A Little Change of Face (8 page)

“Thanks. I think.”

Two rounds of drinks later and Pam was brooding that no men were approaching us, not that that's what I was there for at least, so I put some quarters down on the pool table and waited my turn to shoot.

When my quarters finally came up, the usual kerfuffle ensued, meaning some guy I'd never seen in there before approached me, assuming—wrongly—he could con the table off some
girl.

I, of course, wasn't having any.

“Just because I have ovaries,” I said to the guy, who might have been attractive if his eyes weren't so red with drink, “doesn't mean I can't remember where I put my own quarters.” We librarians can be tough. “See this blue chalk mark across the face of these quarters?” I held up the two in question close to his face so he could see. “Did you put that chalk on these quarters?”

Of course he hadn't. I'd put the chalk mark there—hey, chalk is cheap—knowing this kind of con attempt was more likely to happen as the night wore on and people got drunker, ruder.

He shook his head, sheepish.

“No, of course you didn't.” Librarians can be pedantic, too; we get a lot of practice at work. “
I
did. Now move it.” I gave him a gentle I-mean-business shove. “I've got a game to shoot here.”

As I bent down to put my coins in the slot, I heard from behind me, “Whoa! Nice butt!” This was from Cute But Too Drunk Guy. And then, from farther behind him, “Ah,
shit.
” This, of course, said in disgust, came from Pam.

And so the evening went.

No one paid attention to Pam and me as a duo, no one approached with offers to buy us drinks, but whenever I took my turn at the table, whenever I bent over to take a shot, someone would comment on my backside, some offering invitations, all of which I declined.

“Ah, shit,” Pam said again at the end of the evening, as we divvied up the bar tab. “You still have an unfair advantage. We've really got to do something about that wardrobe.”

T
he Danbury Mall in the evening, particularly in late summer, never feels the same as it does during the daytime, when the mothers and young children rule the skylight-covered lengths, or the weekends, when the fathers have been added to the mix. Like some kind of netherworld, it becomes overrun with teens, the whole place taking on an edgy quality, as though something could happen at any moment, although, truth to tell and Danbury being a relatively safe city, it never had the few times I'd been there on a weeknight.

Based on what had happened the last time we'd been in Chalk Is Cheap, Pam had decided it was time to take my extreme makeunder to a new level.

As we met in front of the carousel, debating where to grab a bite to eat before shopping, we discussed the merits of Sbarro's versus the brick-oven place.

“Sbarro's,” Pam decided for us. “I want to get a big salad.”

“You? Salad?”

“Sure, why not?”

I shrugged. She'd never wanted salad before.

As we walked past the other tables and stood in line, I felt Pam put her hand on my arm, leaning in to whisper, “Omigod! Did you see how that…
boy
was looking at you?”

“What boy?” I asked, ordering a slice of plain cheese and a large diet soda.

“Him.” She turned back toward the tables, indicating with her chin the one she meant.

There was indeed a boy back there—well, okay, he was probably at least nineteen, but to us he was a boy—sitting with a group of friends and looking our way. He had dark hair, pants that were way too loose for my taste and soulful eyes that looked like he might have at least read a book in his life. If I'd been twenty years younger, I might have gone over to say hi. When my eyes met his, he blushed, having been caught staring, looked away, then boldly looked back to see if I was still looking. I smiled to be polite, the kind of smile you give to the convenience-store clerk whenever he gives you the right change
and
remembers to thank you, and turned back to pay for my dinner.

“He's probably just a very friendly person,” I said to Pam. “I'm sure he smiles that way at everybody.”

“Hah!” she hah-ed, paying for her salad and water. “Look at you.”

“What about me?”

“Look at how you're dressed.”

I had on my white summer short-shorts and red tank, a pair of skinny gold sandals that had seen better summers adorning my feet. No slave to the current trends in sloppy fashion would ever dress this way, but hey, I'd grown up in
a time when short-shorts were the norm and the look worked for me.

“It's summer,” I said. “It was hot outside today.” I certainly wasn't about to defend my inalienable rights to life, liberty and the wearing of comfortable clothes in seasonably hot and humid weather.

“I'm just saying,” she said. “It's not like anyone can miss how…
you
you are when you're dressed like that.”

Again, I wasn't about to debate this with her, but I did kind of know what she meant.

For as long as I could remember, going to the mall meant selectively ignoring a certain kind of attention: men, sometimes ancient and sometimes too young to know what puberty was, passing me by, their eyes staring too long at things like, oh, say, my breasts. Truth to tell, I didn't mind the young ones so much as I got older—I thought it was kind of funny, kind of flattering. But the old ones? I did wonder what possessed men, because they always looked as though they thought it was possible, however remote, they might have some kind of a chance, which was kind of icky. If, when I'm seventy, I go through life always staring at the penises of forty-year-old men, looking as if I expect to get some, don't you think someone might lock me away?

But I wasn't about to change the way I dressed. Nothing I wore was ever overly suggestive—okay, maybe some things were a little tight, but nothing overly suggestive—and I did have the same rights as everyone else to wear whatever I found comfortable.

“See?” Pam smiled, grabbing us a small table. “We're doing this just in the nick of time.”

“How's that?”

“We're
saving
you from yourself, Scarlett. Don't you think it's time you find out how the world treats you when it's no longer staring at your breasts?”

“What do you suggest,” I asked, taking the plastic knife and fork and, with much effort, cutting the large slice right down the middle, “purdah?”

She ignored my question, watching what I was doing to the pizza instead. “You always do that,” she said, “cut your food in half. Why?”

I shrugged, raised the half slice I intended on eating. “I've been doing it for years. It was something I read once.”

“What? A diet book?”

“No. I think it was Muriel Spark's
A Far Cry from Kensington.
This woman loses a lot of weight simply by cutting everything she eats in half.”

“Sounds like a great book.”

“Well, that wasn't really what it was about. Anyway, ever since then, I never say no to anything I want to eat. I just eat half.”

“Sounds efficient.”

I shrugged again. “It's only ever really a problem when what I want to eat is a whole pound of M&M's.”

I was tired of the microscope always being on me. “What about you?” I said a bit defensively, indicating the salad. “What's up with that?”

“Oh. That.” I could have sworn she blushed. “Well—” she squirmed around a little, self-consciously playing with her new pretty hair “—I just figured, while you're busy deglamorizing yourself, why can't
I
try to improve my appearance, to see how the world treats me if I look different?”

Why, indeed?

 

A half of a scoop of mocha-chip ice cream for me and a cup of black coffee for Pam, and we were contemplating where to shop first.

“Eddie Bauer?” I suggested. “J. Crew?”

“Sears,”
Pam said.

“Sears?”
Even non-materialistic me was horrified at this.

“Oh, all right,” she conceded, “we'll compromise: Filene's. At least there I can get some new things, too, and it won't all be about you-you-you.”

Sometimes, I wondered: just who
was
this all about?

As I fingered the price tag on a deep purple silk blouse—it would be great for work with a gray wool skirt I had, plus I could tuck it into jeans for an eclectic look on Saturday nights—Pam tugged on my arm.

“Come on,” she said, stowing me in a vacant dressing stall. “I'll
bring
you things. Sheesh! No way can you be trusted to pick out your own clothes.”

She made me feel like my ten-year-old self out shopping with Mom:
“No, Scarlett. You most definitely can
not
have that tube top. You need to wear
a bra.” Then, snagging a passing salesgirl:
“Foundations? Don't you sell foundations here?”

Pam made me feel just like that.

For the next half hour, I stood in the stall as Pam brought me armload after armload of clothes.

“Just think of the favor I'm doing you,” she said brightly. “You do need a fall wardrobe, don't you?”

“Well, maybe one or two items,” I muttered. “But, no, I hadn't planned on doing a whole new wardrobe this season.”

I pulled one of the dresses, all of which looked remarkably similar in shape, even though the colors were slightly different—olive, forest, beige, tan—over my head.

Looking in the mirror, I saw that it had long narrow sleeves and a loose Empire cut with a long skirt touching nearly to my ankles. Across the back, there were two strings to tie, which—take your pick—made me look either asexual or pregnant, in that the whole effect somehow made my breasts look like nonstarters while the rest of me now looked like there was perhaps much more to me than there really was.

Well, I thought, feeling the material against my skin, at least it was one-hundred-percent cotton.

“Isn't this, um, a little big?” I asked Pam tentatively, fiddling with the tag to check the size. “Hey!” I answered myself before she could say anything. “This is three sizes bigger than what I normally wear!”

She shrugged. “Just think of how much more comfortable you'll be this fall. Now wait here—I'm going to go get you a few more things.”

Going to get me a few things took her far longer this time. What? Had she stopped for a snack? But as she knocked on the pink door and entered, I saw that, in addition to two more tent dresses for me—mauve and orchid this time, so she was branching me out—she was carrying a Filene's bag with a paid receipt stapled to the top.

“You bought me something?” I asked, slipping into the mauve dress.

“No, I bought
me
something.” She carefully pulled apart the receipt closure and removed a stunning cashmere wool sweater dress with gently folded turtleneck in an off-white that looked soft as a bunny. Throw in a pair of decent pumps, and I'd wear that dress.

As she held it against her body, I saw that something was wrong: the dress was so much smaller than Pam—more my size, really—I
could
wear that dress.

Apparently, Pam was able to guess what I was thinking. “It's all right,” she said, not at all bothered. “I'll just hang it in my closet until my body is ready for it.”

“Right,” I said, “the salads.”

“You know,” she said, eyes sparkling, “while I'm losing weight, you could be gaining weight!”

“Uh,
no,
” I said emphatically. After all, I had to draw the line somewhere. “Who do I look like to you—Renée Zellweger? Are you going to pay me twenty million to do this?”

“No,” she conceded, “I guess not. So maybe that was too much to ask.”

“Uh,
yeah,
” I said, still miffed as I turned to check out my mauve reflection,
“maybe.”

The mauve dress looked exactly like the olive dress had, only mauve.

“Um,” I said, realizing even as I said it that I'd suddenly become the kind of person who said “um” a lot, “don't all these dresses look, um, remarkably the same? What is this supposed to be, um, my new uniform from now on?”

“Exactly!” said Pam. “Are you sure you're not willing to bind—”

“No!” I half shouted, crossing my arms protectively over my breasts.

“No need to get so touchy. I was just asking.” Pam surveyed my reflection in the mirror with satisfaction—the shapeless mauve dress, my short hair, my glasses—the same reflection that caused me such unease because I felt as though I didn't
know
this woman. “Empire waists—” she smiled “—what a wonderful thing. They're the next best thing to bound breasts!”

 

Having persuaded me to wear the new clothes home— Pam: “Might as well start with the New You tonight”; Me:
“But it's hot out”; Pam (winning): “Oh, don't be such a baby”—our next stop was the shoe department. Well, since the mauve dress did look ridiculous with my gold sandals, I realized Pam was right; I needed new shoes.

As I looked at the fun boots that were out for fall—soft leathers with heels that were architectural marvels—Pam picked out a pair for me.

They were brown. They laced up above the ankle. They had a clunky heel.

“Don't these look, um, military?” I asked, trying them on.

“They're perfect,” she said, putting on a pretty pair of pumps to go with the new dress she had in her bag.

Hey! I wanted those pumps! Who cared how much they made my feet hurt? Besides I was lying when I said I didn't want to wear high heels anymore.

Then she selected a new bag for me: a nondescript pleather thing that was more book bag than fashion statement.

“It's perfect for the librarian in you,” she said.

Finally, she took me to a store where they sold only sunglasses.

“Here,” she held out her hand, “give me your old pair.”

Feeling like a robot, I surrendered my Wayfarers.

Not my Wayfarers!

“Here,” she said again, handing me those clip-on sunglasses made for the visually impaired who can't handle contacts. “Tomorrow, when the sun is shining, you can put these on.”

I glanced in the tiny mirror: I looked like an idiot.

Not that there's anything wrong with people who wear clip-ons. It's just that on me, they looked idiotic.

Then Pam put on my Wayfarers: she looked, if not great, almost cool in them.

All in all, it really was worse than shopping with Mom.

Since Pam was now on a diet, and I had lost my appetite, rather than having a snack, we headed back to the carousel. At the top of the ramp leading from the mall to the parking garage, I saw the young guy we'd seen earlier when having pizza and salad, the one who'd been checking me out. He was still hanging out with his friends, sharing a cigarette. As we walked by them, his eyes briefly met mine, but there was no spark of recognition as he moved his gaze onward.

It was as though I wasn't even there.

The tide, apparently, was already starting to turn.

It was as though a fairy godmother had come to visit, only she'd been an evil fairy godmother; instead of waving her wand and giving me a ball gown and a royal coach, she'd left me in rags and bare feet.

Best Girlfriend wasn't going to like any of this.

Just then, I heard a voice yell out of the relative darkness of the parking lot, “Yo, mama!”

Pam and I both turned reflexively, being the only two mamas around. Pam actually preened a bit.

“Yo, mama! You in the big dress! I'm talking to you.” It wasn't the guy who had looked at me before, but it was one of his friends.

If preening could be said to dim, I saw Pam's preening dim.

“I
like
a woman in a big dress,” he said.