Dreams of Her Own (21 page)

“No. Millie did.”

“Millie? That woman in brown?”

“Yes.” Ian waited for the explosion.

“You mean to tell me she knew about your dyslexia before I did?”

“No. She just offered to help.”

Caleb considered this a moment. “Well, okay, then.”

Jillie stuck her head in the door. “You two lovebirds kiss and make up yet?”

“We’re good?” Ian asked.

“We’re good.”

“Good,” Jillie interjected. “I’m starving. Let’s grab a burger.”

Apologize to Caleb.
Check.

Next, Millie.

Chapter 27

Millie stepped out of the Rockaway Avenue subway station in Brownsville, her purse clutched tight against her body. Looking around to get her bearings, she felt like a guppy in a shark tank.

The tattoo parlor, Dangerous Ink, was on Pitkin Avenue, e few blocks away. Surely she could make it that far without incident.

Lifting her chin, she turned her feet north.

She’d done her research, and all the articles recommended an appointment, so she’d called the previous week to schedule an appointment. The last thing she wanted was to come to Brownsville only to find she couldn’t get her tattoo.

Her session was with a guy named Blade–the name not terribly reassuring. Preferring a female artist, she’d been told their one female artist was on maternity leave. What? She couldn’t picture an ink-covered tattoo artist with an infant.

Finding the business, she took a deep cleansing breath before opening the door. A friendly bell chimed, out of sync with the dark interior of the shop. Though the place smelled like a doctor’s office, antiseptic and sterile. Nothing like what her active imagination would have ever dreamed up.

Images of tattoos papered the walls. Everything from flowers and butterflies, to knives and guns. Some were quite pornographic, while others featured a cross with Jesus’ face floating above it.

She heard the buzz of a machine, hushed voices, along with the heavy metal music that erupted from the speakers. This had been a mistake. Just as she turned to leave, a deep voice halted her. “Can I help you?” Millie turned. He sounded like a school teacher but looked like a creature from a Mad Max movie. Every inch of visible skin revealed tattoos. Even his bald head exhibited a tattoo artist’s craft.

He had piercings up both ears, one in his eyebrow, a ring through his nose, and from the looks of his tight-fitting shirt, nipple rings as well. Millie winced. With his barrel chest, tree-trunk arms, and thick neck he could have been a professional wrestler, a football player, or bouncer. Hit man came to mind as well.

“I,” her voice squeaked. Clearing her throat, she started again. “I have an appointment with Blade.”

“You must be Millie.” The thick-chested man stuck out his hand. A snake slithered across the back of it and twined through his fingers.

Millie tentatively reached out to shake his hand.

“I’m Blade.”

“Oh.”
Gulp.
His hand was warm and firm, but gentle. The thought of baring her behind to him was daunting.

“Right this way,” he indicated a hallway, as dimly lit as the rest of the shop. He opened a door and stepped into a room that could have been a doctor’s exam room. Bright, meticulous, with cabinets, an upholstered chair, and an exam table covered with that crinkly paper the medical profession had a penchant for. “Have a seat.” He indicated the upholstered chair. “Now, Millie, is this your first tattoo?”

“Yes.” She coaxed herself to release the death grip she had on her purse.

“Ah, a tattoo virgin. I love those.” The gleam in his eye almost proved her undoing. “So, tell me what you’re thinking about.”

Millie explained what she had in mind and handed him a slip of paper with the phrase she’d selected and the font she preferred.

“And where would you like this?”

She rose and pointed to the spot.

“A popular choice for first-timers.” He turned to a sink and washed his hands. “Hop up on the table and lie on your stomach.”

Millie did as she was asked as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

“Slide your pants and underpants down your hips.”

Millie hesitated.

“Millie, you have to trust me. I’m like a doctor, I’ve seen it all.”

Closing her eyes against the mortification, she unzipped her pants and shimmied them down, leaving as much of her bottom covered as possible.
Couldn’t have picked my arm for the tattoo, could I?

After Blade prepared the area, stenciled the artwork and had Millie stand in front of a mirror to proofread it, he got to work. “This might hurt just a bit.”

Blade, as it turned out, was the master of understatement.

After last week’s birthday gift to herself–Millie winced at the memory–she had one more gift, which she’d recently added to her GALL List. In search of Laura and Darcy, she found them in the kitchen, where Laura was sharing some story about dinner with her parents. Millie didn’t know whose parents were worse, hers or Laura’s.

She waited patiently for Laura to finish her story, wondering if she should just forget it. Just as she lost her nerve, Darcy spoke up.

“Millie? Did you need me?”

Taking a deep breath, Millie blurted out before her brain could stop her mouth, “I want a makeover.”

“Thank God!” Laura said and raised her hands as if in supplication to the fashion gods. “I’ve been waiting for this day since, well, since I met you.”

“Millie, are you sure?” Darcy asked.

“Yes.” She unclenched the fists at her sides.

“Cool.” Darcy regarded Laura. “I get to be Clinton this time.”

“No, you don’t,” Laura replied, arms crossed over her chest. “You’re always Clinton.”

“That’s because I have his green eyes and sparkling wit.”

Laura huffed in exasperation and dropped her hands by her side. “Fine. But I’m only letting you get your way because you’re with child.”

“You guys are scaring me,” Millie said, backing out of the kitchen.

“Already?” Darcy said on a laugh.

“Oh, no you don’t, sweetcakes.” Laura latched on to Millie’s wrist. “Don’t be a tease. You’re not backing out now when I’ve got my hopes up.”

“Saturday,” Darcy said.

“Deal,” Laura agreed. “We’ll start early.”

Darcy cringed.

“Better get used to it, sweetpea.” Laura had yet to let go of her death-grip on Millie’s wrist.

“What’s with you and sweet nicknames?” Darcy asked as she pried Laura’s fingers from Millie’s arm.

Laura released her grip and shrugged. “Ad campaign for a new no-calorie sweetener. Trying out a few.”

Saturday morning, bright and early, so
meone rang the buzzer for Millie’s apartment. “Who is it?” Although she knew good and well who it was. Her tormentors.

“Let us in. It’s time for your intervention,” Laura’s voice said through the intercom.

When Millie opened the door to them, she did so with some trepidation.

“Why are you at my apartment?” Millie asked in confusion. “I thought we were going”—she suppressed a shudder—“shopping.”

“Do you not know how the
What Not to Wear
intervention starts?” Laura drew back in surprise.

“That’s a television show, right? I don’t have a TV.”

“You don’t have a TV.” Laura stood there, momentarily silent, a pained look on her face. “Darcy, or should I say, Clinton, why don’t you tell Millie how the intervention starts.”

“We go through your clothes and get rid of anything that we think should go.”

“Which in this case is everything,” Laura added.

Millie drew back in horror. “What? You’re going to throw out my clothes?”

“No.” Darcy patted her hand. “We’re not going to throw them out. We’re going to give them to charity.”

Laura snorted. “The charity, however, will take one look at them and throw them out.”

Biting her lip, Millie opened the door wider for them. She thought she’d add a few things to her wardrobe, not start from scratch.

“How cute!” Darcy exclaimed as she caught her first glimpse of Millie’s apartment. “Reminds me of my apartment in college.” At Laura’s expression, Darcy continued, “What? I loved that apartment.”

“Clothes?” Laura asked, all business.

Millie pointed in the direction of her clothes cubby.

Laura froze, then pointed to the tiny storage area. “
That’s
where you keep your clothes?” At Millie’s nod, Laura asked, “
All
of them?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this won’t take long.” Flinging open the door, Laura grabbed a handful of hangers and tossed the clothes on the bed. Darcy followed suit and before long every article of clothing Millie owned was lying in a heap on her bed.

“Are you color blind?” Laura asked, eyeing the pile of clothes.

“No. Why?”

“Everything you own is brown.”

“I like brown.” Millie shrugged. Because it helps me blend in, she thought with some chagrin.
Which I no longer want to do,
she reminded herself. “And since I don’t have to worry about matching, it saves me time getting dressed in the morning,” she finished lamely.

“Clearly.” Laura picked up a chunky wool turtleneck sweater. “You use this for birth control?”

Millie snatched the sweater out of Laura’s hand as the heat rose to her face. “I like it. It’s warm.”

“So is an electric blanket, but I wouldn’t wear one.” Laura snatched it back. “It’s outta here.”

A half hour later, everything lay on the floor, including Millie’s white cotton granny panties, as Laura had called them, her white cotton bras, brown wool tights, and flannel nightgowns. She’d fought hard for the nightgowns, but to no avail.

“Well, let’s bag this stuff up for the homeless shelter,” Darcy said, as she bent over to pick up a pair of pants.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Laura said. “You’re not doing all that bending. Josh would have my head.” Laura waved her hand at the pile. “Millie, make yourself useful.”

At Millie’s look, Laura said, “Hey. You asked for our help, remember?”

Okay. She did. But now she was thinking of having her head examined. On a sigh, she went in search of some bags.

After bagging up the clothes, something occurred to her. “Wait. What am I supposed to wear tomorrow?” The torture,
er
, intervention schedule, had been extended by a day.

“Good point.” Laura reached into the closest bag and took out a brown corduroy dress. “Here.”

“Thanks,” Millie muttered.

“Next stop, the optical shop for contact lenses.” Laura directed.

“But—” Millie protested.

“No buts. Ever heard the phrase, ‘Men don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses?’”

Millie snorted, thinking of Ian. He’d made a pass. More than a pass. Much, much more.

Then moved on. And now he would be going to England.

Maybe Laura was right. But she’d rather give away her book collection than admit that to her.

Millie thought she’d hate contact lenses. That she wouldn’t be able to to
lerate them. She thought she’d be conscious of them every minute of the day, but she’d been wrong. She’d worn glasses for as long as she could remember, and although she felt naked without her glasses, she also felt liberated without them.

She gazed at her reflection in the optical shop mirror. She could see her
eyes
. Not just the brown frames surrounding them.

“Laura wasn’t always Miss Perfect, you know,” Darcy said, looking over Millie’s shoulder in the mirror.

Laura snorted.

“And she’s perfect now?” Millie quipped. Although it was true. Laura always resembled a magazine cover model. Perfect. Like now, as she too joined them at the mirror, rolling her eyes.

“When I first met Laura in kindergarten, she wore glasses.”

“Really?” She cut her eyes to Laura’s reflection. That surprised Millie. She couldn’t imagine the ever-beautiful Laura wearing glasses.

“It wasn’t until, what, sixth grade that you started wearing contacts?” Darcy asked, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“And I never went back.”

“Who wants lunch?” Darcy rubbed her belly. “Peanut’s starving.”

After lunch at a trendy café in Tribeca, Darcy and Josh had plans, and Laura was meeting Nathan at her parents, so Millie returned to her apartment and the bags of clothes still standing by the door. Sorely tempted to pull some of her clothes out and put them away, she reminded herself why she was doing this.

Tomorrow, who knew what Darcy and Laura would pick out for her, especially Laura. But she’d asked for this, and she’d follow through. What did she have to lose? Eying the bags again, she thought, besides her invisibility.