Queen of Babble (32 page)

“‘And I never—’”

What is going on? Ican’t be the only person here who knows this song.Shari knows it.

But she’s still standing down there on the dance floor, shaking her head, mouthingNo, no, no .

“Come on, guys,” I say encouragingly to the band. “I know you know this one. ‘—felt this way before.’”

At least Vicky is smiling. And swaying a little.She knows this song. Although Craig looks a little confused.

Oh my God. What am I doing?What am I doing? I’m standing up here in front of all these people, singing my favorite song of all time—the perfect wedding song—and they’re all just standing there, staring up at me.

Even Luke is staring up at me like I was just beamed down from the starshipEnterprise .

And now Shari’s disappeared. Where did she go? She was there a second ago. How can she let me down this way? We’ve been doing this song together since kindergarten. She always plays the girl part.

Always .

How could she leave me hanging like this? I know I screwed up with the thesis thing, but how long can you stay mad at someone you’ve been friends with your whole life? Plus, I apologized for that.

Then I hear it. The snap of a snare drum.

Baz. Baz is joining in.

Iknew he knew this song.Everyone knows this song.

“‘Oh, I—’” I sing, turning around to grin at him gratefully. Now Kurt’s playing an experimental chord.

Yes, Kurt. You got it, Kurt.

“‘—had the time of my life—’”

Oh, thank you, guys. Thank you for not leaving me hanging.

Then a voice not my own booms out, “‘—It’s the truth—’”

And Shari climbs up onstage and comes to stand beside me, singing into the microphone.

And the bass player, whatever his name is, begins plucking out the familiar notes, while below us Craig gives Vicky a twirl…

And everyone applauds. And starts singing along.

“‘And,’” Shari and I sing, “‘I owe it all to you—’”

Oh my God. It’s working. It’s working! People are having a good time! They’re forgetting about the heat, and the fact that the brother of the bride has run off with the girlfriend of their host’s son. They’re starting to dance. They’re singing along!

“‘You’re the one thing,’” Shari and I sing—along with Satan’s Shadow, the Thibodauxes, and the rest of the wedding guests, “‘that I can’t get enough of, baby—’”

I look down and see Luke’s parents dancing along with everyone else.

“‘So I’ll tell you something—’” I sing, not quite believing what I’m seeing below me. “‘This must be love!’”

People are having a good time. People are clapping their hands and dancing. Satan’s Shadow has given the song a kind of Latin beat. Which it’s not supposed to have, but whatever. Now it sounds kind of like Vamos a la playa .

But oddly, this isn’t turning out to be a bad thing.

And then, just as we’re getting to our big crescendo, Shari elbows me, hard—which is not actually part of our choreography. I glance at her and see that her face has gone as white as Vicky’s dress. She points.

And I see Andy Marshall making his way toward the stage.

The Swinging Sixties brought about more than just a sexual revolution. Fashion underwent a revolution as well. Suddenly the feeling was “anything goes,” from miniskirts to tie-dye. A return to natural fabrics—made from the same materials with which our ancient ancestors wove their loincloths—in the seventies brought fashion full circle, when hippies revealed other uses for hemp than those popularized by the beatniks of the decade before…although the most popular use for it is still very much in style on college campuses.

History of Fashion

SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS

25

While gossip among women is universally ridiculed as low and trivial, gossip among men, especially if it is about women, is called theory, or idea, or fact.

—Andrea Dworkin (1946–2005), U.S. feminist critic

Fortunately we’ve just warbled our last “And I owe it all to you.” Because if he’d shown up at any other part, I’d have choked on my own saliva.

The crowd bursts into enthusiastic applause, and Shari and I take our bow. While our heads are down by our knees (and I see the bass player duck to see if he can catch a glimpse of what’s going on under our skirts—which, in my case, is going to be quite a lot, if he can actually see up there), Shari says,

“Jesus Christ, Lizzie. What’she doing here?”

“I don’t know,” I say back, wanting to cry. “What do I do?”

“What do you mean, what do you do? You have to go talk to him.”

“I don’t want to talk to him! I’ve already said everything I have to say to him.”

“Well, you obviously didn’t say it forcefully enough,” Shari says. “So go say it again.”

We both straighten just as one of Vicky’s friends, to hoots of “Go, Lauren!” and “You can do it, girl!”

runs up onto the stage and grabs the microphone from us.

“Hi,” she says to us. “You guys were great.” Then she spins around to the band and cries, “D’you guys know ‘Lady Marmalade’?”

Baz glances at Kurt. Kurt shrugs.

“We can probably figure it out,” the bass player says.

And Kurt starts tapping out the beat.

“Lizzie,” Andy says, standing at the bottom of the stage. He’s got his leather jacket with him, strung over one arm.

What is hedoing here? How did he find me? Why did he come? He doesn’t love me. I know he doesn’t love me.

So then why go to all this trouble?

My God. It must have been the blow job. Seriously!

I had no idea a blow job was such a powerful thing. If I had, I’d never have given him one, I swear.

I start climbing from the stage, Shari behind me, whispering, “Tell him to leave. Tell him you don’t want anything to do with him. Tell him you’re going to take out a restraining order. I’m sure they have those in France. Don’t they?”

Andy is waiting for me at the bottom of the steps. His face is white and filled with anxiety.

“Liz,” he says when I reach him, “there you are. I’ve been looking all over this place—”

“Andy,” I say, “what are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry, Lizzie,” he says, reaching for my hand. “But you just ran off! I couldn’t leave things that way—”

“Excuse me,” a woman with a heavy Texas accent interrupts us, “but are you the girl who designed the bride’s gown?”

“Um,” I say, “I didn’t design it. It’s vintage. I just rehabbed it.”

“Well, I just wanted to tell you,” the woman says, “you did a fantastic job. That dress is lovely. Just lovely. You’d never know it was vintage. Never in a million years.”

“Well,” I say, “thank you.”

The woman goes away.

And I turn back to the man in front of me.

“Andy,” I say. I can’t believe this. I’ve never had a guy follow me across Europe before. Well, across a channel, anyway. “We broke up.”

“No we didn’t,” Andy says. “I mean, you broke up with me. But you never even gave me a chance to explain—”

“Pardon me, miss.” Another woman has come up to us. “But did you really make that wedding dress li’l Vicky’s got on?”

“No, I didn’t make it,” I say. “I rehabbed it. It’s a vintage gown. I just cleaned and fitted it for her.”

“Well, it’s beautiful,” the woman says. “Just beautiful. And I liked your little song up there.”

“Oh,” I say, beginning to blush, “thanks.” When she goes away, I say, to Andy, “Look, things just didn’t work out between us. I’m really sorry about it. But you’re just not the person I thought you were. And you know what? It turns out I’m not the person I thought I was, either.”

It sort of surprises me to hear myself say that. But it’s really true. I am not the same girl who got off that plane at Heathrow, even if I do happen to be wearing the same dress. I’m someone totally different now.

I don’t know who, exactly, but—

Someone else.

“Really,” I say to Andy, giving his hand a squeeze. “I don’t have any hard feelings toward you. We just made a mistake.”

“I don’t think we were a mistake,” Andy says, his grip on my hand tightening. Not in a friendly squeeze
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

like mine was, either. His is more like he isn’t going to let go of me. “I think Imade a mistake—plenty of mistakes. But, Lizzie, you never even gave me a chance to really apologize. That’s why I’m here. I want to apologize properly, and then maybe take you out for a nice meal, and then take you home—”

“Andy,” I say gently. Our conversation, already bizarre enough, has taken on an even weirder note, thanks to the musical accompaniment. Behind me, Lauren is shrieking, “‘Gitchy gitchy ya ya da da!’” and doing some choreography that is making the bass player, at least, smile happily.

“How—how did you even know where to find me, anyway?” I ask wonderingly.

“You told me a million times in your e-mails that your friend Shari was staying the month in a château in the Dordogne called Mirac. It wasn’t that hard to find. Now say you’ll come home with me, Liz. We can start over. I promise it will be different this time…I’llbe different.”

“I’m not going back to England with you, Andy,” I explain as kindly as I can. “I just don’t feel that way about you anymore. It was very nice knowing you, but really. I think this is where we have to say good-bye.”

Andy’s jaw is slack.

“Excuse me,” a woman says. I turn and find a middle-aged woman looking apologetic. “I’m sorry, I really don’t mean to interrupt, but I heard you rehabbed the bride’s gown. Which I assume means you took an old gown and fixed it up?”

“Yes,” I say. What is going on here? “I did.”

“Well—I really am sorry to interrupt—but my daughter would like to wear my grandmother’s wedding dress for her wedding next June, but we just haven’t been able to find anyone willing to, um, rehab it.

Everyone we’ve seen about it says the fabric is too old and fragile, and they don’t want to risk ruining it.”

“Well,” I say, “that is a concern with old fabric. I mean, it’s much better quality than the materials used in bridal gowns today. But I’ve found if you use all-natural cleansers—no chemicals—you can get quite good results.”

“All-natural cleansers,” the woman repeats. “I see. Honey, do you have a business card? Because I would love to be in touch with you about this again”—she glances up at Andy’s face—“but I can see that you’re busy right now.”

“Um.” I pat myself, then remember my mandarin dress has no pockets. And that even if it did, I have no business cards, anyway. “No. But I’ll find you and give you my contact information in a little while.

Would that be all right?”

“That’d be just fine,” the woman says with another nervous glance at Andy. “I’ll just…I’ll see you in a bit.”

She slinks off and Andy, as if he can hold it in no longer, bursts out with, “Lizzie, you can’t mean that. I understand that maybe you feel we need some time apart. Maybe after a bit of time has passed you’ll realize that what we’ve got, you and I, is really special. I’ll show you. I’ll treat you the way you want to be treated. I’ll make it up to you, Lizzie, I swear. When you get back to Ann Arbor in the fall, I’ll call you—”

The strangest feeling comes over me when he says that. I can’t really explain it, except that it’s as if suddenly he’s given me a glimpse into the future…

A future I can now see quite clearly, as if it were in high definition.

“I’m not going back to Ann Arbor in the fall, Andy,” I say. “Well, I mean, except to get my stuff. I’m moving to New York City.”

Behind me, I hear Shari go, “Ye-esss.”

But when I turn to look at her, she’s stonily watching Lauren implore the wedding guests tocoucher avec her tonight.

“New York City?” Andy looks confused.“You?”

I stick out my chin. “Yes, me,” I say in a voice that sounds completely unlike my own. “Why? You don’t think I can do it?”

Andy’s shaking his head. “Lizzie, I love you. I think you can do anything. Anything you set your mind to.

I think you’re amazing.”

It comes out more like,I fink you’re amazing .

But that’s okay. Because right then I forgive him. I forgive him for all of it.

“Thank you, Andy,” I say to him, a big grin bursting out across my face. Maybe I was wrong about him.

Oh, not about the two of us not being right for each other. But, you know. Maybe he’s not so bad after all. Maybe, even though we can’t be lovers, we can still be friends…

“Excuse me,” someone says.

Only this time it’s not a Houston society matron who’s come up to ask me how to get stains out of fifty-year-old lace.

It’s Luke.

And he doesn’t seem too happy.

“Luke,” I say. “Hi. I—”

“Is it true?” Luke asks me. “Is this him?”

He’s jerked a thumb in Andy’s direction.

I can’t imagine what’s come over him—Luke, so unfailingly polite to everyone.

Everyone but me, I mean. But then I guess I deserve it.

“Um,” I say, shifting uncomfortably, “yes. Luke, this is Andy Marshall. Andy, this is—”

But I never get to finish my sentence. Because before I can, Luke pulls back his arm and sends his fist
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

crashing straight into Andy’s face.

Anarchy! That was the cry of members of the punk movement in the 1980s. But there was nothing anarchic about their postapocalyptic style. Punk, coupled with a fitness phase that began in the eighties and has been going steady ever since, went on to influence both high fashion and street style for many years to come, giving us such wardrobe staples as motorcycle boots and yoga pants.

History of Fashion

SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS

26

Silence is the most intolerable of answers.

—Mason Cooley (1927–2002), U.S. aphorist

He tried to kill me,” Andy keeps saying. Although his words are somewhat indistinct behind the ice-filled dish towel Madame Laurent is pressing to his lip.

“He didn’t try to kill you,” Chaz says in a tired voice. “Stop being such a fucking baby.”

“Hey,” Andy says from his perch on the butcher-block kitchen table, “fuck you! I’d like to see how you’d react if someone sucker-punched you in the mouth!”