Miss Scarlet's School of Patternless Sewing (8 page)

She hoped his offer still stood. It wouldn’t be enough to make a dent in her tuition, but Scarlet believed the action would at least kick-start her plan.

I
t’s Black Friday,” Nadine, lead cashier for Vega’s Vicious Vinyl, said to her boss. “Marco, get with it. The store is finally kinda sorta crawling with customers and you’re pining over that
Gone With the Wind
chick again.”

Marco, emotionless, drew a large graphic sign on the chalkboard to promote the holiday sales. “She’s named after Miss Scarlet from the game Clue. Not Scarlet from
Gone With the Wind
.”

Nadine snorted. “Ha! Classic. Who in the hell would name their kid after a board-game character?”

“Her brother and sister did it,” Marco said. “By the time her mom had Scarlet, she ran out of ideas and let the older kids name her. Clue was their favorite game. Plus, all that red hair. Focus on the customers.”

Marco continued to assist Nadine with their version of the holiday rush (ten people), but at the same time, he glanced at the framed dollar hanging on the wall and blushed a little. His first sale. Smack dab in the center of the bill was a big red lipstick smooch from Scarlet, and
x
’s and
o
’s she drew with a teal Sharpie from her keychain.

She’d become a semi-regular. From her hairdo to her makeup
and retro dresses, she could pass for a ’50s movie star, but was not to be confused with the crop of baby-bang rockabilly chicks who frequented his shop. She reminded him of the girl in a formal gown who would dive into the pool at a stuffy party. Scarlet’s style was as unique as her range of music. He never knew what to expect. One day it was a Weather Report jazz album, the next Laura Nyro’s Greatest Hits. In his prison of mundane secondhand retail, Scarlet Santana was a blinking neon sign of living the good life.

“Hey, lover boy. Check who just crossed the threshold,” Nadine grunted, jabbing Marco in the back with her elbow. “Why does she always look like she just escaped from an
Archie
comic? Saddle shoes? Really?”

Marco gulped and saw Scarlet headed his way. “Whatever. It’ll never happen. If she’s an
Archie
comic, I’m a boring page from the phone book. We have nothing in common,” he said.

Nadine spun him around, gripped his shirt pocket with her black-polished fingertips, and ripped until the sound of snapping stitches filled Marco’s ears. “What the hell? Why did you do that again?” he asked.

“Now you have something in common.”

Carrying a stack of albums in her arms, Scarlet approached the counter. “Hi, Marco. Merry Christmas!” She beamed, blinking through a feathery set of black lashes and checking out the eclectic mix of customers. “Wow, you kiddos are busy today. It’s like pennies from heaven in here!”

Nadine slammed the drawer to her register. “On that note, I’m going to light a new stick of incense for Michael. Whistle, scream, or set off the fire alarm if you need me.”

Marco ignored Nadine. “What can I do you for?” he asked Scarlet, motioning for her to step to the end of the counter with him. She followed, sliding the albums down the way.

“You know how I told you about my records? Well, I want to
unload some of them. For starters, I will bestow upon you my entire David Bowie picture disc collection! Each one is worth more than a gold nugget, barely played. I’ll show you….”

Always put together, in control,
Marco thought. Never a crack in her voice or a hair out of place. Thanks to the shine of her smile, he didn’t notice the postman elbowing his way up front.

Scarlet winked at Marco, removed a thick tri-fold album set from the top of the stack, and opened it in front of her. Just then the postman nudged her out of his way so he could shove a certified letter into Marco’s hand. Scarlet slipped.

Nearly falling, Scarlet tossed the album case and air-clawed to grab on to the first thing she could reach, which happened to be her stack of LPs. They went flying at all angles across the concrete floor. Scarlet would have fallen too, if it weren’t for a group of grade-school kids who, gliding up on wheelie sneakers, managed to catch her. The small crowd shuddered at the sounds of their four sets of wheelies crunching over vinyl, and scrambled to the point of impact to find neon shards strewn everywhere.

A teenage girl knelt down and sorted the shards into stacks. “Wow! I make collage mosaics—these will be perfect! I can make earrings, too!”

“Stop!” Scarlet said sharply, her arms stiff at her sides. She turned to the girl on the floor and glared. “Those are mine! I need to sell them!”

The girl on the floor froze while still holding the pieces. “Can I just have a few? What good are they now? Look. They’re smashed.”

“Fine! Take them!” Scarlet’s scarf slipped down the back of her hair as she dropped her head into her hands. “What else can go wrong? What did I do to deserve this?”

“Damn,” Nadine said, approaching the counter. “I’ve never seen this in an
Archie
comic.”

Without hesitation, Marco put his arm around Scarlet’s shoulder to comfort her. Flustered, she pulled back and noticed the tear in his plaid cotton shirt. She couldn’t help but poke her finger in it. At least it distracted her from the mess she’d just made.

“Another one? Wow, Mr. Vega, you’re really rough on your menswear. I can repair this one in a jiffy.”

For the first time all week, Marco chuckled. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you the restroom so you can clean up. Don’t worry about the records—consider them bought.”

She stopped. “But what will you do with them? They’re useless.”

“I’ll put the pieces in a jar and sell them as craft supplies. Maybe it’ll bring me new customers. Like that girl on the floor.”

*   *   *

Calm and refreshed, Scarlet exited the restroom to notice Marco in his office down the hall. She remembered the torn pocket. The least she could do was fix it after the debacle out front. She opened her bag and retrieved a small tube of EmergiSew, a chemical adhesive concoction she mixed up—“for when you’re in a stitch.”

“Knock-knock,”
she sang out, rapping her fingers on the open door before entering. “I’m here to fix that rogue pocket of yours.” She unfolded a metal chair that rested against the wall and circled her finger above his head for him to turn around.

Scarlet leaned in close to examine the damage before going to work on the repair job. She slid her arm up and under the front of the shirt, to act as an anchor. He stiffened like a surfboard to allow her a flat surface to work on. When the back of her hand skimmed up his ripped abs, she told herself over and over that she was a school nurse tending to a student’s playground scratch. It didn’t work.

She tried not to let her nerves get in the way, but the silence between them made her tense, like she had invaded his personal space. She glanced around his desk for something to talk about while the glue dried. Next to a large seashell and a small bottle of sand, a photo of a tattooed teenager caught her eye.

“Cute picture. That’s your brother, isn’t it?” she asked, stretching her thin eyebrow in the direction of the black frame. She licked her finger to smooth down the raw threads on the fabric. “You guys look a lot alike.”

Marco wasn’t big on chitchat. He had his own idea for a conversation starter. “What happened back there? You’re not the type to lose it over broken records.”

Scarlet squeezed her eyes shut as if trying to hide from the memory. “I’m so embarrassed. Sorry about that,” she said. “That poor little girl…. She only wanted to make earrings. Who am I to crush her creativity?”

“Pffft.” He shrugged. “That kid is in the store every day, begging for freebies. Don’t worry about her. So what’s up? I’ve never seen you on edge. Can I help with anything?”

“No one can help but me. It’s stupid,” she said. “I made all these plans and they fell like dominoes. So I set them up again… and they tumbled again. I finally cracked. Unfortunately, on your showroom floor.”

“Hey, no worries.” Marco pulled his desk chair a little closer to Scarlet. “Are you OK?”

“Oh, I’ll be fine. I have no choice but to bounce back up and keep going.”

“Tell me about it,” he said, as if he thought he might be able to help.

What did she have to lose? When the cute guy from the record store offers a life raft, a girl has to at least give him a shot.

“Well, I come from a family of engineers,” she explained.
“I grew up thinking it was mandatory to follow in their footsteps even though I love making clothes. I followed their plan and graduated with two engineering degrees; I had some jobs lined up. And then I ditched it. I put that life on hold and gave myself a few years to pursue fashion. It’s been more misses than hits, and my family is watching every move, waiting for me to fail so they can say ‘I told you so.’ But I’m going to prove them wrong.” Scarlet scraped her finger up and down his pocket as if it were a scratch-n-sniff sticker. “Hey, it’s dry, and as good as new!”

“I know what you mean,” Marco said. “Family are the ones who should lead your fan club. A lot of times, they don’t even believe you have one.”

“Exactly.” She wondered if his comment came from personal experience, but since he didn’t elaborate, she didn’t ask.

Marco stood up, grabbed a pen, licked his finger, and pulled a piece of paper from his desk printer.

“Scarlet, what would make your life easier right now?”

“I don’t even know where to start!” Scarlet half-joked, then she sat up tall. “All right. I’ve told you about my Daisy de la Flora blog? Well, her nephew is Johnny Tijeras—you’ve heard of him, right?”

Marco nodded. “Yeah, go on.”

“Well, he holds a mentor program for emerging artists….” She paused and tossed her hands in the air. “Oh, I’ll cut to the chase. I need a space to hold a weekly sewing class to raise cash.”

She watched for a frown of solidarity on Marco’s face. Instead he just stared at her, as if he hadn’t comprehended a word she said. Tossing down the pen, her curled his pointer finger for her to follow him. They exited the office and walked through the main floor of the store into a separate room that had a huge window facing Fifty-eighth Avenue.

“Has this room always been here?” Scarlet asked, astonished. She didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but she had a feeling what he was leading up to.

“Sure has. It’s where we hold our listening parties. It’s nothing fancy and needs better lighting. But there are plenty of outlets and I have extension cords and tables you can use. If it’ll work for your class, it’s yours.”

Scarlet put her hands on her hips and walked around the edges of the area. Black-and-white-checkered tiles covered the back wall. The other two were papered with concert posters, autographs, framed portraits of ’80s stars, and ticket stubs.

“Are you serious?” she asked, still surveying the memorabilia on the wall and tapping her lips with her fingertip. “I can make this work. All I have to do is postpone the first class by a week and we’re good to go. I’ll pay you a rental fee. Oh my gosh, I’m so happy—Marco, I’m indebted forever!”

He shook his head no. “Don’t worry about renting it. We’ll work it out.”

Scarlet scratched the big red hair-sprayed curl that sprouted from the top of her head. “Why are you doing all this?”

“Because I can tell you know exactly what you want,” he said. “And I know what it’s like to be the underdog of the family. This is your life, not theirs. Don’t ever lose sight of that.”

Scarlet meant to thank him with a polite hug, but because she was so short, and he so tall, her face landed in the center of his chest. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, so he patted her shoulders.

As she felt the fabric of his shirt against her cheek, she wondered if perhaps… maybe… they had more in common than either of them thought.