show you what to do.”
By the time I got home that afternoon I was totally distraught. All those hours! All that pedalling! All that work! And what did I have to show for it? Aching muscles, a clinical dislike of synthetic fabrics, and a depression Hamlet would have recognized. But no dress to wear to the ball. I was Cinderella, but without the fairy godmother.
My mother was totally distraught by the time I got home, too. She must have been watching for me from her studio, because she was in the driveway by the time I pulled in. She was wearing her work clothes and was covered with clay.
“Where on earth have you been?” my mother demanded. “It’s nearly four o’clock. I thought you promised to pick up the car.”
I’d forgotten about the car.
My mother didn’t wait for my excuse; nor did she take any pity on the fact that I was dirty, sweaty, smelled of old clothes, and was traumatized by disappointment. She turned me right around. If I hurried I could make it before the garage closed.
“Remember!” she shouted after me. “Not Jay’s.” Jay was our old mechanic, but he’d sold the business to someone else and my mother didn’t like the new guy. “The one on Stanley.”
I’d never been to the one on Stanley before, but had no trouble finding it; it was the only garage on the street. The yard was full of cars in different states of destruction, and there was a Closed sign in the office window. My heart hit the ground like someone thrown out of an aeroplane. Karen Kapok was going to kill me. Probably slowly.
I was just about to turn around again and ride back into the jaws of death when I realized that all was not lost. The garage itself was still open. There was a pair of combat boots sticking out from under an old Karmann Ghia that was pieced together with parts from so many different cars that it looked like a patchwork quilt on wheels. A portable stereo was blaring. I rode straight into the garage and screeched to a stop by the boots.
“Hi,” I said. No answer. I raised my voice. “Hello? Hello?” I shouted above the roar of The Clash. “I’m here to pick up Karen Kapok’s car?”
From under the car a male voice finally replied. “What?”
I bent down closer to the feet.
“I’m here to pick up Karen Kapok’s car!” I screamed.
“Lola?”
The feet moved and the body followed.
“Sam?” I should have recognized the boots. Sam Creek is the only boy in Deadwood not in the Reserve Officer Training Corps who wears combat boots. “What are you doing here?”
Sam sat up on the trolley. His dreads were tucked up under a filthy knit hat. If you discounted the ring in his nose, he looked almost normal. “I’m working on my car.” He jerked his head. “This is my old man’s place.”
“Oh, thank God.” Ignoring the grease and the grime, I sank down beside him. “I was afraid I was too late. I came to get my mother’s car.”
“You are too late,” said Sam. “The office is locked.” He wiped his grease-smeared forehead with his grease-stained sleeve. “And the keys to your mom’s car are in the office.