The Ruby Notebook by Laura Resau Read Free Book Online Page B

Wendell. I skim them. He’s obviously trying to smooth things over, keeping his responses to my questions light and sweet. His hair is four to four and a half inches longer, depending which side you measure, due to a crooked trim at Econo-Hair. He’s cut back to a half-tin of Altoids per week, down from a full tin during final exams.
    And then, to my amazement, in the third e-mail, he tells me about a vision. Maybe as a peace offering. I slow down and read more carefully.
    I haven’t seen any CDs, Z. Just a vision that makes no sense. It’s dark and we’re both soaking wet, like we’ve been swimming. But it’s weird because we’re in our clothes. And I’m not completely sure it’s you, since it’s so dark, and the dress you’re wearing isn’t your style.
    I send him a short reply.
Well, let’s hope the girl’s me
.I stick a smiley face in so he won’t think I’m jealous or mad. Then I write,
And by the way, my style changes from country to country. You’ve only known the Ecuador Zeeta.
After I reread it, I toss in another smiley face for good measure. Iend with,
Can’t wait for you to come!!! Love you!!!
with an excess of exclamation points to drive home the point that I’m not holding a grudge.
    Next I answer a dozen other e-mails, IM for a while with an old friend in Brazil, e-mail some little girlfriends in Ecuador, then Google Illusion. They have a pretty basic Web site, just photos and tour dates and a blog that hasn’t been updated for three months. I sign up for their newsletter, then plug in earphones and listen to a few songs.
    Suddenly, I realize I have nothing to wear to the party tonight. Nothing dazzling, that is. Illusion’s sparkling outfits make my own clothes—mostly from markets in Ecuador and Thailand—seem dull and rustic.
    I log out, jump up to pay Ahmed, and dash next door to the secondhand shop. It’s musty and dark inside, with low French reggae playing. I shuffle through the racks, not sure what I’m looking for, until my hands rest on a soft red dress, an airy blend of cotton and silk. It looks about my size, although I’m not sure how sizes work in France yet. When I try it on behind a thick velvet curtain, it fits me perfectly, close enough that it skims my curves, loose enough that it won’t suffocate me in this heat. It’s held up by slim spaghetti straps, and seems to float around my body. It stops midthigh, which is shorter than most of my dresses, but it’s liberating to have my knees uncovered.
    It’s not until I’m standing in front of the mirror that I remember Wendell’s wet dress vision.
    Not your style
.
    Whatever my style is at this moment, this dress seems to fit it. The French Zeeta.
La Zeeta Française
. I press the fabric to my face. It smells like roses, maybe the perfume of whoever owned it before me.
    At the cash register, my stomach tightens, as it always does when I make a rare frivolous purchase. Our checking account has been nearly wiped out after the deposit on our apartment and a week’s worth of groceries. And Layla’s first paycheck will go to next month’s rent. I’ll have to start tutoring right away. Last year, I made Layla swear that we’d put away money for savings, and now I’m the one breaking the promise.
    I take a deep breath and lay fifteen euros on the table, our food budget for the day.
    Outside, I lean against a wall and make a few quick signs in my notebook.
ENGLISH TUTORING by a Fluent Speaker with Six Years of Tutoring Experience
. I tear out the pages, tuck the flyers beneath my arm, and head toward the university to hang up the first batch.
    When I’m inside the university’s main foyer, by the bulletin board, I reach into my bag to pull out the flyers. My fingers graze something small and smooth and cylindrical. A little jar of lip gloss or face cream? I don’t remember putting anything like that in my bag. I pull it out, curious.
    It’s a small jar that fits perfectly into my palm, made of clear glass, worn and