CHAPTER FIVE
STACY
I WAIT FOR HIM TO leave.
Then I assess myself the way I do in my morning meditation, starting at the top of my head and working down to my feet. I already know I’m pissed, and part of the reason is clear: Mr. Hampton Asshole Brooks’ demanding, imperious nature. Some people are just pushy. I said seven and meant it. And don’t think I didn’t see the disapproving glances he was giving my shop.
But there’s more. My heart pounds. My hands have turned into fists. My jaw clenches.
I pick up his blazer. His expensive-as-hell, crap-construction blazer. I’m not sure who I’m angrier at. Hampton Brooks? Or the villain who dared to charge him more than two hundred bucks for that thing?
I stare at it. I guess I agreed to a two-hour turnaround. To shoving all my other work aside — including my own line, which I was inspired to give some love after April’s visit. I glance back into the cutting room — at the bolt of beautiful yellow cotton print I’d just unboxed when Carlo walked through the door.
It’s okay that I have to work on the blazer instead. I don’t want to work on my designs now. He’s spoiled my mood. And my inspiration.
I look down at the blazer. I find, frustratingly, that I can’t hate it. It’s not the blazer’s fault that it was poorly constructed, or that it’s owned by a pompous ass. The fabric is gorgeous. And when I came into the front room and saw Mr. Brooks standing there, my first impression was that he looked very good in that jacket — a handsome man who knows how to dress.
The blazer is lighter than it should be, given its lack of canvas. And it fit well despite that. Brooks must have been providing the infrastructure that the jacket itself was missing. A strong body to hold up a weak garment that could have, in more skilled hands, been truly magnificent.
I’m still holding the thing, pulse slamming, emotions confused, when the trio of men walks back past the front window. Hampton Brooks looks inside, and I meet his piercing blue eyes.
I throw the thing onto the back counter and stalk upstairs.
I’m wearing heavy shoes with my sundress — thick-heeled sandals that rack the wood as I march up the flight to my apartment. It must sound like I’m trying to make a point, because Emily and Ricky, both home from college and staying in the third suite I sometimes AirBnB for extra cash, are waiting in the hallway. They’re halfway out the door, peering at me like emerging prairie dogs.
“Was that you?” Emily asks.
“Was what me?”
“Setting off M-80s in the stairwell,” Ricky says.
“Nobody was setting off M-80s.”
“I was speaking figuratively.”
“I just walked up the stairs, Ricky,” I say, heading for my front door at the end of the hallway.
“With a vengeance,” Ricky says.
“Why do you hate the stairs?” Emily asks.
I don’t answer. I must be putting off a seriously bad vibe because now Ricky sounds like a peacemaker. “You had lunch yet?”
“No.”
“Want to grab something?”
“No, Ricky. I’m good.”
After a few long seconds, I hear the door close behind me.
Then: “Hey. Peanut.”
I turn around. Dad is in the hallway, just outside his door. Ricky and Emily are back inside. Like they’re hiding. Dad is quiet, almost whispering. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“Come inside.”
“I’m fine, Dad.”
“Your mother insists.”
I sigh. I’m not even slightly fooled, but I marched up those stairs for a reason. I wanted attention. I leave my door closed and follow my father through his.
The small apartment seems empty. “Mom isn’t here, Dad.”
“I know.”
“You said she insisted.”
“If she were here, she would.”
I sigh and plop onto the couch. It’s old, but still in great shape and just as comfortable as it was when I lived here when Grandpa and Dad ran the shop below. My parents have plenty of money to get a better place, but they stay for the same reason I do. We’re all here together, and that seems to matter more and more with every passing year.
“Bad day?” Dad sits in the opposite recliner. His chair, forever smelling of leather and childhood.
“No.”
“I know the sound of your angry march, Peanut.”
“I’m too old to be called ‘Peanut,’ Dad.”
“I know that. Peanut.” He smiles. My Dad has an enormous mustache that used to be black but is now more salt-and-pepper. You don’t see his lips move when he smiles. Instead, it looks like a caterpillar standing on tiptoe.
“Didn’t that crazy lady come today?”
I nod. “She was only a little crazy. She just really seemed to like the clothes I make.”
“‘Course she does. They’re amazing.”
“Daddy. You have to say that.”
“Yes. But I’m also a tailor. As was my father. As is my eldest daughter. So, it went well?”
“It did. It was flattering.” I don’t elaborate, or tell him about the strange sense of claustrophobia that persisted in the aftermath of April’s departure — the feeling of holding myself in check, of refusing to let myself bloom. I give Dad a slimmer version: “She thinks I should open my own shop. Sell outside of my FairTraded store.”
“I’ve been telling you that for a year.”
“Yes, but …” I let the thought hang. The rest would be, Yes, but she’s a paying customer, and you’re my father. “Anyway, that’s not what sucked.”
Thick eyebrows raise with his mustache. “Oh? What sucked?”
I exhale, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. I study the coffee table. The rug. “You remember Grandpa’s rants about the decline of the clothing industry?”
“How could I forget? We carved one on his tombstone.”
“Well, do you know about ‘fast fashion’?”
Dad shrugs.
“Disposable clothes. Crap spun out by overseas factories that’s just meant to be worn a few times, then tossed to make room for the next shopping spree.”
“Those shops in the mall. Three outfits for $18?”
“So you do read my blog.”
“I’ve been to a mall.” Dad doesn’t bother with the rest. He’s practically a Luddite. Mom, too. Ricky and Emily read my blog from time to time — out of support, not because they care about homespun clothing — but my parents barely know how to use a computer, let alone read anything that isn’t printed.
“They’re the worst,” I say. “Pure consumerism. Nobody even knows what quality is anymore. It doesn’t matter because the clothes aren’t around long enough that they’d need to last. One night out and they go into landfills.”
“This is an environmental thing?”
I consider my father. He’s right-wing, and I lean left. We don’t argue. We just don’t raise politics or hot social issues. I decide to spare him my rant about how much the fashion industry pollutes. He can read my blog if he wants it.
“It should offend you. As a tailor.”
“Okay. Consider me offended. Why are you telling me?”
“Well, guess who walked into the shop today after my Number One Fan left?”
“Wilford Brimley.”
My dad has the driest sense of humor. I can only look at him and wait. He’s lucky I know who Wilford Brimley is.
“Wilford Brimley is dead, Dad.”
“That’s what’d make it so surprising.”
“It was Hampton Brooks.”
“I’m shocked.”
“You don’t know who Hampton Brooks is, do you?”
“No.”
“He owns Expendable Chic.”
Dad waits.
“The worst of the fast fashion stores, Dad.”
“Oh. Okay. Now I’m shocked.”
“You’re not helping, Dad.”
“Are you still mad enough to clomp up the stairs?”
“Yes. Only now I’m mad at you instead of Hampton Brooks.”
“Well,” he says, “my job here is done.”
I am trying to stay mad, but I can’t. I came in here to rant and rave about Hampton Brooks — about his asshole manners, and the way he managed to think he was better than me even though he couldn’t tell a $200 jacket from one that costs twenty times as much. Or worse, one that did cost twenty times as much, but wasn’t any better than something from Men’s Wearhouse.
But my father is a control rod. He doesn’t make people feel happy so much as make them feel maddeningly neutral. He makes me want to wear beige, get a corporate hairstyle, and listen to Muzak.
“Come on, Peanut. You going to let some jerk ruin your day? Bring you down after some crazy lady finally told you what your mom and I have been telling you all along — that you’re special and talented, and that you should listen to your fans?”
“He’s everything that’s wrong with our industry. He’s full of himself, and not for any good reasons. He doesn’t know clothes, Dad. Or quality. He doesn’t even care.”
“I don’t imagine he needs to, to make his business work.”
“But he’s …”
Again, I’m out of words. He’s an asshole? Arrogant? In my father’s presence, I can no longer see why that should even matter. His arrogance doesn’t affect me unless I let it.
“Look,” Dad says, shifting in his seat. “I heard how loud you stomped up those stairs. He really got you wound up, didn’t he?”
I hear “wound up,” and for some messed-up reason, I think of the sexual meaning. Hampton Brooks may have filled out his poorly stitched jacket admirably well, and has a face that’s adored by the media. But that doesn’t mean I was “wound up.” Not in the least.
“Just a little,” I say.
“Why, though? Did he shout at you or something?”
“No. He was just a jerk.”
“Hmm.”
“Dad, you can’t understand if you don’t read my blog. Companies like Expendable Chic are the enemy. I spend all day hating them.”
“Maybe you’re the problem.”
I blink. “They’re—”
Dad raises a hand. “Just pointing out that there are two sides to every story.”
“He doesn’t know the first thing about clothes. And yet people talk like his company is the next big thing.”
“So?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Kill him with kindness, Peanut.”
“I don’t understand, Dad.”
He shrugs, creaking the leather of his big chair.
“Hating people is such a useless thing. A total waste of energy. If something bothers you, then you only have two choices.”
I’ve heard what’s coming before. Like, a zillion times.
“You can try to change it, or you can ignore it. But you can’t just sit there and complain.”
I sigh, exasperated. I should have known better than to come here for sympathy. Wisdom is all I ever get from the old man. What a rip-off.
“If he doesn’t know what quality is,” my father says, “then show him. Whether he wants it or not.”