Chageet's Electric Dance Page 5

  Pretending not to notice, Mama turned away, checking her appearance in the window reflection over the sink. “Luisa’s washing the sheets right now so you can’t go to bed.” She laughed. “I’ll see you in ten minutes or I’ll tell Juan to put the poodles in your room.”

  “Very funny. I know you planned the sheet washing thing.”

  The cuckoo clock sounded from the far wall in the adjoining dining room and little Hansel and Gretel dolls circled around a fake ginger bread house with fake white icing on top, singing, “Coo-coo, coo-coo, coo-coo…” nine times.

  Barbey waited for the clock to stop before continuing, “Whatever, I’ll meet your stupid friends. I wish David was here.” She knew her mother hated talking about him.

  “Who’s David? I don’t know anyone by that name.” Mama frowned and walked over to the glass cabinet across from the breakfast table that displayed her huge collection of Barbie Dolls from throughout the eras. She moved her Elizabeth Taylor doll to the center next to Marilyn Monroe. “I think Marilyn is the most beautiful. And she didn’t even have plastic surgery. Imagine how gorgeous she would be if she had liposuction in her tummy area and in her thighs.”

  “David’s probably so lonely and afraid, locked up with all those criminals.”

  “Shut up!” She snapped. “Your brother dug his own grave.” She closed the cabinet. “Nothing I can do about that.” For a moment, she paused. “Brush it off.” She brushed the palms of her hands together like she was wiping crumbs off of them. “Brush it off.” For a moment, she pondered the thought before quickly switching to her usual distracted irritation. “Get dressed—now!”

  When Barbey got to her room, she threw her sequined purse on the bed mattress below her white canopy that draped overhead and turned on the radio softly to the song, “Mad About You,” by Belinda Carlisle. The walls of her room were pink and white striped with a white wooden dresser, a vanity stand and chair, and a pink plastic trophy case.

  She dragged the chair over to the display case, dancing to the music as she walked, and stepped up on the chair, placing the trophy she won at the competition at the top like a gold star atop a Christmas tree with all the other awards of the past below, glimmering like shiny gold and silver bulbs and tinsel ornaments. The Janet Jackson trophy shone bright, but it wasn’t enough to satisfy her desires because the mysterious guy had disappeared.

  She turned down the music and walked over to her bedroom windows, two big hearts with white wooden panes, and drew the white eyelet drapes open.

  Oh, no! John Prince was staring through the glass at her! She screamed hysterically for a moment.

  He seemed as startled as she.

  Then, after realizing this lurking vision was a familiar face and not some Jack the Ripper, she let out a sigh of relief.

  He smiled awkwardly and looked around to see if anyone else had discovered him. When he realized they were alone, he motioned her to open her window.

  She unlocked one of the panes and raised the window. Through the screen, with the moonlight behind him, he looked shadowy and ominous, but Mama had often ridiculed Barbey for having an over active imagination to the point of paranoia; so, she mopped the thought away like an absorbent sponge sopping up Clorox from the kitchen floor and then rung out the residue from her rubber head. “Brush it off. Brush it off.”

  “Well, hello there,” he said in his baritone voice. A gust of wind blew through his hair, but it did not move. She could smell his heavy cologne. It was masculine and musty, seemingly green like Polo by Ralph Lauren. The leaves from the trees in the forest behind him rustled in the wind; she could hear distant faint laughter and whispers coming from one of the balconies above. Or, was it coming from the forest? It bothered her that she couldn’t tell where the sounds were coming from, but his mere presence whisked every other thought from her mind.

  His stiff demeanor in his starched white suit with blue tie that matched his neon eyes caught her attention. His eyes reminded her of the sky portion of an ocean scene from a paint-by-number set she had as a child. While the outer edges of his irises were neon blue, the inner parts were baby blue and turquoise swirled in carefully crafted shapes. Each eye had a squiggle dot in its center that reminded her of birds suspended far off in the distance of the paint-by-number sky.

  “What the heck are you doing outside my window?” she demanded. “You really freaked me out.”

  “I, uh, didn’t know this was your window actually. I’m a guest at the party. Is this your, uh, parents’ house?”

  “Duh! You’re friends with my stupid parents?” She was surprised that such a young man would spend time with people her parents’ age. He is actually very good looking, she observed—perfect in fact. His cheek bones were high; he had a strong square jaw; his shoulders were broad and rectangular; he had a thin waist and long legs. Wow! What a ten!

  “Well, uh, actually, I came with a business friend of mine.”

  “Oh.” She noticed that the left side of his face looked tanner than the right. This seemed odd to her, but then she rationalized that it must be an illusion created by the moonlight shining through the trees from the forest. Oh, how she loved the full moon—mysterious and lurking, depicting deceptions with each illusory glimmer. “Why were you looking in my window?”

  “Actually, I was out on one of the balconies, leaning over and I noticed heart shaped windows. This intrigued me—totally radical, killer, wow—so I decided to take a walk around to the back of the house and check out the design of the windows from the ground. I’ve always had a fascination with architecture…”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s such an odd design for a window.”

  “Ok,” she was getting bored with the conversation.

  “You can, like, ask my mother for the designer’s number.”

  A door slammed overhead; the distant voices and laughter stopped; the wind ceased. There was too long of a pause in the conversation.

  “Good idea. Good idea.” He lingered at the window.

  Barbey became noticeably irritated. “I don’t want to be rude, but I’ve got stuff to do right now or else Mama will sick her huge Standard Poodles on me.” She laughed at herself.

  “Huh?” He appeared preoccupied with his thoughts.

  “Oh, never mind, but maybe I’ll see you later.”

  A spark of regret ignited within, concerned that maybe her obvious irritation or assertiveness had hurt his feelings.

  He jumped back, startled for no apparent reason, and then looked side to side and behind himself again.

  “Ok.” He paused. “Well!” He cleared his throat. “Bye for now then.”

  “Bye.” She shut the window, feeling uncomfortable and afraid that maybe she had ruined her opportunity of becoming a model through his contacts. He didn’t even mention the modeling or spreadsheet or anything. It’s weird though that he was outside my window. Coincidences like that are so freaky. Her head began to ache from the thoughts that skidded and burned against her rubber interior. I don’t really like him much, but I don’t know exactly why. The aroma of burnt rubber exuding from her head caused her to cough. He’s kind of odd and his hair seems strangely poufy as if it’s too big for his head. The thoughts became intolerable, so she rushed to turn up the radio and quickly dressed.

  Barbey entered the living room dressed in the white lace gown with puffy sleeves that her grandmother from her father’s side of the family had given her before she passed away. Even with her high heels, the gown dragged lightly on the floor, but she didn’t mind at all. In fact, the length and flow of the dress reminded her of a wedding gown which she felt was prophetic in a sense, considering she had earlier connected eye-to-eye with the guy of her dreams.

  He seemed familiar somehow as if she had seen him before, but she just could not remember where. Isn’t that the way it is with soul mates though? They seem like someone you already know because you do know them—because they are you—or they are your other half, that is. How romantic, she thoug
ht. Stars, meteors, asteroids and all that bright galaxy stuff shot around, lighting up the black abyss of her mind. Thinking about the mysterious guy lifted her spirits so high that she was hardly bothered by her gown being a little out of style. Who cares what her stupid parents’ friends think anyhow!

  The living room was spacious with pink marble floors. White velvet sofas with matching ottomans lined the white brocade walls. Though it was summer, Easter music gaily danced out of the box speakers—“Here Comes Peter Cotton Tail”—floating through the room like a strange lullaby on soft white angel clouds—Mama’s pick, most obviously. The ceiling was high, flat, and round which made Barbey feel like she was sitting in the middle of a strawberry wedding cake with white frosting.

  In the center of the room, as if inspired from a fairy tale or a child’s dream, was a huge pink glass table exhibiting an odd display of pink appetizers. There was the remains of Mama’s favorite dish that she called “pigs n’ skirts,” which was now two half eaten pink pigs, still with snouts, each wearing half of a sugary white with pink polka dot skirt and candy loop earrings, eye sockets hollow, yet smiling contentedly on large silver platters in masses of pink dyed candied yams; there were fancy pink cupcakes with white frosting and pink sprinkles; there were mounds of bubble gum ice cream melting in a silver bowl lined in a smoky haze of dried ice; and there were lots of little poodles made out of white chocolate covered cherries with pink cotton candy on their pompom heads, tails, and ankles with little licorice collars.

  Mama approached Barbey almost immediately and began introducing her to a group of friends. “Martha, Rich, Huey, I want you to meet my sister, Barb—just flew in from Kentucky. Ain’t she just the prettiest thing you ever seen?”

  The three nodded as Mama continued.

  “Martha and Huey were married last year on the front lawn of the Whitehouse!” Mama’s eyes widened as she looked at Barbey. “Huey’s probably the tallest man in congress. What are you, Hugh? Six feet six?”

  “I’m six four,” he quickly responded in a low, confident voice.

  Rich, a tall professional looking man in a blue suit, introduced himself and shook Barbey’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Your sister throws a lovely party. You must have had a lot of fun growing up with such a creative woman.”

  Barbey couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “You have no idea,” she responded in a thick Southern accent.

  The three laughed.

  Huey’s wife, Martha, also a tall woman, shook hands with Barbey. “It’s very nice to meet you, dear.” Barbey noticed that her sand-colored hair needed highlights and was cut too short for her round face. But she did like her tan suit jacket with matching skirt. “Trudy speaks highly of you,” Martha continued. “Honestly, I’m a bit jealous, as my own sister and I hardly talk.” She blushed. “Oops, I guess I’ve had a bit too much to drink. Well, I am glad to see sisters getting along. I guess it’s easier to get along when you’re not so close in age.” She blushed again. “You’ll have to excuse me. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. It must be all the press conferences. I think I better go to the ladies room for a moment.” She hurried away.

  “Well, kick me in the tulips and call me happy,” Barbey said with a giggle looking at Huey and Rich. “We get along like two peas in a pod.” Turning away, she gritted her teeth.

  “Well!” Mama said with a laugh. “Excuse me gentlemen. I want to introduce my daughter to Mr. Pinkerton.”

  “Daughter?” Rich responded.

  Mama laughed and laughed. “I got you!” She covered her mouth with her hands and looked up at him with her doll eyes. “This sweet young thing here is my daughter—not my sister!”

  Rich and Huey laughed. Saying things like, “No! You don’t say! Is that possible?”

  As the waiter passed by, Barbey grabbed a glass of pink champagne from the tray with one hand while extending her other hand to Mr. Pinkerton, a short, balding pudgy man. She noticed that Mr. Pinkerton’s hand was fat and milky white with a lot of black furry hair spiraling out from his arms and onto the back of his hand in a gnarled fur patch. When she noticed his black high arched eyebrows bouncing up and down whenever he said the word, “nicey,” which he said often, she giggled for a moment. “Oh, it’s so nicey to meet you!” His eyebrows bounced up and down. “Nicey, nice, that is!” He laughed loudly and patted Barbey on the back.

  “Nice to meet you too, Mr. Nice,” Barbey jested in a thick, drawn Southern accent, inwardly congratulating herself on her forwardness. She then glanced at Mama who splashed her smack hard in the face with those muddy green eyes of hers that to Barbey looked like violent, rapid waters just before the drop to the riverbed.

  But Mr. Pinkerton laughed profusely at Barbey’s joke, slapping his thigh with his furry hand over and over, “Nicey, nice! Nicey nice! Nicey nice!”

  Barbey thought maybe his eyebrows might just fall off—they were bouncing so much.

  “I never met such a beautiful girl.” He laughed again. His hand started to shake and his voice quivered just a bit as he straightened his bow tie, “You a high school girl, Barbey?”

  Some other guests called Mama over to break a tie in their debate concerning patch work quilts.

  “Yes, sir—I am, but, I’m also a Cosmo girl,” Barbey responded, losing the Southern accent now that Mama was gone. She glanced around the room to see if she could find John Prince.

  “A Cosmo girl, eh?” He scratched the dark curly fringes of hair circling his bald head.

  “Yeah, I go to cosmetology school in an after school extension program.”

  His eyes widened. “Oh! Nicey nice! Maybe I’ll come in and get a scalp massage from you. I used to get those at the beauty school down the street, but then I became too busy-bodied with my cigar business in Montana that I had to give them up. Boy oh boy, do I miss those nicey girls from that school though.” He coughed into his palm and shook his head side to side. “They gave a good rub down. I was always surprised how those little delicate ivory hands, fine like little china dolls’, smooth like satin, nimble like a summer wind, but with a spike of sassiness (If you know what I mean)…” He winked at her, “…could work a head and shoulders so well. My, my, nicey nice!”

  A tall lanky woman with a long swooping nose walked up. “Harold!” her voice was high pitched and grating. “Are you giving this poor girl a hard time?” She looked at Barbey. “I’m sorry, honey. Don’t mind this old pervert. He means no harm—a sucker for pretty girls is all.” She looked down her nose at Harold and smacked him with her pocket book on the ear.

  He shrugged apologetically at Barbey and his eyebrows started bouncing even though he wasn’t even talking. “Well, there then, Barbey. It was nice meeting you.” He walked off with his wife to the appetizer table, gazed at the pigs lasciviously and sliced himself a piece of skirt and ham.

  Barbey walked out onto the balcony and was looking at the moon over the trees in the forest below, when her father’s partner, Dr. Bradshaw, walked up to her from behind, placing his hand on her shoulder. “My dear Barbey—you’re looking fine this evening.”

  “Oh, hi.” She turned around awkwardly. “How are you, Dr. Bradshaw?” Her cheeks blushed rose petal pink; her heart fluttered as quick as fairy wings. She had always had a childish crush on Dr. Bradshaw since first grade. Never mind that he was middle aged.

  “I’m doing just fine, thank you for asking, dear.” He was of medium height and medium build with a sculpted nose and a smooth tight face. His warm brown eyes matched his warm brown hair which was neatly trimmed and sprayed in place. “How is cosmetology school going?”

  Barbey liked Dr. Bradshaw because he was friendly with a soothing voice. “I’m loving it so much,” she responded sarcastically. “I just learned how to roller set old ladies’ hair!” They both laughed. “Have you ever noticed that old ladies often have blue hair?”

  He paused for a moment to think. “Yes! Oh, yes. I have actually wondered about that.”

  She laughed, “The
y make us dye their hair blue because their vision has a yellow hue to it from old age and to them the blue tone balances out the yellow making it look to them like their hair is white!”