Now You See Her by Cecelia Tishy Read Free Book Online Page B

lifestyle.”
    “Trudy, my lifestyle is cutting up fruit.”
    “Sounds like the eight-inch trimmer to me. Meanwhile, here goes the birdseed experiment. You look spiffy. Great color. Going
     shopping?”
    “Going to work.”
    “Like he said, time is money. See you soon.”
    In moments, I’m on my way across the South End line to Warnock Street in Roxbury, a section of Boston I’d never go near in
     my former life. Every store has a pull-down steel grate for nighttime lockdown, and every person on the sidewalks is black.
    It’s jarring to be the whitefish out of water, to face a lifetime of prejudice and stereotypes. But the Roxbury streets are
     definitely not my comfort zone. A parking slot opens up, and I ease the Beetle in beside Bertie’s Bar-B-Q. Next door is StyleSmart,
     the store where I work Tuesday and Thursday mornings.
    “Reggie, good to see you. And that indigo looks so fine. It brings out your eyes.”
    My boss, Nicole Patrick, glides across the floor as if this shop is a ballroom, as if its customer seating area is a salon,
     as if the racks of business-dress clothing fill a dance floor.
    And why not? Our clientele comes here to learn to dance, so to speak. StyleSmart, you see, provides business-dress clothing
     for the low-income and no-income women trying to enter the workforce after years on welfare. The idea is to outfit them for
     post-welfare lives. It is a not-for-profit consignment shop of sorts, meaning its inventory is donated by women like my former
     self, who seasonally went through her walk-ins to thin out whatever had “expired” and replenish her wardrobe. The customers
     here pay little or nothing for their purchases and fashion consults. Nicole Patrick is a social-worker-turned-fashionista
     for the working poor. Me, I’m the chief consultant.
    At least, that was the original plan. My Aunt Jo matched us up practically on her deathbed, thinking her niece and friend
     would cross-pollinate. It’s funny how things turn out differently under the law of unforeseen outcomes.
    “Reggie, step back there a minute.” Nicole teeters on four-inch mules, her hair upswept today. Her skin tone is between milk
     and bittersweet chocolate. She raises an aerosol can and practically arabesques in her turquoise peplum jacket, its jet beads
     clicking as she moves. Her onyx drop earrings swing as she shakes the can.
    Is she spraying bugs this early in the season? I swear, one spider sighting, and I’ll quit.
    “They’re cookin’ up spareribs at Bertie’s, Reggie, and if that landlord doesn’t do something about the vents, our whole inventory
     will smell like a smokehouse. ‘All manner of baked meats,’ says the scripture, but Genesis isn’t Bertie’s. Here goes.”
    A mist of orange oil rises. Suddenly, StyleSmart smells like— “Creamsicles,” I say. “Ummm, it takes you back in time, like
     snow cones on a hot day. Glad you’re here a few minutes early, Reggie. I sold the suit we’d put on Oprah. We got to find our
     girl another outfit.” We stare at the nude mannequin. “Let’s dress our Oprah up real fine.”
    “How about that burnt-brown outfit on the far rack?” It’s my background that should make me valuable to Nicole. I repeat,
     “Definitely the burnt-brown with a nice scarf.”
    “Let’s think on that one for a few minutes.” This means no. I have struck out, backslid in just minutes to my old clothes
     habits. Women on the job aren’t nuns, Nicole says. A little plumage keeps the season bright. She tells this to our customers,
     making sure I overhear.
    Moreover, she coaxes me into apparel from the donation boxes. The indigo bolero I’m wearing came from one such box. But don’t
     think for a minute I’m skimming the charity clothes. For every peacock feather, so to speak, I donate something from my closet
     filled with sedate heathers, bland taupes, and innocuous blues. Accessorized, they’re sometimes just right for our clients.
    Crazy as it sounds, the