Finding It by Leah Marie Brown Read Free Book Online Page B

spends two thousand dollars on a simple dress?
    Fanny. Poppy. Carolena. My friend G.
    Heiresses spend thousands of dollars on a single garment. I, however, am not an heiress, and even if I were an heiress, I wouldn’t spend two thousand three hundred and thirty five dollars on a dress! I am quite happy making it work in skinny jeans and my vintage Guns N’ Roses T-shirt.
    “Hand me that beastly thing and try this instead.”
    She sticks a slinky mini dress between the curtains. I take the heavy beaded dress and hand her the hippie habit.
    “I have the perfect shoes for that dress,” Carolena declares. “A beaded mini-dress simply demands a marvelous pair of heels. Wait for me to get them. I won’t be a minute.”
    Silver and gold bugle beads cover the mini dress like sparkly, swingy fringe. It’s very Gatsby-esque. It’s Daisy Buchanan circa now. Classic, but current.
    I slip the heavy beaded gown over my head and do a little shimmy. The beads capture the light like a disco ball, creating a constellation of stars on the fitting room walls and velvet curtains. It’s mesmerizing.
    I summon my inner-Shakira, shaking my hips side to side. The beads make a pleasant rhythmical noise similar to a rain stick when it’s turned upside-down. It’s like having my own backbeat, a hip personal soundtrack. Shakira. Shakira.
    Inexplicably, unbelievably, I recognize the pangs of love at first site. I am falling in love with a dress—a designer dress that probably costs more than my entire collection of my Rock Ts and skinny jeans. How can this be happening? I’m not a fashionista like Fanny and Poppy.
    Take it off, Vivia. Take it off while you still have the strength.
    It’s not just the sparkly beads that make this dress so fantastic. The gown hugs my body, amplifying my assets—bosom—and minimizing my deficits—slight muffin top— merci, pain au chocolats !) The fringy beads conceal the evidence of my recent over indulgences without making me look like a shapeless Teletubby.
    I do another little shimmy, and the metallic beads bounce tiny circles of light all over the fitting room walls.
    Look away, Vivia. Look away from the light.
    I can’t. The beads are whispering to me, casting a mind-altering spell with their hypnotic song: “Why such stress? Just buy the dress. Buy the dress! If you use your Visa you can buy the dress. Make us shake and shimmy whenever you want. Buy the dress.”
    “Vivia?” Carolena’s voice comes to me from a distant place. “Vivia?” she repeats. “I know you’re in there because I can hear the beads clattering together. Do you like the dress?”
    I pull the curtains back and give the beads a little shake.
    “Oh, baby, the hips don’t lie,” I sing, mimicking Shakira’s vibrato.
    Carolena stares at me blankly.
    I swivel my hips and make wavelike motions with my arms, to no effect. Poppy’s posh cousin continues to stare at me blankly, her perfectly painted pout hanging open, strappy heels dangling from a single crooked finger.
    “The hips don’t lie?”
    Nothing.
    “Shakira, Shakira,” I sing.
    “Right then.” Carolena snaps out of her reverie. “Don’t do that. Ever. Especially not tonight, at Boujis.”
    Heat flames my cheeks as I suddenly imagine what I must have looked like to the staid Brit, singing and shaking to Shakira.
    “Is it posh?”
    “Very.”
    “Lots of beautiful people?”
    “Loads.”
    My inner-Regina buzzes in my ear, telling me I’m an idiot for going to a Brava party, that I am not posh, not one of the beautiful people, not even a Bravalebrity.
    “Maybe I shouldn’t go to Boujis.”
    “What? Why not?”
    “Hello, Carolena,” I say, thrusting my hand out. “My name is Vivia Perpetua Grant. I am a brash, clumsy American with a penchant for raunchy rock music and spicy Chinese takeout. I am not posh.”
    “You’re posh- ish .”
    I tilt my head and give her my best get-the-fuck-outta-here look.
    “Well, you’re beautiful.”
    I roll my