Wishful Thinking (2 page)

When she’d first seen the business card hanging from a thread and safety-pinned to the tag, she’d assumed it was just the name of the dress designer:
MARIPOSA OF THE MISSION
. But standing in front of her closet that morning, she’d looked closer. There, under the address, was a single word:
SEAMSTRESS.

And that’s how she ended up in the Mission on a Sunday
afternoon, standing in a dusty shop that smelled like mothballs, crowded with sewing machines and headless dress dummies, and which was, apparently …

“Closed,” the girl on the couch said again. “Sorry.”

But she didn’t sound sorry. She sounded annoyed. Which was about when Hazel decided that her “funny feeling” had been right. She’d taken four buses to get there, and would in a matter of hours be meeting the one person she’d been dreaming of meeting her entire life. She owned only one dress, a dress with a skin-baring rip up one side, a dress in desperate need of mending. And in front of her, this
seamstress,
sitting surrounded by sewing machines, in a shop dedicated to fixing dresses, was telling her the store was closed?

Hazel wanted to scream. Of course something would go wrong. Learning her mother’s name may have changed every fiber of who Hazel was on the inside, but in the outside world, exactly nothing was different.

“Great,” Hazel huffed, settling her plain black canvas tote closer to one shoulder. She took one last look at the strange and empty shop. Business didn’t appear to be booming. “You know,” she started, angry words backing up in her throat. “Keeping regular business hours might go a long way. I mean, if you ever find yourself interested in any actual customers.”

Hazel spun on her heel and started to push through the door, but one of her bag’s thick straps caught on a brass hook and tugged her back into the room. The dress spilled out of her tote, the satiny circles bright and cheerful against the dusty, muted floorboards.

Hazel’s cheeks flushed red.
Perfect,
she thought as she bent down to stuff the dress back into her bag.
Just perfect.

“Wait.” Two clunky clogs were suddenly making their way to where Hazel was crouched by the door. “That dress,” the girl said, pointing one long, spindly finger at Hazel’s tote. “May I see it?”

Hazel slowly held the dress out toward the girl’s open hand.

“Where did you get it?” the girl asked, spreading the material and holding it out to one side.

“In the Haight,” Hazel offered. “A thrift store. I think it’s part of a school or something. I guess I just liked the colors. …” Hazel shuffled her feet and let her voice trail off. Why was she defending her fashion sense to a grumpy girl with weird bangs who, until recently, was primarily interested in getting her to leave?

The girl was staring at her with eyes that looked more feline than human: small, piercing, and almost golden. “What do you need it for?” she asked slowly.

“I’m going to a fund-raiser,” Hazel said. “It’s at this restaurant in the Ferry Building. The Slanted Door?” She took another full breath, before adding, “I’m meeting my mother tonight.”

It was the first time Hazel had said it—any of it—out loud, and the words felt like sharp explosions in her mouth. She looked at the tops of her checkered, slip-on sneakers.

The girl was quiet, and Hazel could tell she was still staring at her. Finally the girl turned, her heavy clogs scraping the floor, and walked slowly back to the couch. She took the dress with her. “Can you come back in two hours?”

Hazel stared at the girl’s small back, the arch of her spine curving beneath her thin sweater as she laid the dress over the arm of the love seat. “Two hours?” she repeated. “Yeah—I
mean, yes. Sure. Are you sure?” Hazel waited for the girl to turn back around, to say something more. When she didn’t, Hazel put her hand on the doorknob, afraid that another word would make the girl change her mind.

“Hey,” she heard from behind her. The girl was still standing over the couch, her back to Hazel as she spoke. “What’s your name?”

“Oh, sorry.” Hazel blushed. “I’m Hazel.”

“Nice to meet you, Hazel,” the girl said, landing heavily on each word like she was sharing a secret. “I’m Posey. See you at three.”

I
  am meeting my mother tonight.

Hazel sat on a bench in Dolores Park, the after noon sun warming the back of her neck. Her long legs were crossed and one bounced furiously over the other, her floppy bag and an enormous iced coffee clutched between both hands. It was all she could do to sit still, her mind turning over and over, centered on a single thought:

I am meeting my mother tonight.

Or at least, that’s where the thinking began. From there, it traveled a fairly linear course, hitting predictable speed bumps
(But what if she isn’t there? What if she doesn’t want to meet me? What if she’s horrible and mean?)
until ultimately circling back to where it began.

I am meeting my mother tonight.

Hazel slurped through the remaining cubes of ice and tossed the plastic cup into a nearby recycling bin. Before she knew where she was going, her feet had whisked her away.

She bolted between two lanes of traffic and started down a
side street, absentmindedly rummaging through her bag with one hand. Her fingers landed on a familiar hulk of black plastic, and she immediately felt her pulse leveling.

Whenever she felt anxious, or confused, or antsy, Hazel reached for her camera, a vintage Polaroid that had once belonged to Wendy. Taking pictures was less a hobby than a physical urge. Sort of the way your feet find their way out from under the covers at night when you’re suddenly too hot. It was instinctual. Something she needed to do.

On the corner of Seventeenth Street was a used bookstore, with a rolling rack of sale books on display out front. Hazel walked by it twice before pausing off to one side. She crouched low on the curb and brought the boxy lens up to her right eye, snapping a quick shot of the weathered spines.

“You know, I think people usually like those things for what’s
inside.”

Hazel looked down at the long, lanky shadow cutting the sidewalk beside her. She recognized the shoes before the voice. They laced up the front and were cool in an old-school, grandpa kind of way. There was only one person she knew who could get away with wearing shoes like that.

“Jasper,” she sighed, planting her hands on the ground and hoisting herself up. “You scared me.”

She turned to find Jasper Greene smiling his trademarked heart-shaped grin, hands stuffed in the pockets of his faded blue jeans. Jasper was the first person Hazel had spoken to at her new school last fall. They were two of only four people who had signed up for the yearlong Mixed Media elective, and were often partnered up for projects. He was one of those rare floaters who didn’t really fit into any one group at school
and, as a result, was totally comfortable talking to anyone. Whether or not either of them realized it, he was probably the closest thing Hazel had found recently to a friend.

“Who, me?” Jasper gasped, taking a step back. “You’re the one lurking around, all paparazzi style. Was that you jumping behind a tree when I got off the bus?”

Hazel rolled her eyes. “What are you doing here?” she asked, flapping the blurry Polaroid. She still felt jittery and wondered if it was the coffee.

“Taco truck on Harrison,” Jasper said, nodding toward the end of the block. His dark, curly hair flopped over his eyes and he pushed it away. “It’s a Sunday ritual. What about you?”

“Nothing,” Hazel blurted out. Jasper may have been the one person she knew well enough to talk to on the street, but it didn’t mean she was about to tell him her life story. “Just walking around.”

“Whatcha got there?” Jasper asked, gesturing to the photo she was still shaking in one hand. Hazel flipped it over and held it up with a shrug. It was a close-up of three books side by side. Hazel had been drawn to their mishmashed typeface and fraying seams.

“Cool.” Jasper smiled. “Miss Lew was totally right about you.”

“Right about what?” Hazel stuffed the photo in the pocket of her sweatshirt and pulled the soft material closer to her waist. Miss Lew was their art teacher, and the person who had demanded that Hazel apply to art school in New York City for the fall. In the end, Hazel had applied, though it was Miss Lew who had filled out the forms, sent in her portfolio, and
even written a check for the application fee. Hazel had been accepted just after winter break. Miss Lew was ecstatic, and Hazel had pretended to be happy, but she already knew she wasn’t going. She’d never been out of the state of California, let alone all the way across the country, and what was the point of going to art school, anyway? It was silly, not to mention astronomically expensive. Taking pictures was something she did for fun, and to stay sane. She didn’t need a degree for that. Much less a lifetime of loans.

“She said you were the most talented photographer she’d ever had in class,” Jasper said flatly, looking Hazel squarely in the eyes. “She said you see things different than everyone else.”

Hazel’s skin prickled. It always gave her a jolt, hearing that other people were talking about her. Not so much that they had nice things to say, just that they had noticed her at all. Maybe it was because she moved around so much, or because she spent almost all of her time imagining her life was different. Imagining that she knew where she came from, who her parents were, what they looked like, what they did. Hazel had no idea who she really was; how was anybody else supposed to know her, either?

“I tried not to take offense,” Jasper went on with a smile. “Luckily, the word on the street is that New York is a pretty big town. Think there’s room for both of us?”

Jasper had gotten in early to film school at NYU. They’d worked together on a short film he’d done for his application, and he’d admitted that he’d always wished he was a better photographer. She thought the stills he’d taken on set were pretty good, but she hadn’t said anything.

“Anyway,” Jasper sighed dramatically, like talking to her was a challenge. Hazel had no idea why he tried so hard. “I’m about to head down to SOMA to check out this new gallery show,” he said. “It’s birds, I think. Or trees. Want to come?”

“Can’t,” Hazel said, scuffing the top of her sneaker against the rack of books. “I should get going, actually.”

Jasper tilted his head to one side, a thatch of dark hair shadowing his face. “How about later on? There’s supposed to be this really good Thai place near the museum.”

Jasper was always telling Hazel about the best new this or some totally underrated that. She imagined he must be on every mailing list and RSS feed in cyber-town, and couldn’t tell if he really wanted to hang out with her or just show off how many blogs he read.

“Can’t,” Hazel said again. “I have plans.”

Jasper nodded. “Right. Okay.” He clapped his hands and smiled again, his lips curling into a giant heart around his perfectly straight white teeth. “Tomorrow, then?”

Hazel checked her watch, a digital piece of plastic she’d won in an arcade in Santa Cruz. It was almost time to pick up her dress.

“Tomorrow?” she echoed, the tiniest hint of exasperation creeping into her voice. “Tomorrow’s Monday.”

“Perfect.” Jasper grinned. “Get the week started right.”

Hazel opened her bag and tucked her camera back inside.

“Hazel,” Jasper said quietly.

“Yeah?” Hazel responded, pulling her hair out from under the strap of her bag. “Sorry, I’m just, kind of, hurrying, I have to—”

“You’re going to have to give me a chance someday,” Jasper said lightly, holding her gaze again.

Just like that, Hazel’s cheeks were on fire. She checked her watch again, only this time she didn’t see anything but a blur of skin and plastic. “Okay,” she said, readjusting her bag and scurrying off down the street.

“Okay?” Jasper called after her, a laugh in his voice. “Tomorrow, then?”

Hazel tucked her hair behind her ears and prayed for the light to change so she could cross the street. After an eternity, it did. She yelled over her shoulder as she skipped to the crosswalk. “Sure, whatever.”

Jasper clasped his hands over his head, like a champion boxer at the center of the ring.

“I’ll take it,” he called out. “See you tomorrow!”

H
azel locked herself in a stall of the Ferry Building’s public restroom and hung the unopened garment bag from Posey’s shop on the door. She stared at its long, shadowy shape, trying to come up with reasons for leaving it zipped. Because unzipping it, she knew, would lead to trying the dress on. Trying the dress on would lead to wearing it, and once she was wearing it, she had little choice but to step out of the stall and exit the bathroom completely. And once she was outside, she knew where she’d end up. Her mother was in a restaurant less than the length of a football field away. And once she was in the same room with her mother—her mother!—she’d probably have to think of something to say.

But first, she’d have to get dressed.

Hazel ran her fingers through her hair, tugging at her auburn roots and squeezing her temples between the flats of her palms. She remembered the year she spent with Roy’s sister, Rae Ann, who lived on a lake up north. Rae Ann was
intent on teaching Hazel to dive, and had shouted encouragement while Hazel stood on the dock. Hazel had gripped the edge of the wooden plank with her toes and watched them turn from red to pink to white. She’d learned how to swim only a few months before and couldn’t imagine anything worse than propelling herself headfirst into the cold, murky water. Everything inside of her was screaming to stop, turn around. Go back.

Eventually, she’d given up and taken the plunge. The cold shock of water stung her skin and she’d had a hard time catching her breath for a few moments afterward. But, in the end, she’d survived.

Hazel took a deep breath and unzipped the heavy gray plastic, reaching both hands inside the garment bag.

Right away, the dress felt different. Not “different” in the sense that Posey had done such amazing work that Hazel hardly recognized it. “Different” in the sense that it was a completely different dress.