Just before the start of Wednesday’s English class, I meet up with Whitney in front of my locker. Today she’s wearing a short-sleeved white blouse with pleats and a black pencil skirt.
“Wanna try?” she asks, striking a pose.
“Hmm.” I take in the cross dangling from her neck. “Madonna in Desperately Seeking Susan?”
She rolls her eyes. I can never get it right.
“Not quite, honey. Susan Sarandon in Dead Man Walking. The nun?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
Whitney still wears manga T-shirts once in a while, but her look is mostly borrowed from movie stills these days. Today’s outfit is pretty tame, but when she’s obsessing on a period piece, say, Shakespeare in Love, she’ll come to school in more of a costume.
Guessing game over, she hands me the latest edition of Gadget Girl. The photocopies are tucked into a manila envelope so that no one else can see.
“Yay!” I peek inside. “Thanks a lot!”
She reaches for the pages, but I shake my head. “Not here.”
I motion to Madison Fox and her posse, grooming at the back of the room. They’ve whipped out their compacts and lip gloss. They’re not paying any attention to us, but still. I don’t want to risk exposure.
Whitney sighs. “You should just go ahead and tell people,” she says. “You’ve got a fan base now. They would support you.”
“No,” I say. What if they just felt sorry for me? What if they saw Gadget Girl as an expression of my fantasies? Wouldn’t it make them pity me more? But I don’t say any of this to Whitney, even if she is my best friend. I pretend that it’s all about the mystique I’m creating, and letting my art speak for itself.
“I don’t get my allowance till next week,” I say. “You think Nathan would print out the rest of the copies anyway? Put it on my tab?”
Whitney shrugs. “I can float you a loan. My dad just sent a big check. Any new distribution points?”
“The usual will be fine, I guess—bowling alley, arcade, anarchist coffee house.” Plus, I’ll send some copies out to my zinester friends. I’ve got some extra envelopes, so I’ll prepare them for mailing during study hall. Mom is taking me to the post office after school.
When the last bell rings, I find Mom’s car in the queue in front of the building.
“Hi there,” she says, as I crawl into the back seat.
There’s a manila envelope on the passenger seat beside her. She sees me noticing it. “I’ve got something of my own to put in the mail,” she says. “This is my entry for the Tokyo International Art Concours.”
Oh, right. Aiko, in Fourth Position. Of course, she’s not sending the sculpture itself—just photos for now.
It would be cool if she won—it would be great! But I’m not getting my hopes up. I remember that she entered last year, too. And the year before that. She sends off entries to art competitions all over the world—Prague, Paris, Taiwan—but so far her successes have been purely domestic. Her last show was in North Carolina.
Luckily, there’s not much of a line at the post office. I go up to the window first. Mom is right behind me, but she doesn’t ask me what’s in the envelopes, which is cool. Sometimes she actually seems to understand my need for privacy.
I hand over some money to the postal clerk and watch her stamp the envelopes and put them on a pile.
I stand there blinking for a moment, imagining my superheroine travelling all over the country. “Thanks.” I step out of the way.
Mom is humming as we go back to the car. “I want to celebrate finishing the sculpture,” she says. “And I want to thank you for being my model. How about I take you shopping?”
“Yeah, sure.” To tell the truth, shopping’s not my favorite thing. It takes forever for me to try on clothes, and then there are the crowds and the little kids staring. But Mom isn’t always so free and easy with her credit card. I need to take advantage of this opportunity.
The clothing district is down by the riverfront, near the building which once housed the Grand Theater. Now it’s a restaurant with a marquee, but at one time it was like a ballroom, with a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Whitney would have loved watching movies there.
A few doors down, there’s a café owned by former hippies who sell cups of organic coffee and desserts made with carob. They also host local acoustic musicians and travelling folk singers.
Mom and I hit up one of the more expensive clothing boutiques. The mannequins in the window are in turquoise sequins and pink taffeta and daring strapless knee-high black dresses. It’s prom season. Some girls from my class will probably be shopping here for the end-of-the-year middle school dance, but not me. When I see those dresses—all that tulle and sparkle—I want to run (ha!) back to the car and bury my head in the seat cushions.
Normally, I’m partial to dark colors. Black. Midnight blue. I read about Japanese Bunraku puppeteers who wear black clothes and hoods while maneuvering three-foot-high puppets across the stage. Because they’re in black, the audience doesn’t really notice them. Wearing black is like being in the dark. It makes you hard to see. Almost invisible.
Unfortunately, there seems to be nothing black or indigo or even grey in this store. I spy a rack of swirly patchwork skirts and make my way toward them. I take a skirt off the rack and hold it up to my waist. It’s white, but appliquéd with bright red and yellow flowers. It’s totally Salma Hayek in Frida! Frida Kahlo was this Jewish-Mexican painter whose leg was shrunken from polio. (As part of Mom’s campaign to Help Aiko Feel Good About Herself, I have been introduced to any number of potential mixed-race role models.) Frida wore bright skirts to cover her bad leg, or maybe to distract from her disability. Maybe this skirt could do the same for me. I find a couple more that I like and show them to Mom.
“Those are pretty,” she agrees, and takes them to the counter. It’s too much of a drama to try them on here in the store. We’ll take these home and if they don’t fit, Mom will bring them back.
If we’re very, very lucky, I’ll be able to put them in my suitcase and wear them in Japan.