Andre said, “Zoey, this is Tre. My brother. He’s gonna fix you up. He does all our suits, Ling’s outfits, too.”
They were all up in Arthur’s hidden third-floor suite, standing in the massive “closet” that could have comfortably accommodated a dozen more people. Armando, as always, watched the door. Tre’s own outfit was not inspiring confidence in Zoey—he was wearing a suit made of crimson leather, the shirt unbuttoned to his navel. Several gold chains were draped across a well-muscled and well-waxed chest.
He said, “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Ashe.” To Andre he said, “Damn, you was right. Gonna have fun dressin’ her.”
Will said, “We’re going for confidence here. I don’t want her dressed like she’s coming in nervous, or armored, or ready to run. I want her dressed like she’s going to a party without a care in the world. We want to sew doubt about why she’s so confident. I’d suggest something tight, with heels.”
Zoey said, “I think you’re blurring the line between strategy and your own perverse fantasies, Will.” He wouldn’t take the bait, choosing instead to lean in one corner and engross himself in his phone.
Andre rolled his eyes. “I’m going to leave y’all to it. Now Zoey, keep in mind, Tre’s not gay. Don’t let him linger with the measuring tape: he’s just using that as an excuse to put his hands on you. He’ll act like he forgot the numbers, don’t fall for it.”
Tre said, “I resent that. I’m a professional.”
“You resent it because it’s the truth.”
Andre left and Armando said, “Do you want me to close the door?” Meaning, with me on the other side of it?
“No, you can stay, in case Tre turns out to be an assassin. Just turn your head if there’s nudity.”
This prospect seemed to alarm Armando quite a bit.
Tre said, “So, I brought a selection with me and if you don’t like what I’ve got, I’ll go get more. You trust me to take your measurements without feeling you up, or has my brother already poisoned the well in this relationship?”
“Can I not just pick out something on my own? I’m not six years old, I can dress myself.”
“Girl, please don’t take this as an insult because you are a lovely young lady and it is people with a rich inner life and transcendental spirit who tend to neglect their outer appearance. But that said, you’re wearing eight items of clothing, and at least two of them don’t fit you. The other six are including your shoes and socks. Your shirt hangs like a maternity dress. You’re goin’ out in public, gonna be people watchin’ from all over the world, you got to show off the goods.”
“I absolutely do not have to do that. And it’s not my fault nothing fits, I have a weird body. This shirt isn’t supposed to be this low cut, it’s just that everything is designed for somebody six inches taller. So what’s a dignified neckline on a normal woman makes me look like I’m supposed to be in a parade in Rio.”
“And that’s why you got Tre. You don’t got to buy off the shelf no more, that’s the point—we’re gonna take what I got and we’re gonna make it so it fits Zoey Ashe and nobody else on earth. Only thing is, you gonna realize all at once how much all your other clothes were made with somebody else in mind. Soon you won’t want to put on pajamas without pickin’ up the phone and callin’ Tre to tailor ’em up. Now, let’s be frank, I’m obviously gonna start with them titties. See, we dress the girls first, then we can take in the bottom part. Bring out them curves.”
“Wow. I don’t even…”
“Hold still, I’m gonna measure you up.”
“My mom would be so disappointed. She—”
“Hold out your arms. There.”
“She used to say I should pity people who obsess over this type of thing.”
“Who’s obsessing? You just wanna make a splash, that’s all.”
“Okay, again, I absolutely do not want to do that.”
“Better to be looked over than overlooked. You want to walk into that funeral and have every dude in that room whip their head around and say, ‘God-damn them is some fine-ass titties. I got to find me a divorce lawyer in the next five minutes.’”
“Wow. I’m just going to leave…”
“You want every girl in that place to be murderous with jealous rage. Like, I got to get my man outta here before he sees that, and leaves my skinny ass. Why are you laughing? I’m serious.”
“I know you’re making fun of me.”
Armando remained silent across the room but clearly wanted to be literally anywhere else. Will worked his phone, seeming to have completely forgotten anyone else was in the room.
Tre said, “I’m just trying to relax you, honey. I’m measuring your butt, don’t be alarmed.”
“I don’t even know why I’m laughing, I’m probably going to die tonight. Get me a dress that won’t make me look ridiculous when they show my body on the news, that’s all I want.”
“You got dark thoughts, girl.”
Tre started sorting through a rolling rack of dress bags he’d brought and as he was grabbing one, Zoey said, “Don’t give me anything that doesn’t have pockets.”
Tre paused, put it back, then pulled out a different bag that turned out to be a surprisingly dignified black blazer and skirt.
Zoey said, “Oh. Well that’s not too bad.”
“Thank you for believing in me. Can you try this top for me? I can leave the room while you change if you don’t want me to see you in your bra but, for real, I am a professional here. Think of me like a doctor, I do this every day.”
“It’s fine.” She made a twirling motion at Armando, who not only turned his head, but turned his whole body to face the wall. Like a little kid. Will kind of had his back to them anyway, hunched over his phone and muttering something to Echo’s worried, holographic head. The other three people in the room could form a naked human pyramid and it’d take him an hour to notice.
Zoey pulled off her T-shirt and immediately Tre said, “Damn! Them’s the type of titties they write songs about.”
Zoey covered her chest with the shirt and said, “Okay, you’re not actually a designer, are you?”
“Go on, I’m just playin’. By the way, make that three items of clothing that don’t fit you. Oh—what’s that? On your shoulder?”
Zoey glanced at her back in the mirror, but didn’t need to see to know what he was referring to. Her rainbow scar. Four curved lines of pale knotted flesh swooping from her shoulder blade to her armpit.
“What does it look like? Guess.”
“It’s a scar, right?”
“Well, duh. What kind? What does it look like?”
“Like a big animal clawed you. You get in a fight with a bear?”
“No. See how it’s perfectly round? Like the burner on an electric stovetop?”
“What, did you fall on the oven while it was on?”
“Sort of. One of my mom’s boyfriends, he held me down on the kitchen counter with a steak knife to my throat. Shoved me on the burners, leaned all his weight on me, and turned it on. Then we both laid there while it got hotter and hotter. Burned through my shirt, burned through my shoulder. There was actual smoke. Caught my hair on fire, too. It set off the smoke alarm. And he just laid on top of me, grinning, the whole time. He wasn’t a nice guy.”
There was silence all around, as there always was when she told this story. Even Will had glanced up from his phone, to try to figure out what drama had stopped the room. Without turning away from the wall, Armando said, “This man, is he still around?”
“Don’t know. This was several years ago. He went to jail—not for that, but for something related—but I’m sure by now he’s probably gotten out and then got put back in for something else.”
Armando asked, “What was his name?”
“Why? You think you know him?”
Armando shrugged. “Maybe I want to get to know him. Maybe I should drop in and say hello. Maybe show him what a hot stove feels like against his scumbag face.”
“Ha, then we all go to jail.”
“When a billionaire makes a career scumbag disappear, no one goes to jail. A man like that, I could do him in the parking lot of the police station and they would send me a fruit basket at Christmas.”
“Anyway, that’s why I can’t wear tank tops.”
Tre said, “Bet that saves you a lot of time shaving them armpits. You ever wear a shaping top like this? No? It’s gonna feel weird, just roll that down to your hips, like you’re putting on a giant rubber. It’s a polyurethane blend that’ll kind of shape itself to your—yeah like that.”
“I … don’t think I can breathe in this.”
“Yeah that’s normal, that’s only because it’s squishing all of your organs together. I got tights in here for the bottom half but we’re not worried about that right now. See that? You just lost like twelve pounds. See, this is why us humans invented clothes, hides all the workouts we skipped. Put the jacket on. Nice—here, put your arms down so I can mark the sleeves. Perfect. Take a look in the mirror. We’ll bring that in at the waist, like this. So it’s got that slimming effect, right?”
“Oh, wow. That’s not bad.”
“Got a little bit of collar gap back here, we’ll take care of that. Like Will’s suit, see how everything fits smooth and flat against his neck, no wrinkles or anything around the shoulders or buttons? Here, put the skirt on.”
“You’re not watching this part, you’ve lost that privilege. Turn around.”
Tre made a show of turning around and covering his eyes with both hands. She changed, gave the all-clear, and Tre said, “Yeah … hold still. See, we’ll bring it right above the knee, like this. Probably don’t want it any tighter than that or—”
“Or I start to look like a sausage.”
She looked herself over in the mirror.
Tre said, “Admit I know what I’m doin’.”
“It looks good.”
“See? Look like a dignified businesswoman and yet still gonna have you showin’ up in a hundred dudes’ wank fantasies tonight.”
“Tre, please. Armando? What do you think?”
He turned away from the wall and came up behind her.
“It looks very nice.”
Tre said, “He means it, too. Don’t know if you noticed, but his eyes made two stops, he looked at the mirror second but he looked at your butt first. See, that’s what we’re going for.”
“My god, I’m going to have to go take a long shower after this.”
Will approached, studied the mirror like a doctor diagnosing a patient, and said, “And you’ll have her in heels, correct? I want the subconscious impression that she can’t run away.”
“And that would also mean I can’t actually run away, correct?”
“I think any plan that relies on your foot speed is probably not a sound one.”
She nodded toward his drink glass and said, “Right, just like any plan that relies on your sobriety.”
To Tre she said, “Do you have a different top? Aside from the fact that this one is probably squeezing my liver to death, it seems like this is showing a lot of boob for a funeral.”
“One, it’s not really a funeral, it’s a memorial service in the park. And two, girl, this is Arthur Livingston’s memorial service. You’ll be showing the least amount of boob there. We’ll get you a necklace—maybe pearls or a nice gold cross to come down right here. It’ll be classy, trust me. Even your momma would like it.”
“She would not. She’s a hippie, says we’re ruining the world because we throw out perfectly good clothes and cars just because we want to keep up appearances. She used to say that mankind would rather look good and die than look bad and live.”
Tre shook his head. “Girl, style is the only thing that separates us from the animals. A bird or a bear, all its got is the feathers and fur it’s born with, but a human, we can take our crazy imaginations and wear ’em on our sleeve. The only tragedy is not everybody can afford to bring out that natural expression of beauty.”
“So now I’m not trailer trash anymore, because I can afford a guy to dress me?”
“Girl, you were never trailer trash. Your circumstances just forced you to dress like it. Now take that off and let me make the alterations. Chantrell will be here in a minute to do hair and makeup.”
“Wait, what?”
“Bye-bye. I’d wish you luck, but in that outfit, you ain’t gonna need it.”